“What are your names? Please don't lie to me or you will be very, very sorry.”
“George Williams.”
“Matthew Barnwell.”
“How old are you?”
“Twelve,” George said.
Matt nodded. “Me… too.”
“Did anyone come here with you?”
Both shook their heads.
“No one at all?”
“Nope,” Matt said.
“Does anyone know you're here?”
“No, sir,” George said.
“Where do you boys live? How far from here?”
George said, “Three miles. Green Meadows subdivision.”
“How did you get here?”
“On our bikes.”
“You've been in here before?”
“No,” Matt said.
“Don't lie to me,” he snarled.
“Lots of times,” George said quickly, not wanting to piss him off again.
“Alone? Just the two of you?”
“Yeah. The tower out there… it's our secret clubhouse. Was before, I mean. We never bothered nothing.”
“We don't ever hurt anything,” Matt added soulfully.
George thought Matt sounded pathetic.
“Where did you get these?” The old man picked up the binoculars.
“They were in the tower. They were already broken.”
“Theft of government property,” the old man said with a sigh. He looked as fragile as ash.
He stood behind them and placed one wrinkled fist on each boy's shoulder. George eyed the pocketknife in the old man's right hand, the blade inches from his cheek. “Aren't you scared to come here alone to this dangerous place?” the old man asked softly.
“It's not dangerous,” George said, grasping for straws. “If you're careful on the broken stairs, it isn't.”
“Signs say ‘armed response.' Did you know you could be shot for sneaking in here?”
“We thought it was a bluff,” Matt protested, eyeing the solemn-faced men watching them. “Nobody ever came before.”
George looked at the guns on the table. The stacks of loaded magazines. The large pistols. The table was filled with fascinating equipment.
“Nobody till you,” Matt added. “Are you Army men?”
“We're Special Forces,” the old man answered. His eyes flickered to take in his men, standing nearby, watching silently. “I am a general. My men and I are not going to be here long. But it's vital that nobody bothers us while we're working. This is a top-secret mission. I'm not entirely sure I should let you go. You might tell people, and then it could get back to the other side and we could lose a very important and extremely expensive war game.”
“We wouldn't ever tell, no matter what,” Matt vowed. “We're real good at secrets. We never, ever told anybody about this place. It's our secret and if we told, other kids would take it away.”
“If you don't tell my dad, I won't tell anybody about you guys fixing up your stuff here. He'll kill me, honest,” George heard himself say.
The old man was silent for a long time. Then he said tenderly, “Eat your apple. I'm not going to put you in jail this time… or even call your parents. But, George and Matthew-if you ever mention our presence, you and your parents will be in serious trouble. Just so you understand this is not a joke. Do I have your word of honor you will never speak of this? Both of you?”
Both boys nodded enthusiastically. “Well,” Matt said, “we thought it was a UFO you had in here.”
“Wouldn't that be something,” the old man murmured. “If you two can keep the secret and not tell anybody, you can come here anytime you like after we're gone and play all you want.”
“I bet riding in a helicopter is real fun,” Matt said. “When I grow up I'm going to be a helicopter pilot in the Army and fight with missiles and machine guns like yours.”
“I'm sure you will. You keep my secret and I'll make certain you get in the Army.”
“You sure got a lot of guns and stuff,” George said, relaxing, his excitement growing. “Are they real?”
“When you were spying on us, did you learn anything?” the general suddenly asked George.
“I heard you talking about devils and marshals. And how you are going to do something nobody's ever done before.”
“What did you hear?”
“Break into whipsticks.”
The general's face froze; his smile became a grimace.
“I have an idea,” the general said. “Boys, this is Ralph. He's a helicopter pilot. He will take you both for a nice helicopter ride.”
“Yes!” Matt exclaimed, not believing their good fortune.
“I have to be home by five-thirty,” George told him, hoping that wouldn't make the general cancel their ride.
“Oh, you'll be down well before five,” the old man assured him. “Don't want you two out after dark. Nobody knows better than I do how dangerous a place the world is.” The old man looked at Ralph. “Take special care of these boys.”
25
Rook Island, North Carolina
Martinez followed Sean out onto the porch, where Winter sat in a wicker chair with Midnight on his lap. Sean took a seat in a rocking chair near Winter. Midnight hopped down, sprang up into her lap, and looked up into her eyes. She stroked the animal, seemingly comforted by its soft fur, its purring, as she seemed to noticeably relax.
“Traitor,” Winter said to Midnight.
“I want to thank you for telling me the truth,” Sean told Winter, without looking at him. “I'm sorry if I got you in hot water.” It was the truth. She felt terrible despite the fact that her reaction to what he had told her wasn't her fault.
“It's not a problem,” Winter replied.
“Somebody should have told you the truth,” Martinez said. Sean liked Angela Martinez. The woman had shown her nothing but kindness.
“That would have been nice,” Sean said quietly.
When the front door swung open, Midnight leaped from her lap and raced off around the corner. Sean looked up to see Dylan step out onto the porch with Cross following behind him.
Dylan walked over and stood directly in front of her chair. Instead of turning her eyes away from him, she met his stare with a new kind of determination in her eyes.
“We are going to talk,” he told her.
Sean felt a sudden rush of anger. “I've said everything I am going to say to you, and I am not interested in anything else you have to say. Ever.”
She was aware that Winter, Cross, and Martinez were exchanging concerned glances, but she didn't care. After what she had just discovered, she would never care what anyone thought of her again.
Dylan smiled, but his smile, once so comforting, made her feel sick.
“You have time for a cat but not your husband? Where's your capacity for forgiveness?”
“The cat has integrity,” she snapped, wanting to get up, get away from him, but he blocked her by leaning in and gripping the armrests.
“Move!” Sean ordered.
“Not until you agree to talk to me.”
“There's nothing to discuss.” Nothing he had said to her or could say mattered in the least. Sean had never suffered from indecisiveness. Once she made a decision, that was it.
Winter stood. “Back off, Devlin. Cross, escort Mr. Devlin to his room.”
Thank you, Winter, Sean thought, wishing she could confide in him how grateful she truly was.
“You don't have the authority to interfere between a man and his wife. You can't tell me to do anything, Mr. Ironman,” Dylan replied without taking his hands off Sean's chair or shifting his eyes from hers.
“Cross,” Winter said, “escort Mr. Devlin inside-now!”
“Fuck you, Massey,” Dylan told him.
Winter keyed the microphone. “Inspector, you might want to come out front. We have a situation.”
“You haven't seen a situation yet, Deputy,” Dylan said in a calm voice. “Sambo isn't going to ch
ange anything.”
Sean was relieved when Greg suddenly appeared, carrying a gun-shaped device Sean was unfamiliar with.
“Ms. Devlin, would you like to get up from the chair?”
Sean shook her head. “I would prefer he leave me alone.” Sean wasn't inclined to allow Dylan to control her at all, ever again. She would never again play the role of submissive, dutiful wife, blinded by passion.
“Mr. Devlin, step back,” Greg ordered.
“No,” Dylan said evenly. “Stay out of our business. My wife and I are going to have a talk — boy.”
“You see the stun gun I have in my hand?” Greg motioned menacingly. “If you don't back off, I am going to put you on the floorboards and restrain you for the duration. Choice is yours, Devlin. Back up or ride the lightning.” The Taser fired barbs that delivered 50,000 volts of electricity through wires connected to the weapon.
Sean wondered if Greg would really use the thing on Dylan, wondered if it would hurt him. She dearly hoped it would, with a newfound vengeance that would have shocked her the previous day.
“Touch me and Whitehead'll have your ass.”
“I don't take orders from Whitehead,” Greg told him. “I go by our protocols concerning whatever means are necessary to keep you safe, which are also designed to keep you from harming others. Our choices range from a takedown, like this Taser I am about to use on you, to cutting you in half with a shotgun.”
“I am not just another witness,” Dylan said, his eyes still locked on Sean's.
“No, you're a multiple murderer. The bottom line is that you will do what I say, when I say to do it, or I will fry you. End of discussion.”
“Mr. Devlin,” Martinez interposed. “Nobody can win here. We won't allow you to force Mrs. Devlin to do anything against her will. Inspector Nations won't back off and he isn't bluffing. Your call.”
Dylan finally turned his head to look at the marshals on the porch and at Beck, Bear, and Forsythe, who had appeared out on the sand behind them, armed. Dylan shook his head slowly, lifted his hands, and stepped back.
“You're a bright girl, Mar-tee-nez,” Devlin said. “Calmer heads should always prevail. I'll just say good afternoon.”
Sean stared at her husband's back as he walked inside. A burst of wind hit and brought with it the scent of rain.
“He won't bother you again,” Greg told her.
“If he comes near me again I will be forced to hold the USMS responsible,” she carped more out of pride at having been shown up as a victim in front of men. She knew this wasn't the fault of the deputy marshals on the detail. Keeping her in the dark was someone else's doing. “I want to leave now-tonight,” she said, meaning it, unable to back down now.
“I'll advise Control of the situation immediately. We're all leaving the island tomorrow. I have no idea where we'll be staying after we go. Under the circumstances, we'll make arrangements for separate quarters.”
“I will not spend another day near my husband. I absolutely refuse to travel anywhere with him.”
“Let me work on that,” Greg said evenly, trying to calm her down. “He won't bother you again. You just stay in your room as much as possible. Martinez will remain with you from now on. I wish I could do better.”
“So do I,” Sean replied curtly. “I won't stay locked up in my room like a criminal because of him. He is the one who should be locked up.”
Greg handed Martinez the Taser-a stun gun-and went inside. “Don't hesitate to use this. We have more.”
26
Wednesday night
What had happened with Dylan on the porch had nearly been a disaster. It was obvious that the dynamics of the safe house were rapidly deteriorating. Greg had to make some changes to stay on top of Dylan, who was obviously desperate to trigger a confrontation. Perhaps he was just playing games to entertain himself, but the consequences of a game designed by a psychopathic mind could be both unpredictable and deadly.
Winter had been scheduled for a shift in the security room, but he wanted to be outside. Just before the shift started, Bear agreed to swap places with him. As Winter and Beck were about to leave the house, Greg appeared and took Winter aside. He waited for Beck to close the door before he spoke.
“We're taking Dylan out tomorrow evening because a night move is safer. I've got permission to leave Beck and Martinez behind with Ms. Devlin. They'll escort her out on Saturday and you'll be home for Sunday.”
Winter spent from midnight until three walking the perimeter of the house. He liked the solitude, the soft roar of the surf, the pelting of the rain on his hood. He found himself unable to stop thinking about Sean Devlin. He admired her intelligence and tenacity but was perplexed at how a woman like her could have married a man like Dylan. Even so, there was something very special about Sean: hidden depths that had gradually begun to reveal themselves. Despite her strength-the fact that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself-he found himself wanting to shelter and protect her. Something in her he couldn't define had gotten to him. He hardly knew anything at all about her and he knew he shouldn't waste his time thinking about her. In less than eighteen hours he would be gone and would never see her again. But still…
Beck waved Winter up onto the porch.
“This is miserable,” Beck grumbled. “Who in their fucking right mind would come out here in this shit to pop that bastard?”
“Maybe killers in raincoats.”
“This island isn't even on a map.” Beck lifted an empty thermos. “Jet could protect Dylan out here.”
Winter didn't respond.
“You think she's pretty?” Beck asked.
“Too bossy for me. Good cook, though.”
“Not Jet. Martinez. She's fine. You've noticed, right?”
“She's good at her job,” Winter said noncomittally.
“I think she's hot. But she's never so much as… I don't know, it's weird. It's really something to see her laugh.”
“You ever asked her out?”
Beck shook his head. “I wanted to a bunch of times. I mean, sure, I hint around and sometimes she… I mean, I think she likes me okay. Hard to tell. I've been meaning to ask you something. You weren't betting for her, but against Dylan, right? You didn't think she would win over Cross? Hell, that was cool, the way she showed everybody her stuff. And you pissed off Devlin big-time.”
“I need coffee,” Winter said, uncomfortable discussing someone he respected behind her back.
“I'll go in and get us some,” Beck offered.
“No, I'll do it,” Winter said, eager to get out of the wet. “S-one,” Winter said into his mouthpiece, “W.M. coming in for coffee.”
There was no response.
“Maybe Bear's in the crapper?” Beck said. “Or hibernating.”
Winter instinctively slung the AR over his shoulder and drew his SIG.
“We go to the security room together. Cover my back,” he said quietly yet determinedly.
Entering into the foyer, Winter slipped to the arch ahead of Beck and aimed his gun down the hall. He nodded that it was clear and moved with stealth toward the security room door, which was open a crack. No light showed under either Dylan's or Sean's door. Winter stood in front of the security room door, pushed it open, and lunged inside, aiming his gun at the dark figure bent over Dixon. “Freeze!” Winter ordered.
Beck moved in swiftly behind Winter, aiming his rifle at the figure dressed in pajamas, bent over Dixon.
“Greg?” Winter lowered his gun and moved farther into the room. Dixon was as fully reclined as the swivel chair allowed. His eyes were closed and his face was so pale it looked like it had been bleached white.
“He's out cold.” Greg turned his attention back to Dixon and slapped his cheeks. “Wake up, Bear,” he coaxed angrily.
Winter saw that the coffeepot had started to smoke, so he turned it off before leaning his AR against the wall. He slipped his coat off and dropped it beside the rifle.
“Help me with
him, then go and get me some water,” Greg told Beck as he and Winter lifted the big man from the chair and lowered him to the floor. Panicked at the unexpected turn of events, Beck left his Colt carbine propped beside Winter's and stepped into the bathroom, filling a glass.
“I was having trouble sleeping, went to the kitchen. I smelled the coffee burning,” Greg said.
“Heart attack?” Winter asked.
Greg shook his head. He lifted Dixon's eyelid. “I don't think so. He's breathing fine.”
When Greg poured the glass of water over Dixon's face the reaction was immediate.
“What thafuckeryoudoing?” he growled, flailing at them. “Jesus H. Christ,” he groaned, gripping his head.
“What's wrong, Bear?”
“My head!” Dixon moaned in agony.
“Stroke?” Beck asked Greg.
“He's been drugged,” Winter said.
“Bear, did you take anything?” Greg asked.
“Nothing. Had coffee with Martinez and she left and… I was just sitting there. And…”
Winter picked up Dixon's cup of coffee from the console, dipped his finger in just enough so he could get a drop on his tongue. “Maybe there's something in it, but with the sugar and milk, I can't tell.”
Greg removed Bear's pistol from his holster. Dixon tried to sit up, then gave up. Winter pulled his flashlight, turned it on, and locked it against the receiver of his SIG. “Dylan,” Winter said.
The three marshals left Dixon on the floor and rushed into the hallway, their guns poised. Greg kicked open Dylan's door and Winter, seeing the killer sit up in bed, moved swiftly to Sean Devlin's suite with Beck. He opened the door to the sitting room and flipped the light switch on.
Martinez sat slumped on the couch. A cup of cold coffee was on the table beside her. Winter put his hand on the pulse in her neck, then left her for Beck to rouse. Sean's bedroom door was slightly ajar.
Using his foot so he could maintain his aim, Winter pushed the door open. Sean was lying facedown across the bed, wearing only panties. Winter pressed his fingertips to her neck to check for a pulse and got more than he expected. She yelled out, scrambled upright, and pressed her back against the headboard. Realizing that Winter and Greg were staring at her, she jerked a pillow up to cover her breasts. “What!” she screamed.
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