Corey woke up at six o'clock that next morning and his plan was clear. By seven AM he had gotten the concierge at the hotel desk to call the airport and arrange a flight for him to Las Vegas. It would be departing at eleven-fifty that evening. He felt this would give him ample time to complete the things he had envisioned doing before making his exit.

By nine AM he was in a smartphone sales shop on the boulevard, checking he was not followed, to purchase a new cellphone. Nothing fancy, but one that after a full charge could be located by its battery signal almost anywhere in the world. It was a law enforcement trick which had brought down a good-many fugitives in the present digital age. The method famously included the notorious Bin Laden after remaining hidden for years. The Saudi mastermind of 911 was finally discovered through a cell phone battery signal while cloistered secretly in his remote Afghanistan compound. Corey's own police department had gained authorization to use a similar method and invisible tracing to catch several kingpins of a pedophile ring working out of Las Vegas during the previous year.

The trick in this case would be getting the "marker" phone—battery-full and silenced, somehow out onto the yacht, Morpheus. And though a dangerous longshot, he now had been in direct contact with someone working at the Belt Warf Landing Yacht Club. The young bartender who had both been physically on the Morpheus as a caterer and admitted serving the crew in the club on a regular basis. Corey felt this plan was necessary as he had no guarantee the vessel would be displaying its name or would have its navigational tracking system on when it left the harbor shortly, and under the cover of darkness, according to Henley's call to Jaelyn. Once out into the Atlantic, the ship would be difficult to find.

What Corey could not know, in responding to Mattingly's earlier call and learning of the yacht's imminent departure from the harbor, was whether its exit had been previously planned or was as a result of an onboard awareness of his presence in the area and surveillance of the Hopkins sleep clinic.

After purchasing the cell phone, and linking its ownership to him personally, he brought it back to the hotel room to fully charge the battery. He then sent out a quick text message via his own phone to Elora, knowing hers was not encrypted and possibly being tapped by the surreptitious party who had been following and now dangerously harassing him. The plan was to send anyone listening in on Elora a message that would be at the airport that day preparing to return the Vegas. Hopefully, if followed there, he could lose them in the crowded airport. This would give him time and cover to return to the Belt's Warf Landing yacht club where the remainder of his plan to get the phone out onto the yacht might be attempted.

Corey made the message on his original phone, expecting it to be listened in on:

"Hey there, beautiful. Hope you're well. I'm just off to the airport to catch the first plane back to Vegas. My flight should be sometime around noon here, 9 AM your time. Don't try to meet me at the airport, lover. Just sit tight. I'll rendezvous with you after your work around seven at Consuelo's Mexican Restaurant, our old haunt. Dinner and travel stories will be on me. Love you lots. ---Corey"

He knew Elora would receive the text message and call him back to verify or better understand his message. For that reason, and to go off the grid, he shut his phone off completely. His next move would be to await the full charge on his new phone, checkout of the hotel and take a taxi to the airport before noon. If in fact he was being tailed by his Baltimore adversaries he counted on his ability to lose them and return to the harbor.

* * *

Corey's plan was set in motion after checking out of the hotel. He arrived at the Baltimore International Airport. Not knowing directly if he was being followed, he quickly doubled back through the commuter crowds and exited out street where he quickly hailed another taxi back to the Belt's Warf Landing.

When Corey arrived at the remote club, it was nearly 2:00 PM and he did not see any other vehicles behind his cab. Knowing he had most likely eluded anyone interested in his movements, he confidently entered the lounge with his few belongings, including the new phone he had purchased. Business at that time of day was as slow and as he approached the bar, he hoped to see the same young man as before tending it. To his good fortune, he was.

"Hello, my friend," he said casually taking a stool directly in front of him.

"Hey there, buddy! Let me see. You're the guy who runs a Yacht upgrade business. Right? Interiors and such? West coast?""

"Pretty good."

"Yeah, I usually can peg someone by their looks. But you're dressed a little more casual today."

"That's right. Day off."

"Can I bring you the same to drink?"

"Yeah. Great."

"See that's something else I've learned in this business. To remember what a guy drinks. Gotten better at that too this past year."

"That's impressive."

"Com'in right up pal."

As the barman set the bottle and crystal mug side by side for him, Corey looked through the panoramic window at the tranquil, slightly hazy bay. As before, the Morpheus was floating silently offshore, hardly a football field away.

"I see she's still out there," Corey said nonchalantly, holding his beer up in the direction of the superyacht.

"Oh yeah. The Morpheus. Well, I guess she's pulling anchor finally."

"Oh yeah?"

"Finally . . . after more than a month!"

The barman went back to polishing his mugs and wine classes.

"So . . . how do you know she's leaving?"

"Crew was in here last night. Drinking more than usual. Plus, we got word they're having one of those parties again this evening. Probably to celebrate their cruise out of here. I'll be helping with the catering again. Could be a pretty nice tip for me tonight this time around."

Corey's heart jumped as he heard confirmed what he already knew. He took a long draft of his beer to cover his excitement. One or two beers might be needed, he thought, to carry out what he had in mind to ask the bartender.

"Look, what sort of tip do you usually get from those parties?"

"What?"

"I mean, not to get personal or anything, but . . ."

"Hey man . . . I'm straight, OK? Catering I'll do for people. But not much else. You read me?"

"Sure, Sure. I wasn't going there. Trust me. But seriously, what did you make the last time you catered for those guys?"

The bartender calmed a bit and thought for a moment.

"Alright, I'll tell you man. I made fifty bucks. Why? You got another catering job for me?"

"No. But Look." Corey took out his wallet. He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill.

"What's that?"

"I'll give you this hundred if you just deliver something to that yacht out there for me tonight."

The bartender stopped polishing his glasses.

"Man are you crazy or what? Seriously?"

"I'm serious."

"Must be something pretty important, huh? Cause man, if it's drugs I don't want any part of that business. OK?"

"No." Corey smiled. "I like your ethos, man. "It's not drugs. It's not about sex. I just want you to . . ."

At that moment a rotund man with a short haircut and wearing a white apron like a cook or butcher entered the bar looking desperate. The bartender seemed to know him as he approached.

"Hang on man. I gotta see what this guy's got to say. I can tell it's important."

Corey watched the young man meet the older man just inside the bar area and they began to quietly talk but in an animated way. Both seemed to be upset during the discussion. After several moments, the man waited while the bartender came back to the bar and took out a paper from under the bar and seemed to be perusing it.

"What seems the be the problem?" Corey asked.

"That's the caterer for tonight's party . . . See the guy who's supposed to help me serve the food and drinks tonight is sick. Says he can't make it.. If I can't get someone else . . . we might have to cancel the whole gig."

The bartender was looking over the not furiously.

"That guy's the chef, He needs to know before he starts preparing the food. Right away, if I can find somebody else."

Corey waited for the young man to make several calls on the phone. In the first few attempts apparently, no one answered. On the third call he quickly explained the dilemma to someone on the line and obviously they told him they could not help either.

"Shit!" the young man said, slamming down his phone. "I gotta go tell this guy he's got to cancel. Then he'll call the yacht out there to find another caterer for tonight. Damn . . . It's a big loss for both of us."

Corey's thoughts were reeling. This might mean there would be no contact for him with the yacht that evening. Things had looked so much more promising only moments before.

"Sorry, man," The bartender said sadly. "Excuse me, but I gotta go tell George the bad news."

"Wait!" Corey reached out and touched his shoulder. "Look, this may sound crazy . . . but I know full well how to serve food and drinks. I dd it all through college, my friend. Go tell George you found someone as a sub tonight . . . me."

"You're kidding, man, you? . . . You really know how to do that stuff?"

"Like a pro. Come on, I'm in. Tell George you've got someone."

"Man, I don't know what you're into . . . But you really want to get out on that boat tonight, don't you?"

"That's pretty correct. But I am willing to help. So, really. Tell George not to cancel his job. To go ahead with the catering. Hey, it's his business . . . and yours too, right?"

The young man paused for a moment and thought. He looked doubtful.

Corey leaned closer. "And I'm still throwing in the hundred. I promise." He carefully put the bill down flat on the bar and slid it over to him. "No lie."

"Wow, man . . . well alright. I'm trusting you on this."

"Great. George is waiting. Go put him at ease."

The barman nodded and quickly walked over to the chef. He seemed to explain the new solution. The chef looked at Corey and Corey waved. The chef waved back and nodded.

After several moments of further discussion, the caterer patted the barman on the shoulder and the young man returned to the bar.

"OK . . . So I guess we're working together tonight, partner."

"Looks like we are, my friend." Corey outstretched his hand. My name's Lawrence."

"Terry," the young man said. "So, look . . .we're about the same size. I've got a spare uniform in the office you can wear."

"Perfect."

"George says he'll have the van with the food and drinks down here on the dock around ten tonight. The yacht will have its transport there at ten-fifteen. Now listen, this whole thing could last until three, maybe four AM. You still OK with that?"

"No prob, Terry."

"You know . . . I really can't take this money from you. Since you're going to work with me."

"Trust me Terry . . . I'm serious about the money. When I tell you why I need to get on that yacht . . . you'll feel you deserved it."

The young man paused and returned only a perplexed smile.

* * *