Breakwater (Cold Ridge/U.S. Marshals #5)

Rain-soaked fallen cherry blossoms rotted on the sidewalk. He drank his coffee through the plastic lid and noticed his hands were trembling, a mix of fear and self-loathing, he thought, eating away at him. He would never be the same. There was no going back now. All he could do was hope these scumbags who had him by the short hairs had finished with him.

But as if he’d conjured them up himself, the two Nazis from Monday eased in next to him, the older one on his left, the younger one on his right. The three of them walked down the street together, like tourists who’d met by accident.

“Quinn Harlowe,” the older goon asked. “Tell us about her.”

“Quinn?” Steve snorted. “She’s a pain in the ass. If you stupid assholes left a bread-crumb trail, she’ll find it and follow it right back to your hidey-hole.”

The goon didn’t react at all. “What’s her relationship with Lattimore?”

“He worships her. Thinks she’s brilliant. Thinks she can help him shine. He’d do damn near anything to get her back at Justice.”

“Any romantic interest?”

“Have you had a good look at her? Who wouldn’t have a romantic interest in her?”

The kid to Steve’s right sneered. “Not everyone wants to screw every woman he sees, Eisenhardt. You’re a piece of work, aren’t you?”

A squeaky-clean type. Steve ignored him. He looked up at the superfit goon on his left. “Quinn doesn’t like to sit on the sidelines.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Keep an eye on her. If she meets with Gerard Lattimore, we want to know.” The SS guard took another few steps. He spoke mildly, never raising his voice or giving his words any emphasis. Just stating the conditions under which Steve got to live. “We don’t want the Justice Department to use Alicia Miller’s death as an excuse to start nosing around in our affairs.”

Steve felt sweat breaking out on his brow, the back of his neck, his lower back. “I don’t know her that well. What if I can’t find out what she’s up to?”

“You’re a well-connected, intelligent, successful attorney. You’ll find out.”

They walked a few more steps in what would look to anyone on the street like companionable silence. Finally, Steve licked his lips. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”

“There was no deal.”

“We had a verbal agreement-”

“Lawyer talk,” the kid said.

The older guy-the SS guard-seemed to like that one. “One more thing. We want you to find out if anyone at Justice is investigating what they would call a vigilante network.”

“What?”

“Names. We want names.”

“What vigilante network?”

The SS guard didn’t react. “Last fall. You remember. Deputy U.S. Marshal Juliet Longstreet and Special Forces Army Major Ethan Brooker uncovered a vigilante plot to expose traitors. One of the vigilantes was killed. Another-a low-level thug, really-was taken into custody.”

Steve remembered. They’d nearly killed a White House advisor and Juliet Longstreet’s family in Vermont. “You guys?”

Cold, steel-blue eyes leveled on him.

Steve felt his stomach drop to his knees. He had a sudden urge to go to the bathroom. He tugged at his shirt collar, his fingers coming away wet with sweat. “If you’re involved with those kooks from last fall, you can bet your ass they’re investigating you. I wouldn’t have access to that kind of information.”

The older goon reached into his pants pocket and withdrew a pack of gum, tapping out a piece as if they were discussing the spring weather forecast. “Get access.”

Sipping more of his coffee, as if somehow it made him feel normal, Steve decided these guys needed to know he wasn’t afraid of them, that his life depended on it-never mind that his intestines were telling him in no uncertain terms that he was scared shitless. “So, is Oliver Crawford in on your new world order, or are you all just using him for his money and connections? He is who you work for, isn’t he? Makes sense, given what happened to Alicia down in Yorkville.”

Steve wasn’t into their crazy thinking. Justice, breaking the law to save freedom. Throwing out two hundred years of jurisprudence and starting from scratch, rewriting the law their way. If they were involved with those screwballs from last fall, they were into vigilante violence and their own idea of the new world order.

Thumbscrews. These bastards are into torturing people.

The steel-eyed Nazi responded to his remark in the same mild tone. “We want the names of anyone involved in the investigation into last fall’s events. The lawyers, the FBI, the ATF, the marshals. Any White House liaisons.”

“Liaison. That’s a big word for you, isn’t it?” Instead of shooting him, the Nazi offered Steve a piece of gum. He shook his head. “No, thanks.” For some reason, the gesture made him sweat even more. “Doesn’t anything get to you?”

A quirk of a smile. “Justice Department lawyers entrusted with the people’s business having kinky sex with underage girls.”

Steve forced himself not to react. The bastards had pictures. They’d sent him a link to a Web site with an entire photo album of him and the congressman’s daughter. They didn’t just have a couple of grainy pictures he could explain away. With a few clicks of the keyboard, they could post their little montage to the world.