“I did it, Winter,” he said, oblivious to the tension crackling in the air.
“Did what?”
“I asked Martinez out… on a date.”
“And she said?” he prompted teasingly.
“‘What doesn't kill me makes me stronger.'”
“That's great,” Winter told him, slapping him on the back.
Forsythe came out carrying his aluminum sniper-rifle case, the Colt 9-mm automatic carbine over his shoulder.
“Take care, Forsythe,” Winter said.
“You too, Massey,” he said abruptly. They hadn't exactly become the best of friends.
Two minutes later the helicopter lifted off and was swallowed up by a hungry gray sky. Winter's assignment was all but over. He smiled at the thought of his son waiting for his return, just a couple hundred miles in the direction Devlin and Greg's detail were already traveling. As he stood there, Sean came outside and joined him.
“Can I do this?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Walk unescorted on the beach.”
“Sure, but…”
“But what?”
“You'll get wet.”
She laughed. “I don't want to, Deputy. Just wondering if I could.”
“From here on out, Mrs. Devlin, you can do whatever suits you. Within reason.”
“I feel like dancing and breaking into song.”
It was nice to see his package smiling again.
31
Avery Whitehead preferred to move through life with men in suits encircling him the way sharks ring their prey, whenever possible. He felt vulnerable alone. The federal prosecutor stood out of the rain in an open maintenance hangar, watching the window-rattling takeoffs and landings on the runway a hundred yards away.
Whitehead stared out at a line of faintly illuminated A-10 Warthogs and the Falcon 900B he had arrived aboard. Coming down from D.C. he'd removed his jacket and flown in his shirtsleeves so his coat wouldn't be wrinkled when he saw Devlin. His gray Zegna suit was impeccably tailored, his tie a loud red splash against a crisp white wedge of shirt.
He had come alone because there wasn't room in the jet for his assistant, the marshals, a witness, his wife, and their luggage and other equipment. His short meeting with Devlin on Tuesday had left him rattled and worried that the killer might be self-destructing and about to destroy the government's case. Just before Avery boarded the airplane at Andrews, Attorney General Katlin had called to tell him that things at the safe house had seriously deteriorated. Avery caught the implicit threat in his boss's tone: Fix it or else.
It was imperative that Whitehead gain control of his witness before Devlin lost him his case and killed his stellar career.
Whitehead was wondering how long it would take the two-man flight crew to empty their bladders, when he saw the pair sprinting through the rain toward the Falcon Jet. He had told them that he wanted to take off as soon as the deputies showed up, so they needed to preflight the thing before.
They waved at him and he returned the gesture out of habit. “Yeah, you bastards get my plane ready. Christ, if all I had to do was fly around for a living like a taxi driver…”
He checked his watch, a plain gold Patek Philippe with an alligator band. The helicopter was due any second.
He heard the Blackhawk before he saw it. It materialized from the sky as though it was being lowered by cables, and came to rest near the jet. Whitehead buttoned up his Burberry trench coat, snapped open his umbrella, and strode out into the rain as soon as the blades had slowed enough. He was between the Blackhawk and the passenger jet when the marshals stepped down out of the chopper. The black inspector came first, immediately followed by the others, who formed a protective circle for Devlin to step down into. Whitehead was relieved to see that Dylan wasn't wearing leg irons. He relaxed slightly. “Where is Mrs. Devlin?” he asked in a voice low enough so that only the inspector would hear it.
“Due to an incident between the Devlins, I left Mrs. Devlin behind in the company of two deputies. They will be leaving tomorrow.”
“The A.G. told me there was some sort of problem at the safe house.”
“This morning, Mr. Devlin drugged two deputies, decapitated a cat, punched his wife, assaulted two of my men, and put a gun to one of my people's head. He spent the day in handcuffs.”
Avery's knees felt rubbery. “God damn it! In all of my years-Nations, I have never seen such an out-of-control sideshow as your safe house. You are the most incompetent marshal I have ever come across. As soon as I get to Katlin, I'm making sure Devlin gets a new crew. As far as I can tell, you have not yet been in control of the security situation.”
“Your star witness is a complete psycho,” Greg said evenly.
“I need a quick word with Mr. Devlin,” Avery told him, loudly enough for Devlin to hear. “Alone.”
Inspector Nations shook his head. “I have to get him out of the open, into the craft.”
“There's no danger here, damn it! We're in the middle of a fucking air base-”
“Sorry, sir,” the inspector insisted, looking at his watch. “We have a schedule to hold to. We're on a communications blackout and due at Andrews in-”
“Sorry, suh,” Dylan Devlin mocked, speaking for the first time since they had arrived. “We is, uhhh, all blacked out.”
Whitehead shot Devlin a warning glare over Nations' shoulder. Dylan held up his hands to show the cuffs.
“Dylan and me inside the plane, you and your crew outside. Give me two minutes with him. The pilot can make up that loss.”
Reluctantly, Nations agreed. Whitehead knew that what happened while Devlin was under WITSEC's protection was all up to the inspector in charge. Whitehead was hoping that this Inspector Nations felt like he owed Avery something after the trouble at the safe house. Avery intended to see that Nations took a career hit for it. Examples had to be made.
“Beck,” Nations called. “Check the plane.”
After the deputy marshal searched the jet, Devlin and Whitehead entered. Whitehead positioned him out of the crew's hearing range.
“What the hell happened on the island?” Whitehead demanded of Devlin. As he spoke, despite his best efforts, his voice rose with each accusation. “Dead cat… drugging officers, punching your wife, and, for Christ's sake, pulling a gun on a deputy marshal?”
“A small misunderstanding. Two deputies took drugs and wanted a scapegoat. I think the cook's cat must have climbed into a drawer and my wife accidentally slammed it shut. The rest is-”
“I'm talking about you pulling a gun on a United States deputy marshal! Where the hell did you get a gun?” Avery hissed, cutting him off.
“He gave it to me. Easy, I was getting to that. The man is a loose cannon. Power-drunk and, Avery, he's been diddling my wife.”
“Your deal will be history if you don't make sure this goes off without a hitch. Blow this and you'll wish you were in a cell with Sam Manelli and a blowtorch. When we get to D.C., we are going to have a come-to-Jesus meeting. The next time you make the slightest wave you are going to find yourself up shit creek. We don't get Manelli, we still have you. Is that perfectly clear?”
