than what he expected of himself.
Creed hit the button on the headset hooked over his ear. “Thomas.” He used Thomas and other aliases as his last name when he went undercover—Ruckman had become just a name in his file back at headquarters.
“You in Cape Churn yet?” Royce’s deep voice filled his head as if he were there in the vehicle with him.
“Just pulling into town. Any word on Phillip Macias’s whereabouts, or the location of the yacht I tagged in Russia?”
“That’s what I’m calling about and why you’re where you are. The GPS tracking device stalled off the coast of Cape Churn. Satellite images aren’t picking up the boat at the location. Either they scuttled the boat or the boat sank. That’s where you come in.”
“I figured as much. None of my associates in Russia could tell me what’s on board, or why it’s so important to Macias.”
“I put a bug in the ear of one of my contacts in the National Security Agency’s electronic surveillance and monitoring division. He just sent word that something big is about to go down on the west coast, and Macias is at the center of it. There’s a lot of subversive chatter by some of the people on their watch list.”
“Any idea what?”
“Only hints at some type of explosions with the potential of killing entire cities of Americans.”
Creed’s heart sank to the bottom of his belly, then bounced back with a kick of adrenaline. “I figured it was something big. Macias is known for drama. When he’s involved, it’s go big or go home. Though they couldn’t prove it, my informants told me he was responsible for last year’s attacks on Chicago and D.C. in an event similar to the Greek Conspiracy of Fire Nuclei of 2010.”
“Right,” Fontaine agreed. “And he was only using pressure-cooker bombs in those instances. From what my NSA source said, he’s going for a bigger bang, possibly dirty bombs.” Royce paused, then continued. “The situation is critical. Since all of this is conjecture at this point, keep it on the down low. We don’t know who Macias’s contacts are, and we can’t trust anyone. If it leaks to the press, we could lose the connection. You have to find out what Macias is up to, his contact for uranium, if that’s his angle, and stop Armageddon from happening. Millions of lives are depending on you.”
“No pressure, right? And what you’re saying is that for all these years people have been prophesying California would one day fall into the ocean, that event may come earlier than we think.”
“As soon as I can pull some of the others in on this mission, I’ll send them your way. In the meantime, you’re the lead man.”
“Sounds like I’m the only man.”
“For the moment, you are. I’m working intel from this end. I’ll feed you everything I know as soon as I know.” True to his word, Royce would do everything in his power to help him. The head of SOS kept his promises. “You’ve got all the information and the cover you need to find that yacht. Go get ’em.”
“I’m on it.” Creed hit the button on his earpiece to end the call, drew in a deep breath and drove into town, to the Cape Churn police station. He climbed out of the rental and entered the office, wearing shorts, flip-flops, sunglasses and a T-shirt with the image of a sailboat emblazoned across his chest. Pasting his friendliest insurance-adjuster grin on his face, he extended his hand to the man he presumed was the chief of police, the one person in town who would know a local from a transient, and where to go to get what he needed. “Hello, I’m Creed Thomas. Are you the police chief?”
“That would be me.” He gripped Creed’s hand in a firm handshake. “Tom Taggart. I don’t believe I know you. New resident in town, or here on vacation?”
This was where his cover came into play. Until he knew the trustworthiness of the locals, he couldn’t reveal the potential danger lurking in the quiet seaside town. “Actually, I’m here on business.”
“What kind of business brings you to Cape Churn? Setting up a golf tournament? Team building weekend? Searching for a vacation home?” The chief smiled. “Just ask—we’re likely to have what you’re looking for.”
Creed removed his glasses, liking the older man’s open, friendly face. “I’m looking for a boat.”
“A boat?” Taggart’s brows rose. “Renting, buying? Anything special you got in mind?”
“A missing boat, to be exact.” He handed the chief his fake business card with Thomas Brothers Insurance written in bold lettering across the top. “I underwrote an insurance policy on a yacht we believe went down off the coast of Cape Churn in the past couple days.”
“Is that so?” Taggart scratched his chin. “I don’t recall receiving any reports of a ship in distress or BOLOs on missing persons.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. The owner probably didn’t know he was in distress until the ship went down, and his family won’t be missing him for several days. I understand there was a significant amount of fog the night before last?”
“True.” The chief nodded. “Folks around here call it the Devil’s Shroud. Nothing but misfortune happens when it slides into the coast. Could be your boat got caught up in it.”
“That’s my bet. Fortunately, we have tracking devices on the yachts we insure, and I believe I can locate it. All I need is a guide to get me out to it. That’s what I was hoping you could help me with.”
“Depends on where you’re going. The shallows around here are pretty treacherous, even on a calm day. If you have the GPS coordinate, and it’s not in the middle of the rocks, I recommend Dave Logsdon’s dive boat and Emma Jenkins as your guide. She’s not a full-time diver, but she has the most diving experience all around the cape.”
“Where can I find them?”
“Logsdon docks his boat at the Cape Churn Marina. It’s early in the summer season, and schools aren’t out yet. You might catch him, if he’s not chartered.”
A man wearing a navy blue police uniform entered the building behind Creed and removed his uniform cap.
The chief turned to the officer. “Gabe here can show you the way.”
“Where to?” Gabe stuck out his hand. “Gabe McGregor.”
Creed introduced himself.
“Mr. Thomas needs to hire a boat and a guide to look for a potentially sunken yacht his company insured.”
“Think it got caught in the fog the other night?” Gabe ran a hand through his dark blond hair. “We haven’t had any distress calls or bodies wash ashore.”
“The GPS tracking device we installed on the craft indicates it’s offshore, not moving. Too far to be anchored, which leads me to believe it’s at the bottom.”
“You’ll want Dave Logsdon and—”
“Emma Jenkins,” the chief finished. “I’ve already briefed him on the best guide in the area. Would you show him how to get to the marina? I’ve got a meeting with the mayor in fifteen. We’d send a diver with you, but we’re short staffed, and diving isn’t necessarily a requirement for the job. I can put a call into the coast guard and have them start a search for survivors.”
“Thanks.” Creed would rather not get the coast guard involved just yet. “In the meantime, I’d like to check the location and make sure the boat wasn’t stolen or the GPS device tossed overboard.”
“I’ll put out the word to be on the lookout for any casualties that might have washed ashore.” The chief stepped around Creed and Gabe. “Gabe can take you to the marina and get you set up.”
Gabe waved toward the door. “I can take you there, or you can follow me.”
“I’ll follow,” Creed said.
“Dave’s