Somehow, as unfeeling as it sounded, Huck knew he had to turn all the free-floating tension around him because of the tragedy into an advantage. Something that would help him get answers.
A soft breeze blew across the marsh, bringing with it tangy, earthy smells of salt and wet dirt. He was from northern California. As a deputy U.S. marshal, he could be assigned anywhere. But he wasn’t a part of the vigilante task force and didn’t like coming in through the back door.
He saw Diego Clemente’s wreck of a fishing boat out toward the horizon. Tough life. Diego didn’t know a damn thing about Alicia Miller’s death, either. That black-haired, hazel-eyed Quinn Harlowe, reportedly a very fine analyst and an expert on transnational crime, had managed to find the one other federal undercover agent in town last night didn’t sit well with Huck at all.
Diego’s decision to use his own name hadn’t seemed to be a big risk. There was no reason for anyone to run a background check on him. Now-he’d sparked Quinn’s interest. If she threatened their undercover status, Nate Winter and his team would yank Huck and Diego out of Yorkville, and the psycho vigilantes they were hunting would crawl back under their rocks.
Huck turned back to the house. He knew Diego would see him on shore. His primitive all-clear for his backup. Things were okay at the Crawford compound. He wasn’t scheduled for a beating or an execution. With all the technology they had at their disposal, they were working with smoke signals.
Back at the converted barn, he found Cully O’Dell preening in front of a mirror in the bathroom. He’d spent the morning in the classroom, taking written tests. “I look okay for Crawford?”
“Yeah, you look fine. What’s that smell?”
O’Dell sniffed. “Aftershave. Too strong?”
“Well, this place has chemical-attack sensors. Don’t want anyone thinking you’re trying to kill Crawford.”
The kid blushed. “Should I wash it off?”
“No, you’re fine.” Huck grinned. “Hell, Cully, you’re going to be a great bodyguard, especially for women. The bad guys will underestimate you, which will be their mistake, and the women will think you’re their little brother and undress in front of you. Either way, you’re good.”
If possible, Cully reddened even more. “I see myself as a professional, Mr. Boone.”
“Huck, okay?”
He nodded. “Yes, sir.”
No way, Huck thought, was Cully O’Dell a half-crazy vigilante mercenary willing to break the law and torture, even murder. He was just a kid from Virginia who wanted to make a respectable living. If the shit hit the fan, O’Dell wouldn’t be backup or an enemy-he’d be someone Huck needed to protect.
Unless all his instincts were wrong and the kid was plotting to kill him in his sleep.
This was no time to start questioning his instincts, Huck thought, then washed up and put on a fresh shirt for the big meeting.
17
Quinn decided she couldn’t go back to Washington without making herself get out on the water. She didn’t want Alicia’s death to keep her from kayaking. She had to get back out there. She dragged her second kayak, a dark green, down to the cove and shoved off smoothly. The water was colder than she’d anticipated, but the sky was bright and clear and the light chop just enough to be exhilarating.
With the osprey pair circling overhead, she gave their sprawling nest wide berth and headed north along the marsh, up toward the Crawford compound. As she dipped her paddle into the soft water, she quieted her mind and listened to the gentle breeze in the marsh grasses and trees and the light lap of bay against kayak. A two-hundred-mile estuary, where saltwater met fresh water, Chesapeake Bay played host to more than three thousand species of plants and animals and, with its inlets and islands, had more than eleven thousand miles of shoreline. Sixteen million people lived within the bay region. Pollution, erosion, competition for resources and space were fierce, the delicate ecological balance constantly threatened and yet-always there was hope for a better future.
Feeling more positive, Quinn continued along to the southern edge of the Crawford compound, her muscles tight after the tension of the past two days. Cold bay water splashed into her boat. She was wet up to her thighs. She’d put on water shoes and a bright yellow life vest, with a whistle secured to a zippered pocket, but she was wearing jeans. Although she should have worn a wetsuit, she didn’t expect to be out long. She’d be back at her cottage before she got really cold.
Peering past the barbed-wire fence, she saw the graceful old house that was now headquarters for Breakwater Security and noticed a new building-classrooms, she recalled from local gossip. The tactical facilities-shooting ranges, simulation environments and defensive-driving courses-were farther inland, not right where Oliver Crawford could see them from his front porch.