Breakwater

by Carla Neggers

  Someone pulled out the chair across from her, and she looked up, startled, as Steve Eisenhardt plopped down with an iced coffee. He gave her a disapproving sigh. “I go inside, I stand in line, I get my drink, I pay up—it’s a good thing you’re not a spy, Quinn. You never even saw me.” He grinned at her, his eyes crinkling in the bright sun. “I ducked out of work hoping I’d find you here. How’re you doing?”

  “Preoccupied.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I’ve been spinning my wheels ever since I got back from Yorkville last week.” She drank some of her espresso. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “I heard you’ve been invited to present a paper at an international crime symposium in Vienna.”

  “That was easy. All I had to do was say yes, I’ll do it. It’s not until October.”

  He leaned forward and said in a fake conspiratorial whisper designed to make her laugh, “I also heard you met Oliver Crawford.”

  Crawford must have told Lattimore, who told Steve. Quinn smiled at Steve’s natural irreverence. “I’ve met him before.”

  “But not at his estate. What did you do, just drive up and knock on the front door?”

  “I kayaked and climbed over his barbed-wire fence.”

  Steve grinned. “Only you, Quinn. Lucky someone didn’t shoot a hole in your boat.”

  “I had a greeting party.” She thought of Huck’s dark eyes as he’d tried to talk sense into her, and Vern Glover, impatient, scary. “Breakwater Security seems like a legitimate enterprise. It’s still so new. The compound itself is gorgeous—I hate to see it get turned into a security training facility.”

  “You’d rather see it turned into a country inn?”

  “Definitely.”

  “I hear Crawford hasn’t slept soundly since he got snatched last year. If this helps him, who knows.” Steve shrugged. “Maybe once he gets a few weeks of REM sleep, he’ll close down Breakwater Security and open up Breakwater Spa.”

  “A spa.” Quinn moaned. “I could use a week at a spa.”

  His expression turned serious, at least for him. “What about your cottage? Going back anytime soon?”

  “I’ve been thinking about this weekend.”

  “Quinn—”

  “It’s not too soon. I need to go back. If I don’t—” She looked down at her espresso. “If I don’t, I’m afraid I never will.”

  “You will, Quinn. You put your heart and soul into that place.” He sighed, pushing back his chair slightly. He hadn’t touched his drink. “Alicia was a very special person. She was smart, and she was beautiful, and she was looking in all the wrong places for happiness. If she committed suicide, directly or indirectly, I wish she’d turned to her friends for help first.”

  “She did turn to me. I just couldn’t get through to her. She ran off, and by the time I found her…” Quinn took a heavy breath. “Damn.”

  “If it was suicide, they say people just want to stop the pain. They believe that the people they love—who love them—will be better off with them dead.”

  “There’s nothing to suggest it was suicide. She was so upset she had no business being out on the water, storm or no storm. She could easily have turned over the kayak by accident, then got so disoriented that she couldn’t get herself back into the boat.”

  “No life vest, no emergency whistle, a storm brewing. It sounds deliberate, Quinn.”

  “In her mental state, I’m not sure she was capable of planning her own suicide. She was a mess, Steve, and she drowned. It just happened.”

  “Yeah. Sucks, doesn’t it?”

  Quinn could feel the jolt of the espresso, and she looked out at the quiet street, could see Alicia running past the flowerpots, jumping into the Lincoln. “I’ve been doing a little research, more for my own peace of mind than anything else.”

  “What kind of research?”

  “Just checking out what’s on the public record about Oliver Crawford. He started Breakwater Security after his kidnapping. I’ve been looking into it. How it happened, when, why, where. Basic stuff.”

  Steve picked up his drink, giving her a dubious look as she took a sip. “You checked only public records?”

  “Well, I did talk to a few sources—”

  “And?”

  “Just in the past week, two of his kidnappers turned up tortured and executed.”

  “Ouch. Where?”

  “Colombia.”

  “I thought he’d been snatched in the Caribbean—”

  “These guys weren’t Colombian,” Quinn said. “One was Puerto Rican and one was Dominican. Back in February, another of the kidnappers was also found tortured and executed. He was Mexican.”

  “An international group of thugs, huh?”

  “They’re all professionals. Low-level mercenaries. That’s all on the record, by the way. There just haven’t been any press releases—”

  “Meaning the media haven’t gotten hold of it.”

  If they did—if she put them on the trail—she wondered what they would uncover, and just how uncomfortable Oliver Crawford and his people would be. “I don’t see how these thugs could have planned the kidnapping, and I sure as hell don’t see what they could have known that would have prompted anyone to risk torturing them. Killing them—they were in a volatile area. But torture takes time. From that standpoint, it’s riskier.”

  Steve grinned nervously. “I don’t like the idea of either one, thank you very much.”

  “My sources haven’t run across these guys before.”

  “Ah, a mystery.”

  “Oliver Crawford’s an American citizen, even if his kidnappers weren’t. The FBI is investigating. He was rescued by his own people—they received a tip.”

  “Wasn’t there a huge reward for credible information leading to his safe rescue?”

  “There was indeed. Sharon Riccardi, who’s now running Breakwater Security, put out the word. His guys found him in the Dominican. They chose not to inform U.S. or Dominican authorities. They say they weren’t convinced the tip would pan out.”

  Steve rolled his eyes. “And these are the goofs running Breakwater Security now?”

  “I don’t know how involved they are with Breakwater.” Quinn picked up her biscotti, although she was no longer in the mood for it. “I haven’t gotten that far in my research.”

  “You’re digging around in some dangerous files, Quinn.”

  “As I said, most of it’s on public record. I haven’t done any more digging than your basic Post reporter would do.”

  “But you have a mind for this shit,” Steve said.

  She made herself smile. “Not these days. I’m just finding distractions. What about you? How’s work, how’s my erstwhile boss?”

  “Oh, work’s just a barrel of laughs with you gone and Alicia drowned.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “No.” He held up a hand. “No, I’m sorry. That was insensitive. Work’s fine. We’re all bearing up. Lattimore’s the same. He’s got steel balls, you know? Nothing rattles him. Me—I’m a coward.” But there was no self-pity in his tone. He winked at Quinn. “Not you, though. You’ve got brass tits, Harlowe. Especially for a page-flipping historian.”

  “Easy for me to talk tough. I’m not on the front-lines.”

  “You were last week,” he said softly.

  When Steve finally headed back to work, taking the rest of his iced coffee with him, Quinn watched him pick up his pace as he rushed down the sidewalk. Not for a single five-second stretch had he relaxed. She realized now why Alicia had said she found him difficult to be around for any length of time. The poor guy had been half in love with her for so long, and yet he’d never stood a chance with her—he drove her nuts.

  But his distress over Alicia’s death seemed genuine, and for Quinn, that was enough.

  Steve was on Pennsylvania Avenue, on his way back to work, when his cell phone rang. He recognized the tight, controlled voice of the older of the two goons. “What, are you a
ssholes spying on me?” Bravado—he was sweating like the pig he was. “I just had iced coffee with Quinn Harlowe. Or do you know already? Are you following her—or me?”

  “Did she ask you to meet her?”

  “No. I knew you’d be breathing down my neck and just showed up. She’s working up a dossier on you bastards.”

  Silence.

  “I’m serious. Your boss is Oliver Crawford, right? Are you the ones torturing and executing the guys that kidnapped him? I hope the feds are onto you. I hope they’re fucking all over you. I hope—”

  “Calm down.”

  “I am calm.”

  But he wasn’t. He could feel the blood pounding in his arteries. His chest was tight. If he wasn’t so young, he’d be worried about a stroke or a heart attack. As it was, he thought he’d crack. Just collapse on the sidewalk and start blubbering. Was that what they’d done to Alicia? Scared the living shit out of her to the point she was drooling on herself?

  “Where are you on the names we want?”

  Steve wasn’t fooled by the mildness of the question. He was running out of rope with these bastards. “I’m working on it.”

  “Work faster. What about Harlowe? Is she part of the task force investigating the vigilantes?”

  “What?”

  A hiss of impatience, like he was stupid. “Harlowe. What’s her role in any vigilante investigation?”

  Hell. Steve wiped sweat off his brow. These guys were vigilantes. Had to be. “She doesn’t have one. No. She’s just nosy.”

  Another couple seconds of silence.

  “We’re not the bad guys here,” the goon said quietly, a hint of humor—and sarcasm—in his tone.

  Steve glanced around him, but no one was eavesdropping. Still, he lowered his voice. “You’re never going to leave me alone, are you? You’ve got me by the balls, and you’re going to twist until I shrivel up and die.”

  “We’re seizing an opportunity that you yourself presented to us. We’re careful people. We have a great responsibility. There’s much at stake.” He sounded so persuasive, so reasonable. “I don’t ask you to understand, just to do as you’re told.”

  “What about Quinn? I’m guessing not everyone thinks you’re the good guys you say you are. She’ll find out. She’s like that. I’ve heard how she works. She throws out one little question in a meeting and turns it around, upside down and inside out. That’s why she’s in demand. Don’t underestimate her.”

  Because if they did underestimate her, she’d be onto him as well.

  “We’ll do our job. You do yours. Keep us informed.”

  Steve clicked off and lifted his arms, trying to let some air in between his wet shirt and his skin, with little success.

  He had no doubts now. He knew where he’d made his bed.

  For better or worse, he was in the sack with fascist sociopaths.

  23

  S eeing his wife cry never failed to make Nate Winter think of his two younger sisters. He, Antonia and Carine were orphaned as children when their parents died in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, and he remembered his helplessness when he’d hear them sobbing into their pillows at night. He’d never admitted to his own tears.

  Sarah wasn’t crying so much as trying to keep herself from crying. She’d worked all day on a dig in back of the historic northern Virginia house where they lived and then had started packing for their move that weekend.

  Honey-haired and blue-eyed, she was the most beautiful woman Nate had ever known, but right now, her cheeks had red splotches, and her eyes were bloodshot. She grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”

  “You’ve been working nonstop. Take the night off—”

  “I need to finish packing these books.” With a desperate gesture, she took in the floor-to-ceiling shelves she was unloading. “I’ve hardly even started.”

  “My family’s coming tomorrow. They’ll help. I can help—”

  “No, no. You have a meeting tonight.” She smiled. “I’m fine. Really.”

  “You’ve never been one to pace yourself.”

  This time, her smile reached her eyes. “You’re one to talk. Go on. You don’t want to be late. If I applied the right kind of pressure, would you tell me what your meeting’s about?”

  He laughed, kissing her, tasting her tears. “It’s boring. Save your pressure tactics for something more worthwhile.”

  “I will,” she whispered, exaggerating her southern accent.

  When he got to his car, Nate couldn’t dispel a nagging uneasiness. It’d been eating at him for days, ever since Alicia Miller’s death in Yorkville. He looked back at the idyllic house and thought of his wife packing for their upcoming move while he was in a meeting about high-level killers. Sarah was a fighter, a survivor—one of the smartest people he knew. But she was also married to a senior federal agent in the middle of a troubling investigation.

  Nate dialed his brother-in-law in New Hampshire. He and Tyler North, an air force pararescueman, had been friends since childhood, a relationship that became somewhat more complicated when Ty married the younger of Nate’s two sisters. Ty and Carine had a four-month-old baby boy, Harry, named after his paternal grandfather.

  Ty was at home in New Hampshire on leave, planning to help Nate and Sarah move. He picked up on the second ring.

  “Can you get down here sooner than tomorrow night?” Nate asked.

  There wasn’t even a flicker of hesitation on Ty’s part. “I can leave for Manchester airport in an hour.”

  Nate didn’t bother to hide his relief. “Thanks.”

  “It’s Sarah?”

  “I’d just feel better with someone else here with her.”

  “Should I leave Carine and the little guy up here?”

  Nate thought a moment. His sister was a nature photographer and an independent soul—she and Ty had known each other since they were tots. “No. Bring them. I’m just on edge. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “You were born on edge,” North said. “I’ll see you later on tonight.”

  After he hung up, Nate continued to Washington and FBI headquarters, where the vigilante task force was meeting. He had virtually nothing to report from Huck McCabe or Diego Clemente. After two weeks in Yorkville, McCabe was no closer to finding out what was going on there than when he’d unpacked his bags. He had to be frustrated. Even if he was building trust day by day, establishing his credentials as a no-holds-barred vigilante, he didn’t strike Nate as someone who would be satisfied with the status quo for too long. He’d seize his opportunity, and he’d make things happen.

  Nate just hoped they all were ready when McCabe hit the switch.

  24

  O n the warmest morning since he’d arrived on the East Coast two weeks ago with Vern Glover, Huck was in the back seat of a black SUV one block up from the American Society for the Study of Plants and Animals. Vern was in back with him. Nick Rochester was up front in the passenger seat. Humorless Travis Lubec was driving.

  They all wore regular clothes, not a Breakwater Security logo to be seen.

  “Quinn Harlowe’s office is on the second floor.” Lubec looked back at Huck and gave a half smile that didn’t reach his flat eyes. “Octagon Room.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Take her for a walk. Talk to her.”

  “About what?”

  “Ask her how she’s doing since her friend drowned. What she’s been up to.” Travis paused and added, indifferent, “Tell her we’re all worried about her after what happened to her friend last week.”

  Nick Rochester also turned around. “The receptionist is Thelma Worthington. Older than dirt, but a nice lady.”

  “What are you doing while I’m talking to Harlowe?”

  Travis, obviously not liking the question, turned and faced front. “We’re taking Vern to the White House. You’ve never seen the White House, have you, Vern?”

  “No, just on TV.”

  F
or all Huck knew, they were taking Vern to see the White House. Lubec had presented them with their orders first thing that morning. “Hop in the helicopter. We’re going for a ride.”

  Huck didn’t have a chance to let Diego know what was going on. He had no backup. His butt was in the breeze.

  Vern didn’t like helicopters. Five minutes after they were in the air, he went green and threw up, just missing Huck’s shoes. Travis and Nick both had a good laugh.

  The helicopter landed on a private airstrip at Oliver Crawford’s main estate in suburban Washington. The SUV was waiting for them. Without any explanation of what they would be doing, Travis got behind the wheel and drove them straight into the city.

  Huck had the feeling he was being tested. If he didn’t go along now, he’d never get any deeper into Breakwater Security and its layers.

  He opened his door but didn’t move. “Is Harlowe sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong?”

  Travis looked up into his rearview mirror. “Find out.”

  “See you in an hour, then. TGIF, huh?”

  “Just do your job.”

  Huck got out and walked down the shaded sidewalk to Quinn’s building. He had to shout his name into the intercom system and explain why he was there before the starchy receptionist would buzz him in. Even then, she didn’t seem thrilled by his presence. Rising from her desk, she kept her hand near the telephone, which probably had 911 on speed dial. “Quinn’s not expecting you, is she?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s a spur-of-the-moment visit.”

  “You’re the bodyguard from Yorkville, aren’t you?”

  Huck gave her his most charming smile. “That’s me. Mind if I go on up to see her?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, I do.” Thelma reached for her phone, then glanced back at him, a slight catch in her voice. “How do you know her office is upstairs?”

  “I figure it wouldn’t be down here with you and the stuffed birds.”

  “Ha-ha,” she said, rallying as she lifted the old-fashioned phone, pressing two buttons. “Quinn? Huck Boone is here to see you. Shall I send him up?” She frowned into the receiver. “Quinn?”