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taped-off perimeter at the mouth of the alley.
    “Guess I’ll go interview the witnesses,” she said to anyone who might give a damn.
    “Hang on, McPhee,” Jonesy boomed loudly. “I’ll come with you.”
    Sarah sighed. Oh, goodie.

Chesapeake Bay outside Norfolk, Virginia The next morning
    FBI Special Agent Rebel Haywood stood in the prow of a United States Coast Guard RB-M response boat, enjoying the early morning calm before the storm of the coming operation. A cool spray of salt water misted her face, contrasting with the cozy warmth of the spring sun on her skin. It had been a while since she’d been out on the water, and she was loving every minute of it. Even under these circumstances.
    “Approaching target vessel,” the voice in her headset comm squawked. “Take your positions, people.”
    Just ahead, the object of the joint USCG/FBI operation, a small but elegant yacht called Allah’s Paradise , lay anchored in a picturesque inlet on the western shore of the Chesapeake Bay.
    Rebel’s cell phone suddenly vibrated in her pocket. She did a mental wince, quickly pulling it out to check the screen. And almost groaned aloud. Helena Middleton . Figured. Helena would phone at the worst possible moment.
    For a nanosecond, Rebel debated turning off the thing. But she was working, and her SAC needed to be able to get ahold of her at all times. He insisted on it. Especially this morning. This op was high profile and he wanted constant updates.
    The phone vibrated again.
    On the other hand, Captain Montgomery, the USCG operation commander, and ensigns Chet and Sampson, the two other über-macho Coast Guard mopes who rounded out today’s detail, were already disgusted enough that the FBI had sent a girl to do what they considered a man’s job. Best not to lower herself even further in their estimation by taking a personal call while on duty. She let it go to voice mail.
    “Stand ready, people,” Captain Montgomery ordered over the comm.
    The RB-M slowed. Overhead, the boat’s loudspeaker crackled. “This is the United States Coast Guard. Please prepare to be boarded for inspection,” Montgomery’s voice called.
    Her cell vibrated again. Bother . Helena Middleton had the tenacity of a junkyard dog.
    Seriously. No sane person would pick up right now. On the other hand, Rebel figured she had a good forty-five seconds until the real action started. If she answered now, at least she’d have a great excuse to hang up quickly and stop it from ringing at an even worse time.
    With an impatient sigh, she muted her comm headset, made sure no one was looking, and tapped her discreet Bluetooth earpiece. “I’m in the middle of something, Helena.”
    “Good lord, sweetie, about time you answered!” Helena’s sweet-as-honey South Carolina accent held just the slightest hint of rebuke. She and Rebel had been friends—well, their parents had been, anyway—growing up among the old-money, South-of-Broad Charleston aristocrats, then coincidentally both of them had moved to Manhattan four years ago, resulting in their being roommates for the first couple of years in New York. Their ultra-conservative Southern parents had been pleased neither girl had been subjected to the corrupting influence of a Yankee roommate. It was mortifying enough Rebel had joined the FBI instead of marrying a good old Southern boy from a good old Southern family. That had nearly killed them. As for Helena’s parents, well, God help her if they ever found out she’d quit that Cordon Bleu cooking school long ago.
    The Coast Guard RB-M eased about to approach the yacht. Ensigns Chet and Sampson tossed lines across, securing the two vessels together for boarding.
    Rebel tried to cut her phone call short. “I’m sorry, Helena, but I really have to—”
    “Why, Rebel Haywood,” Helena scolded cheerfully. A perfect Southern belle, Helena did every thing cheerfully. Rebel could take lessons. “Do you have any earthly idea how many times I’ve tried