Accidental Shield

Is that why I’m more tuned in this time? Because I know a SEAL?

There aren’t any in my family. None that I know. I think my grandfather served in Europe, but he died well before I was born.

Mostly, I hope it’s like Flint said yesterday while I was emotionally exploding all over us. I want to believe I’m changing, becoming better, and part of that means greater empathy.

I’m dwelling on it for most of the day, losing track of time.

It’s not until later, when we’re at the swap meet, trying to keep up with Beverly as she bounces from table to table, two huge bags stuffed full of shirts and hand-carved artwork already in her hands, that I realize how late it is. And my heart starts to pound.

Flint should’ve been back by now.

16

The Thrill of the Chase (Flint)

The second I stepped on King Heron property over an hour ago, I knew something was off.

It looks deserted, practically abandoned, aside from the lady at the front office who hadn’t thought twice about letting me in. Or checking the calendar to see if I had an appointment.

I didn’t even need to use my prepared excuse.

To make it look good, I’d sprayed the baseboards around her desk first, then down the halls, and around the open, public spaces. I don’t know shit about bug spray, so I picked up some environmentally friendly stuff Cash swore would do the trick.

Sometimes being friends with a weirdo as obsessed with birds as he is pays off.

Sometimes.

Then I went down the hall, peeking in and out of empty offices on the left and right. Nothing out of the ordinary caught my eye.

Near the back door, I pause, looking out the window at the fleet of ships docked nearby. They’re the stereotypical kind of big, hulking vessels used in deep sea fishing across the Pacific, mostly from the seventies and eighties, well maintained without many rust spots.

All in all, it looks like any other fishing fleet out of the Honolulu metro, but it’s not.

The other companies lining the shore don’t have as many ships in dock. And they’ve mostly converted to smaller, sleeker vessels. Maintaining these colossal near-tankers should’ve become too expensive over a decade ago based on the rising costs of fuel alone on the islands.

Of course, Stanley Gerard and then his son found another source of coin.

Tearing myself away from the window, I press on.

There’s one office left at the very end of the hall, the one I’ve been waiting to see the most.

RAYMAN GERARD, PRESIDENT sticks to the door in large block letters.

I hold my breath, trying the handle, hoping I won’t have to resort to Plan B if it’s locked.

Nope. The door swings open easily, and I step inside.

It’s lavishly furnished with modern chairs, a work desk, and shelves and file cabinets reaching to the ceiling. The other offices were too, but this one looks used.

There’s something odd about it, too. I pull Valerie’s map out of my pocket, mainly to confirm my instincts. The offices are laid out exactly as she’s drawn them, and so is this one, but it’s also different.

It’s got to be the size.

It should be bigger.

Not by a lot, but by several feet at least, along the back wall.

I squint in that direction. It looks normal, full of shelves laden with ledgers, books, and maps.

I examine each shelf, every section where the shelf walls connect to each other. Sure enough, there’s one that’s not solid. Not connected to the rest.

Searching inside the shelves, my fingers graze a mechanical button, and I punch it down.

Watching closely, I see the movement of the latch at the same time it clicks. I ease the shelf forward, away from the wall, expecting an opening.

There’s not.

Instead there’s a narrow door with a fingerprint reader.

Shit.

I don’t dare try overriding the reader, not without knowing more. There are too many ways things could go south if it trips an alarm or sends a remote notification to Ray.

Sighing, I take out my phone and snap several pictures for research, then push the shelf back in place.

If I can’t find a way to hack the fingerprint scanner, I’ll have to get my hands on a set of Ray’s prints. I’m sure I could pick them up from the office, but I don’t have a kit with me. I wasn’t prepared for this twist.

My ears tingle. There’s movement in the hall, somebody’s footsteps, a door creaking open.

Dropping the phone in my jumpsuit’s deep pocket, I pick up the gallon jug of bug juice and use the wand, spraying the carpet so the room smells like the rest of the place.

Then I make my exit, walking back to the entryway.

“Done already?” the woman behind the desk asks. Sammie, I think.

She’s middle-aged, with dark hair, glasses, and wearing a polo shirt with the King Heron Fishing logo, the same bird on Savanny’s tag. I wonder if she’s the same lady who answered the phone when Val called weeks ago and was patched through to Ray.