Page 186 of Johnny

A drone. A black, fixed-wing drone. The kind the military uses to spy on other countries and take

out terrorists.

For a moment I’m sure that drone will be dropping a bomb. That in just a few seconds my flesh

will be burned off my body. And then this yacht will blow up and sink, and people will find it just

like they found the wreckage of Charlotte Kane’s boat last year, and that’s it.

Game over. We lost.

And I know I should yell for Johnny. Warn him at least. But I’m frozen in place, my eyes fixed on

the black outline of what could be a large bird.

An albatross, or a magnificent frigatebird.

But isn’t.

It’s a drone.

And then the payload comes into view. A small black package hanging from the underbelly.

They know where we are.

They always know where we are.

There is no way to hide from the Way.

The payload drops and I’m on my feet. Ready to jump overboard, I run to the edge of the yacht.

But I stop.

There is no point in living if Johnny dies. No point at all. He’s my only hope. I need him. I have to

see this through.

So I turn and look up just as a small parachute opens and the package bobs and floats in the air until it’s right over top of me and falls almost lazily into my waiting hands.

“What the fuck is that?”

I turn, still holding the package, and watch as Johnny looks up at the sky to watch the drone

disappear off in the distance. Still on its same trajectory. No sign that it just dropped a package into

my hands.

“It left this,” I say, holding up the flat, hard case.

Johnny squints his eyes, stuffs the satellite phone into his pocket, then jumps onto the sun deck,

crosses it in two paces, and jumps down to the starboard side deck where I’m standing. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. It literally just fell into my hands.”

He reaches for it and I hand it over.

“A tablet,” he says. “This is a field case for a tablet.” He works the hard plastic latches on the