A bread delivery truck pulled into the lot. Kim grabbed her purse, reaching inside. She pull out the .22, pointing the barrel at Jackson’s head

Was the safety on? Pull the trigger. Nothing. Jackson’s eyes were wide, cruel. His mouth forming a sneer. He grabbed the short gun barrel, twisting. He backhanded Kim hard in her lower left jaw. Her head slammed against the window. She saw the glint of the lighthouse in the horizon, saw the stars the night she and Sean slept under them on his boat Jupiter, anchored in a remote cove near Key Largo. Blood filled her mouth. A tooth loose.

Then darkness faded over the marina, and Kim felt herself slipping into the black of a deep and dark ocean.

O’Brien backed out of the parking spot. He used the phone’s Bluetooth connection to follow the coordinates to the Jacksonville Landing. When he glanced up, at the far end of the parking lot more than one hundred yards away, he caught a glimpse of a truck pulling out of the lot. The driver barely tapped the brakes as he left the marina, pulling onto the road. From the distance, O’Brien thought one of the brake lights weren’t working. That last time I saw that was…was on the truck driven by Silas Jackson.

O’Brien dialed Kim’s number. “Hi, you’ve reached Kim. I can’t come to my phone. You know what to do at the beep.”

“Kim, it’s Sean. Call me as soon as you get this. I need to—”

Make a legal U-turn on Ponce Inlet Road,” the voice-activated GPS said. “Proceed toward Highway Four.”

From a distance, it resembled a Hollywood premiere. The riverfront in the Jacksonville Landing was filled with a large crowd. America II, the star of the gala evening, was bathed in warm lights. The sailing ship was magnificent, more than one hundred feet in length, its three masts towering in the night sky. Searchlights crisscrossed the dark. Hundreds of spectators stood behind long velvet ropes, anticipating the arrival of the stars from the movie Black River. A visible police contingent stayed close to the stanchions, keeping fans at bay. Security, former Special Ops, wore tuxedoes, black ties, and earpieces in their ears. Pistols under their jackets.

Dozens of news camera operators stood shoulder-to-shoulder on a large, high-rise platform, cameras rolling, a few television reporters doing live shots and interviewing anyone who worked on the movie or had a role in the movie. All the cable news networks were there, the syndicated entertainment shows, their anchors and field reporters awaiting the arrival of the film stars.

The stretch limos began pulling up in a convoy fashion, A-list actors getting out of the limos. Designer gowns. Dazzling jewels. Cameras flashing. Fans squealing and applauding as each celebrity paraded by them. Executive producers, directors, agents and publicists all mingling, doing live interviews and then strolling down the red carpet, boarding the yacht, camera lights popping.

“Is that Matt Damon?” asked one woman, smiling and gently punching her boyfriend in his side. “Get his picture!”

O’Brien stood on an adjacent dock less than one hundred feet away. He watched the parade too. But he wasn’t watching the actors and the glitterati entourage. He was looking for an assassin. The one thing that James Fairmont could not disguise, could not change, was his height. O’Brien scanned the invited guests for men six-two or taller. There were not many.

A dozen Civil War re-enactors, some wearing Confederate uniforms, others in Union attire, the women dressed in period gowns, made their way toward the schooner. They mixed with the multitude, stopping to pose for pictures, arm-and-arm with fans.

O’Brien walked down the steps leading from the dock to the parking lot, blending in with the crowd, spotting security, glancing at every face. Searching for the men tall enough to look him directly in the eye. Through the long burst of applauses, through the screaming fans, through artificial movement of the jet set, O’Brien spotted Frank Sheldon.

Sheldon was dressed in a black tux, salt and pepper hair glimmering under the TV lights. He walked with the director of Black River, two publicists, and two of the film’s executive producers. They stopped and did live interviews on camera.

After the last interview, Sheldon stood behind a podium. He thanked the large throng of people for coming out. He acknowledged and thanked the actors, executive producers, and the producer, director and writer. And he added, “This is a great night, not only for the movie, Black River, which just wrapped and will be premiering during the holidays, but for the city of Jacksonville which is the inaugural homeport for one of the most historically significant sailing schooners ever built. The ship behind us, America II.”

The audience erupted into applause. “The original schooner, as you may know, won the race that was forever to be known as the America’s Cup after her triumphant win against the British in 1850. A decade later, the schooner was commissioned by the Confederacy and used in the Civil War. Tomorrow, this replica will set sail for England and create some history of her own.” More applause. Sheldon smiled and nodded. “Tonight I’m thrilled and honored that some of our country’s greatest filmmakers and storytellers will become part of America II’s story as we sail a short distance down the St. Johns River, returning in a few hours to this very dock. Thank you all. As an investor in Black River, I urge you to see the movie. It’ll be great.”

It was during the glut of camera flashes, the applause, that O’Brien saw a taller man merging within a contiguous montage of people, all invited guests, politicians, movie moguls, but the man was one of the tallest. He had dark hair, parted on the left side, wire-rimmed glasses. O’Brien could tell that the nose and bone structure in the face matched the picture Alistair Hornsby had sent.

O’Brien studied the man’s face and body language for a few more seconds, the easy smile, avoiding handshakes or direct eye contact. Instead, the man’s eyes moved beyond the crowd, circling back to Frank Sheldon as Sheldon and his party walked the red carpet and boarded America II.

O’Brien called Dave Collins and said, “I’ve spotted James Fairmont.”

“Where?”

“At Frank Sheldon’s huge party. It’s a wrap party for the movie Black River and a party to officially launch his schooner. It’s a PR party.”

“Did Fairmont spot you?”

“I don’t think so. He’s carrying a leather satchel. I’m betting a king’s ransom that inside it he has the diamond and the Civil War document. Either Sheldon won the auction, or Fairmont has plans to deliver the goods and then double-cross Sheldon.”

“What if they’ve worked together and Sheldon is delivering the items to Prime Minister Hannes when Sheldon docks at the Port of London.”

“I think I know how we’ll find out?”

“How?”

“Dave, call Hornsby. Give him Sheldon’s cell number. I wrote it down. It’s on that fishing brochure right next to Paul Wilson’s number. I’m sure M16 can tap Sheldon’s mobile phone and listen in, using Sheldon’s phone as a hidden microphone. The voyage down the river and back is scheduled for four hours. I’ll text you when I see Fairmont disappear with Sheldon sometime during the floating party. They’ll probably do the deal in Sheldon’s private captain’s quarters. If we’re lucky, we’ll get it recorded and turn the tables on the blackmailer or blackmailers. The earlier Hornsby can set up things on his end, the better.”

“Be very careful, Sean. Between Sheldon’s formidable security team and what we know Fairmont can do, you’re about to sail down some extremely dangerous waters. There is literally no one on board that can do anything to help you. If they compromise you, you’ll never be seen again and Sheldon will simply deny you were ever on his guest list, much less on his yacht.”