Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
The Aegis Network field office in Calusa Cove felt too small for the size of the storm he’d dragged into it.
Buddy stood over the conference table—an ugly, government-issued slab of laminate that had seen too many late nights—hands braced on either side as he stared down at the mess he’d made.
Not three neat folders. Multiple stacks.
A full eighteen months of his life represented in paper.
The Simon Court case files he’d printed when no one was looking, the photocopied reports he’d had no business keeping, his own cramped handwriting crammed into margins and across legal pads.
Screenshots from databases he wasn’t supposed to access anymore, emails from old contacts who’d told him not to use their numbers again, favors called in from people you didn’t want to owe twice.
It looked less like an investigation and more like an autopsy.
Simon’s operation. Tannette Runon. The nameless deceased victim.
Tessa Blake. Fallon. Three timelines, a dozen cross-references, and one ugly pattern he hadn’t been fast enough to recognize.
Every page on the table was another reminder that someone out there was playing him like he was still green—making moves he should’ve seen coming, twisting his failures into weapons, and picking at the people he’d allowed himself care about like they were loose threads he couldn’t afford to have.
Dove perched on the edge of the table, boot tapping the leg like she was doing the two-step while simultaneously crushing peanut shells.
Sterling strolled into the office carrying a tray full of coffee mugs and a bag of something that smelled like apples and cinnamon.
“You’re late,” Buddy said.
“Got you coffee with oat milk, an apple fritter, and some news.” He set the goodies on the table, snagged a mug for himself and plopped down in his chair. He leaned back, lifted his legs, his feet landing on his desk with a loud thud and he crossed his ankles, all while smiling.
Sometimes Buddy wanted to strangle the man.
“Start talking before I send you to Mallor’s Landing to help Trent while he’s laid up, just because I can.”
“That’s rude,” Sterling said. “Even for you.” He lowered his feet and stood. “Okay,” Sterling leaned over the table and tapped a page listing shipping records from three different ports. “So—the compound under Tannette Runon’s fingernails? We finally found a match.”
Buddy lifted his head. “I’m listening.”
Sterling grinned without humor. “There’s a legit marine-manufacturing company in Fort Lauderdale that produces a custom epoxy-silica mix used for sealing compartmental bulkheads in mid-size commercial boats.
Exactly the kind used in smuggling operations.
They keep meticulous records so that I couldn’t trace it to anything. ”
“So, how do you know it's our company?” Buddy asked.
“That’s where it gets fun.” Sterling lifted a pen and twisted it between his fingers. “Everything is above board. Inspections clean. Taxes filed. Employees real. You’ve even looked into this company before. Bluewater Restoration.”
“I remember them.” Buddy shuffled a few pages until he found the one he was looking for.
Something else with fucking Blue. It never ended.
“We never did speak with the owner—actually, no owner listed, but the VP of operations was a paranoid sort. They had so many freaking checks and balances because they once had a break-in, and their compound was used in a gun run.”
“Well, that’s because Bluewater Restoration is owned by a clusterfuck of LLCs stacked like nesting dolls. Took me three hours just to untangle the shell trail.”
Dove snorted. “Took me five seconds to bet money it’s dirty.”
Sterling nodded. “One of those LLCs? EJV Industries. Same LLC that’s also listed as a part-owner of the Blue Heron Touring company out of Lauderdale. The one tied to the partial plate that appeared to be following—or at least looking at—Fallon.”
Buddy’s heart lurched once—hard. “You sure?”
“Got Mia running the full corporate pull now—owners, investors, subsidiary links, banking patterns. So far, she believes the company itself is clean. But the LLCs it’s linked to, they tell a different story.”
Buddy exhaled slowly. “When I arrested Simon and all the others, they were so fucking smug. Like it didn’t matter. Like their world would still fucking turn. They kept telling me, I’d never save them all.”
Dove looked up, forehead scrunched. “Has Flagler been able to get Simon to talk?”
“Doesn’t matter if he did,” Buddy said. “This is either someone he trained or someone he worked for—someone who learned the system—someone who hates me enough to take the long route—someone who’s fucking patient enough to watch me sweat before destroying what he thinks I love. What I hold dear.”
A soft knock sounded in the open doorway.
Decker stuck his head inside, blond hair sticking up like he’d run here. Which he probably had.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Decker said, breathless. “And sorry for eavesdropping. I’ve been pacing outside for the last few minutes, and I can’t let this slide.”
“No worries. What’s up?” Buddy had learned to trust Decker. It hadn’t been easy. He’d come to Calusa Cove to hurt people. To hurt Buddy’s friends. But when fire erupted, Decker did the right thing.
“Did you say EJV Industries?”
Buddy straightened. “Yeah. Why?”
Decker stepped in, shutting the door behind him.
“When I was a kid in Miami—in my old neighborhood, when the cartels were moving in—there was a dude by the name of EJ. No one said his name out loud. And no one ever saw him. My uncle used to skim cash for one of his LLCs through fake tile imports. Laundry front. It’s where it all started.
” He rubbed his jaw. “It was just one of many fronts, and I believe the Barbaros struck a deal with him, but there’s always a play going on for small businesses near the ports. ”
“The Barbaros? As in Ken’s in-laws?” Buddy rubbed the back of his neck.
“Who’s Ken?” Sterling asked.
“Baily’s brother. Also a decorated SEAL who was on the same team as Dawson, Keaton, and Hayes.
But more importantly, he was married to Julie Barbaro, the daughter of a big crime family that run drugs, guns, and people,” Decker said.
“They owned my family. I thought I got away, but they fucked with my business and nearly destroyed me.”
“All in the past.” Buddy held Decker’s gaze for a moment. “But I don’t like how it’s tied to EJV Industries.”
“Your uncle worked for the Barbaros and this EJ guy?”
“I don’t know how long my uncle did work for EJ, but I remember he once mentioned EJV Industries and that if I ever came in contact with that company, to run.
But the Barbaros were the ones my uncle answered to.
Unfortunately, he died in prison last year.
” Decker’s gaze hardened. “His son—my cousin—he’s still inside—same penitentiary.
Low-level, but he remembers shit. Might talk. ”
“Might?” Sterling asked.
Decker shrugged. “Fear keeps people quiet, and some of them see me as the enemy. I turned on the Barbaros and some blame me for the collapse of their empire. They were promised shit when they got out. Now that might not happen, so they might not be willing to speak with me. But I’ll try.”
Buddy rolled his shoulders. “I don’t want you to do anything that’s going to upset anyone. You’re getting married soon, and you don’t need to poke that bear again.”
Decker dipped his chin. “I can’t sit back and do nothing. I did that once, and I ended up hating myself.”
“Thanks, we appreciate it.” Buddy stretched out his hand and Decker gave it a good shake before strolling out the door.
Buddy shoved aside another stack of photocopied reports and stared at them, but his vision wouldn’t focus.
His muscles twitched and tightened from too many hours leaning over that damn table.
He needed to move, needed his blood circulating, because sitting still with this many files felt like drowning in paper.
He paced to the wall, turned, paced back.
Three steps one way, three steps back. His boots scuffed against the floor.
The repetition didn't help. The tension still crawled under his skin.
He found himself at the window again. Blinds half-drawn, Florida sun cutting harsh lines across the floor. He'd been doing this for the last ten minutes—table to window, window to table—burning off energy that had nowhere else to go.
He nudged a slat with his knuckle.
A black Dodge Charger sat across the street. Parked. Engine running. Tinted so dark the glass looked like obsidian. Not just illegal-dark. Intentional-dark.
Sterling looked up from the paperwork he was sorting. “What?”
Buddy didn’t shift his gaze. “Charger. Across the street. It fits the description of the one Fallon saw.”
Dove pushed off the table and joined him, leaning sideways to get a look. “Are you sure?”
“Same model. Same tint. Same attitude,” Buddy said. “Can’t see the plate.”
“Shit,” Sterling muttered, already standing. “You want to call Dawson?”
Buddy shook his head. “Not yet. Let’s see if it’s watching or just passing time.”
He grabbed his holster and snapped it in place. “We’re heading out.”
Dove smirked. “Finally, a little fun.”
Buddy stepped into the humid slap of Florida air first, Sterling and Dove flanking him, all three scanning without drawing attention to themselves.
The Charger was exactly where it had been when he saw it through the blinds—backed into the convenience store slot across the street, angled like it was waiting for permission to pounce.
Buddy didn’t break stride. “Eyes open.”
Dove stuffed her cell in her pocket. “Let’s see if our friend wants to play.”
They piled into Buddy’s truck—Sterling taking shotgun, Dove behind him. Doors shut solidly, three clicks of readiness. Buddy started the engine and eased into traffic like it was any other Friday morning.