Net Force--Kill Chain by Jerome Preisler (e book reader txt) 📕

of a low, weedy headland. A small white boat was slowly coming in at the middle of the curve, the name Big Dipper legible on its hull above its identification numbers.

She followed its approach a moment, then turned to watch the gulls glide, dip, and dive on the gentle drafts. On impulse, she closed her eyes and stretched her arms out at her sides like wings. Her fingers were spread apart, her palms turned into the breeze as if to catch it.

“‘Metelychok, metelychok, u sadok pryletiv...’”

“Is that Russian?”

Natasha’s eyes blinked open. Bryan had come up beside her. She realized she was singing aloud.

“It’s Ukrainian...a lullaby,” she said dreamily. “‘Butterfly, butterfly, set her free.’” She paused. “My dad was originally from Kiev. He used to put me on his lap and sing till I fell asleep.”

He nodded. “So that’s why you like butterflies so much.”

She stood looking at him for a long moment, then lowered her arms to her side.

“I suppose,” she said softly. “This place is amazing. Thanks for bringing me.”

“You aren’t still angry? About me not mentioning the storm?”

Natasha shook her head. “Bry, you’re my best friend in the world. We all screw up.”

He stood facing her silently in the breeze. Then he gestured to their left. “That’s the boat launch right there.”

She nodded. They were only a few steps from where the landing sloped gently down into the shallows. Turning, she walked carefully over the seaweed-bristled rocks near the edge of the shore, then crouched on her toes, swishing her fingers around in the water. After a minute, Bryan joined her.

“Brrr,” she said. “It’s cold.”

He nodded. “Probably forty, forty-five degrees.”

Natasha touched her wet fingertips to her lips. She tasted the color green—fresh, cool, a little minty.

“The afternoon tide’s starting to ebb. That means it’s flowing toward Chacagua.” He pointed to the right. “See the island way out there?”

She nodded. Even at a distance, she could recognize the shell beach, the bluffs, the trees clinging to them. It was all identical to his virtual scenario.

“The current will help us make speed,” Bryan said. “We should have low water in twenty minutes or so. That’s when we’ll put in.”

Natasha looked at him. “You really know this stuff.”

He shrugged. “My father never sang me off to sleep. But he loved to kayak and took me out weekends when I was young.”

“So it stopped after the divorce?”

“Before.” Bryan’s voice was flat. “He didn’t know I was on the spectrum. I wasn’t diagnosed till grad school.”

Natasha shook her head slightly. “What’s you being on the spectrum have to do with kayaking?”

Bryan was looking out at the water, watching the Big Dipper come closer to shore.

“When dad drank he would argue with my mother. I’d hear them through my bedroom wall,” he said. “Once, he said he’d always wanted a son. Somebody he could do stuff with. But he told her I’d just stare into space when we were on the water. Like I was bored. Or like there was something wrong with me.” He paused. “He said that was killing him a little at a time.”

She stood there a minute. “I’m sorry, Bry. Really.”

He took two long breaths. “I was never bored,” he said. “I always thought we were having fun.”

Natasha looked at him. He’d been speaking in a flat, unemotional tone. But his face told her everything she needed to know.

“Well,” she said, “times sure change.”

“What do you mean?”

“I love hanging out with you,” she said. “And I’m already having a blast.”

Bryan was silent awhile. Then he looked at her plainly and nodded.

“Same,” he said.

They returned to the SUV for the kayak and gear. Bryan also had a pair of binoculars for her and an extra pouch for himself, which he explained contained an emergency tent. Natasha wasn’t quite sure what made it different from any other tent but was glad he’d brought it.

Unlashing the kayak from the rack, he asked her to grab one of the handles and help slide it down off the Pilot’s roof. Between them, they carried it over to the rocky launch, setting it down with its bow in the water.

Bryan fished two energy bars out of his jacket pocket. “Want one?”

“No, thanks.” She puckered her face. “I’m not fond of birdseed.”

He shrugged, dropped one bar back into his coat, opened the other’s wrapper, and bit off a third of it.

“I’ll sit in front to guide us,” he said, chewing. “Ever steer a kayak?”

She shook her head.

“It’s easy,” he said. “I’ll show you once you’re inside.”

Natasha was about to step into the cockpit when she heard a rustling in the thicket, glanced over there, and saw somebody emerge from it on the dirt path. A tall, heavyset, gray-haired guy, he was carrying a lobster trap in each hand and wore a red flannel shirt, orange bib pants, and rubber knee waders. After pausing for a look at their SUV, he spotted them at the boat launch and walked up.

“Bryan Ferago, I thought it was you!” He set down the trap in his right hand, then turned to Natasha as they shook. “I’m Dwight Stimson,” he said.

She introduced herself and extended her hand. “Pleased to meet you,” she said.

“We passed Mr. Stimson’s store down the road,” Bryan said. “The pickup belongs to him. And the dock. And all the traps.”

She looked at the guy from under the brim of her ball cap. “Wild guess...you own the Big Dipper too.”

Stimson laughed.

“Yup. I assume you saw me coming in from my run.” He regarded her a moment. “So, Natasha, where you from?”

She noted the expression on his face. It was very familiar. “I’m albino.”

He looked suddenly uncomfortable. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” she said. “People are curious. We’re one in twenty thousand.”

He nodded. “Thanks for letting me off the hook, young lady,” he said.

She decided then that she liked him and smiled.

Bryan, meanwhile, was gesturing toward the path. “Mr. Stimson has a mooring over at the other side of the headland,” Bryan said. “He’s the biggest lobsterman in the area.”

Stimson