Chapter 7: Pier Nine at Night

I left the Askew club by the kitchen and met my second in a parked van two blocks away.

He had the east pier on a tablet and a short plan on his knee.

"The boat's called the Marigold," he said. "Fergus's old tug. Nobody's flown that flag in two years."

"Who's loading her?"

"Twelve men, none of ours. They've got forty crates stamped Dunleavy and they're nailing Rainey tags over them."

I looked at the screen.

"They're not shipping guns," I said. "They're staging them."

"For what?"

"For a raid," I said. "Fergus's name on forty crates of rifles, and a tip to the coast guard. They want him in a cell by morning."

My second swore under his breath.

The van's back door slid open, and Nolan Askew climbed in and sat down on the bench.

"You left without me," he said.

"I left without everyone."

"You're my fiancée. The old man had the lunch cleared an hour after you went."

"Then you can go back and say you were with your fiancée," I said.

"I am with her."

I turned to my second.

"Give him a vest."

We went in on foot along the seawall, four of my men, Nolan and me.

The east pier was lit by two work lamps, and the Marigold sat low in the water with her hold open.

Men in dark jackets carried crates up the ramp in pairs.

I counted twelve, then fourteen.

"That's too many to take quietly," Nolan said.

"We're not taking them quietly," I said. "We're taking the paper."

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