“You’re not losing anyone,” Dawson said, steadier now, the kind of calm that came from years of dragging men back from cliffs. “Use your head. Not your fear.”
Fear. No—worse. Memory. Simon’s case. Georgia. The pipeline.
Those hidden bulkheads sealed with marine epoxy.
The blue-gray silica dust under that girl’s nails.
The trail that had never quite added up.
Blue Heron.
Bluewater Restoration.
Blue Coast.
Blue Reef.
Blue Horizon.
Shells stacked head to tail up the coast like breadcrumbs meant to mislead.
And then Decker—quiet, broken Decker—murmuring about Miami, about his childhood tied to the Barbaros, about the shipping yards and the way boats came in heavy and left light.
Containers.
Ports.
Buddy’s breath caught.
A click—small, sharp—sounded in his head.
He reached for his phone with hands that still shook. “Mia,” he whispered as he pulled up her contact information.
She answered before the first ring finished. “Hey, Buddy. Hayes called a bit ago, and I’m already in the system?—”
“Pull the last set of invoices from Bluewater Restoration,” he said. “Look for transfers connected to port facilities. Cross-reference Quincy Bellows with shipping manifests in Miami. Check for spelling variations. Anything close.”
“On it.”
Every second she typed, Buddy’s pulse hammered harder.
“Nothing for Quincy,” Mia said.
Buddy’s gut dropped?—
“—but—hold on—Quinn Porter Bellows—but it looks like it might be just Quinn Porter now.
Buddy’s spine went rigid. “Say it again.”
“Quinn Porter. Female. Previously, Quinn Bellows, and she was married to EJ Vance. She owns a shipping company operating out of the Miami port. High-volume containers. Restricted processing yards.”
Buddy’s throat went dry. Dawson swore under his breath.
“Buddy,” Mia said, voice tightening, “this looks bad.”
“Yeah,” he rasped. “It should, because it’s fucking human trafficking at its finest.”
“We have two team members in Miami. Nick Sarich, who you know, and a new guy named Parker Udell. They can be at the port in ten minutes.”
