“How about I find a new restaurant to get insulted in?”
“Oh no, Nick.” Joe played along, wringing his hands on the way to the kitchen. “There goes my vacation in the Bahamas.”
“You’ll be sorry when you don’t have Nick McCarty to kick around, Joe,” Nick called out after him, before digging into his rye toast breakfast.
Within the allotted time, Nick again sat out on the Pacific Grove beach. Although a few joggers and walkers passed by along the stone divider separating the road from the sand, no one had descended to the chilly beach.
“We were taking precautions,” the man on Nick’s screen explained.
Nick rearranged his ear piece. He projected only a blank screen, his words in text form, with a computer generated voice. When Nick was satisfied his contact had no tracking gear on him, he spoke.
“Send the package, and I’ll be in touch.” After the transmission was completed, Nick acknowledged reception.
“This is a small window of opportunity.”
“I’ll let you know,” Nick ended the conversation and packed up his portable satellite uplink once again.
Nick drove to Lighthouse Avenue again; but turned right on 12th Street, stopping two blocks down in front of a two story home with a white picket fence, porch, and balcony. It was one of his few excesses. He loved the sprawling four-bedroom place more than anything else in his life.
Inside, tan walls highlighted the dark oak woodwork throughout. Oil paintings of seascapes dominated the wall space. With the satellite gear stored in his downstairs safe room, Nick took a cup of coffee with him to the balcony. He opened his notebook computer at the table. After scanning and opening the burst transmission, the attached picture gripped him as nothing had in decades.