Joe was the first to move, the first to speak. "I have to get back to work," he said, heading for the door. "The roses-"

"Stop. The roses can wait," Tom ordered in his toughest team-commander voice, and Joe actually obeyed him. What do you know? "Look, gentlemen, I'm not going to pry, so if you don't want to talk about it-"

"We don't," Charles interrupted with another of his potent death-ray glares aimed at Joe.

"Fine," Tom said easily. "Then I'm not going to ask about it again. But answer this for me instead. Joe, this one's for you. How many days does Mr. Ashton have left to live?"

It was a cruel question, but letting his uncle walk away, to let the rift between these two old friends continue, would have been even more cruel.

Joe's shoulders sagged and he turned so that Tom couldn't see his face, so he could barely hear his reply. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do," Tom told him. His stomach hurt for both of them, but this had to be said. "Kelly told me the doctors are saying three or four months, tops. I'm sure you both know this. And I'm certain neither of you are so old and decrepit that you can no longer do simple math." He looked at Charles. "How many days does three months work out to be?"

Charles couldn't stay angry in the face of Joe's pain, and he turned his glare on Tom instead. His crackly voice was tinged with ice. "This isn't necessary."

"Yes, sir," Tom said as mildly as he could manage, "I think it is. Please answer the question. How many days?"

Charles looked at Joe again. "Maybe ninety," he finally said. "But probably fewer."

"Ninety days," Tom repeated. "How many perfect summer days like this, with a clear sky and low humidity, do you think we'll have over the next ninety days?"

Neither of them said a word.

"Probably way fewer than ninety," Tom answered for them. "In fact, we could well be into the single digits with that one, don't you agree?"

Silence.

Again Tom answered his own question. "Yes, you agree. So the next obvious question, gentlemen, is: What the fuck are you doing wasting this gorgeous day fighting over some stupid-ass fifty-five-year-old disagreement, when you could be out on Mr. Ashton's boat, fishing?"

Charles looked at Joe and Joe looked at Charles.

"Here's the deal," Tom said. "This thing you're fighting about? You don't talk about it, you don't think about it. You go down to the marina, you pick up some bait, and you spend this day doing something you both love. You sit there in silence if you have to, but you take advantage of this beautiful, precious, God's gift of a day."

More silence. But Tom stood there, feigning patience, waiting.

Joe finally cleared his throat. "Shall I call ahead to the harbormaster's office?" he asked Charles stiffly. "Have them ready the Lady Luck?"

For a minute Tom was afraid Charles was too much of a bastard to make this easy for either of them. He didn't answer for way too long.

But when Tom raised his eyebrows and said, "Mr. Ashton? . . ." the old man finally gave in.

"Oh, all right." It was by no means gracious, but it was good enough for now.

"Listen up," Tom said to the pair of them. "Whatever this problem is, you need to work it out. Not today, but soon."

"We can solve this in an instant," Charles said crankily. "Joe just has to promise to keep his big mouth shut."

Joe's big mouth was set in a straight, grim line. "So I'm just supposed to stand there on that stage and accept that Medal of Honor all over again?" he asked. "I'm supposed to stand there, in front of national news cameras, and shake the hands of all those dignitaries who've come all the way from England and France, and pretend-"

"Whoa," Tom said. "Wait. Dignitaries from where? What are you talking about?"

"The ceremony honoring the Fighting Fifty-fifth," Joe told him. "I don't even want to go."

"You have to," Charles said.

Joe bristled. "I don't have to do anything."

"Wait," Tom said. "Rewind. Did you just say there're going to be dignitaries from England?"

"Some distant cousin of the royal family no one's ever heard of," Charles said grumpily. "You'd think they'd send Winston Churchill's great-grandson. Now there's someone whose hand I'd be honored to shake."

"You don't even know if Churchill had a great-grandson," Joe countered.

"Well, you'd think the organizers of this celebration would at least try to find that out. And who are they sending from France? Some politicians, probably descended from Nazi collaborators."

"Kelly told me several U.S. senators would be attending, too," Tom realized. The United States, England, and France. The three countries that had worked together to catch the Merchant back in 1996. The three countries responsible for taking out most of the Merchant's team-including his beloved wife. Baldwin's Bridge would be packed with revered war heroes and crowds of spectators. CNN cameras would surely be there.

"Holy shit," Tom said. "I've got to make a phone call."

"So it's possible the Merchant's target isn't going to be Boston after all," Tom told Jazz. "It could be right here in Baldwin's Bridge. If you can believe that."

"You're thinking car bomb," Jazz said.

"You bet. It's been this bastard's MO in the past," Tom told his longtime XO and friend over the phone in the Ashtons' kitchen.

"What kind of security they gonna have for this shindig?"

"I don't know yet. I've got my uncle making a call to the local police to try to find that out." Charles and Joe had snapped to. They'd stopped their arguing in the face of this immediate situation.

Tom had told them about spotting the Merchant in the airport, leaving out the part about his recent injury and Admiral Crowley's intense skepticism. Joe and Charles had gone into Charles's home office to try to find out as much as they could about the security planned for the celebration's opening ceremony. It was amazing, actually. As they'd headed down the hall, Tom had heard them speaking entire sentences to each other without flinging a single accusation or petty insult.

"Crowley know yet?" Jazz asked.

"I called, but he wasn't in," Tom reported. "I didn't want to leave a message." No, this was definitely not the kind of thing he wanted to tell the admiral through voice mail. He took a deep breath. This wasn't going to be easy to say, but Jazz had to be told. "You need to know, he's not behind me a hundred percent on this one, Jacquette."

"It does sound nuts, sir." Jazz laughed, a low rumble of distant thunder.

"He's not behind me at all," Tom admitted.

His XO wasn't fazed. "So when do you want me out there?"

"Jazz-straightforward, no shit, I could be completely wrong about this. There's a real chance I've lost touch, that this goddamned head injury has made it so I can't tell fantasy from reality."

"Just give me a day or two to tie up some loose ends," Jazz told him, "and I'll be there. I'll call the rest of the squad, too. See who can arrange for leave."

Jazz was coming to help him. The relief was so intense, Tom had to sit down. "Be up front with them," he ordered. "If they do come, if you come, it's completely off record, two hundred percent covert, and totally volunteer. It's got to be on your own time as well-and I know you've all got better things to do while you're on leave, so-"

"I always wanted to meet your uncle Joe. 'Sides, isn't there some kind of famous watercolor painting school in Baldwin's Bridge?"

"Since when do you paint?" Tom asked.

"Since two or three days from now, L.T.," Jazz told him. "Unless you think I'll stand a better chance of blending with the white folk sunbathing on the beach?"

"Good point." Tom looked up to see Joe standing in the doorway. He stepped into the room and handed a piece of paper to Tom, then disappeared again. There were several lines written in Charles's spidery, shaky-looking hand.

"Ah, Christ," Tom said to Jazz. "The complete security plan for the ceremony honoring the Fighting Fifty-fifth is the normal Baldwin's Bridge PD weekday staff-five guys. Plus two local rent-a-cops for additional crowd control."

"In that case, we'll definitely need help. Hang on."

Tom could hear Jazz rustling papers, heard him swear.

"WildCard's out of the picture, sir," Jazz reported. "He's in California on special assignment. Senior Chief Wolchonok's having knee surgery. And O'Leary won't be back for another few weeks. He's at a sharpshooter's competition in Saudi Arabia."

"Damn. I'm going to want a shooter of his caliber. I don't want to assume car bomb and then have this turn out to be an assassination attempt." He closed his eyes. Provided the Merchant was real. Provided Tom hadn't simply imagined seeing the man who may or may not have been the terrorist. "I'm going to want a sniper of my own set up and ready, too."

"That's not going to be easy, sir. This competition has drawn all the best men in all the armed forces."

All the best men.

"Find out if Alyssa Locke went to this competition," Tom ordered. SO squadmember Frank O'Leary was only the second best marksman in the U.S. Navy. Lieutenant Junior Grade Locke had outscored him every single time they'd competed. She was a robot when it came to taking out a target.

"I know for a fact that she didn't," Jazz told him. "She wouldn't have been invited. Not to Saudi Arabia. A woman? Not a chance."

"Call her."

Jazz paused delicately. "Sir. Do you think that's . . . wise?"

Locke was outspoken in her desire to be allowed into the male-only ranks of the SEALs. She hounded Tom-and Jazz-every opportunity she got. All she wanted, she claimed, was a chance to prove herself.

"She's pretty career driven," Tom told him. "She may not want to take the leave-or the risk. Make sure she understands that this could well be a waste of time. Nothing may come of it at all. She may end up spending a few weeks at the beach, learning to paint with you."

"With me? Oh, joy," Jazz said with a complete lack of enthusiasm.

"Did you get a chance to download those files from my computer?" Tom asked.

"It's all there, L.T., ready and waiting for you."

"Look, Jacquette, I've got to say this again. I don't want you to feel like I'm ordering you to-"

"Completely understood, sir. I'll email you with my flight and arrival time as soon as I've got it." Jazz cut the connection.

David cleared his throat. "Mind if I sit down?"

Mallory looked up at him, hostility flaring in her light brown eyes and in the tight line of her delicate lips.

Paoletti was her last name. She lived with her mother in a house on the other side of town. It hadn't been hard for David to find out all about her from the kids who hung out down by the town beach.

All about her. More, in fact, than he'd wanted to hear.

Both she and her mother were well-known for putting out for money or drugs. They weren't picky. They didn't take credit cards, but a simple line of cocaine would do the trick. According to town legend, that would buy a guy a professional-quality blow job. A slightly larger amount would get that much more. Here in Baldwin's Bridge, a man could have his pick of Paolettis-young or older. And apparently the mother was just as exotically, trashily beautiful as the daughter.

While David was far from the most experienced man in the world, he'd been around enough to know that when rumors came in gift-wrapped packages like that, complete with a ribbon around them, it was unlikely they were true. Mallory and her mother. Highly unlikely.

It sounded like small-town pettiness and jealousy to David. He didn't believe a single word.

He'd gone back to the Ice Cream Shoppe to see what time she got off work, and the manager there had told him she was doing an extra shift today. Mallory was working until eight, but right now she was taking her dinner break.

David had known exactly where to find her, and sure enough, she was back under the tree.

"Don't you ever give up?" Mallory asked him. "Haven't you gotten tired yet of me telling you to get the hell away from me?"

He sat down in the shade about four feet away from her, pretended to think about it. "Nope."

She made a point of turning slightly away from him and continuing to read. She had another of those pathetic-looking, dried-up little peanut butter sandwiches for her dinner, and she ate it slowly as she devoted all her attention to the pages of her book.

David couldn't keep from looking at the soft curve of her cheek, her delicate nose, the slightly exotic shape of her eyes, her flawless skin, and her mouth. God, Mallory Paoletti had a perfect mouth.

Her chin was perfect, too. She held it at a stubborn angle, unaware that the defiant pose exposed the soft, graceful lines of her throat and neck. She had a long, elegant neck, collarbones that could have inspired an entire epic poem, and truly magnificent breasts.

She was his Nightshade, come to life. Of course, dressed the way she was in wide-legged cargo pants and a tank top, she looked more like Nightshade's human alter ego, Nicki Sheldon.

David pulled his day pack onto his lap, unzipping it and pulling out his own book-a copy of the same novel Mallory was reading. He'd managed to pick it up in the Super Stop & Shop at a discount.

Four feet away, Mallory changed her position. He didn't look up, but he heard her put her empty sandwich Baggie back into the brown bag. He heard her crinkle that bag, heard her shift her position once again.

And then she spoke. To him. In a voice dripping with skepticism. "Oh, come on. You don't expect me to believe you're really reading that, do you?"

He looked at her over the top of his book. "Of course I'm reading it. I'm more than half done."

The look on her face was so comical, he nearly pulled his camera out of his pack to get it down on film.

"You're reading a romance." She looked around. "Out here, in front of everyone?"

David looked around, too. There were about twenty people on the lawn in front of the hotel, more down by the marina. Not a single person was paying either of them the slightest bit of attention. He shrugged. "Yeah. You were right about it. It's great stuff. Thanks for recommending it."

"You're really reading the whole thing?" she asked suspiciously. "You're not just flipping through and reading only the sex scenes?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're a guy? . . ."

"I'm really reading the whole thing." He smiled. "But I have to confess, when I get to them, I read the sex scenes twice."

Her lips twitched, curving up into a very small smile. "Yeah, well, join the club," she said. "So do I."

She smiled at him. She smiled at him! It was a real, genuine we-have-something-in-common smile, not an I-want-to-put-your-eye-out-with-my-finger smile.

Mallory was nearly done with her book. "You read fast," he said.