Page 112
Felicity gave him a moment to take in the board — now focused solely on the Voss property.
“You’ve been out there,” he said sharply.
“Sent a drone up one night.” She tipped the bottle and took a long sip, wanting him to reach the same conclusion without her having to spell it out.
He moved closer, studying the board with increased intensity. “It’s changed. The dock is new. So is the road leading to it. And” — he tapped the image of the shed — “it’s got ventilation. We didn’t do that. And fuck, that’s a big-ass generator.”
He dragged a hand through his hair and looked at her. “A grow house? Meth lab?”
She shook her head and handed him a photo from her desk. “I think it’s a distribution hub.” The image showed the shed with the heat signatures clearly defined.
“Dammit. I see it too.”
She sighed. “The thing is, I need more intel before I can take this further. I need to go back. But I can’t do it on my own. In an urban environment, sure, I can blend in. Rural? Not a chance.”
*
Ronan had fought beside enough women to know better than to underestimate them — his late wife having been one of them. But he was damn grateful Felicity knew her limits. “You looking for a sidekick, Deputy?” It was the perfect opportunity to spend time with her, maybe even discover answers to his burning questions.
She let out a heavy sigh and leveled him with an even heavier look. “More like someone to watch my six.”
The fact that she trusted him — with this, at least — felt like a win.
Maybe she’d let him in on the rest, too.
“You in, Marine?”
“Hell yeah, I’m in. What are you planning?”
“Find their Wi-Fi network. See if I can slip in. Maybe access their security footage.”
He blinked. Of course she was.
“Basically, spying. Figure out what they’re doing.” She gave a sharp laugh. “For all we know, they’re sorting and packing damned potatoes.”
“They’re not.” Not with that generator. And those extractors.
She shot him a side-eye. “No, they’re not. Also, Caleb Voss has no digital footprint. At all. No bank account. No social media. No DMV record. Nada. The property’s registered to an LLC, owned by another LLC, and so on until it disappears into further layers. I stopped digging after the fifth.” She pulled in a breath. “A potato farm it is not.” Her expression hardened. “But I need to prove it. And I can only do that once I know who — and what — I’m dealing with.”
She tipped the bottle toward the board. “Trailing them in an area that isolated is pointless. I’d like to tag the vehicles, but I’m not risking that until I know what kind of security they’ve got in place.”
“How close do you need to be to … er, slip into their network?”
“Max eighteen-hundred feet. More than that and I’m pushing the limits of the equipment.” She pointed toward the river. “The water offers the best approach.”
“Guess we’re going fishing — literally and figuratively.”
28
Fishing
They set out just before sunrise a couple of days later. The world was still half-asleep, the sky a dull wash of gray just beginning to bleed into blue. Mist clung low over the river, softening the edges of everything as he eased them away from the bank.
The jon boat rode low in the water, its flat bottom gliding over the shallows. The motor hummed with enough power to push them across the slow current without drawing attention.
Felicity sat beside him, steady, focused. Not nervous — he didn’t get that from her — but keyed in, like a wire pulled tight.
She wore a lightweight windbreaker against the chill off the river, her hair pulled back in a tight, no-nonsense braid. A khaki cap sat low on her forehead, sunglasses hanging from a cord at her neck for when the sun sharpened.
