Page 33 of Break Out the Girl

“Ready about,” London calls. “Lee-ho!” The boom swings overhead and François ducks a millisecond before it cracks him. “Oh, Shane, keep those peepers peeled.”

“Crétin,” Frank hisses back.

The last of the sea fog shifts, and the cliffs of black volcanic rock suddenly seem extremely fucking close. But at the base of the dark rocks is a small, crescent-shaped sandy cove.

“Just what the doctor ordered,” London purrs with satisfaction.

“Indeed,” François murmurs, his annoyance forgotten. “Bring us in, London.”

I pull up the centerboard just in time as the wooden hull slides up the dark sand of the isolated cove.

Part one accomplished. I’m over the side before the bow even finishes grinding into the dark pebbles.

Digging my heels into the loose shingle I pull with everything I’ve got. The heavy wood of the Sadie-Mae groans, sliding another few feet up the narrow slope until she’s high enough to hold.

“Everyone out,” I murmur. “Keep your head down, Rory.”

François steps over the gunwale first, then stretches his hand out to Aurora, like the perfect French gentleman. Whatever. He doesn’t let go until she’s out of the surf and on the shore. London helps me pull the boat up another couple of feet, then I take in our setting for the first time.

A jagged, dark treeline looms over the rim of the cliffs, but the rockfall looks like something we can scramble up.

Aurora steps closer, her jacket dripping with salt spray. Her eyes meet mine under the shadow of her hood, wide and focused. “Which way, Tally?” she whispers.

I point a finger towards the rockfall, but then notice a dark, narrow split in the cliff face just before it. It looks like a steep, half-collapsed track winding upward through the shale. Maybe a deer trail or something. “There. I’ll go first. Follow my footsteps.”

The climb is miserable. The volcanic rock is slick with frozen salt crust, crumbling into sharp, slate-like fragments beneath our rubber soles. By the time we scramble over the final lip of the ridge, I’m fucking relieved.

It would have been all too easy for Rory to slip and fall.

The cliff edge gives way to a manicured forest of fir trees, planted in precise, geometric lines that feel completely wrong, like a fucked up Christmas tree farm.

I beckon the others and we huddle in the shadow of the nearest trunks. “We don’t rush the main house, surveillance first. I’ll shift and go. Anything I should be aware of, London?”

“There were always the men in black,” London whispers, and makes spooky fingers. “Gotta be careful we don’t get zapped.”

I figure he’s talking about a patrol and tasers. “How many?”

“How long’s a piece of string?”

OK, he doesn’t know.

Check.

“Let’s get a little closer, then I’ll go.”

We move through the trees, heading toward the first structure detaching itself from the mist. It’s a low, open-fronted shed made of rusted corrugated iron—likely an old tractor barn or a marine equipment garage.

I incline my head to François, and he steps inside. A second later, his face reappears. “Clear.”

Good. It’s a relief to be out of the biting wind.

The interior smells of stale diesel oil and rotted wood. Tools are scattered across a long wooden workbench, and a massive, grease-stained generator sits dead in the corner.

Safe enough for now. They can stay here while I hunt.

Turning back to the group, I see London has shifted into his faun-form. “I'm coming with ya, Burt. Maybe I’ll know where the nasty places are if I see them."

Having London with me isn't a bad idea—but it’s one less protector for Rory.