sky.”
36
Rook Island, North Carolina
Rain splattered noisily against the blue tarpaulin and the water that ran under it came out dyed pink. The SEALs had covered the corpse to protect evidence. Winter and Sean sat in the boat's cockpit, where rain dripped through the ragged fiberglass. One of the divers handed up Winter's SIG Sauer to a young SEAL, who removed the magazine, cleared the breech, then set the pistol and its magazine on a seat cushion.
Sean had been quiet since the SEALs arrived ninety minutes earlier. She sat huddled in a wool blanket, not meeting Winter's eyes. Winter had identified himself and explained that four unknown men, all dressed like SEALs, had killed the six radar-station crew and another US marshal, before he had killed them.
The SEAL commander approached Winter, clipping his radio onto his belt.
“Lieutenant Commander Reed is on his way here. He's shore patrol.”
“Has anybody contacted my people?” Winter asked.
“I'm not sure,” the young man said.
Drained of adrenaline, fatigue had caught up with Winter. He felt bone-weary.
“Poor Angela,” Sean said softly. “How could anybody do something like that?”
Winter didn't know what to say. He felt grief for Martinez-it was so totally senseless for her to die like she had and, worse still, after the package had left.
“What if he'd shot me in the head?” Sean asked suddenly.
“I'd never hand my gun over to a killer. I did the only thing I could.”
“Who was the guy who shot me?” Sean asked.
“No idea.”
“He seemed to know you.”
She had a point. He had no idea how the man he had shot through the boat's roof could have known his name.
Winter felt the boat rock slightly. He turned to see two men in shore patrol coats climb onto the vessel. The older of the pair squatted, lifted the edge of the tarpaulin, and studied the corpse.
The SEAL commander said, “Sir, this is United States Deputy-”
“I know who he is,” the older man interrupted, looking directly at Winter, ignoring Sean Devlin. “Deputy, I'm Lieutenant Commander Fletcher Reed. I'm going to handle this until the NCIS investigators get here.”
Fletcher Reed was in his early forties, built like a gymnast twenty years past his last medal but ready and willing to go out and compete again even if his heart exploded doing it. His head was a perfect rectangle topped with hair that would have made a bristle brush jealous. He had small ears and a neck that flared from his sharp jaw out to his wide shoulders. His eyes were so dark there was no difference between the irises and pupils. If he had ever owned a sense of humor it was not apparent from his grim countenance.
“Do you have any questions before I ask a few?”
“Have you contacted the USMS?”
“That has been done. Now, what the hell is this, Massey?” he demanded.
“A corpse,” Winter said.
“Does the corpse have a name?”
“We weren't formally introduced.”
Reed stared hard at Winter, the two men studying each other across the wet tarpaulin. “In my experience, having a bunch of heavily armed individuals come onto a radar station in peacetime and wipe out six sailors and your partner in such a senseless and brutal manner is hardly a normal event. I'm sure as hell not going to stand here and listen to you making flip remarks.”
The man's words made Winter feel like an ass. Sean sat staring down at her lap.
“I understand the seriousness of this,” Winter said evenly. “They were doing their damnedest to add us to their tally.”
“Can you tell me why this man and three of his pals killed six unarmed sailors and that female deputy over at the house?”
“Angela Martinez,” Sean said abruptly. “Her name was Angela Martinez.”
Reed kept his eyes locked on Winter.
“No, sir,” Winter said.
“You mean to tell me you don't know?”
“I can't tell you what their motive was.”
Reed laughed disdainfully in total disbelief.
“This is an official United States Justice Department operation. Only the attorney general of the United States can release me to give you that information.”
“What about Ms. Devlin?” Reed countered.
Winter gritted his teeth. They had obviously searched the house and found Sean's identification.
“Classified.”
“And what exactly can you share with me, Marshal?”
“I'll be happy to tell you what happened after they killed Deputy Martinez.”
Fletcher Reed seemed to be chewing that over. Reaching a decision, he nodded. “Barnett, take notes.”
As Winter went through the story detail by detail, the young ensign scribbled notes. Although Winter had just been trying to keep Sean alive, he had wanted nothing worse than to escape the killers. Killing the men in black had been necessary. He didn't tell Reed this. Instead, he told him how he had hidden Sean in the storage cabinet, climbed up onto the girders in the radio shack from the ruined console, dropped down and broken the assailant's neck, then taken his clothes. He didn't mention the fact that the man under the tarp had called him by name. Neither of those facts was relevant to Reed's investigation.
Reed turned to his assistant. “You get all that?”
“Yes, sir.” The SP closed the notebook and slipped it into his breast pocket.
“Best get you two back over to the house,” Reed said, smiling for the first time. “Sounds to me like you've earned yourself a rest, Massey.”
Winter knew that Reed's smile, which looked genuine, was designed to make Winter confident that Reed was giving up on pumping him further, which was crap. The officer was going to keep right on trying to slip around the classified wall Winter was standing behind. For Reed, and men like him, the ability to classify information was the sole providence of the armed forces.
Winter figured the contest between them, as long as it was allowed to continue, would be an entertaining one. And anything that took his mind off the gruesome event was welcome.
“One more thing,” Reed said, like it was an afterthought. “I'd like for you to take a good look at your attackers without their masks. In case you do know who they are.”
“I'd be happy to,” Winter replied.
“You, too,” Reed added, nodding at Sean.
The two killers' corpses, along with the radio operator's, were laid out under the awning of the radio shack, covered by opaque plastic sheets. Sean stood beside Reed, across the three bodies from Winter, shivering under the blanket.
When Reed motioned, the sheet was pulled off the first one. Sean looked away. The body belonged to the man whose neck Winter had broken in the radio shack. He was naked-how Winter had left him-and his hands were at his sides. His head was cocked so that it appeared he was looking at something high over his left shoulder. “No,” Winter said.
“Have you ever seen this man before, Ms. Devlin? Could you look at his face?”
Sean glanced down momentarily and shook her head.
The technician replaced the sheet, moved to the second corpse, and lifted the covering away.
Sean shut her eyes, took a deep breath, and shook her head. “No.”
