“It barely has enough fuel to reach us.”
“I know.”
She gave me a look—the one she reserved for moments when she suspected I’d lost my mind but wanted to give me one more chance to prove otherwise.
“Then how exactly does it factor into your plan?”
I slid my finger up the coastline again, this time stopping much closer to home.
“Fuel.”
Her brow furrowed.
“From where?”
I pointed to a narrow inlet just north of us.
“About twenty miles up the coast—Croatan Inlet. Small marina there called Beal Marina, mostly used by local fishing crews and charter operations.”
She leaned forward.
“And?”
“And they’ve got a dock pump.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You’re assuming there’s still fuel in the tanks.”
“Fishing docks usually store a lot of it underground. Diesel and marine gas. If the power’s out, most pumps won’t work, but the fuel’s still sitting there.”
Sloane tilted her head.
“So you’re planning to siphon it?”
“Manually pump it. That’s why I want this specific marina—it has an old-style crank pump from the fifties. Takes a while, but it works without electricity.”
She stared at me.
“That’s not exactly a bang-up strategy.”
“No,” I admitted. “But it’s a starting point.”
She looked back down at the map.
“Twenty miles isn’t bad.”
“No.”
“But…”
I already knew what was coming next.
Her eyes lifted to meet mine.
“The problem isn’t the pump.”
“It’s the things,” I finished.