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One person who didn’t have a problem was Jakob Tas. Everything was on schedule. Koenig had been a thorn in his side, but ultimately he’d changed nothing. He’d achieved nothing. Yes, Tas had lost men in New York and in Scotland, men he’d fought wars with, but they’d taken his money; they understood the risk. Letting go of Pearl and Konstantin had been more of a wrench. He’d spilled blood with Konstantin in the Central African Republic, and Pearl had saved his life in Mali. He hadn’t cared about the Australian. He’d been like a single-shot anti-tank weapon. Used once, then discarded.

Tas smiled to himself. He’d been listening to the police scanner app on his second cell phone. It wasn’t illegal to listen to the cops in America. Weird country. San Diego PD had found the bodies in the paint warehouse, right when he’d needed them to. He’d have been annoyed if they hadn’t. He’d left enough clues. That bowlegged idiot in New Silloth had watched as he threw the team’s cell phones into the sea, he hadn’t changed registration plates on the truck, and he’d made no attempt to disguise the NorseBoat. SDPD finding the bodies was part of the plan. Temporary misdirection. He’d known what their response would be.

What he needed it to be . . .

He checked his watch. Seven hours until the sun disappeared over the horizon. They hadn’t found him yet, but they would.

Even if he had to make the call himself.

A stab of pain ripped through his stomach, bad enough to wipe the smile from his face. He grimaced and reached for his fentanyl. He shook the box. One patch left. Seventy-two hours of pain relief. He wasn’t worried. One patch was all he would need. He peeled off the liner and pressed the sticky side to his upper arm. He held it there until the pain ebbed away.

He smiled again.

Then he dropped anchor and waited.