Excerpt from A Tangle of Lies, Book #2 in the Nora Nash Series

Prologue

Colleen’s stomach rumbled. Pressing a hand to her belly, she tried to smother the noise. Note
to self, she thought, ducking lower among the marsh grasses-never go on a stakeout on an
empty stomach.
She loathed long, drawn-out surveillance, especially those that bled into days. This one was
no exception. She had spent most of the past three days moored in her narrow kayak, surviving
on power bars and energy drinks. Concealed behind the tall cordgrass, she quietly monitored the
boats passing through the inlet.
A pair of dragonflies darted past, mere inches from her face, their translucent wings
shimmering like fairy wings in the noonday sun. Nearby, frogs chirred and crickets sang among
the rushes. A diamondback terrapin slid off a log and into the water with a soft plop.
Tearing open the wrapper, she nibbled on her protein bar and jiggled her legs to keep them
from falling asleep. She swatted away another mosquito. No matter how much repellent she
used, the little beasts seemed determined to make a feast of her.
The sun was nearing its midday peak when the rhythmic hum of an engine caught her ear.
Colleen sat up, instantly alert, her kayak rising and dipping over the rolling wake before settling
again in the brackish water. A fishing boat thrummed into the shallow waters, escorted by a
cloud of squawking seagulls.
She popped off the lens cap, shifted her body, and aimed her camera in the direction of the
boat. She waited, her index finger poised on the shutter button, until the vessel cut its engine.
Heedless of the drops of sweat trickling down her forehead, Colleen focused and clicked,
focused and clicked.
She snapped photos of each of the men aboard the vessel, as well as the bow where the
registration was displayed, then paused to swipe an arm across her brow. In that sliver of time, a
johnboat motored into the channel, skimming across the water, straight toward the larger boat.
She whipped the camera back to her eye, but the flat-bottomed craft had already vanished behind
the fishing boat.
Colleen drove her heel into the foot brace. “For crying out loud,” she groaned.
She let her camera drop to her chest and snatched up her paddle. She hadn’t factored this
variable into her plans and now her view was obstructed. If she missed the photos now, she
would have no proof to show for her work, stalling months of intel gathering right at the finish
line.
She had no choice but to break cover.
Jamming one blade into the muddy bottom, Colleen thrust the kayak out of the marsh and
into the inlet. Dip, pull. Dip, pull. Hugging the shoreline, her head and shoulders brushing
against low-hanging branches, she scanned the banks for cover. Her gaze swept upstream, but the
channel offered nowhere to hide.
Colleen played her only remaining card.
Slowing her pace, she leisurely raised her camera and aimed it at a flock of pelicans gliding
just above the surface chop. The bluff appeared to work. Out on the water, the smugglers glanced
her way, paused, and then resumed their transfer, apparently dismissing her as some harmless
birdwatcher.
In the gaps between bird shots, Colleen subtly snapped photos of the illicit drop. Satisfied she
had all the necessary photos needed to identify the men onboard both vessels, she paddled away.
Evidence logged. Mission accomplished.
She was mentally celebrating her success when she heard a low, guttural growl behind her.
Fear spiked down her spine. One glance backward confirmed her suspicions: she’d been made.

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