“I know.”

“I’m saying stand up for your family.”

“And don’t ask what people can do for me?” asks Casey. He’s paraphrasing his brother’s paraphrase of John F. Kennedy from last week’s Breath of Life sermon. Kasper Aamon had gone viral by saying that Kennedy was a dark-state socialist president shot down by his own operatives, and that Brock was a “lice-ridden dope fiend running a fake church.”

“Exactly, Casey. Stand up for your family and anyone else who needs help.”

“See, there’s that old-fashioned Bible stuff sneaking in past your defense,” Casey says.

“Grandpa’s fault. I can’t help it sometimes.”

Casey smiles. He likes it when Brock drops his hard-guy act and shows that he’s, like, good.

“After all, Gramps inspired you to start a new church with a new God.”

“He made me start a new church.”

Both brothers raise their binoculars when a windowless white Sprinter parks out front of King Jim. It’s got the King Jim Seafood logo along the sides: a stylized, bright red lobster with a bib around its neck, eyes bulging, pinchers raised, clamping a fork and knife.

“That’s not the logo I saw,” says Casey.

“No,” says Brock. “You wouldn’t send out fire-starters in one of the company vans.”

Casey watches the driver and one passenger spill out. The driver is the big woman Mahina strong-armed aboard Empress II, when they all went to get Mae. The passenger is Polo—Jimmy Wu’s sidekick from the Cigarette boat—dressed in a red warm-up suit with the King Jim lobster logo on the back.

“Darren Fang,” says Brock.

“How do you know who he is?” asks Casey. Who knows how Brock knows things? Casey figures the Go Dogs must have an intelligence network of some kind. Something coded in their messages, maybe.

Brock ignores the question.

Darren stops and looks in their direction. Casey hopes the noses of their surfboards don’t catch his eye. Apparently not, as Fang swings open the back of the Sprinter, bounces a hand truck to the pavement, and loads on four big boxes with “Frozen Meat—Refrigerate Upon Arrival” stickers on each side. They look heavy.

“Meat and dry ice,” says Brock.

“Shark fins, man.”

The brothers watch as the door opens and Fang reverses the hand truck to pull it inside. The big woman scans the lot and follows him in, and the metal security door slams shut with a clang.

Against his own will, Casey pictures Bette Wu in the Sunset Boulevard sunset, feels that evil tongue of hers in his ear, smells the tropical-cinnamon perfume coming off her. Sees Mae smelling her white pumps.

He pushes those thoughts back into the empty room in his mind, closes the door. Temptation is sneaky.

“Casey, exactly how many King Jim pirates did you see that first day, when Bette Wu boarded your ship with a gun and the two boats came up and blasted your phone?”

“Nine. Not counting hands belowdecks, or sailors behind blackout glass in the consoles.”

“Add at least three,” says Brock. “Then, there’s Jimmy himself, and Darren Fang, and the woman there, and Danilo and the lawyer who packs.”

“And two more on the second red Cigarette when Jimmy and Fang threatened Mom off Laguna,” says Casey, lowering his binoculars to count on his fingers. “So that’s nineteen, minimum. And five ships. What are you thinking, Brock, like, we’re going to need a bigger boat?”

“No,” snaps Brock. “More boats. We’ve got Moondance, and Mom’s old panga in her garage. Three of my local Go Dogs are deep-sea fishermen with some really sweet watercraft. We take down King Jim and his fleet, one vessel at a time.”

“We don’t kill anybody, do we?”

“No. We wreck their livelihood, like they wrecked Mom’s.”

“Maybe we should just call the police.”

“You’ll recall that we already have, Casey. And look what good it did. No arrests, no suspects, no witnesses. Just hearsay from us, useless security video, and a ten-million-dollar restaurant that’s burnt to shit and underinsured.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Are you in or not, Casey? You don’t have to be, but answer me, right now.”

Casey tries to balance the enormous weights shifting around inside him. Like Mavericks is mounding up in there, he thinks. He knows his innocent mother has been greatly wronged, that her life has been badly damaged. As if she hasn’t had enough suffering, with Dad. But what will destroying a bunch of boats do to make Mom better? Isn’t the point to make her better? Or is the point to bring justice into a violent world of fire, narcotics, guns, and bloody, finned sharks? With more violence?

“I don’t want to kill anybody.”

“We’ll try not to.”

“I’m serious, Brock. You can’t kill people for burning down a restaurant. Even Mom’s.”

“I agree.”

Casey lets the binoculars dangle around his neck, looks at the track marks of fire sparks on his suntanned skin.

Brock does, too.

“I don’t believe this is right,” Casey says. “You forgive and turn the other cheek. I’m still not exactly sure where you turn it or why, but count me out, bro. I hope you out-pirate the pirates, though. Could be epic.”

“I’ll count you out, Case. You’re not cut out for that kind of thing.”

“Makes me sound like a grommet.”

“To each according to his abilities,” says Brock. “You showed plenty of balls trying to save the Barrel.”

A beat. “Yeah. Tried.”

The second reason they’re sitting here in front of King Jim Seafood is because friends have invited them to the Hollister Ranch—just under two hours north of here—which has picked up an October swell with some real heft to it. They need fine-tuning before the Monsters.

That, and they need a break from the stinking rubble of their restaurant.

Jen has declined today’s surf getaway invite, however, to continue the labor of salvaging what is salvageable from her beloved Barrel.

She’s got help from her mother, father, and Pastor Mike, but Casey feels guilty leaving her to it; Brock is too amped up on vengeance to care what his mom thinks.

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