“I know this marina,” Adrian said. “It’s a private club. High-profile clients only.”

“How do we get in?” I asked. “They’ll have security at the gates.”

“We don’t just walk in,” Adrian said. “We stop the boat before it even leaves the dock.”

He pulled his smartphone from his pocket.

The screen illuminated his sharp jawline and the tight line of his mouth.

“I can call the harbor authorities,” Adrian said. “I have contacts at the Port of New York.”

“Will they believe you?” I asked. “We don’t have proof of the theft yet, just a blueprint.”

“They’ll believe me,” Adrian said, his voice quiet with authority. “My family has funded the harbor patrol for thirty years.”

He scrolled through his contacts, his thumb hovering over the screen.

“My uncle handles the maritime security clearance for that entire grid,” Adrian added.

“Your uncle?” I asked.

“Julian Vale,” Adrian said. “He’s the chairman of the Port Development Alliance.”

I felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the wind.

“Julian Vale,” I repeated, the name sounding familiar. “Didn’t he co-sign Grant’s waterfront project last year?”