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.”