After that, he’d explored and researched, learning as much about the Graveyard as he possibly could. He’d started venturing in here deliberately, making the place his own.
“It’s an island,” he explained to Rae. “A very small one, right on the subduction zone. It’s a remnant of what formed the Aleutian chain. Most people don’t believe the Graveyard exists because it’s remote, fogged over in the summer, and locked in ice in the winter. It was once a volcano, with a crater, hot vents, and a small glacier. People who try to explore it either can’t find it or don’t come back. It’s become a legend. Fishermen have been telling scary stories about the ghost island for centuries.”
“For good reason,” Piotr said. “You have heard of the Bermuda Triangle in the Caribbean?” he asked Rae. “It is like that, only much worse.”
“The Bermuda Triangle is a bunch of made-up stories about ships that wreck in bad weather,” Zander said calmly. “The Graveyard is real.”
Rae stood close enough that her body heat touched him. “And you think it’s a good place to hide?”
“It is a great place to hide. The Coast Guard has decent instruments but even the best sailor will think twice about bringing millions of dollars’ worth of boats into the Graveyard. We aren’t worth catching.”
“You hope, my friend,” Piotr said darkly.
Rae said nothing, only peered into the fog.
Ezra rose to his feet and made his way quietly to the stern. He moved slowly and cautiously, making no noise. At the back deck, he stopped and peered behind them. Nothing moved but the waves; no breeze stirred the thick air.
“What do we do?” Rae asked.
“We wait,” Zander said. “And I’ll try not to run into anything.”
* * *
The man in the patrol boat, which was surrounded by a sixty-five-foot cutter from the Coast Guard and another smaller boat of the harbor police, watched as the fishing vessel he pursued vanished before his eyes.
Carson McCade lowered his binoculars and retreated into the pilot house. “Where the hell did he go? Why are you stopping?”
Carson owned the boat, and the pilot, Miles Keegan, was an African American former Marine in his fifties. The man had reversed engines, effectively halting them.
“It’s suicide to chase him in there,” Miles said. “I didn’t even know the place existed.”
“In there where?” Carson fixed his steel blue gaze on the man. He’d learned in his fifteen years of first being a DEA agent and then a freelance bounty hunter that his stare could make people do things more effectively than shouting at them did. “Get this boat going.”
Usually Miles would say “Sure thing” under Carson’s glare but today he shook his head. “That’s what they call the Graveyard. If he went in there, he’s dead already.”
Miles Keegan, his tattooed arms roped with muscle, his close-cropped beard going gray, wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything. As Miles studied the smudge of fog before him, however, his face became stiff with fear.
“Have you sailed in there before?” Carson asked. He and Miles had been moving up and down the Alaskan coast for several years now, flushing out smugglers and traffickers of all kinds, and splitting the bounties. Carson had never seen nor heard of the Graveyard.
“Once,” Miles admitted. “I kissed the ground when I got back to port.”
“Why? What happened?”
“It’s a spooky hellhole,” Miles said, sweat on his brow. “And seriously risky. Rocks stick out of nowhere and the fog is too dense for visual navigation. Plus, there are fumaroles that burst out of nowhere and sometimes lava flows. That’s why it’s so steamy and stinky, even when the wind blows.”
Carson peered ahead of them. “What are the chances they come out without running into anything?”
Miles shrugged. “Depends on the experience of the pilot. He headed straight in, so my guess is he thinks he can come out again.”
Carson waited only thirty seconds before he made his decision. In that time he weighed the pros and cons in the lightning fast way he always did.
“We go in,” he said.
Miles gaped at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Those are Shifters,” Carson said. “Dangerous and illegally running around. They’ve got one of those God-fearing refugee Russians with them, who probably knows these waters better than he knows English. We go after them.”
“How about we sit here and wait for them to come out?” Miles said, making no move to obey.
“Is this the only way out?” Carson asked, studying the patch of fog. Not a bad idea to wait until they came blundering back into the light and catch them then.
Miles deflated. “No. You can navigate all the way through—it’s more like a series of inlets instead of one harbor. I came out the other side. How, I don’t know.”
“Then we can’t risk it. In we go. Radio the others; tell them to follow.”
The radio crackled even as he spoke.
“What the hell are you doing?” came the Coast Guard captain’s hard but high-pitched voice. She’d been happy to come chase Shifters with Carson but had gotten pissed off when he’d insisted on taking the lead.
Miles lifted the transmitter and held it out to Carson. “It’s for you,” he said.
Carson grabbed the mouthpiece. “We’re going in there, ma’am. Tell Shifter Bureau to expect a delivery.”
“Stand down, McCade. You’re not going anywhere.”
Carson respected the captain who was just doing her job, but he didn’t work for her. He also didn’t like to be told he couldn’t go someplace he wanted to. “You can follow or not, ma’am. Your choice.”
The captain made a noise of irritation and said several unladylike things about his appendages. “Wild goose chase, Carson. Good night.”
Carson and Miles watched as the cutter veered away, making a quick turn to head back toward open water. The harbor police didn’t even bother to radio. They simply followed the cutter, since they’d come out here at the Coast Guard’s request to assist anyway.
“Might be easier prey down the coast,” Miles suggested. “There’s the rumor of heroin smugglers on the Canadian border. Easy pickings, probably.”