“He set us up,” I said, the realization cold in my stomach. “Your uncle. He wanted us to stay put so those men could get to us.”

Adrian didn’t answer immediately.

He stared at the phone, his face shadowed by the darkness of the car.

“Julian wouldn’t do the dirty work himself,” Adrian said quietly. “But he would certainly clear the path for someone who would.”

He tapped the screen and began dialing a new number.

“Who are you calling?” I asked.

“Marcus Vance,” Adrian said. “He’s the deputy director of port operations. I’ve known him for ten years.”

He placed the phone on speaker and held it between us.

The ringing tone was loud in the quiet cabin of the car.

It rang four times before a tired, gravelly voice answered.

“Adrian?” Marcus said. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Marcus, I need a direct answer, and I need it now,” Adrian said, ignoring the complaint. “The North Basin Marina. Slip 14. What is the status of the vessel moored there?”

There was a brief silence on the other end, followed by the rustle of papers or a keyboard tapping.