Almost immediately, her phone vibrated with a notification she had received a message in Signal, a secure messaging application Mantis only used for time-critical communications. She knew Mantis was displeased, and she opened the application to read the cryptic message.

At first glance, it looked like a computer’s IP address. But Chen knew better. Mantis had presented her with the simple code to guide her to dead drop locations along the California coast. The first three-digit number was meaningless, a mere placeholder to disguise the code, but the other three numbers told her everything she needed to know.

“Shit,” she said, pushing on the throttle to keep the twenty-foot Brig Navigator at top speed until the last possible moment.

The first of the three remaining numbers was the priority. The lower the number, the more immediate the need to make the handoff. A “1” meant she had twenty-four hours to reach the location. A “2” gave her twice that. But a “0” meant she needed to drop everything she was doing and proceed there posthaste.

The next two numbers corresponded with a four-by-four grid she had long ago memorized. Beginning at one of the four corners, she counted spaces to land on the designated location. The starting corner changed daily, adding another layer of security to the already unbreakable code. Today’s assigned corner was the top right, so she moved down two spaces and in one.

Dexter Lawn.

While most of the locations were in and around the Bay Area, some were further south and easier to reach. Teeming with college students most of the year, Dexter Lawn would be nearly deserted this early in the summer. But that wasn’t the reason the spymaster had chosen that location for the drop.

She passed the 72nd Place Lifeguard Station on her left and slowed the RHIB to an agonizing crawl as she entered the inlet. An incessant ticking clock counted down in her head, reminding her of the urgency with which she needed to make the drive north. It took incredible willpower to keep her right arm from pushing forward on the throttle and ignoring the “No Wake” signs on her way to the slip.

“Zero,” she said.

Mantis had never used a zero.

The Marine could wait.

11

3,000 feet over Seal Beach, California

The FBI plane crossed the shoreline and went feet dry when its Stingray issued an audible alert, signaling the targeted cell phone had finally connected to it. The pilot looked down at the display in disbelief, recognizing the phone number Rick had given him, and quickly pulled up a chart overlay on the screen. The computer-generated icon of the cell phone’s location entered the channel into Alamitos Bay just north of his position.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, banking the Stationair north so he could aim its sensor pod at the target boat and gain a visual. He had almost given up on the target showing.

He selected the encrypted radio and keyed the push-to-talk rocker switch on the control yoke. “Delta One, Air One.”

“Go ahead, Air One.”

“Got a hit on your target cell phone entering the channel now. Should be in visual range shortly,” he said.

“Nice work, Air One,” the deep voice replied. “Remain on station.”

He glanced at his fuel, figuring he had another hour of loiter time before he needed to return to the Long Beach airport and gas up. He could stretch it maybe another fifteen minutes, but he didn’t want to go much beyond that without a really good reason. He had done his job and verified the target. Now it was up to Rick to do the rest of the work.

“Delta One, I’ve got about an hour of play time left.”

The FBI special agent double-clicked his microphone switch in reply.

Slewing the sensor pod’s crosshairs onto the channel, he zoomed in on a smaller boat where a lone figure stood tall at the center console. Using the driver’s height as a reference measurement, he estimated the boat was twenty to twenty-four feet in length; probably a Rigid-Hull Inflatable Boat with a single outboard. It was far smaller than the other boats at the yacht club and probably only useful for short jaunts to and from a larger ship at anchor.

“Delta One, Air One, looks like you’re looking for a RHIB.”

“Roger.”

Alamitos Bay Yacht Club

Long Beach, California

Rick had come to the same conclusion as the Stationair pilot and guessed that the RHIB was returning from a ship at anchor. Either TANDY had dropped something off or picked something up, but he figured it didn’t matter much one way or the other. He leaned forward in his seat and strained through the darkness to make out the navigation lights of the smaller boat idling from the channel toward the mouth of the basin.