He’d be a dead man if he couldn’t come up with that phone. He knew it. And so Cole had spent the rest of the afternoon avoiding Captain, the whole time feeling a return of that dark, heavy cloud descending upon him. Blackness choking out what was left of the light. It wasn’t like the kind of blackness he’d felt while climbing over the rails of the cargo ship. It wasn’t a cloud of his own emotional weather system, of whatever he had going on in his head. This time the doom was coming from outside his body, from somewhere else. From someone else.

He tried his best to shrug off its icy touch, and to leave work casually like nothing had happened. Like he wasn’t being spied on. But it was hard to keep his head from swiveling at every odd sound, from checking behind him every few minutes. Even after he’d left the building, and the block, and that whole half of the Hilo.

The Hele-On public bus Cole was riding, with all of its witnesses, seemed like the safest place in the world. He sat there as the streets rattled by, finally relaxing just a little bit. And finally he had time to think about his last few days. The ethical blurriness of it all. He thought about being on the Batchewana, regretting how he’d skipped out on his interview with her—even if it had been some sort of trap. Cole had always felt that way, but now the idea of it almost crushed him. Here he was in the same danger he thought he’d be avoiding. Only now he’d have none of the advantages of coming out and airing his story, his truth. He would have none of the protections that a whistle-blower would normally enjoy. He didn’t even have the satisfaction of coming clean to another human being. And to have that person listen. It could have changed everything, the catharsis of confession. It could have saved him.

Looking back, he could see it as just another wasted opportunity. He might not ever have the chance for one again.

Mentally and physically drained, Cole ambled up the steps to his single-story bungalow. Cheap temporary housing he’d been sharing with Tommy, an islander. A cheap front door that offered hardly any security benefits, except against the weather. But he was expecting much worse than the weather. He’d have to warn Tommy about that.

He walked through the house with his hand on his holster, clearing each room systematically before he finally made some noise about it. “Tommy?” he called, making his way to the rear of the house, the backyard. Tommy had a habit of crushing beers in the backyard after work—an activity that Cole usually enjoyed when he wasn’t fearing for his life.

“I’m out here,” Tommy said.

“Here” meant two half-busted lawn chairs next to a crumbling Styrofoam cooler. And a sloppily dug fire pit, their BBQ, a blackened grill laid over a hole in the ground.

“Grab one,” Tommy said, knocking the lid off the cooler. “They’re cold.”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“What?” Tommy almost looked offended. “You’re definitely not good if you can turn down a cold one.”

Cole stood next to his chair, eying its most recent damage, wondering if he had time to sit. He also wondered if it would even support his weight at this point.

“You alright?” Tommy finally said.

“I’ve got to take off for a while.”

“Huh?”

“But I need to warn you about something.”

“The hell’s goin’ on?”

“Yeah, exactly,” Cole said. “There’s some shit going on.”

“Like what?”

“Like you might have to not be here for a while. I’ve got some guys looking for me.”

“Lookin’ here?”

“Probably.”

Tommy sat up in chair, scrambling straight. “Fuckin-A . . . Like how soon?”

“Maybe as soon as tonight.”

“Fuckin-A, man . . .”

He felt bad about it, leaving his friend in the lurch like this. Possibly leaving him forever, depending on how bad things got.

Maybe he should sit down with Tommy for a minute.

But just not on that lawn chair. When Cole touched it, he could almost feel the impending collapse. Instead, he went for the cooler, grabbing a can of beer out of it before replacing the lid, and then—

“Dude!” Tommy cried. “Are you fucking nuts doin’ that?”

Cole froze up. “What?”

“You really think that cooler’s gonna to hold you up?”

By this point, Cole’s fatigue had become almost unbearable, his brain itself feeling like the Styrofoam he was just about to crush.

Yet Tommy continued ripping on him. “You’re almost better off using that damn chair, man.”

Cole decided to go with nothing, plopping down on the hard-packed dirt on the other side of the BBQ pit. He cracked his beer and blew off the foam, and began wondering how he’d survive the next few days without the reporter’s phone.

The naturally skeptical Captain, especially with the suspicions he’d already had about Cole, made his survival chances seem unbearably slim. He could normally talk his way out of anything. But this might require a little more than talk.

“Cole . . .”

“What?”

“Are you gonna talk to me about this or what? What the hell’s goin’ on?”

“I think I might have made some enemies at work,” Cole said. “That’s all I can say.”

“Really? That’s all?”

“And those enemies might be coming here,” Cole said. “I’d hate for you to get wrapped up in it.”

“Well, it’s a little too late for that, don’t you think?” Tommy tossed his empty can into the cooler, groaning with disgust. “What do I gotta do? Move out now?”

“No, just take off for the weekend. It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal’s gonna get you killed?”

“I’m trying to be smart about it,” Cole said. “And I’m trying to get you to do the same.”

“I was gonna bring Patty over.”

“Stay at her house.”

“Nah,” Tommy said.

“It’s a good excuse. And she might think it’s exciting. You know? Assassins and everything? Might get you laid.”

“Nah,” he said again, this time sounding even more dejected.

Cole wouldn’t press the issue. Instead, he sipped his beer quietly while listening to the sudden barking of a dog. Their neighbor’s Chihuahua who, day or night, could smell and hear just about anything in a two-mile radius. What was it so upset about this time?

Tommy tried saying something else about the inconvenience of moving, but Cole quickly shut him up.

“What is it?” Tommy whispered.

“Lil Gordie,” Cole said. “He hears something.”

“So?”

“He hears someone,” Cole said.

“Yeah, he hears us.”

“No way. When was the last time he barked for us? He knows us.” Cole got up off the ground, his eyes trained through the little spaces of the wood-slat fence. “He doesn’t bark like this anymore, unless . . .”

Fuck it. He had to go look. Leave Tommy to his wobbly chair, and his beer, and his complacency. Cole knew in his bones that the raspy barking from the little Chihuahua was the harbinger he’d been waiting for. What lay behind it, he’d have to find out by creeping along the fence line, gun drawn, eyes tracking what he believed were a set of shadows moving just underneath. Movement.

What was it?

Feet? An intruder?

The Captain might have just sent someone by, as a formality more than anything else. Just to check that box and cover the most obvious place to look. Who would have guessed Cole would be dumb enough to stick around his own home, to relax in the backyard with beers and his roommate?

Fuck it. Again. If there was going to be a showdown, it might as well happen now.

He lined himself up to the privacy fence gate between the houses, took one last breath, and then kicked it open. He aimed the gun and was ready to fire . . . at what appeared to be a power meter inspector.

“Hi,” Cole said, still pointing his gun at the man. “Can I help you?”

The man from the power company was speechless, though not exactly scared. Instead of cowering, or even just bitching about having a gun pointed at him, the man eased back into his lean against the neighbor’s house. He wore clothes that seemed a little too formal for a meter reader, a neatly ironed dress shirt and pants. Though he did have a name badge of some sort. Cole stood too far away to read it. He read his face instead, an expression cool and loose enough to give Cole some cause for concern. Eye contact, also, which was held a little too firmly, given the situation. Finally, the man replied with, “Can I help you?”

“Yeah,” Cole said. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not on your property.”

“You’re close enough.”

“Yeah.” The man pointed to the power meter. “Close enough to read this thing.”

“Let me guess, you’re doing your job.”

“What else? You think I do this on my free time?”

Cole lowered his gun off the target while Gordie the Chihuahua brought the barking to a whole new level, sounding between snorts. “Who do you work for?” Cole asked.

“The power company.”

“Who’s the power company?”

“Hawaiian Electric.”

It sounded somewhat legit.

The guy said, “You should put that weapon away.”

“Yeah,” Cole said. “You get your reading?”

“Yeah.”

He holstered his gun. “Then you should get the hell out of here.”

“Maybe I’ll do that right after I call the cops.”

Cole had been watching his hands for any sudden movements. There were none. Nor were they in the least bit shaky, as someone’s would be if they’d just had a gun pointed at their head. He’d seen it before. He may have even seen some action. What was he? Former military? A goon like Cole, himself? He was clearly a professional. And not a power-company professional.

“Do what you gotta do,” Cole said. “Just don’t come around to the wrong house.”

And that was that. He’d left him still leaning against the neighbor’s house, still outside his own home, possibly calling the police as Cole made his way back to Tommy and his beer cooler.

So what if he’d call the cops. They were nothing compared to what was really after him. Cole knew, also, that he’d be long gone before the next visitor came sneaking around for him. He only hoped that Tommy would do the same.

Cole was shaking his head on his way back. “You see what happened there?”

“Yeah.” Tommy threw his last empty can into the cooler and shut the lid.

“I told you,” Cole said. “I’m not fucking around.”

“Clearly.”

“With him, or about you sticking around here.”

“Trust me,” Tommy said, “I’m already gone.”

* * *

It had only been about ten minutes since his friendly exchange with the meter reader—or whoever the hell that was—and Cole had already packed his things into an army surplus backpack. At least enough things to survive on the road for a few weeks. He was in the backyard again, digging his old dirt bike from the shed when he heard the signature sound of a utility van’s heavy side door sliding shut. He’d spotted it across the street during his confrontation, an all-white van devoid of windows and any discernible power-company logos. It looked more like a rental than anything else. The meter reader, too. Another rental. An assassin for hire.

Captain must have gone outside the company, since Cole knew all of their internal hired guns. They’d all been friends, and they’d all probably politely declined the job. Either that or Captain just couldn’t trust them. It was probably the latter.

He was able to crank his bike to life right after he heard the van doing the same. Despite being all packed up and ready for the road, and saying his quick goodbye and good luck to Tommy, Cole forced himself to take his time navigating through the backyard. He paused at the gate, taking his time hitting the road. Just slow enough not to be noticed by his target, whom he caught view of at the last moment before the van turned off his street.

It was time to pick up the slack. He raced up and gained a little ground. He rounded that same corner fifteen seconds later, in perfect position to spy and follow—and perhaps intercept. Cole was just happy to tag along behind, always several cars back, always checking his mirrors for his own tail. One could develop at any moment.

Just when he’d caught himself staring back at that same black pickup truck, through several turns and lane changes, and just when he’d felt the sneaking suspicion that he was being followed, the truck finally went another direction. He could refocus on the moving van now. The meter reader.

Cole tailed him through a few more intersections, gaining minute ground before he’d have to drop back again. There was less traffic, and less cover from an already suspicious meter reader. Being on a dirt bike didn’t help with issues of stealth and concealment. The driver, if his window was down, could have likely been listening to the distinct whine of the bike for the last ten minutes. It would certainly be a big tip-off to Cole if he’d been the one in the lead. But then again, his training went beyond home meter checks. Who knew what this guy’s training would prepare him for. He hoped not much. The faster Cole could establish that, the faster he could get on with his next moves: finding a provisional safe house for himself and his bike. A base from which he could conduct some surveillance counterattacks. Find out what the company knew, and what they’d be willing to do about it.

A surge of adrenaline brought his mind back into focus. The van had slowed to a crawl, and then turned into the gravel parking lot of a self-storage facility. Aside from the rows of storage bays, the lot was sparse and totally devoid of other cars and people. Cole wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. But at least now he’d get to find out.

His first priority was stealth. He parked his bike on the road and then walked the rest of the way up into the storage facility—to what appeared to be three long strips of concrete. An empty front office was attached to the first strip, glass windows on both sides allowing for a momentary view of the van before it crawled out of sight between strips. Cole raced across the lot on foot, checking behind him one last time before slinking around the first row’s corner.

The van was parked midway, still idling. Still very unusual.

It got even more unusual when the driver’s side door opened, a woman stepping out and turning in his direction, squinting against the sun. Was she smiling? It was as if she’d been expecting him.

He hated being expected.

“Hi,” she called in a cheery voice.

She wasn’t dressed like a meter reader. Or a professional mover. She certainly didn’t look like a killer. That fact alone got his hackles rising up, a tingle of fear. An urge to turn around and face the opposite direction of what surely was another wall of their trap.

He checked the lot but saw no one else. From behind he could hear her voice, echoing along the narrow space between storage rows. “Looking for someone?”

Yes, he was. That was the problem, waiting for his surprise. He’d deserved it, too, walking in like this. He turned around to see the woman sitting on the tailgate of the van, hands on her jeans, ripped at the knees, still that smile on her face. She kept up with the same cheerful tone. “Someone looking for you?”

“You tell me,” Cole said, walking back toward her. “Where’s your buddy? The meter reader.”

She smiled. “He’s right around that corner.”

“I just checked.”

“Check again.”

His hand immediately fell to his holster, his legs widened in a proper shooting stance. Though it seemed to have no effect on the woman. He didn’t like how calm she was, just like her “power company” associate. She just sat there, her smile fading to a bored, almost tired expression.

“Do meter readers often get guns pointed at them?” he asked. Maybe they did, trespassing the whole day onto private property. But in Hawaii? Who could be grouchy about anything on Hawaii?

“Who do you work for?” he asked her.

She stayed silent.

Cole asked again, this time with the added gesture of drawing his gun. He drew and aimed it low, just under her feet, holding it steady and ready for any further escalation. But the escalation came from the opposite direction.

“Freeze!”

He had the woman trained in his sights.

“Drop the gun!”

It sounded like a cop behind him, and so the last thing he’d want to do was to make any sudden movements—especially turning around to face him with a gun. He decided on no sudden movements, just verbal ones, calmly asking the woman, “Who is that?”

“Just lower it,” she said. “Everything’s gonna be alright.”

He lowered it, slightly.

“Drop it!” came from behind.

Cole said, “Is that a cop behind me?”

“No,” she said, still sitting there, hands on knees.

He lowered his gun even more, and then turned his head, slowly, to find the meter man, in plainclothes now, armed, and using the edge of the building for cover. When Cole turned back to face the woman, he was met with the barrel of her gun. She had somehow drawn it in the split second he’d looked away, and now Cole had two sights on him, from both sides.

“Drop it,” she said, firmly, but still with politeness. “Drop it.”

He did.