Page 89 of Untamed Coast

She took a sip from the glass of water she kept on her nightstand. The cabin was silent. Amos and Doug were quiet in their cots.

Anya got up and walked toward the window. The moon should be full tonight. A dim stripe of moonlight stretched across Doug’s chest.

The handle of a knife was sticking out of it.

Anya froze in her tracks. Listened hard. Silence…then the faintest hint of…a breath. Not coming from Amos’s direction.

Someone else was still in the cabin.

Anya rushed back to her cot, reaching under her pillow for the Smith & Wesson. She pulled the gun up and aimed blindly into the dark corner where the sound had come from. She tried to pull back the hammer to cock the weapon. It wouldn’t budge. She gasped for breath and tried to scream, but her voice was tiny, faint, as if she couldn’t make the air come out of her lungs.

She awoke back in bed, face down into her damp pillow, the covers pulled up to her neck.

Anya took a final drag off her cigarette and crushed it out. She was sitting in her favorite chair next to the stump by the beach. An eagle circled high above, chased by a flock of angry seagulls. Her guys were busy up at the cabin, and it was an unspoken rule not to disturb the boss when she went down for her morning relaxation. Anya liked her private time.

Lady Melinda was anchored in front of the cabin and looked to her like the best vessel in the fleet. She took care of her boat and it took care of her. She’d spared no expense on maintenance and upgrades, and insisted that the deckhands keep her clean and tidy. Anya was proud of what she’d accomplished: her boat earning good money, the loyal crew she had put together…she paid top wages and shared the profits, and she expected top performance and respect. She got it.

After Thomas had vanished, her brief hopes of a fortune evaporated. That had made her even more determined. She’d brought in good money during the early king salmon season. Now, she was going after silvers and doing fine. Nobody talked down to her or told her what to do.

Anya was the boss now. She liked it that way.

She still slept with her Smith & Wesson underneath her pillow, just in case. She wondered what the deal was with Thomas, why he wanted her cabin, and how her no-good husband had inherited land that used to be a gold mine. None of it made any sense.

Amos, her newest hire, approached cautiously. “Miss Baron, I’m gonna go split some wood and add to the pile if that’s okay with you. There’s some daylight left and we’ve been using more than we’re adding to that stack lately.”

“That sounds great, Amos. Thank you. Good to have a healthy supply…” Anya forgot what she was going to say mid-sentence. Sam Worlson’s comment replayed in her mind. “…fortune buried on your little island.”

The words circled in her head. Something she’d read somewhere. A letter? To her husband from his dad. It had stuck with her a bit—a phrase that just didn’t quite fit.

“…out yonder in the woodpile…surplus enough to keep you warm and content for the entirety of your days.”

She folded her chair and half-sprinted up to the cabin. Grabbing her purse from the kitchen counter, she pulled out the neat bundle of letters her husband had left in his sock drawer. They were from her husband’s father, Joe Baxter, addressed to his mother, Melinda. Joe had built this cabin to use as a radio outpost back in the day, calling the place “Radioville.”

Joe had written Melinda regularly when he was living here, and apparently she’d saved the letters and passed them on to her son when she died. One in particular Anya remembered. She found it near the bottom of the pile.

Dearest Son,

I reckon by now you’re aware I had no choice but to bid adieu to you and your mama before your arrival into this world…

Anya’s breath left her. The back of her neck tingled, and she felt dizzy as she walked to the cabin door.

“Amos! Grab a shovel! Meet me at the woodpile. We’ve got some digging to do.”

Chapter 70

... - .- -. -.. --- ..-. ..-.

Radioville, AK

2017—Marconi Franco

Here and now, Marco needed this to end.

The red roof of the dilapidated Radioville cabin looked like it had collapsed even further since his last visit. After cruising a lap around the small island, he was fairly certain it was deserted.

Radio Flyer transmitted an automatic identification system, or AIS, signal to aid in collision avoidance. That meant that anybody with a web browser could see Radio Flyer’s location at any time. He left the AIS transmitter on. The people messing with Marco were smart. They would know he was here.

It was just a matter of time.