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  Winter unpacked, placing his things in the bottom two drawers as Greg sat watching him from the edge of the nearest bed.

  “Sure good to see you, Win. Brings to mind better times.”

  “So why don't you tell me what I'm doing here?” Winter replied.

  “I was given carte blanche in putting this team together and I wanted the best group in the history of WITSEC. I got a sniper can shoot a fly off a can at a quarter mile: Robert Forsythe.”

  “I saw him shoot in competition a few years ago.”

  “I got Bear Dixon, the strongest son of a bitch I know. He could throw Devlin over his shoulders and run ten miles. Dave Beck and Bill Cross would eat cobras from the tail forward with their hands tied behind their backs to keep a witness safe. And Martinez ain't here because I needed someone to hand Mrs. Devlin tampons. She earned a black belt in tae kwon do before she was ten. Nobody's as good with a handgun, or reacts faster, or sniffs out trouble like you. Dylan Devlin is a huge package, Win. And the payoff at the end can be massive.”

  “Payoff?”

  “It'll look great on our sheets, and when we cash out it'll bring in clients who won't spare any expense to have a piece of us. We'll keep Devlin safe when every professional hitter and connected lowlife with a gun or a bomb is after his hide. Word from the Justice Department is that the contract for Devlin is for millions. Know what that means?”

  “World-class talent.”

  “If we handle this one without a hitch, we're set for life, Winter. We'll be able to open the doors of Massey and Nations Security International and fill the place immediately. I can get plenty of investment money. Tell me you wouldn't dig thousand-dollar suits, a checkbook you don't have to balance. Don't you want to live some, Win? I sure as hell do. The idea of surviving on a pension in a trailer holds no appeal for me. I plan to be stupid rich, and I am taking you with me even if it kills you.”

  “We'll see.” The company again—Greg's dream. He had grown up poor and thought material possessions were more than the temporary distractions Winter believed them to be. Winter preferred his own life simple.

  Winter took the SIG from the shoulder rig and slid a high-rise holster onto his belt, pushed the handgun into it, and snapped the thumb release. He clipped on the dual magazine holder that added twenty-four shots. “I appreciate your confidence and I value your friendship, but your timing sucks rocks,” he said. “I need one big favor.”

  “Anything in my power.”

  “I need to be home Sunday, even if it's just for the day.”

  “Why?”

  “I promised Rush I wouldn't miss his birthday this year. Your request forced me to break it.”

  “You're serious?”

  “When it comes to that boy, I'm always serious.”

  “I'll do what I can.”

  “Way I see it, Greg, is you brought me here, I expect you can get me back home. You want me back on Monday, I'm all yours for as long as you need me, but I need to be home on Sunday.”

  The kitchen seemed scaled to accommodate the woman who ran it. The space had commercial appliances, and the table easily fit eight chairs. There were doors on three of the four walls. Just through an open butler's pantry was a swinging one that led into the formal dining room; a second opened to the main hallway, and the third out onto the porch.

  “Jet Washington, greatest cook on the face of the earth, I want to introduce to you the number-one greatest deputy marshal, Winter James Massey.”

  “Don't get in my way, now,” the cook said, without turning from the huge stove. “I'm at the crossroads with this gumbo.” She was dressed in a starched white uniform, an eye-popping contrast to her skin, which was the color of damp mink. “Okay, here comes the other side of it.” She held a spoon to her lips, sampled the liquid, and murmured gratefully, “Thank you, Jesus! Okay, it's safe now.”

  Only then did she turn and eye Winter with some degree of suspicion. The skin on her face was stretched so tight that he couldn't judge her age within a fifteen-year span. She had an amazingly warm smile and her eyes were so bright that they seemed illuminated, like dials in a dashboard. The rich scent of the food was making his stomach growl.

  “Glad you finally got here,” she told him. “Mr. Gregory been driving everybody crazy with all this talk 'bout Winter this and Winter that and jus' y'all wait till Winter Massey gets here. From the way that man's been going on, I figured you'd be ten feet tall, with a halo made of lightning bolts.”

  “He exaggerates a little,” Winter replied, grinning.

  She wagged a finger at him. “I got three rules nobody breaks, unless they want to be broken. One is, keep your nose out my fridge and your hands off my cookin' utensils. Two is, nobody ever goes hungry in this house. And three is, you want something to eat, you tell me and I'll fix you something filling. Don't matter what time day or night. I'm not in here, just tap on my door. You got all that, Deputy Winter Massey?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  Placing her hands on her hips, she countered, “Uh-huh. Then tell it back to me.”

  10

  New York, New York

  Herman Hoffman sat in the communications room of his six-story building studying a pile of satellite pictures, one by one, on the counter in front of him. The shots were so critical to intelligence that the entire operation had hinged on getting them. From here on in, this was all going to be as simple as connecting numbered dots.

  He held a magnifying glass above the first print to examine the detail. He could barely contain his excitement, as he could clearly see two men standing between the surf and the house. He lifted that one from the stack and carefully laid it facedown on the pile to his right.

  He set the magnifying glass down on the print and rubbed his eyes. “We have a lot to do, Ralph,” Herman said. “They have selected one hell of a safe house—one hell of a safe house, indeed.”

  “Cherry Point is twenty-six miles away. It's a Marine air rework base, but they've added active air power.” Ralph slipped a picture of the base from the left stack: The tarmac was replete with war birds. “There are SEALs training near there. Since that isn't a SEAL training area, I think they're there to add cover for the WITSEC operation.”

  Herman was elated. “The more secure they imagine they are, the more complacent they will be, Ralph. That will work to our advantage. Whether they sit tight or leave, this is checkmate. They will stay on that island until Thursday or a little bird will let us know of any changes. I can't count the times I've had far less time to mount far more complicated operations, with far less intelligence to go on.”

  Herman opened a notebook and studied the equipment inventory carefully. Everything was in hand. The signature of his quartermaster assured him that everything would be waiting at the staging area. He had to be certain he didn't miss anything—one missing object, no matter how small, and the consequences could be catastrophic. This operation would be his masterpiece, even though he would never get the recognition for it. When ops went right, someone else always got the credit.

  “How do you feel?” Herman asked Ralph.

  “Sir?”

  “In your gut. How do you feel?”

  “Fine.”

  “Are you nervous? Any unease? Premonitions?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “And the others? Focused? Eager? Chomping at the bit?”

  “Sure.”

  Herman closed the notebook and stood up. He felt like a hunter at wood's edge, ready to release his dogs.

  11

  Rook Island, North Carolina

  “This is Winter Massey,” Greg told the other five members of the WITSEC team. “Starting with Cross, I want each of you to introduce yourselves.”

  “I'm Bill Cross. Welcome aboard.” Cross had an auburn crew cut and gunmetal-gray eyes. He was about Winter's size, in his midtwenties.

  “Dave Beck.” Beck had obviously been awakened for the meeting. He was in his early thirties, no taller than five-six, and in need of a s
have. The ball cap he wore splayed his mousy hair out over the tops of his ears. “We're all looking forward to working with you, Massey.”

  “I'm Ed Dixon.”

  “We all call him Bear,” Greg said.

  “Ed,” Winter said, extending his hand.

  Dixon shrugged shyly as he shook Winter's hand. “Bear's cool. Been my name since I was in diapers.”

  “Bear” was a nickname that fit the man perfectly. Dixon was six-four and weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds. His deep-set eyes seemed too small for his head, and his voice was pitched so low it vibrated.

  “Bob Forsythe,” Greg said.

  “Robert,” Forsythe corrected.

  Forsythe was in his late thirties, and his features were acute. He wore his slick, jet-black hair combed straight back against his skull like a gangster in an old B movie. Winter's instant impression was of a thrifty man who didn't waste expressions or words. His eyes were as alert as a falcon's. He looked at Winter as though he were sizing him up as competition.

  “I saw you shoot a few years back,” Winter told him.

  Forsythe formed what might have been a grin if his lips hadn't been so tight. “How'd I do?”

  “You came in second on account of that sudden gust of wind.”

  “I took first the next year—ninety-eight,” he replied, too quickly.

  “I know,” Winter said. “Then you quit competing.”

  “What's the point in repeating yourself?” Forsythe said.

  “We've all seen you shoot!” Bear blurted out. Then he blushed. “Sorry. It's just that you're a phenom. Like Forsythe. Naturally the rest of us wish—we just get by.”

  “Get by?” Greg said incredulously. “Bear here can hold a Jeep off the ground while you change the tire and not even break a sweat.”

  Winter nodded. He knew that for the past seven years every recruit entering Glynco had viewed the court security tapes of Winter's Tampa shootout. The tapes, taken as a record for the Justice Department of the trial of a drug lord, were included in the training as an example of a deputy putting himself between a threat and innocent people. That was the official excuse for showing the tapes, but it was strictly a prurient exercise of “Watch the marshal get shot at and somehow not die. Now watch him even the score. Man, that was some shooting, but don't try and trick-shoot like that, rookie, or you'll be dead.” He had been invited to speak to the first class that viewed the tapes, but he had declined in such a way that the invitation had never been offered again. Winter had never seen the tapes and didn't want to.

  “And you know Angela Martinez. Okay, sailors, back in the barrel,” Greg told them. “I need to show Winter and Martinez around the island.”

  Winter and Martinez accompanied Greg on a tour of the island. Starting in front of the safe house, Greg pointed at the water tower forty yards to the south. “That doubles as a shooting platform for Forsythe. It gives him a good view of our side of this island.” He pointed to the north side of the house. “The tennis courts and pool are closed for the season.”

  “Hard to believe they pay us for this,” Martinez said.

  “This isn't a vacation,” Greg reminded her sharply. “The Devlins are never to leave the house unescorted. Anything feels wrong, use whatever force you need to get on top of things. Neutralize the situation, ask questions later. We are authorized to use any lethal force we deem necessary, which is why this crew is made up of the people it is. Shifts are listed on the board in the security room.”

  “Cherry Point is supplying heavy protection. They've moved in some combat-equipped attack helicopters and even have some SEALs bivouacked just down the coast. We sound an alarm and cavalry arrives in minutes. I'll show you the other side the island.”

  After taking the path behind the house that led through the trees to the west side of the island, the marshals stood overlooking the naval facility. “Radar station is manned by six sailors,” Greg informed them. “They're under orders to stay on this side of the tree line while we're here. Cover story is that there's an admiral vacationing with his wife. As far as anybody knows we're Navy security.

  “That big building is the barracks and the one just behind it is an equipment shed. The radio room is the building with the dish tower on top of it. The ramp beside it leads down to the pier. Store boat normally delivers supplies on Thursdays and ferries sailors as necessary. The cigarette racer and the sport-fishing boat are for the brass.”

  “How long we here for?” Martinez asked.

  “Devlin is set to testify before a congressional committee on organized crime early next week. I doubt we'll be returning here after that. With this guy, if the Justice Department gets nervous, we could be asked to make a move onto a military base without warning.”

  “How do you get orders?”

  Greg smiled and reached into his pocket. “This is a Palm organizer bought by some civil servant's wife—it can communicate wirelessly through an account in her name. I send encrypted e-mails, our people reply. It's about as immediate as a phone call and absolutely secure. There's not a working phone on our side of the island.”

  Martinez said, “Great food, sun, surf, hazardous-duty pay, and an army over my shoulder. They'll have to drag me out of here kicking and screaming.”

  Greg chuckled. “Please don't throw me in de briar patch!”

  Back at the safe house, the trio of marshals found Dave Beck sitting at a console watching the monitors hooked to cameras covering the entire western side of the island.

  The security room was carpeted, windowless, and large enough for two chairs and a couch. Three of the monitors showed views of the house's exterior doors and porch, the beach, pool, and tennis courts. Three other monitors showed interior views: the hallway outside the security room, and other halls and rooms in the house. The view on each screen changed every five seconds.

  “This is a restricted zone we're in. The sailors report any craft in the sky or on the water,” Greg said. He pointed to the panel. “Whenever an outside door is opened, that light flashes. You can zoom and pan the cameras. After dinner, Beck will show you how everything here works.”

  “In an emergency, hit this red button and we get help.”

  “Once it's triggered, they come to investigate,” Greg said. “A helicopter gunship arrives first, followed by a Blackhawk packed with our SEAL friends. Time to introduce you to our Mr. Devlin,” he added. “If he's receiving.”

  Greg tapped on the door to the Devlins' bedroom. “Mr. Devlin, it's Greg,” he called out. “Got some people to introduce.”

  “Enter, Inspector,” a male voice replied.

  The Devlins were sitting on the bed holding hands. Dylan was wearing boxer shorts and a T-shirt; his left ankle was bandaged.

  As soon as Winter got a close look at the killer, he was sure that Dylan's smile, carrot-colored hair, and pale green eyes made him seem harmless to his victims until it was way too late. Dylan Devlin looked about as dangerous as a week-old puppy. Mrs. Devlin had changed into something casual. She didn't look directly at the deputies, keeping her eyes fixed on the bedspread. She didn't seem exactly displeased that the marshals had interrupted them, but their presence seemingly held no interest for her.

  “This is the first face-to-face we've had in eighteen days. Lots to catch up on,” Devlin told them.

  “I can imagine,” Greg replied. “I wanted to take a second to introduce you to the new additions to the detail, Deputies Massey and Martinez.”

  “Pleased to meet you both,” Dylan said, “and welcome aboard.”

  He focused on each deputy in turn.

  “We'll let you and Mrs. Devlin get back to your discussion,” Greg said.

  “Call her Sean. My wife is far too young and lovely to be referred to as Mrs. And, please, call me Dylan. I insist.”

  Sean Devlin nodded absently. She turned her gaze for the first time and met Winter's eyes for a fleeting moment, her honey-colored eyes communicating nothing at all.

  Party's o
ver, lady, Winter thought. And here's the bill.

  After they left the Devlins' bedroom and were back in the living room Greg turned once more to Winter and Martinez. “Always keep in mind that Dylan Devlin is a professional—a psychopath who can listen to Mozart while dismembering a body in a bathtub and eating potato chips. A badly sprained ankle and some busted ribs have slowed him down, but he'll be mobile soon enough. There's always a possibility he might decide that life on the run is preferable to showing up in court and exposing himself to the possibility that another stone killer like himself will take him out.”

  “So Mrs. Devlin is here as an anchor,” Winter said.

  Greg shrugged. “The A.G. wants him to be content.”

  “Ain't domestic bliss wonderful,” Martinez said.

  Winter realized suddenly what being in Devlin's room reminded him of. The reptile house at the Audubon Zoo.

  12

  There was very little talk during dinner, because the food was too good. Jet ladled rich, dark gumbo into deep bowls half-filled with steamed rice. There were loaves of broiled-to-a-crunch French bread, the center wet with garlic butter, and a salad that had a distinctive citrus twang. Compliments flew from the deputies.

  A large black cat rubbed against Winter's leg. It peered up at him with fluid golden eyes and tilted his head, requesting a crumb from the table.

  “Midnight!” Jet roared as she swooped up the animal in a well-practiced motion. “Let these people eat in peace.”

  She crossed the room and thrust the feline out the back door. The cat stood on the porch and stared in through the screen. “That cat's always messin' with something. Midnight's not much company, but some's better than none. I could say the same thing about my last husband,” Jet added.

  After the meal was over, Greg helped Jet clear the plates. Then he sat back down and got serious. “What we do here is about prevention, about keeping someone safe from being a target. That's WITSEC. Winter here is accustomed to staying in motion, handing out summonses, escorting prisoners hither and yon, and hunting down fugitives. Two different worlds.”