High up on the metal walkway of the nearest crane, there was a tiny, brief flash of blue light.

It was gone in an instant.

But I knew what it was.

A lens catching the reflection of the harbor lights.

A sniper.

“Romano,” I said, my voice low. “We need to move.”

Romano didn’t look at me.

He kept his eyes on the tall man.

“Who paid you?” Romano asked him. “Tony doesn’t have the kind of money it takes to buy a federal director.”

The tall man smiled again.

“You think this is about money, Mr. Romano?” he asked. “This is about efficiency.”

He took a step backward, toward the open door of his black sedan.

His men began to back up with him, their weapons still trained on us.

“Marcus,” Romano called out. “Get behind the containers.”

Marcus didn’t move.

He was still staring at the wet gravel, his gun hanging loose in his fingers.

The realization of his betrayal seemed to have paralyzed him.

“Marcus!” Romano shouted.

The tall man reached the door of his car.

He paused, looking back at us.