She gave him a cool look. “You’re a flip bastard, aren’t you, Boone?” She swooped toward the Rover, hanging on to the door as Quinn stepped out of her way. “Miss Harlowe. You’re prettier than I realized when you were at Breakwater the other day. You were in shock, of course, after your friend’s death. But Oliver tells me you’re very good at what you do.”

“I appreciate that,” Quinn said.

“Being out on your own-at least now you can think independently.”

“I’ve always done my best to think independently, Mrs. Riccardi.”

“ Sharon.” She smiled, visibly straining to stay upright. “Sharon, Sharon.”

Before Quinn had a chance to respond, Huck pretty much shoved Sharon Riccardi into the Rover and shut the door. He turned to Quinn. “You’ll be okay? I’ll wait until you’re inside-”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Give my best to your grandfather.”

There was no undertone of humor in his words. They were, she realized, a strong recommendation-go to Fredericksburg in the morning. Skip the Breakwater open house.

Leave the Riccardis-and everything else-to him.

“Don’t worry about me.” Quinn gave him an irreverent smile. “Have fun parking cars.”

Alone in her cottage, Quinn knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep and set up her laptop and notes on the kitchen table. When she caught her reflection in the window, she winced and quickly pulled the curtains, remembering, with a jolt, how Alicia had approved of her choice of curtain fabric. “Cute, but not cutesy.”

Forcing back more tears, Quinn opened a file on her laptop that included all the research she’d done in the days since Alicia’s death on Breakwater Security and her neighbors across the marsh. She’d jotted down a list of key words and phrases, hoping that, together, a pattern would emerge-something.

The Caribbean. The Dominican Republic.

A kidnapped American entrepreneur with close ties to Alicia’s former boss.

Venezuela. A kidnapping and rescue there.

Emerald smuggling.

Colombia. Mercenaries tortured and executed.

More emerald smuggling. The finest, most valuable emeralds in the world were found in the Colombian Andes.

“What am I missing?” Quinn asked aloud, pulling up a Washington Post article she’d stored in a separate file.

The piece detailed a sensational case last October involving vigilante mercenaries and a long list of crimes.

As she read the article, Quinn remembered more details of the case and the reaction within the halls of the Justice Department when people realized the vigilantes hadn’t acted alone, but instead were part of a network.

Bingo.

Breakwater Security, isolated on Virginia ’s Northern Neck, funded by a traumatized wealthy entrepreneur, was the perfect setup for a violent anti-everything criminal network.

They could train new recruits-they could launch operations. They could do anything. A legitimate private security company run by a respected businessman gave them all the cover they needed. Did Oliver Crawford know? Shaken, Quinn closed all the files on her laptop and shut it down.

Now, at least, she knew what Huck Boone/McCabe and Diego Clemente were doing in Yorkville, Virginia.

They were chasing a particularly violent, lawless, ideological bunch of vigilantes.

A stiff Joe Riccardi was out on the front porch when Huck returned. Without a word, Joe took his wife into the house. Sharon, too, was silent.

Huck turned to start back down the steps but the door opened behind him, and Oliver Crawford stepped out onto the porch. He’d changed into loose, casual clothes and looked older in the harsh mix of night and porch light. “A minute, Boone?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Sharon and Joe Riccardi are on the skids. I don’t know if you’ve noticed.”

“Maybe they’re just feeling the pressure of getting Breakwater Security up and running.” Huck kept any critical note out of his tone. “Everyone’s worked hard, but they’ve worked the hardest.”

“You could have a point.” Crawford looked out into the darkness, the porch light casting long shadows onto the lush lawn. “Have you ever trusted someone and lived to regret it?”

“Haven’t we all?”

“I suppose so. I don’t like betrayals.”

Huck studied the man, but couldn’t tell what was on his mind. “No one does. Has someone betrayed you, Mr. Crawford?”

“I make the decisions here. I always have.” His voice took on an icy edge. “Any failures and mistakes-ultimately, they’re my responsibility.”

“The captain of the ship.”

Crawford didn’t even seem to hear him. “I’m a risk-taker by nature. That’s how I’ve gotten as far as I have. A small inheritance helped.” He waved a hand, as if taking in his entire bayside estate, the breadth of his wealth. “You don’t get to be where I am by sitting back and letting other people run ahead of you. You have to see the opportunities and seize them. Take action.”

“Understood,” Huck said. “Is there an opportunity you see now?”

But Crawford wasn’t focused on future operations. He shook his head sorrowfully. “Ultimately, the kidnapping was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.” He clapped a hand on Huck’s shoulders. “Don’t ever let people make decisions for you, Boone. Don’t let them manipulate you. Even people you trust.”

“What about teamwork?”

“Ah, yes. The ‘there’s no I in team’ line. Always remember that a team is made up of individuals with their own personalities, their own agendas.”

“Mr. Crawford…is Sharon Riccardi out of control?”

Crawford relaxed visibly, as if he’d wanted Huck to guess Sharon ’s name, then smiled. “She would think I’m the one out of control.” He collected himself and started back toward the porch door. “Good night, Boone. Tomorrow should be interesting.”

Conversation over. Huck knew if he pushed Crawford, he wouldn’t get anything more out of him. “Uhhuh.” He forced himself to grin. “I’m parking cars.”

He waited until Crawford was back inside before he walked down to the converted barn. He wouldn’t sleep tonight. Quinn, Steve Eishenhardt, Sharon Riccardi’s night walk through the marsh, Joe’s reaction-and Crawford, that remark about being out of control. Huck had the same feeling he’d had before Alicia Miller’s death. It wasn’t a premonition-it was instinct.

Something was wrong. This time, he meant to find out what before another body turned up.

32

Steve parked his borrowed car in a far corner of the Yorkville marina parking lot and tried to act as if he belonged there. He didn’t want anyone looking for him-feds, goons, whoever-to spot him. He’d dressed in a baseball cap and bubba overalls, but doubted he’d pass for a redneck fisherman. If he was lucky, people would think he was some kind of boat hand, although he didn’t know a thing about boats.

Most of the fishing boats were already long on the Chesapeake. It was midmorning, bright and sunny, the cool wind gusting hard, as he trotted onto the wooden dock. He was ragged and stiff, frayed at the edges from lack of sleep and fear. He’d spent the night in the car, moving from place to place to keep cops from shining a flashlight in his window.

He wanted a hot shower, food. Pancakes would be nice.

Gerard Lattimore was up, Steve could see now, dressed in battered canvas pants and a long-sleeved polo as he stood on the small outdoor deck of his yacht playing a rich guy roughing it in the sticks.

Without waiting for an invitation, Steve jumped aboard.

The deputy assistant AG gaped at him and instantly went pale. “Steve, what are you doing here?”

“I really don’t look like a redneck fisherman, do I?”

“Are you trying to?”

“Not really.” Steve decided he didn’t have time to waste. “I like you, man. You did what you could to help Alicia. You’re a stand-up guy. I’m not. I’m pond scum.”