him alive.”
5
K rogan drained the last few ounces from a stray fifth of Jack Daniel’s he’d found discarded in an empty bait bucket. He put
the cap back on the bottle and threw it overboard in the hope another boat would hit it. Two weeks had passed since he’d woken
up inside a Coney Island Dumpster, reeking of fermenting garbage and in so much pain he could hardly move. Now the pain was
gone and as usual he had only a spotty recollection of what had happened. He had heard the confirming news of the crash at
the aquarium and was quite proud of the results.
He continued to cruise outside the mouth of Hempstead Harbor, paying zero attention to the new construction on what had once
been called the Gold Coast, where famous turn-of-the-century money moguls’ estates were now being turned into up-scale waterfront
developments. He had no interest in local or even global growth; he despised the old estates, the new homes, the builders,
and whoever the new owners would be.
Instead he monitored his GPS, seeking to locate exactly where he had placed his hidden buoy and lobster trap. The technology
of the unit meant nothing to him; it was nothing more than a tool. In fact, he would rather have used a surface marker, but
then the traps could be pilfered as they had been when he used to work these waters with his father.
Krogan grimaced. He never thought about his father anymore. The man was long dead and gone. Krogan had never known his mother,
who’d left him and his father when he was too young to remember. Krogan’s father had spent his time either working the lobster
traps or drinking. By the time he died of liver disease, Krogan knew enough to get by in his inherited business, which was
all he cared to do.
Although his lobster boat was forty feet long with a huge beam and spacious work area that covered more than half the vessel,
Krogan didn’t look out of proportion in comparison. He was a big man—more than 280 pounds, six-five and muscular. His rock-hard
right arm bore a tattoo of a speeding horse-drawn chariot with a cloud of fire in its draft. The chariot was driven by a man
with a gargoyle’s head and was pulled by a horse with bright yellow eyes—a souvenir of another night he couldn’t remember.
The demonic display reflected colorfully in the bright sunlight.
He pulled back on the throttle with a large, meaty hand, quieting the deep rumble of the rugged diesel that powered the boat,
which he had renamed
Shadahd
—the password that, when spoken at the right time to the right person, unlocked doors he had not known to exist a few years
ago. With a steady fifteen mile-per-hour wind from the stern, the boat drifted over the submerged buoy marker in the choppy
summer waters of Long Island Sound. It was 11:50 A.M. and this was his first pickup of the day, which had started for him only an hour ago. Not that he had a schedule to keep—the
lobsters didn’t care what time it was, so why should he?
He leaned over and saw the buoy below the water’s surface, right where he had planted it. He fished for the suspended line
with a long gaff, snagged it, and pulled it up, his muscular forearms flexing as the old, barnacle-encrusted Styrofoam marker
broke the cool surface. As he pulled the buoy over the side he noticed a sailboat heading in his direction. He recognized
it instantly—the same cursed sailboat had cut too close to his bow three days ago when he was dropping the traps. He snarled
at the boat. If it happened again, the puny moron trying to sail it would pay.
He picked up the line and wrapped it around the pulley winch. The clutch mechanism engaged and the winch began to pull the
line. The first trap lifted into the air, water cascading back into the waves below. He pulled the trap onto the boat’s ledge
table and felt no special gratitude for the lone lobster he found inside. Stepping back from the trap he examined the creature—a
three-pounder,
5
K rogan drained the last few ounces from a stray fifth of Jack Daniel’s he’d found discarded in an empty bait bucket. He put
the cap back on the bottle and threw it overboard in the hope another boat would hit it. Two weeks had passed since he’d woken
up inside a Coney Island Dumpster, reeking of fermenting garbage and in so much pain he could hardly move. Now the pain was
gone and as usual he had only a spotty recollection of what had happened. He had heard the confirming news of the crash at
the aquarium and was quite proud of the results.
He continued to cruise outside the mouth of Hempstead Harbor, paying zero attention to the new construction on what had once
been called the Gold Coast, where famous turn-of-the-century money moguls’ estates were now being turned into up-scale waterfront
developments. He had no interest in local or even global growth; he despised the old estates, the new homes, the builders,
and whoever the new owners would be.
Instead he monitored his GPS, seeking to locate exactly where he had placed his hidden buoy and lobster trap. The technology
of the unit meant nothing to him; it was nothing more than a tool. In fact, he would rather have used a surface marker, but
then the traps could be pilfered as they had been when he used to work these waters with his father.
Krogan grimaced. He never thought about his father anymore. The man was long dead and gone. Krogan had never known his mother,
who’d left him and his father when he was too young to remember. Krogan’s father had spent his time either working the lobster
traps or drinking. By the time he died of liver disease, Krogan knew enough to get by in his inherited business, which was
all he cared to do.
Although his lobster boat was forty feet long with a huge beam and spacious work area that covered more than half the vessel,
Krogan didn’t look out of proportion in comparison. He was a big man—more than 280 pounds, six-five and muscular. His rock-hard
right arm bore a tattoo of a speeding horse-drawn chariot with a cloud of fire in its draft. The chariot was driven by a man
with a gargoyle’s head and was pulled by a horse with bright yellow eyes—a souvenir of another night he couldn’t remember.
The demonic display reflected colorfully in the bright sunlight.
He pulled back on the throttle with a large, meaty hand, quieting the deep rumble of the rugged diesel that powered the boat,
which he had renamed
Shadahd
—the password that, when spoken at the right time to the right person, unlocked doors he had not known to exist a few years
ago. With a steady fifteen mile-per-hour wind from the stern, the boat drifted over the submerged buoy marker in the choppy
summer waters of Long Island Sound. It was 11:50 A.M. and this was his first pickup of the day, which had started for him only an hour ago. Not that he had a schedule to keep—the
lobsters didn’t care what time it was, so why should he?
He leaned over and saw the buoy below the water’s surface, right where he had planted it. He fished for the suspended line
with a long gaff, snagged it, and pulled it up, his muscular forearms flexing as the old, barnacle-encrusted Styrofoam marker
broke the cool surface. As he pulled the buoy over the side he noticed a sailboat heading in his direction. He recognized
it instantly—the same cursed sailboat had cut too close to his bow three days ago when he was dropping the traps. He snarled
at the boat. If it happened again, the puny moron trying to sail it would pay.
He picked up the line and wrapped it around the pulley winch. The clutch mechanism engaged and the winch began to pull the
line. The first trap lifted into the air, water cascading back into the waves below. He pulled the trap onto the boat’s ledge
table and felt no special gratitude for the lone lobster he found inside. Stepping back from the trap he examined the creature—a
three-pounder,
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