Page 9 of Code Name: Harbor

“I’m wounded.”

“You don’t look wounded.”

“It’s an internal wound.” I tap my fist against my chest. “It’s deep inside here.”

And to my utter delight, Josie ducks her head to hide the smile forming on her mouth. I’m enjoying this woman—this very dangerous woman because she’s clearly working on a case to bring down Voronin, who’s still, at his basic core, a smuggler same as me.

Our only difference is that I specialize in high-end art and antiquities. He traffics women.

I’m prompted by another full-body shiver running through Josie and cross over to the galley to start the kettle.

“Tell me one thing honestly, Josie McAdams.” I find the tea tin without looking. “You were there for Voronin tonight? Yes or no.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“It is when you’re on my boat.”

“I don’t know whose boat I’m on. I don’t even know what kind of boat this is.”

“It’s a fishing boat.”

“It’s not a fishing boat.”

“Why not?”

“You have a frequency scanner mounted to the bulkhead and pencil notations on a chart of Coast Guard patrol windows. Coupled with the way you were drifting dark and the gun on your thigh, you’re not fishing, Mr. Marlowe.”

The kettle begins to whistle.

“You have a very vivid imagination,” I say as I pour the boiling water into a mug.

I bring it to her and she gratefully wraps both hands around it, holding it up to her face as if the steam could chase away the chill.

She stares at me over the rim. “What now?” she asks.

And I understand the real question without her even asking it. Deep down, she’s concerned she really knows too much about what I do, even though she doesn’t have any real proof. While I might have fired on Voronin’s men and fished her out of the water, thereby putting myself in peril, she senses I’m not on the up-and-up.

“Now,” I say with a roguish smile, “I’ll get you somewhere warm and dry and then I suggest we go our separate ways.”

Josie nods at me.

I thumb toward the steps to the pilot deck. “I’m going to talk to my mate, Marcus, and we’ll find a populated area to drop you off.”

She nods again but then stops me with just one word. “Finn?”

I glance over my shoulder at her.

“I don’t care what you do for a living. I’m grateful you saved me.”

CHAPTER 3

Josie

The coffee is not helping.

I’m at my desk on the Jameson operations floor at seven forty-five in the morning, which is forty-five minutes later than when I usually start. The coffee in my hand is the second one I’ve made since I sat down, and I expect I’ll need another after that before I feel human.

I’m operating on less than two hours of sleep for the night and those hours were disjointed at best.