Arlington, Virginia 22202
He pushed it in, hearing it land on earlier deposits.
Fletcher breathed in the cool evening air, like a man without a care in the world. He looked up into the night sky to take in the stars. He was relieved he had spoken to Massey-that Massey now knew what he knew. There was safety in numbers, but two wasn't much of a number unless one was the publisher of The Washington Post. He took out a cigar and lit it, giving the smoke to the breeze. He didn't know how rapidly the cutouts could respond, but he had assumed he had a comfortable lead. He had decided he would accept the danger if this was brought to the attention of people who could do something to right it. Six sailors' deaths had to be avenged. If Massey was the man Reed thought he was, they might have a shot at dispensing justice.
Before he had left the shore patrol office, Fletcher made a stop on the other side of the building to help ensure he succeeded in his mission. He had climbed into his Taurus and drove, constantly checking traffic in his rearview. Shadows without form might just be paranoia. There was the old saying that just because you were paranoid didn't mean there weren't people after you. He had made several quick turns, then pulled up at the line of blue drop boxes across the street from the base's post office and took up a position in front of one of them. If he was lucky, he could hide out for a day or so, and he'd be safe.
Fletcher got back into his Taurus and drove off. At the light a block away, he looked in the mirror and saw a Jeep Cherokee pull over to the line of mailboxes. A man climbed out and walked briskly around behind them. So they were on to him.
Eyes on the man unlocking the box, Reed hadn't seen the second car coming, but now he felt it. He turned his head slowly and stared into the cold eyes of the man in the passenger seat of a silver Cadillac Catera, four feet distant. His heart raced when he saw the cutout's gun rise over the base of the open window like a periscope. Fletcher didn't hear the weapon go off, but he felt a sting in his neck like a mother's corrective pinch. He jammed the accelerator pedal down. The drug's effects were immediate-his face felt numb, his muscles started to lose touch with his brain and his eyes began to rapidly lose their focus. The Cadillac was behind him, following. The speedometer's needle climbed toward ninety.
Through the closing fog, Fletcher fought to keep remembering that he was running because they would torture the additional information out of him. It would mean failure, and he and Massey were dead men as soon as they had all of the evidence in their hands.
As darkness closed in on him, he managed to jerk the wheel, and felt the car take flight.
68
Richmond, Virginia
Sean couldn't remember ever having slept in her clothes as an adult, but she was wearing them when she stretched out on the bed in her room at the Hotel Grand. Her backpack was propped against the wall, waiting for her to grab it and slip down the fire escape to the alley. She had wedged a chair under the doorknob. It wouldn't hold up long under a determined assault, but it should give her time to get the gun in her hand.
Her father had done her a service by teaching her how to shoot guns. This Smith amp; Wesson fit in her hand like it had been designed for her grip. The hammer's click sounded like a promise that would be kept. It seemed to be charged with energy; anxious to roll its cylinder and strut its stuff.
She wasn't well versed enough in handguns to know if the standard. 38 rounds in the chambers would penetrate the heavy wood of the hotel room door, but she was certain it would pass through clothing, skin, muscles, and vital organs. The thought of firing the weapon at someone made her shiver. On Rook Island, she had witnessed firsthand the extreme damage a bullet could do to tissue and bone. History was filled with examples of how a single bullet had the power to change the world.
Winter had killed only to preserve life. Dylan had killed for greed. On the other hand, Sam Manelli's killing was merely maintenance required to keep his world functioning as he designed it. The rules, which he strictly adhered to, were like oil, critical to keeping his machine performing smoothly.
Running away was a temporary solution because as long as Sam wanted her, flight just prolonged the inevitable. The four men coming onto the island and chasing her down were testimony to how badly he wanted her dead, what extremes he would go to in order to achieve that end.
Sean hated feeling trapped and helpless waiting to see what someone else was going to do. She didn't like the idea of waiting to see if the killers could find a stationary target. She wondered if she was better off as a target in motion, constantly changing her skin to confuse her pursuers. The urge to run appealed to her on a gut level because it was action that she could control. Reason told her that the safest move was no move, allowing her trail to go cold. When she did move, Sean wanted to have a long-range plan worked out.
She lay in the dark, like a rabbit in tall grass, listening for the elevator, a step on the fire escape. She tilted her head and studied the light strip at the base of the door, knowing that any breaking shadows could be a fox's feet.
69
Concord, North Carolina
As Winter lay in the dark, sleepless, his mind swarmed with troubling questions he had few answers for. He wanted to do something, but he was helpless unless Reed's discovery would help Shapiro make a difference. He wanted to be able to put this horror behind him, not become obsessed with things he had no way of resolving.
The doorbell rang, jolting Winter out of his thoughts. Twelve past ten. He slipped from his bed, put on jeans, lifted the Walther, and went to the front door, passing a worried Lydia standing in the hallway.
“I'll see who it is,” he said.
He turned on the porch light and saw the top of a man's head through the half circle of glass in the door. He held the pistol behind his back as he opened the door.
The man standing there had a crew cut. A dark jacket over a knit shirt and chinos gave him a casual air.
“Sorry to disturb you, Deputy Massey.” The badge case in his hand identified him as an FBI agent.
“What can I do for you?”
“If you'll accompany me,” the man said. “Agent Archer would like to have a word with you. If you'll come with us to the airport, you should be back in a couple of hours.”
“What's this about?”
The agent smiled. “It's about new information on a case.”
Winter relaxed. He welcomed a chance to talk to Archer, hopeful that the agent had new information on the investigation. “Come in. I'll get dressed.”
The agent came inside and stood with his hands clasped behind him at parade rest. “We should hurry.”
“Give me one minute.”
Winter passed by Lydia, who was peering up the hall at the stranger standing inside the doorway.
“I'll be back in a couple of hours, Mama. Official business.”
Winter put on a cotton shirt, his running shoes, and a zip-up leather jacket. He pocketed his wallet and badge case and slid the Walther into his jacket's right pocket, cell phone in the other. He kissed his mother on his way out.
A Chrysler waited at the curb, its driver a silhouette. The agent got into the rear, so Winter climbed into the passenger's seat.
“I know this is a bit unusual,” the agent behind him said.
“Nothing is usual these days,” Winter replied.
“Ain't that the truth,” the driver said, nodding solemnly.
Winter felt the cold muzzle of a gun against the left side of his neck and the hand that came around the seat reached into his pocket for the Walther.
“Who are you?” Winter asked. He thought about Reed's concern about someone listening in on their
