Vern shook his head. “They were good guys, but they were reckless. They went too far. They exposed the movement to even more federal scrutiny.” He walked down the hall to his room, sticking his key in the door. “I’m afraid Crawford’s doing the same thing.”
Huck followed him into the neat, dorm-style room. “Vern, talk to me, okay? I can help.”
“Crawford was on the periphery of the movement until he was kidnapped. It goosed him into serious action.” Vern opened his closet door and pulled out a gun box, setting it on his bed. “I don’t know the whole story behind the kidnapping. I wasn’t a part of that deal. Sharon Riccardi and Lubec were.”
“Nick Rochester?”
“No.”
“The guys who turned up tortured and executed—”
Vern grunted. “They got what they deserved.”
“Yeah, but who was responsible?”
“CYA time. Cover Your Ass.” Using a small key, he opened up the metal box. “Crawford wants to make a big splash. Let’s just hope we don’t get drowned in the process.”
“Vern—”
“The less you know, Boone, the happier you’ll be.”
Every instinct Huck had told him that Vern Glover was on the verge of snapping. “Vern, something’s happening today, isn’t it?”
“Crawford thinks the feds are investigating us all right now.” He lifted a loaded clip out of his gun box. “He’s going after them. Making a statement. It’s crazy.”
“He’s going after federal agents?”
“Nate Winter, Juliet Longstreet—they’re marshals. Ethan Brooker. He’s a former Special Forces officer. He and Longstreet killed one of our guys last fall.” Vern sighed, his misgivings obvious. “It won’t be easy to take them out. They’re pros.”
“Simultaneous attacks by multiple teams?” Huck asked. “Or sequential attacks, one team?”
“Two teams. One team for Longstreet and Brooker. One for Winter—and his wife.”
“His wife?”
“She and President Poe are close personal friends. She’s like a daughter to him.” Vern stood up straight, his nostrils flared, nothing about this mission going down well with him. “It’d be a feather in Crawford’s cap to get her.”
Hell. Huck stayed focused. “What about Gerard Lattimore? Is he on his way back to D.C.?”
“That creep’s not going anywhere today. He cooperates or he’s dead.”
“You’re the one who’d have to take him out?”
Vern didn’t answer.
Huck couldn’t leave Glover to kill Gerard Lattimore or anyone else, and he had to warn Winter, Longstreet and Brooker.
He drew his Glock and pointed it at Vern. “You’re done, Vern.”
“You, Boone? Fuck.”
“It’s Deputy U.S. Marshal Huck McCabe.”
Vern’s shoulders slumped. “I should have known.”
“Well, you didn’t. Do you want to die for the cause?”
Glover didn’t answer.
“Vern?”
“No.”
“Then do exactly as I say.”
36
S teve vomited onto a sandy, rough wooden floor. He had no idea where he was. He was light-headed, his stomach cramping. He rose up onto his hands and knees, dry-heaving, moaning. Hot needles seemed to stab into his chest and head, down his left arm. Blood dripped out of his mouth.
His hands were covered in blood.
I’m dying.
A sudden bright light pierced his eyes, and he fell back onto his side, his bowels loosening. What the hell?
A creaking sound—a door opening.
The hut.
He remembered now and sobbed. “Quinn…”
“Uh-uh, pal.” A tall, dark man squatted next to him, patting him down. “Diego Clemente.”
Big, firm hands picked him up by the waist and set him down against the hut wall, away from his puddle of barf. Steve squinted, focusing on the handsome man in front of him. A Yankees sweatshirt. “I love the Yankees,” Steve said.
“I don’t. I’m from California. Where’s Quinn?”
“Lubec…” Unable to continue, Steve dry-heaved, as if his stomach muscles couldn’t stand the idea of what he’d done—couldn’t stand him—and were trying to spit him out, get rid of him. Kill him.
Clemente stayed on task. “What about Lubec?”
“He has her. He was going to kill me. I had no choice.” He remembered now, and started to cry. “I’m so sorry. I’m so damn sorry.”
“Where did he take her?”
Steve held back another heave. “Up—up to the Crawford house. At gunpoint.” He lifted his head. “She’s pretending she’s one of them. One of the vigilantes.”
“Lubec believe her?”
“These fucking Nazis don’t believe anyone. They’re paranoid.”
Another man arrived. Steve squinted at him in the bright afternoon light, recognized the spit-and-polished FBI agent.
Special Agent Kowalski.
“Steve Eisenhardt,” Kowalski said coldly. “We found the car you borrowed at the marina.”
Steve tried to stand up. “I want to cut a deal.”
The FBI agent and Clemente both laughed, without humor. “You’re a lawyer, Eisenhardt,” Clemente said. “What do you think your odds are?”
Shit. This Clemente’s another fed.
Steve wished Quinn had just let Travis Lubec shoot him.
Using Vern’s cell phone, Huck called Nate. “Unless Glover’s lying through his teeth or has bad information, you’re in danger. You, your wife, Longstreet, Brooker. Oliver Crawford has two teams coming for you.”
Winter wasn’t one to waste words. “You?”
“Don’t worry about me right now. I’m good.”
Huck disconnected and dialed Diego’s number. “Where are you?”
“About to climb over a barbed-wire fence. O’Dell’s with Kowalski’s partner. We’ve got Eisenhardt. We’re on our way.”
“Quinn?”
A half beat’s hesitation. “She’s with Lubec. I hit the alarm, Huck. We’ve got guys on the way. We’re moving in.”
Huck looked down at Vern, cuffed, glowering—yet refusing to incriminate himself further. He wasn’t stupid. “It’s not that simple,” Huck told his partner.
He heard the familiar creak of the outer door and stuck his head out into the hall. Nick Rochester nodded to him.
“Rochester!” Vern yelled. “Boone’s a fed!”
Huck tossed down the phone and eased into the hall, putting his Glock to the kid’s temple. “Hands where I can see them, Nick.” Huck patted him down, taking a nine-millimeter out of the kid’s belt holster and a thirty-eight off his ankle. “Quinn Harlowe. Gerard Lattimore. Where are they?”
“Crawford’s living room.”
“Who’s with them?”
“Crawford, Lubec, the Riccardis.”
“You’re caught between a rock and a hard place, Nick. What’s it going to be? You want to cooperate?”
The kid inhaled sharply through his nose. “The creep from Justice. Eisenhardt. I was supposed to kill him.” Hands up, he glanced at Huck. “I’m not a murderer.”
“You chickenshit asshole,” Vern said.
Rochester paid no attention to him. “Lubec would have killed me if I wasn’t armed. I thought—” He choked up, the enormity of his situation obviously hitting him. “Too much of what’s going down is personal. It’s not smart. It’s not going to help us win people over.”
“Nick.” Huck kept his tone even. “What’s happening in Crawford’s living room?”
“If Lattimore doesn’t cooperate, he’s dead. Lubec wired his boat with explosives. He’ll take Lattimore back to the marina and—that’ll be it.” Rochester’s tone stayed flat. “I saw Lubec take Harlowe up to the house. I don’t know Eisenhardt’s status.”
“He’s alive,” Huck said.
Visibly relieved, Rochester’s knees buckled under him, but he kept his hands up, didn’t push his l
uck. “I didn’t know what was going on with Alicia Miller. I thought she was sick. Lubec made sure she took the kayak up the loop road. He knew it was going to storm. I had nothing to do with it. I wasn’t there. I’d have stopped it—” He broke off, swallowed. “I told you. I’m not a murderer.”
“You guys have been funneling illegal weapons through here,” Huck said. “Where are they now?”
“I don’t know. That’s the truth.”
“The teams going after Nate Winter, Juliet Longstreet—”
“They’re not going to waste a shoulder-fired missile on a fed,” Rochester said. “We haven’t had anything come through here since you and Glover arrived and Miller drowned. Too hot.”
“Inside with Vern.”
Rochester was reluctant. “He’ll kill me—”
“He won’t get that chance. I won’t let him.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better, a fed covering my ass? I hope you have backup, Boone.”
“It’s McCabe, actually.”
“Lubec will kill you. Sharon’s one bloodthirsty bitch, too. She approved all of us herself. Lubec, Glover, O’Dell. You.” Rochester looked as if he’d smelled something awful. “She was distracted or she’d have sniffed you out sooner.”
“She’s been focused on stopping Crawford from going overboard.”
“She blames herself.”
Keeping his gun on Rochester, Huck found another pair of cuffs in Vern’s gun box. Vern had lapsed into silence, but his eyes had taken on a piercing glow, as if he wanted to turn them into laser beams that could cut Huck in two or just set him on fire. Then, he’d start on Nick Rochester.
“Blames herself for what?” But even as he asked the question, Huck knew the answer. “Damn. She had Crawford kidnapped. Then she arranged his rescue. The torture and execution of the men she hired was her doing, wasn’t it?” He shook his head. “Real nice.”
“She wanted Crawford fully committed to the cause,” Rochester said with no hint of irony.
“Sounds as if she got more than she bargained for.”
Talk time was over, Huck thought. Diego Clemente, T.J. Kowalski and a haggard, bloody, barfencrusted Steve Eisenhardt had arrived.
37
D riving at breakneck speed, Nate Winter tried once more to get through by cell phone to his wife—nothing.
He told himself it could mean anything.
But Huck McCabe’s words rang in his head, and although he’d called for backup, he knew he’d get to their house first.
As he pulled into his driveway, he saw the big moving van—then, Juliet Longstreet’s truck. His relief was palpable. If anyone could handle a team of hired killers it was Longstreet. He got out of his car, ignoring the wobble in his knees as she ran onto the driveway waving to him.
“Sarah—” His voice cracked.
“She’s safe. It’s okay, Nate. We’ve got them—”
“How many?”
“A half-dozen. They were supposed to kill Brooker, you, me and—”
Sarah, his wife. Juliet didn’t need to finish. Oliver Crawford had sent killers out for Sarah, too. Nate had to push back a surge of anger.
“I don’t think these Special Ops types even needed me here. Brooker and your brother-in-law. Crawford’s goons thought they were moving guys. Big mistake.” The tension of the past hour brought out Juliet’s natural irreverence. “I like your sister’s husband. He can think in a crisis, that’s for sure. Of course, Sarah threw up all over the damn place.”
“Sarah threw up?”
“Yeah. Who could blame her, all these assholes coming to kill us. For a tough guy, PJ North doesn’t like vomit.”
Nate’s mind was turning to fuzz, which wasn’t like him. “Why did Sarah throw up? The fear—”
“I don’t think it was fear.” Juliet looked uncomfortable. “Talk to her about it. FBI and God knows who else will be here any sec.”
She returned to the house, and Tyler North, compact, superfit, joined his brother-in-law on the driveway. He’d performed Special Ops missions as an air force search-and-rescue specialist under the most grueling, dangerous conditions imaginable. But, right now, he was grimacing. “Man, Nate. I hate barf.”
“What about the guys who came to kill you all?”
“Piece of cake. Brooker’s watching them until all you law enforcement types relieve him.”
Sarah, pale but okay, appeared behind her brother-in-law. “It wasn’t the bad guys trying to kill us that made me sick to my stomach.”
Nate tried to smile through his own tension. Since the call from Huck, he’d been on autopilot, doing what he needed to do, relying on his training, his experience. “Some new casserole recipe?”
“I only have my grandmother’s casserole recipes.”
“Come on, Nate,” North said. “You have two sisters.”
He felt his knees going out from under him.
A baby.
He looked at his beautiful wife, at the moving van—his younger sister, Carine, coming off the porch with her and North’s little boy in her arms. His sister Antonia and her husband were joining them later, with their baby girl. Nate’s head spun. Orphaned at seven with two little sisters, he’d never seen himself settling down this way. He’d never allowed himself to believe he could have this kind of happiness. The thought of a wife, children, a house used to scare the hell out of him.
Police cars streamed into the driveway. Local, state, FBI, marshals.
Ethan Brooker joined Juliet, car keys in hand. Juliet, who had a big family of her own, some of whom were endangered last fall because of her work, touched Nate’s shoulder. “Shit’s hitting the fan in Yorkville,” she said. “Sarah and your sister and brother-in-law can answer questions here for the time being. We’re on our way. What’re you doing?”
Nate hesitated, but his wife shoved him. “Go, Nate. Do your job.”
38
“I t’s a beautiful afternoon.” Quinn gestured out the window of Oliver Crawford’s cheery, restful living room, the decor a total contrast to the moods of the people around her. “I don’t think you all will be sending me out kayaking and hoping I capsize and drown.”
Gerard Lattimore had sunk onto the sofa facing the view. “Quinn, don’t even say such a thing as a joke. No one’s going to harm you. Ollie? What’s going on here?”
Quinn didn’t let him answer. She was standing near the end of the sofa Gerard was sitting on, with Crawford opposite her. Her only plan was to keep them talking for as long as she could. “Ollie’s trying to figure out if I’m for real, or if I get to be made an example of,” she said. “He knows, Gerard. So do you, if you’ll just admit it. Traitors inside and outside the government will make our lives impossible in short order.”
Even Lubec, whom she’d almost convinced on the way from the marsh, didn’t look as if he believed her. He stayed near Crawford. Mosquito-bitten Sharon Riccardi was sipping champagne, not speaking. Her husband stood in the door to the front hall. Whether he was blocking an exit or making sure he was near one, she couldn’t tell.
Unfortunately, Quinn had no idea where Huck was. Until he showed up, or she had no choice but to act, she’d keep spewing the vigilante line and see how far she got with it.
“Alicia didn’t understand what you all are doing. What we’re doing.” Quinn let her voice harden, as if she had nothing to fear. “Killing her put you under the kind of scrutiny you don’t want. I’m not sure it was one of your smarter moves.”
“We didn’t kill her—she drowned.” Lubec’s voice was toneless, his eyes flat. He was the most difficult person to read Quinn had ever encountered. “She kayaked in a thunderstorm.”
Lattimore was ashen. “How can you be so cold?”
Lubec shrugged, as if it was nothing to him.
“My God, Ollie.” Gerard seemed totally shocked. “What’s happened to you?”
“I’ve come to my senses. I see the world and its dangers with a clarity I never have before. I’m willing to ri
sk everything to save my freedoms. Your freedoms, Gerry.” Crawford sat back on the sofa, looking smug, if also nervous, even agitated. “What are you willing to risk?”
“You need help, Ollie.” Gerard shook his head sadly. “The kidnapping did something to you.”
“It only galvanized me into action. I learned we can’t have it both ways. I made a commitment. I’ve risked my fortune, my life. I operate outside of the rule of law only to save it. I have to violate the thing I love for the greater good. Do I sound insane to you?”
“No. You sound very rational.”
“Help us, Gerry. Join us.” Crawford sat forward, leaning over his knees. “Today we make our mark.”
Sharon took a gulp of champagne. “Oliver, let’s not scare anyone.” Her smile was halfhearted, ragged. “We love to talk politics, even extreme politics, but we haven’t broken any laws, no matter how much we disagree with them.”
Quinn interrupted, remembering her research. “I think you all need to get your own house in order before you undertake any further operations. For instance, Oliver, you and your right-hand woman here need to work on your communication. Did she tell you that she’s the one who arranged for you to be kidnapped?”
Sharon barely responded. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You’re good, Quinn.” Oliver Crawford sounded almost sympathetic. “Trying to turn us against each other—”
“I’m serious. How did the thugs know where to find you? Hasn’t that little question been keeping you awake at night? I’ll bet my green kayak that it has. And how did Lubec here know where to find you when he came to your rescue? And where to find these guys so they could be tortured and executed?” Quinn pointed a finger at Sharon Riccardi. “Right there. She arranged it all.”
“Oliver, don’t listen to her,” Sharon urged. “You’re the risk-taker. Look at what you’re doing today. You know I’m against it. I think it’s too much when we’re just starting. You’ve said yourself that in many ways the kidnapping was the best thing that ever happened to you. It gave you clarity.”
“That’s what she wanted, for you to have ‘clarity.’” Quinn kept her tone matter-of-fact. “You’re scared witless, beaten, half starved, threatened with death, and she’s pulling the strings on all of it.”
Breakwater Page 25
