Burning Bright (Peter Ash #2)(86)

“Exactly,” said June. “SafeSecure has sixteen employees.”

“Now down to eight,” said Lewis. “At least in theory.”

“Plus subcontractors,” said Peter.

“Shee-it,” said Lewis. “I ain’t afraida no subcontractors.”

The bridge was clogged with commuters. Approaching Fifteenth Avenue, they crossed over the railyard and passed the Interbay soccer fields. “Left here and merge,” she said. “Then your first right.”

“Who laid out these roads?” asked Lewis. “This city is like spaghetti.”

“Not if you know where you’re going,” said June. “It’s all about the shortcuts. That’s the ship canal on your left.” Now they were on Nickerson by the Fremont Cut, the funky old neighborhood on the other side rapidly converting to blocky new condos and office buildings, Seattle’s software wealth doing development on steroids.

“How about this guy Dawes?” said Lewis.

She flipped through her reporter’s notebook, reviewing her notes. “Charles Dawes the Fourth, goes by Chip. Comes from old New York money, but the last of the family fortune went to pay for Chip’s Ivy League education. His dad died of a drug overdose, so I’m guessing his investment decisions weren’t so hot, either,” she said. “Dawes’s accounting firm only has half-decent security, so Tyg3r did get me access to his financials. He’s making money by the bucketload, but it’s going out the door as fast as it’s coming in. So he’s either losing his ass or he’s laundering it overseas.”

“Dawes’s bio says he was an operations officer in Iraq,” said Peter. “On the ground, making plays. So he can probably handle himself. He has a gun permit, too. Expect him to be carrying.”

“Hell, I expect everybody to be carrying.”

They passed the turn for the old Fremont drawbridge, then beneath the high sculptural arches of the Aurora Bridge as they angled southeast along Lake Union. Through breaks in the trees and the commercial buildings, she saw the elaborate houseboats tethered to long wooden docks, a floating neighborhood.

“His boat slip is coming up,” she said. “You’d think a spy would be bright enough not to let a magazine writer tag along on his morning commute. Although it was probably good publicity.”

“Ain’t nothin’ succeed like success.”

She pointed. “This is it.”

Lewis pulled off the road, down a ramp, and into a broad parking lot by the lake.

She could feel her heart beating in her chest. She’d come a long way from digging through corporate records and worrying about fact-checkers. What the fuck was she doing here?

It was seven-thirty in the morning. The water was the color of ash. The falling rain so fine it was almost a mist.

? ? ?

CHIP DAWES’S PRIVATE SLIP was on one of many piers jutting out into the lake. Its fifteen spaces held mostly sleek power yachts, a testament to the city’s wealth. Owner access was a gate at the northeast corner of the parking lot, not far from a blocky cement office building with a big seafood restaurant on the lowest level. At the southeast corner of the lot was a small rectangular building on the water, Kenmore Air’s seaplane terminal.

Lewis backed into a parking spot at the near end of the seaplane offices, with a clear view of the water and down the fire lane to the gate. He cracked the windows an inch, but left the engine on. He shifted in his seat to look at her. “You got a picture of our guy?”

June held out her open laptop. “This is the company website photo.”

On the screen, Chip Dawes wore a blue-and-white seersucker suit and a blue bow tie. He had a sandy mop of hair over a tanned, clean-shaven rectangular face with a square jaw and a self-satisfied smile. He looked like a middle-aged East Coast preppy, maybe a successful insurance salesman or the vice president of a local bank. But he was a former CIA field agent. And he would be capable, she thought, of anything.

Lewis only glanced at the photo for a few seconds before he turned back to the view of the gated pier. “You can pull that up on your phone,” she said. “If you want to see it again.”

“No need,” he said. “I got him. When’s he due?”

“According to that magazine article, anytime now,” she said. “Unless he took the floating bridge, or came early. Or stayed at the Four Seasons down the hall from you.”

Peter unfolded the towel and picked up the pistols. “How you want to do this?”

Lewis nodded at the office building. “You set up near the gate where you can see the pier. Try to blend in. I’ll range around, check for backup, spot you for any heavy lifting.”

“What about me?” asked June.

“You’re the getaway driver. Keep the engine running. You’ll hear shots, or one of us will text you. Can you do that?”

“Sure,” she said. Her heartbeat rose yet again, and she could feel the heat on her cheeks. “Like Steve McQueen.”

“Wait a fucking minute,” said Peter. “Protecting June is the whole point of this thing.”

She put her hand on Peter’s arm. “I’ve already been the getaway driver twice. No reason to stop now.”

He looked at her, controlled but intense. “We didn’t have a choice before.”