Dressed up, her hair in a high ponytail and secured with a red ribbon, Devlin had been whisked away to Maine in a Gulfstream V jet. From there, a luxury car had taken her to a remote part of the state, all on the U.S. Government’s dime.
As the Lincoln Town Car wound its way through a small forest, the three-story, ten-bedroom, colonial revival, red brick mansion came into view. Centered on a ten-acre estate on the southeastern edge of the largest island off the coast of Maine, and the second-largest island along the Eastern seaboard, the heavily wooded estate bordered Hunter’s Beach Cove—which led to the Atlantic Ocean—to the east, and Cooksey Drive to the west. The northern and southern borders of the property were Hunter’s Beach and Cooksey Drive Overlook, respectively.
The Town Car stopped. The right-rear door opened a second later.
Jessica Devlin stepped out of the vehicle and stood at the base of wide concrete steps that led to the mansion’s solid oak front door. She looked up and admired the ornately decorated, rounded portico and the four Roman columns supporting the portico. Two wide banks of double-hung windows, sporting dark-colored shutters, flanked the front door. Directly above the door was a wide, single-paned window book ended by another set of windows. Centered along the forward-slanting roof, three dormers jutted out above the single-paned window. Finally, two fireplace chimneys rose to the sky on the mansion’s left and right side.
“Please follow me, ma’am.”
Wearing a black knee-length overcoat, Devlin ascended the steps behind a black-suited, burly man with a buzz cut. A second, well-dressed man opened the home’s heavy wooden barrier. Burly led her to a dimly lit room with a low fire in a fireplace. She glanced around the space.
Dark-colored, wide oak boards covered the nine-foot-high walls. Tall plants stood guard in the room’s four corners. Two straight-back chairs—a side table between them—rested in front of a heavy rug. A white marble mantle was anchored to the wall above the large stone fireplace. With an impressive rack, a massive elk head was mounted above the mantle. The room’s flickering light danced in the dead animal’s black eyes.
“May I take your coat, ma’am?”
She shed the outer garment, “Thank you,” revealing a red long-sleeved sweater dress that stopped where her three-inch, high-heeled black boots began, at her knees. She looked stunning in the combination of alternating colors—red ribbon holding raven black hair; red dress; black boots.
Burly folded her clothing over a forearm, clasped hands in front of his body, and stood at the base of a winding staircase.
Devlin bent over and warmed her hands by the fire before standing tall and gazing at the elk. Tipping her head to one side, she reached out and touched the tiny hairs on the creature’s chin.
“Deputy Marshal Devlin.”
Retracting her hand as if the mouth had snapped at her, she whirled around and spied the mid-fifties man she was expecting to meet. “Mr. President.”
Dressed casually—black pants, brown loafers and a white long-sleeved polo shirt—James Conklin, exhibiting a full head of gray hair, slid his hand along the rail while he descended the staircase and joined his guest. “I’m glad you could come.”
Devlin shook the hand he offered. “My pleasure, sir.”
Slipping hands into pants pockets, the leader of the free world arched his back and eyed the elk. “I shot that just after I won the election.”
She faced the animal.
“It was a hard-fought campaign.” He jabbed his chin at the prize. “Bagging that beauty was symbolic for me...victory and all.”
“It’s definitely beautiful, sir.”
The President turned toward his guest. “Do you hunt?”
She pivoted his way. “My father used to take my sister and me to Northern Michigan once a year...when we were in our teens. We had family up there that owned property.” Her attention drifting back to the elk, she half laughed. “Actually, it was just a tract of woodlands with a small, rustic cabin, but,” she came back to him, beaming, “that stretch of real estate had a whole bunch of white-tailed deer.”
Conklin smiled.
“I shot one there every season for seven straight years.”
“What gun did you use?”
“Mostly my dad’s Marlin 336...in 35 Remington.”
“I’ve shot the 35 Rem...” Conklin studied the floor before meeting her gaze, “an underrated cartridge, but it’s still a good brush round.”
“Under the right circumstances,” she added.
“That’s true.”
Devlin eyed the fire. “Those times...at the cabin...were some of the best times of my life. After the first year, I didn’t even care if I got a buck. Just spending time with family,” she lifted a corner of her mouth at the man, “that was what I loved the most. There’s nothing more important than family.”
He half grinned. “I couldn’t agree with you more, Jessica. May I call you Jessica?”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
“Thank you. Even though,” he gestured toward one of the chairs and sat in the one to her left, “it’s been fun swapping hunting stories...that’s not the reason I wanted to meet with you.”
Devlin slid hands under her butt and thighs—straightening her dress—before sitting and crossing her legs.
“The Federal Government’s greatest responsibility is to protect its people. Without security, our freedom, our way of life, our very existence is threatened. And right now, as I’m sure you’re aware,” the President crossed his legs, “there are factions abroad that are planning the destruction of this great nation.”
Devlin laid folded hands on her top knee.
“Over the last year, I’ve finally been able to make good on my campaign promises. We’ve taken down numerous terrorists around the world.” Planting an elbow on the chair’s armrest, Conklin wagged his finger at her. “But the fight is far from over. Even though we’ve made strides in other parts of the globe, here at home there’s been an uptick in violent crime and terror-related activities.” He extended an upturned palm toward her. “Deputy Director Crane is a prime example
