by Kyla Stone
Rain drummed the metal roof. Outside, leaves swirled in gusts between the rows of desiccated vehicles. The crime scene tape flapped wildly, bright yellow against gray sky and mud-brown earth.
The aurora had returned, flickering faintest red behind the clouds. Beautiful yet ominous.
His stomach filled with razor blades. “Get here as soon as you can, Lena.”
“Jackson…It’s the beginning of the end.”
The phone went dead.
26
ELI POPE
DAY FOUR
It was a rough afternoon on Lake Superior. The wind buffeted Eli. Electrons sizzled the air. A wall of angry dark clouds roiled across the western horizon, headed their way.
Two men met Eli at the dock. One wore a heavy woolen shirt and a close-fitting fisherman’s cap, the other was tall and rake-thin, with scarred knuckles and a lazy eye. Hard men. Criminals.
“I’m looking for Sawyer,” Eli said.
“Sawyer’s busy.”
“Tell him it’s Eli. Eli Pope.”
The shorter, fatter man glared at him, unmoved. His tiny eyes were piggish in his fleshy, windburned face. His nose was crooked; he looked like the type of man who started bar brawls and finished them.
“Tell him,” the one with the lazy eye said. “Go.”
The short one huffed but obeyed, stomping down the deck to where the sleek white yacht was anchored in her slip. He gesticulated at another man busy unloading crates from a nearby speedboat.
Eli waited on the dock. The fat man kept an eye on him like he might steal a crate of fishing tackle out from beneath his nose. The tattoo scrawled up the side of his thick neck was a Russian symbol he recognized but couldn’t quite place.
Among several other business ventures, clean and otherwise, James Sawyer owned Sport-fishing Charters, which hugged the west side of the bay, sandwiched between an outfit offering glass-bottomed boat shipwreck tours and Pictured Rocks kayaking tours.
A sleek white yacht bobbed at the far end of the dock. Risky Business was scrawled in gold script on the rear. A black and white skull and crossbones flag hung from the gaff. Sawyer was nothing if not ironic.
A man disembarked the yacht, leapt over the side and landed easily on his feet. He strode down the dock, the wind whipping unruly dirty blond hair into his eyes. His gaze settled on Eli. For a long moment, they stared at each other. Then his weathered face broke into a smile. “Well, if it isn’t Eli freaking Pope.”
Eli dipped his chin. “Sawyer.”
James Sawyer was tall and lean and muscular, with a three-day beard, high sharp cheekbones, and crafty blue-gray eyes set wide like a shark’s.
Depending on the light, they were blue or gray but there was no depth behind them, no emotion. Just a flat watchfulness. An alertness, like a wild animal always looking for the trap—or his next meal.
“The prodigal son returns,” Sawyer said.
“Something like that.”
“You’ve got balls of steel. I’ll give you that.”
Eli’s lips twitched. “That ever in question?”
“Not for a second.” Sawyer gestured at the sleek yacht behind him. “Come take a ride with me.”
“In this weather?”
Sawyer met his gaze and did not look away. His eyes were not friendly or unfriendly, just watchful. “You scared?”
“Never.”
“Didn’t think so.” Sawyer glanced behind Eli as a third man approached.
Eli felt incredibly uncomfortable. Four of Sawyer’s protection team surrounded him. They were armed and looked tough. Professionals. Former military.
Sawyer glanced at one of his lieutenants. “All clear?”
The man nodded.
Sawyer gave Eli an apologetic smile. “I have two counter-surveillance teams at each end of the dock, watching the area. If you came here wearing a wire, the cops would be nearby. He just told me no one is covering you or surveilling us. You came here alone.”
“I could have told you that.”
Sawyer grinned. “I’m sure you would have.” He pointed at an antenna array and dish on his yacht. “I even have a drone detection system. The DEA can be, shall we say…intrusive.”
“Like I said, I’m alone.”
“They’ll just need to search you. You understand.”
Eli bristled but allowed Sawyer’s mercenaries to frisk him. The one with the fisherman’s cap passed a RF meter—radio frequency deter—over Eli’s body.
“Boss,” Lazy-Eye pointed at Eli’s pistol, his knife.
“We’ll take good care of them,” Sawyer said. “Trust me.”
Eli didn’t trust Sawyer as far as he could throw him, but they’d always had an understanding, a certain rapport. And Eli wanted answers.
After Eli had removed his weapons and handed them over to one of the mercenaries, Sawyer motioned for Eli to climb aboard. Without a word, two armed men who’d been aboard disembarked, leaving Sawyer and Eli alone on the yacht.
With expert precision, Sawyer maneuvered the boat from its slip and out into the choppy bay. Eli glanced back at the dock, where six burly men stood watching. He observed the tell-tale bulge of weapons beneath their jackets.
They did not appear pleased that Sawyer was leaving them behind.
“A few of my men are former Russian GRU special forces. You can never be too careful these days.”
“I can tell.”
“Isn’t she a beauty?” Sawyer said. “Fifty feet of pure power. State of the art. Hydraulic progressive Trac thrusters. Warping winches so I can easily muscle in a spring line against wind and currents. Teak floor and solid wood cockpit.”
“Impressive,” Eli said.
At the cockpit, Sawyer looked like a king surveying his domain. He was lanky and loose-jointed, his movements seeming lazy and unhurried, but there was intent behind everything he did.
Of that, Eli had no doubt. Some things never changed.
“Anyone else, I’d tell ‘em to go fly a kite. I’m incredibly busy. These solar storms have opened a host of exciting business possibilities. Not you, though, Eli. I always have time for old friends.”
The words held hidden meanings, secret barbs. Though Sawyer had hung out with them from middle school through high school and beyond, often joining up for kayaking, cliff jumping, drunken bonfires on the beach—he had never belonged to their inner group.
That intimacy, the specialness they’d shared had been reserved for the four of them—Eli and Jackson, Lily and Lena. Eli suspected that Sawyer had resented his outsider status.
Still, Sawyer had brought the crazy to the party. The booze. The weed. The harder stuff. Sawyer always had access and shared liberally—for a price. By his sophomore year of high school, he was the prime dealer of anything illicit for the under twenty-five crowd.
Whatever you needed, if Sawyer didn’t have it, he could get it.
Their senior year of high school, Sawyer’s father had been arrested for narcotics trafficking. He had been the link between two criminal organizations, a gang out of Detroit and an organized crime baron in Quebec.
For more than a decade, Sawyer senior had trafficked illicit substances between Sault Ste Marie, Canada, and Sault Ste Marie, Michigan, using mules to cross the bridge into Canada multiple times a week.
Sawyer’s father was still imprisoned in the Alger Correctional Facility prison, serving the remainder of a twenty-five years to life term. Rumor had it that Sawyer had taken over his father’s business, with the goal of transforming himself into a kingpin of the Upper Peninsula’s criminal underworld.
Eli had heard that Sawyer ran a syndicate of criminals from Mackinac Island up to Whitefish Bay, and west at least as far as Copper Harbor, the northernmost point in Michigan.
Sawyer was smart. No law enforcement agency had ever been able to pin a thing on him, not even a traffic ticket. Eli admired him for that, if little else.
They motored out of the cove into open water. Six-foot waves slapped the hul
l. The sky and lake blended together—gray as slate and as unforgiving.
“How was your stint in the slammer? I heard it was rough for you.”
“I survived. Luckier than some. Unluckier than others.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it. I did what I could to help you in there.”
Eli had run across a few of Sawyer’s foot soldiers in prison. Sawyer Senior still had sway. His son held more. They had reached out to him, he’d rebuffed them. He wasn’t a joiner. After that, they hadn’t bothered him.
He didn’t doubt Sawyer’s word. If one of his people had gotten wind of an assassination attempt, they could’ve put a lid on it before anyone laid a hand on Eli.
Not even Sawyer could touch Darius Sykes, though. Sykes was a monster of a different breed.
“Never let it be said that James Sawyer isn’t loyal to his friends.”
Eli snorted. “You have a misguided sense of loyalty.”
“Kept you alive, didn’t I?”
Memories threatened to choke him. Shadows moving along concrete walls. The glint of a razor blade. The gleam of teeth before they bit. Hard men who enjoyed hurting.
He thought of Sykes. The monster’s promise to hunt him down and slaughter anyone Eli had ever loved.
“I kept myself alive.”
“What are you doing here, Eli?”
“Seeing an old friend.”
Sawyer gave a hard smile. “We both know that’s B.S. Sounds like something Jackson would say, not you. I didn’t take you for a blowhard. But people change, I suppose.”
“I’m here for information.”
“Information I have.” He shot a sideways glance at Eli, dispassionate, assessing.
Eli had the sense that Sawyer didn’t care whether he’d killed Lily or not. Whether he was the Broken Heart Killer or innocent. It was a disconcerting feeling. He’d been judged and found wanting by everyone else. Sawyer didn’t have a conscience.
Sawyer raised his voice over the thrashing wind. “You interested in a job? I could use a man with your particular skill sets.”
Eli didn’t answer. He waited for Sawyer to elaborate.
After a beat, Sawyer said, “I’m speaking of your tactical abilities. Of course.”
“Of course,” Eli said stiffly. “I’m not looking for a career change.”
“A man needs money. No matter who he is.”
“I’m fine.” He wasn’t, but he wasn’t about to become indebted to someone like Sawyer.
Eli waited. This was feeling more and more like a mistake. His lungs constricted. There were no walls here, no manacles, no locks, but he felt trapped.
There was no escape on Lake Superior. No land within sight, only the gray bucking waves.
Sawyer smiled at him as if he knew exactly what he was thinking—and enjoyed it. It was a shark’s smile. Cold and calculating.
A second later, Sawyer’s shoulders relaxed and he slapped Eli on the back. “I heard you were camped out in the woods.”
“I like the woods.”
“Well, damn, so do I, but I don’t care to sleep out in the cold with spiders crawling all over me and mosquitoes eating me alive. Not unless it’s for a good reason.” Sawyer side-eyed him and flashed him a vacant grin. “Of course, you are Ojibwe. You have that wildness in your veins, I guess.”
Eli stiffened. The boat rocked beneath him, but he kept his balance, muscles tensed, senses alert for the slightest movement from Sawyer. Sawyer’s men had stripped him of weapons, but he didn’t need a gun to do damage.
An elbow to the throat, a fist to the kidneys to incapacitate him, a swift kick behind the knees and a push to send him over the side of Risky Business, tumbling into the depths of a lake so deep and cold it might as well be the ocean.
“It’s a shame, is all I’m saying. Man of your talents being wasted.”
When Eli didn’t say anything, Sawyer continued. “Opportunity exists in chaos. You know this better than anyone, I’d bet. It’s like a fight. The man who throws the first punch wins.”
“Usually.”
“Yes, usually.”
Sawyer didn’t speak for a minute. He seemed to be listening to the roar of the wind with his entire body. He had likely memorized the shape of every bluff, every cove and bay and shoal.
He was a man of the Great Lake, born to live on the water, as thirsty for the waves as Eli was for the woods and streams and dirt beneath his fingernails.
Eli admired that about him. Always had.
“There’s a short window of opportunity here. I’m going to seize it, Eli. I have plans. You say the word, and you’re welcome on board. My righthand man. You and me, together. We could do something big. Real big. Larger than you can even imagine.”
Eli said nothing. He wasn’t interested. Never would be.
“Storm’s coming,” Sawyer said absently. “Lesser men would get off the water, seek safe harbor. I say, drive into the storm. Face it, conquer it, become it.”
“If it doesn’t kill you first.”
“Nothing can kill me. I’m the cockroach that survives the apocalypse. If you’re smart, you can be, too.”
Eli shook his head.
“It’s coming, you know. The apocalypse. It’s real this time. With a little advice, you could set yourself up well.”
“I’m not here for your advice, Sawyer.”
Sawyer shot him a look. His expression still placid, the slightest annoyance flaring in his eyes. “Then, pray tell, why are you here?”
Sawyer maintained eyes and ears everywhere. He would know almost everything that went on in the town he called home, illegal or otherwise. He was the type of man you wanted on your side. He was plenty dangerous otherwise.
An asset when he was with you, as long as he could be controlled. As long as he obeyed orders. Eli had known plenty of men like him in the army. The rogues. The cowboys. The criminals. They tended to get weeded out quickly.
Sawyer, however, was a survivor.
Eli said, “I want to know who framed me.”
27
ELI POPE
DAY FOUR
A thick wall of fog rolled. The shoreline had disappeared. It felt like the entire world had disappeared with it.
That the land they would return to, if they returned, would be far different than the one they’d left.
Sawyer didn’t give any indication that he was surprised or taken aback. His expression didn’t change. He said nothing for several minutes.
Eli recalled him as a teenager, perpetually scheming and manipulating, that disheveled hair and disarming smile entrancing a bevy of adoring girls and duping the authorities.
Sawyer wore emotions like masks he could put on and discard at will. It was seldom that he revealed a true feeling. Even when he did, it was for a reason. To lure in an ally, to lower an enemy’s defenses.
Everything was a calculation with him. Always had been.
The yacht sailed into the wind. Huge waves broke against the hull again and again. Cold spray hit Eli’s face, his torso and limbs. He blinked the water from his eyes but didn’t look away. To do so would be seen as a weakness, he was certain.
“I’ll throw you a freebie. This once, for old times’ sake.”
Eli wasn’t sure if he was supposed to grovel, to wax eloquent with gratitude. He didn’t play games. He said nothing.
“I don’t do pro bono. It’s poor business, you understand.”
“I know the drill.”
For several minutes, the roar of the wind and waves were the only sounds. Thin lines of foam whipped the water white and frothing. Sawyer expertly maneuvered the boat around a finger of rock thrust above the surface of the water. He was controlled, alert, exact.
There was something shrewd and cunning in Sawyer’s windswept face. Whatever Sawyer claimed, this wouldn’t be free. The price would be steep.
Eli had known that going in. When the time came, he’d pay it. Or eliminate the debt another way. There were always options for a man lik
e Eli.
He hardly felt the cold burn of the wind. Impatience snarled in his chest. Anticipation mingled with trepidation. He was both desperate to know and dreaded the truth.
What it would mean. The implications. The fallout.
“I need to know who planted the beer bottle. I need to know who framed me.”
“You sure you want to know? There’s no going back from that. Once you’ve leapt from the cliff, the only direction is down.”
Eli didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Sawyer nodded to himself. “Who were you with that night?”
“I went to the Northwoods Bar. Had a couple of beers with Gideon Crawford. Tim was bartending.” He closed his eyes, remembering. “Cyrus Lee sat at the bar with some buddies. Sheriff Underwood was there, moaning about the Lions’ loss.”
“What did you do after the bar?”
“Went to see Lily.” It had been a short visit. There and gone by eleven p.m. A single mother with two young children, Lily had still lived at home. Amos was usually out of the house, gambling and drinking. That night, he hadn’t returned until dawn.
Eli had slept with Lily but didn’t love her. There was too much darkness inside him. He had loved Lena, but he had never been able to keep her. She was too pure, too good. Too good for him. He’d ruined the best thing he would ever have.
Beneath Lily’s beauty, there was a sliver of darkness that matched his own. They had both been damaged. Lily had wanted him despite or maybe because of her sister. And he had not turned her away.
They had deserved each other.
Eli had plenty to be ashamed of. Guilt was an intimate friend. Mistakes and bad decisions littered his past. But he had not killed her. Of that, he was innocent.
“And before the bar?” Sawyer asked.
“I went to Jackson’s. We watched the game.”
He’d thought it through a thousand times in his cell. Every time, he’d come up empty. Tim Brooks and Gideon Crawford would have had access to his used beer bottles. Cyrus Lee, too. But what reason would they have to frame him?
