Carla Neggers - Breakwater

“You used the past tense, Vern. Something’s going down. I want to know what.”

“Yeah, well, too bad. Not my call.” He got out the keys to his room. “I don’t make the decisions around here. I just do what I’m told. I saw what happened last fall when some of our guys got ahead of themselves.”

“Juliet Longstreet’s and Ethan Brooker’s vigilantes. They had a set of principles they believed in and were willing to die for. They took risks.”

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.”

Steve 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?”