Okura stared out at the man. Scratched the patchy growth of hair on his unshaved face. “I don’t know how I can help you,” he said, sighing. “I’ve told your boss everything that I know. The briefcase was aboard the Lion. If you still haven’t retrieved it, I don’t—”
The thug raised one hand.
“My employer has regained his stolen property,” the thug told him. “He requires, now, to know how it was taken from him in the first place.”
Okura stared at the thug. “It was Ishimaru, obviously. I was told he murdered his colleagues.”
“You knew him, did you not? Ishimaru? You were schoolmates together?”
“I—” Okura swallowed. “We were, yes. And I—I may have helped him by smuggling aboard my vessel. But that’s all I did, and I’ve paid for that, a heavy price. I’m ruined. You—”
“You were observed meeting with Ishimaru,” the thug said. “In the days and weeks before the theft. Tell me, what did you talk about?”
Okura didn’t answer.
“You had heavy debts, yes? A robbery would have served you just as well as it would have Ishimaru.”
The thug didn’t wait for Okura to answer. He thrust something into the sailor’s hand. A photograph, the same as he’d seen in Dutch Harbor. His sister, his niece.
“My employer would like to meet you,” the thug continued. “He hopes very much that you’ll accept his invitation.”
Okura’s mouth went dry. He felt the same sick, hollow sensation in his stomach as when the Pacific Lion began its off-kilter slide into the sea, the crushing sensation in his chest that had been present ever since.
He’d known there would be consequences for his actions. He’d prepared himself mentally for jail. He had not, he realized, imagined that Katsuo Nakadate would uncover the depth of his involvement in Ishimaru’s robbery.
Okura looked down at the photograph. He studied his niece’s face in the picture. His sister.
“He will not hurt them,” the thug said. “You have his word. So long as you meet with him now.”
He stepped aside from the door, gestured back to a long, black Mercedes sedan that sat waiting at the curb. He smiled, disingenuous, as though neither man knew exactly where that car was headed.
There was nothing to do but surrender. Okura looked back into his house, one last time, the dirty, unkempt living space of a man who’d gambled and lost everything, a man who’d engineered his own ruin.
The thug gestured again. “Come,” he said.
Okura closed his eyes. Then he followed the man to the waiting sedan, and every step he took he felt the pressure in his chest diminish, in his lungs, as though he’d been trying to keep from drowning, and he was finally letting go.
111
SOME MONTHS LATER
They’d worked hard for this. Labored long hours and spent many sleepless nights down in Ridley’s engine room, the lot of them, slaving over the Gale Force’s twin engines.
It was no easy job, overhauling a pair of twenty-cylinder diesel train engines. Especially not when they were lodged at the bottom of a tugboat. But McKenna and Ridley and Al and Jason Parent had done it, and now they would reap the reward.
McKenna guided the tug from its berth along the shore of Lake Union. Navigated the lake, and the shipping channel to the Ballard Locks, waited as the locks descended the tug to sea level.
Then they were free, steaming out into Shilshole Bay, and to Puget Sound, beyond. It was a beautiful day, sunny and crisp, the last days of a glorious Indian summer. McKenna kept the wheelhouse windows open, the satellite radio playing “Gimme Shelter,” called Ridley down in the engine room on the intraship telephone.
“How are they running?” she asked the engineer.
“Aye, they’re like new, skipper,” Ridley replied. “Just like the day Riptide bought this old beauty.”
“Well, then, get your ass up here,” McKenna told him. “It’s too nice out to spend any more time down there.”
Al and Jason were on the afterdeck with Angel and little Ben, and Carly Ridley, Nelson’s wife; they’d brought lawn chairs, and Jason was setting up for a barbecue while Al, in full doting Gramps mode, cradled his grandson in the crook of his arm, and pointed out at the ferries and freighters they passed on the water. This was the turnout run for the new engines, sure, but there was no reason they couldn’t have fun while they did it.
She ran the tug across to Bainbridge Island, up to the top, where Hedley Spit curved north from the island, and then back again, like a horseshoe, a long, pretty beach and a row of waterfront homes. Then she cut the tug out of gear, let her drift for a while, asked Nelson and Jason to drop the anchor, and ducked down to her stateroom.
She emerged onto the back deck a short while later, dressed in her swimsuit underneath shorts and a tank top, a Gale Force Marine ball cap, and a pair of sunglasses. Pulled up a lawn chair out into the sun, looked over to where Jason had burgers on the grill.
“How’s it coming?” she asked him, and he grinned back, flashed five fingers. Perfect, she thought, and she sat back, and basked.
Matt and Stacey were gone, headed off to Antarctica, Matt saying something about catching a penguin. They’d made McKenna swear to call the next time she had a gig, promised they’d be on the next flight. They’d hugged, said their goodbyes, and McKenna already missed them, though she knew it wouldn’t be long before they crossed paths again.
It wouldn’t be soon, either, though. The Lion had exhausted McKenna, body and soul, and she’d set to work on the engines as soon as they’d hit the dock in Seattle. She’d spent a ton of money, paid off her dad’s loans, worked hard to get the tug and the company into good standing. And now?
Now she just wanted to relax.
* * *
• • •
JASON’S BURGERS WERE FABULOUS. Nelson and Carly had brought a potato salad, and McKenna had a case of cold beer in the cooler. The sun shone down, the weather was calm. The Gale Force bobbed happily on its anchor, and the day passed.
After she’d eaten, and sunned herself for a while, McKenna stood, and walked to the chocks at the very stern of the tug, looked down at the water beyond.
They’d spread her dad’s ashes not far from here, in this very water. She’d wanted to take them further out to sea, the open ocean, couldn’t spare the fuel costs, and she’d always wondered if her dad would be truly happy here, more or less landlocked.
“He’d be proud of you, you know.” Nelson Ridley had snuck up beside her, read her mind like he always did. “Not just for the Lion, but for all of it, lass. For all you’ve become.”
She didn’t say anything. Didn’t dare look at him, lest the sight of his face burst the dam in her eyes.
“I wish we’d held on to his ashes,” she said, at last. “Kept them on the tug, brought them with us. There’s been plenty of times I could have used him around.”
Ridley chuckled. “What, and keep Riptide Rhodes from the sea?” he said. “Madness.”
She looked at him, laughed, too. Wiped her eyes. Ridley clucked, put his arm around her.
“The thing about the ocean, skipper, is it’s everywhere,” he said. “And your dad’s a part of that, now. Everywhere this tug goes, he’ll be with us.”
He pulled her close, patted her on the shoulder. “You’ll be all right, McKenna,” he said. “You’ll be just fine.”
* * *
• • •
SHE STOOD THERE AT THE STERN for a little while, gazing out at the dark water, the ferries and sailboats beyond, the blue sky above.
No sense lingering on it, she thought, and she straightened, peeled off her shorts and her shirt, draped them in a pile on the gunwale.
“Going to be cold, skipper,” Al Parent called across the deck. “Even this time of year.”
“Probably,” McKenna called back, grinning. “Are you a
ll too chicken to join me?”
Ridley and Carly had excuses, and Al Parent, too. Jason and Angel told her they’d think about it, after the food settled a little. That left McKenna to herself, and she shrugged and turned, climbed up on the gunwale and dove over the side, arched down and sliced through the water, dove deep.
The ocean was cold, as predicted. It felt glorious, bracing, refreshing, and McKenna felt the stress and tension of the last months begin to slip away.
She surfaced, laughing, floated on her back away from the tug, the crew on the afterdeck watching her. They had the sun at their backs, and they were all silhouettes, and looking at them, McKenna could almost convince herself Harrington was here—heck, that her dad was here, too.
But Harrington was gone, and that was for the best. McKenna figured the Whiz Kid was better off having fun, enjoying his millions, that he didn’t need to tie himself down just yet. And she hadn’t had time to think of anything but the tug, wasn’t in any headspace for romance.
Someday, maybe. Then again, maybe not.
And her dad? Her dad was gone, but the crew he’d assembled was still there, still together. The tug he’d shaped in his image was in better shape than ever. And the daughter he’d raised was a captain.
McKenna treaded water, studied her tug. Felt the sun on her face and closed her eyes, lay back and just floated. She could feel her dad with her, now, in the sun, and the sea, and the tugboat in the distance. She could feel him, and she knew he would always be there.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It might be something of a cliché to claim the ocean is in one’s blood, but I am descended from generations of mariners, and I’ve always wanted to write a deep-sea adventure story like Gale Force. That this dream has come to life owes a lot to my agent, Stacia Decker, who practically ordered me to write the first draft over cocktails at some raucous convention bar. It owes just as much to my editor, Neil Nyren, whose enthusiasm, encouragement, and keen editorial eye truly gave birth to McKenna Rhodes, and brought the Gale Force and her crew to life.
I’m ever grateful, as always, to the all-star cast at Putnam for everything they’ve done and continue to do behind the scenes to get books like this out into the world. In particular, thanks to Ivan Held, Alexis Sattler, Katie Grinch, and Carolyn Darr; it’s a privilege to work with you all, year after year.
Thanks again and again and again to Rob Sternitzky and the rest of the copyediting and proofreading squad. I say this every year, but copy editors are the true unsung heroes of this business, and I’ve had the good fortune of working with the best. Any foolish errors that remain in the text are my responsibility and mine alone.
A huge thanks to Clive Cussler, C. J. Box, John Sandford, Lee Child, Linda Castillo, Boyd Morrison, Justin Scott, Meg Gardiner, John Lescroart, Steve Berry, Gayle Lynds, Robin Burcell, and Ace Atkins for reading early proofs of this book and lending their names to its cause.
I’m grateful to the captains and crews of the fishing vessels Koskelo and Nicole & Terri Lee for taking me aboard and putting me to work, on both the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans: Joey and Suzi Laukkanen; Chad Accettura; Earl Stoesigger; Stevie, Travis, and Logan Gibbs; Louis Peters; and my dad, Ethan Laukkanen.
To my family—Ethan Laukkanen, Ruth Sellers, Andrew and Terrence, Laura Mustard, and little Ethan—my thanks don’t ever seem like enough, but I’ll give you them anyway, and all the love I have in the world.
But most of all, this book wouldn’t exist without my dad, because it’s through him that my love for the sea first took hold. Gale Force has its roots in our walks along the breakwater in Victoria’s Outer Harbor, and in the bedtime stories of shipwrecks and seafaring heroism he’d read to me when I was a child. It was born of ferry rides, and lobster pots, and in the first rudimentary knots he taught me before I set out for my first summer on the water. Dad, this book is for you, with gratitude and love, and with hopes for many fine days and full pots ahead.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Owen Laukkanen is the author of the Stevens and Windermere series, beginning with The Professionals, which was nominated for the Anthony Award, Barry Award, Spinetingler Magazine Best Novel: New Voices Award, and the International Thriller Writers’ Thriller Award for best first novel. His follow-up, Criminal Enterprise, was nominated for the ITW Thriller Award for best novel. A resident of Vancouver, British Columbia, he is now at work on the next book featuring Stevens and Windermere.
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