The well-tanned woman seated closest to the rear of the compartment wore a soft cap with a long curved bill, a microfiber jacket, jeans, and cross-trainers. She looked Latin, and the freckles on her cheeks and nose gave her the aura of a tomboy. She wore her shoulder-length auburn hair tucked behind her ears.
Winter figured the Latina was a deputy marshal. For the time being, he tagged her “Freckles.” He glanced at the three suitcases behind the cargo net and matched her with the seriously scuffed, bright-blue hard-shell Samsonite. No doubt she traveled a lot, lived out of that suitcase.
The other woman's two leather suitcases had canvas outer shells to protect their expensive skins. She had money, taste, and a meticulous nature. She wore a wedding band.
“Married Woman's” hair was neatly pinned back. The angular black frames of her sunglasses were too heavy for her features, but the lenses were light enough so that her almond-shaped eyes were visible behind them. She wore slacks, a collared shirt, a glove-leather sports jacket, and matching boots. Nervously, her fingertips tapped the briefcase in her lap. An expensive gold wristwatch peeked out from under her cuff.
In other circumstances she could be an executive, or a curator at a major museum.
The Blackhawk flew a few miles out over the ocean before it banked hard to the north. When the engines changed pitch, Winter stared out between the pilot and copilot, and spotted an island isolated in an expanse of the Atlantic. The helicopter dropped to about three hundred feet over the water as it approached the sliver of land.
A line of pine trees bisected the island like a fence. On its western side there were several corrugated metal buildings with matching tin roofs. The entire installation was perched above a deepwater bay where a sport-fishing boat and a cigarette boat were tied to a floating dock. Twin radio towers loomed over a windowless concrete bunker on the edge of the cliff. Radar dishes were affixed to one of the towers. A basketball court was sandwiched between a barracks and what looked like an equipment shed. Two men, both wearing shorts, stopped their one- on-one and stared up at the approaching chopper. An asphalt switchback was cut into the sheer wall, joining the buildings and the dock below.
On the eastern side of the island, a single-story house with a wraparound porch faced the Atlantic. There was a water tank just south of the house. North of the house, he saw tennis courts and a covered swimming pool.
A hundred feet away, the beach sloped gently to the water line. Two lounge chairs had been arranged to take advantage of the shade cast by a bright-red umbrella. The chopper's descent halted the conversation of two casually dressed men seated on those chairs. Both raised their hands to shield their eyes from the billowing sand. As the helicopter landed, the umbrella lifted off the ground, flipped upside down, and scooted like a sled into the breaking surf.
After the Blackhawk touched down, and while the pilot kept the blades turning, the flight officer slipped back and opened the door. Manners dictated that Winter climb down onto the helipad and help the women. Married carried her briefcase and moved away, bending over as though the blades might dip six feet to hit her. The flight officer handed the bags down one at a time. Freckles took Married's two pieces of expensive luggage. Married held out her hands to take a bag from Freckles, but the cop shook her head, dismissing the offer. Winter took his duffel, slung it over his shoulder, grabbed Freckles's Samsonite case, and carried it to the women, who stood waiting at the walkway. He reached out to take one of the canvas-covered bags from Freckles.
“I can carry them,” she called out.
The larger of the two men on the beach had run after the umbrella. Both men wore semiautomatic pistols in high-rise hip holsters, with enough extra magazines in clip holders to produce sustained annihilating fire. The smaller man also had a “room broom” suspended by a shoulder sling. The stockless version of the Heckler amp; Koch's fully automatic MP5 looked like a pistol on steroids. As the helicopter became airborne, the two men waved at Freckles. “Hey, Martinez, welcome to paradise!” the smaller one yelled, as the Blackhawk lifted away.
“Who you kidding, Beck? Manhattan is paradise!” she yelled back, laughing throatily. She turned back to Winter as the Blackhawk vanished behind the trees.
Married, briefcase in hand, was heading for the house.
Freckles followed. “Thanks for carrying my stuff so I could carry hers. I'm Deputy Marshal Angela Martinez,” she told Winter.
“I'm Deputy Marshal Winter Massey. What's her story?”
“She's the package's wife. I've been with her since yesterday. Winter, hey, that name sounds familiar.”
“Consequences of loaning your name to a season.”
“Come again?”
“Never mind.”
Winter entered the foyer of the house just after Martinez. The sight that greeted him almost bowled him over. Life had given him two friends who were as good as family. One, Hank Trammel, was his boss; the other was standing in the foyer talking to the package's wife.
“You old dog,” Winter said.
“Winter Massey.” Greg Nations was a light-skinned African-American with a middleweight's build, a million- dollar smile, and intense eyes with irises the color of buckskin. “How's that little nephew of mine?” Greg's laugh was a resonating deep boom. He looked at Martinez and winked. “Winter and me were raised by the same she-wolf. We used to tussle for the hind teat.”
“Rush is great. I should have known you were behind this sudden, mysterious journey.”
“And how's your mama?”
“Lydia is Lydia.”
“You're that Massey?” Martinez exclaimed. “Of course! I knew you and Greg”-she caught herself-“Inspector Nations were friends.”
A voice interrupted the gleeful greeting. “Excuse me, might I please see my husband now?”
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Devlin,” Greg said, turning his attention back to the other woman. “This man and I go back a lot of years, and our paths don't often cross these days.” He reached out and took her briefcase. “I'll have to search this.”
Mrs. Devlin removed her glasses and folded them. She lowered her eyes and said in a low voice. “But they've all been searched, X-rayed and sniffed by two different dogs. And that was after I cleared customs. I just came back into the country yesterday. I haven't lost sight of them since.”
“Rule number one,” Greg told her. “Everything coming in is hand-searched. Martinez, assume the position.”
Martinez turned and put her hands up, and Greg ran his hands over her body and pinched the material of her clothes. He searched her thoroughly, making no apology for checking the contours of her breasts and pressing his fingers against her genitals.
Mrs. Devlin bit her bottom lip like a child accused of something she was innocent of.
Greg pointed to a door. “Martinez, take Mrs. Devlin into the bathroom there and search her, please.”
After the women left, Greg searched Winter, giving them a chance to catch up.
“We'll bring your bags to you,” Greg told Mrs. Devlin when she returned.
“I'd appreciate that.”
“Go right down the hallway, Mrs. Devlin. Your husband is behind the second door on the left. Martinez will be staying across the hall from you. If you need anything, just ask. You don't leave the house without an escort. You will be served meals in the dining room or in your room. Snacks, drinks anytime. We can go over the house rules later. Questions?”
Wordlessly, Mrs. Devlin turned. She hesitated at the door Greg had indicated, perhaps to compose herself before she entered the room.
The marshals walked through the arch and into an open living room.
“Who owns this place?” Martinez asked, looking around. The majority of the paintings were nautical in nature, depicting sailing ships firing cannons or caught in fierce storms. The furnishings looked expensive. The house had the feeling of being someone's home.
Greg said, “Welcome to Rook Island. Four hundred yards at its widest, a mite over a quarter mile long. House is eight thousand square feet of hand-built space, engineered to withstand a hurricane. The Navy maintains it as a vacation retreat for admirals, commanders, congressmen, and senators who have some impact on military appropriations. I'd doubt the whole shooting match cost much more than a Tomahawk missile.”
