Mac let the boat idle for a moment, feeling what the tidal currents and the wind were doing to Blackbird. The brisk northwest wind was strong enough that even the yacht felt its push and pull. The customs dock and its claustrophobic modular shed waited for them. It didn’t look like there was anyone in the small office yet, but someone was strolling down the long ramp that went up and away from the water to much larger headquarters. Mac tapped the battery-operated headset he wore. The microphone was the size of a bumblebee hovering just beyond reach of his lips. Low tech compared to what he’d used in war zones, but it got the job done. Ate nine-volt batteries, though. “Ready?” he asked. “No, but I’m awaiting detailed instructions.” Though they couldn’t see each other, the headphones they wore made it seem like they were standing side by side. “You have your PFD cinched tight?”
