Inside Out (15 page)

32

The radio shack on Rook Island was Signalman Lane Nash's duty station for another three hours and twelve minutes. It was a concrete bunker with a steeply pitched roof covered in sheets of terra-cotta-colored aluminum. The wires and cables ran up the wall like bright vines, secured to the girders and then routed out to the tower through a weatherproof nipple. The copper and fiber-optic material connected the console's monitoring instruments to the sensory devices. Those sensors, located on the tower above the shack, gathered information about things in the atmosphere or on the water and conversed with the satellites that circled the planet in swarms.

There were no windows in the bunker. The console table was ten feet long and had metal cabinet doors at both sides of the operator's seat. There were storage cabinets for parts and equipment, two swivel chairs, and a bathroom that held only a toilet and sink. A single door that opened out from the room was protected from the weather by an awning.

Lane concentrated on the radar screen. The young radio operator had set his paperback aside on the console and was using his shoulder to hold the red receiver against his ear as he spoke to the air-traffic controller at Cherry Point.

“I got the first return just after that King Air passed four miles to the east of here.”

“He was having radio problems and was warned off to the east,”
the controller said.
“He stayed clear of your position by a half mile.”

“I got returns after it passed.”

“Returns looked like what? I didn't show anything on our end.”

“Soft returns. One sweep showed a spot at four miles, altitude unknown, four sweeps later there was one a half mile from me, then a few later almost onshore.”

“Birds come to shore, right? Go out and shoot a goose.”
The controller laughed.
“Nothing substantial fell off that King Air. I have it sixty-nine miles south of your position at twenty-five thousand feet, two hundred and thirty-nine knots true.”

“Probably. Just birds,” Lane agreed. He took one last look at the screen and signed off with his controller. He ran his hand through the stubble on his head and picked up his book.

The operator was at a particularly good part when the lights over his console flickered, then went out. It had been storming, but the electricity was almost never interrupted, because it was fed by underground cable to the island. The backup generator was supposed to cut in if the main failed, so the operator waited. It didn't come on.

“God damn it,” he muttered.

He flipped on his flashlight, walked to the switch, and flipped it up and down. He went to the breaker panel. Nothing. Planning to check the generators, he opened the door.

A gloved hand seized his wrist, and a man dressed completely in black, his features hidden behind a black nylon mask, pushed a remarkably large knife under the place where Lane's ribs met, three inches above his belt buckle. Lane looked down and saw the knife go in, but it didn't hurt. The sensation was like the first twinge of a bout of indigestion. He wanted to push the man away, but he couldn't. He felt so weak, so sleepy.

His vision started closing down like a camera aperture being twisted, the image darkening from the outside in. He just wanted to lie down and close his eyes.

33

Winter flipped his final card, an ace of spades, facedown onto the stack of discards. “Gin.”

“You dog!” Martinez complained. “I'm not even going to count up my hand. What's another few hundred points among friends.” She turned to Sean, who had started playing with them then decided to read. Despite the relaxed atmosphere, Winter and Martinez kept her constantly in sight, their weapons close.

“Anybody besides me want coffee?” Sean asked.

As soon as Sean was out of the room, Martinez said, “God, I wish she would settle somewhere.”

“You want to arm wrestle?” Winter asked her, joking.

“Fine by me. I'd have a chance at
that.”

“Almost certainly.”

“Sean's the first package I've truly liked since I started this four years ago. I might ask for a transfer—leave this baby-sitting for some fugitive recovery, like you. Maybe I'll come work in that office of yours,” Martinez said.

“For every fugitive I chase, I serve twenty warrants, escort a hundred prisoners, and fill out fifty reports. Devlin wasn't far off when he called me a security guard.”

“A security guard?” Martinez said, laughing.

They joined Sean in the kitchen. She poured a cup of coffee, took a sip, then dumped the contents into the sink. “It's stale.” She sighed loudly. “This weather. God, I'm glad I'm not flying in this soup. I hate flying when I can't see the ground.”

“As long as they skirt thunderstorms, they'll be all right,” Winter said.

“You know a lot about flying weather?” she asked Winter.

“Winter's wife was a pilot,” Martinez interceded. “An instructor.”

“What does she do now?” Sean asked.

Martinez said nothing.

“She was killed three years ago in a midair collision,” Winter told her.

Sean looked genuinely upset. “But when I asked the other night if your wife minded you being away you said something like, ‘We all hate being away from people we love.'”

“Sorry, it was purposefully misleading. It's not something I like to talk about.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I was prying. I assumed since you wear a wedding ring . . .”

“Just never got around to taking it off.”

Sean blushed and stepped out on the porch, letting the screen door bang behind her.

“I'm sorry if I spoke out of turn,” Martinez said.

“Three years is a long time to still wear the ring,” Winter admitted.

“So, what do you think of Beck?” Martinez asked, keen to change the subject. “Besides the fact that he needs a haircut.”

“That comes from being a bachelor with nobody to make sure you get it clipped regularly.”

Sean came back inside more composed. “The rain smells so wonderful mixed with the salt air.”

“I like the quiet,” Martinez told her. “You grow up in a three-bedroom apartment with six brothers, one grandmother, and two parents, and see if you mind the quiet. Me, I can't ever get enough of it. You think we should hold to keeping watch like before?”

“Fine with me,” Winter replied.

“We do two hours on and two off while Sean is sleeping.”

“Why?” Sean wondered.

“It's what we have to do until someone in authority says, ‘Angela and Winter, don't do it anymore,'” Martinez replied, laughing.

Sean laughed, too.

“You have any brothers or sisters, Sean?” Martinez asked.

“Only child. My mother passed away almost two years ago.”

“Father?”

“My parents were separated before I was born.”

“You didn't know him?”

“I spent Christmas and summers with him growing up, but I can't say I really know him.” She seemed to close up again at this line of questioning, her surface calm interrupted.

“What's he like?” Martinez continued, oblivious to the effect her questions were having.

“He's hard to describe. He's a workaholic, not in the least artistic. My mother was a painter and not in the least ambitious. He and my mother were such total opposites, I don't know how they ever got together long enough to make a baby. He was like an uncle who didn't know how to relate to a young girl. He was always caring but never flexible. He's judgmental as hell and has no sense of humor to speak of. I suspect he'd rather have had a son, but he never said so. For instance, he taught me to shoot because he liked to hunt, not because I wanted to do it. He wanted me to be tough, but I always got the feeling that he thought women were lesser beings, somehow.” Sean stopped suddenly, surprised at how she had opened up so quickly.

“He remarried?”

“He's had girlfriends, but no, he never remarried.”

“Do you still see him?”

“I haven't spent any time with him since college,” Sean said matter-of-factly. “I called him when my mother died and he sent flowers. I know he loved her, but I had this feeling that if I had called a wrong number, anyone who answered could have offered me the same amount of comfort as he did. And we last spoke just before I got married. He sent me a big set of sterling silver cutlery without a note. He sends the same Christmas card every year. I'm waiting to see if after twelve years he will buy another box, or just stop doing it altogether.”

“Your parents still alive?” Martinez asked, turning to Winter.

“My mother is still alive. She moved in with us after Eleanor died. My father died when I was seventeen.”

“Lydia,” Sean said. “Greg mentioned her the day we arrived.”

Winter nodded.

“My parents are still around. My father has a temper you wouldn't believe,” Martinez said. “But we're close. He treated me exactly like he treated my brothers, until boys came to pick me up. He was like an inquisitor then, and few ever showed for a follow-up. My father was a detective, and he thought every kid who was interested in me was a delinquent. Maybe they were.”

“Where'd you go to college?” Winter asked Sean, hoping to change the subject. Not only did this conversation seem to make her melancholy, he himself didn't want to discuss fathers.

“Loyola, in Chicago. Took drama, some art courses.” She smiled at him. “Even took some literature courses. Ended up getting a master's in business because I wasn't the artist my mother was. I've been thinking I might open an art gallery because I love being around paintings.” Winter had never seen her so talkative.

“What do you think of Beck?” Martinez asked her. “Besides the hair.”

“Same thing I told you the last seven times you asked me.” She and Martinez both laughed. “I like him.
Except
for the hair.”

Martinez laughed. “Before there's even a dinner date, the boy's hair definitely gets a professional shaping,” she said.

“Seriously, Angela, he's a nice guy and nice guys are hard to come by. Take my word for it,” Sean said.

“It's winding down toward dinnertime,” Winter said.

“I can whip up something,” Martinez said. “Something with peppers, pasta, and ground beef.”

“Tell you guys what,” Winter said, recalling Greg's warning. “Why don't you both go sit on the porch and I'll make us some dinner? Roast beef sandwiches sound good?”

“But I love to cook!” Martinez protested.

“Let's all make the food and then sit out there together,” Sean suggested.

Winter collected the sliced roast, mayonnaise, pickles, and mustard from the refrigerator for the sandwiches. Martinez poured iced tea into three glasses and got out the plates. Sean sliced the bread from one of the loaves Jet had baked and left in the warmer. Once the sandwiches were ready, they walked to the round section of the porch at the north corner, which had a peaked roof over it. For lack of a better term, they referred to it as the gazebo. As they were starting to sit down, the lights went out; only the house windows were illuminated, from the battery-powered emergency lights inside the hallways.

“Great,” Martinez said.

“The sailors will get the power back on,” Winter said. “I expect there's a backup system.”

“I could go get a lantern,” Martinez volunteered.

They ate in the dark, their conversation accompanied by the sound of rain and the surf.

“I'm going to get a jacket. It's cool out here,” Sean said, when they'd finished.

“We can go inside,” Winter offered.

“No, I like it out here.”

Martinez stood. “I need to powder my nose anyway. I'll take the plates back inside and get you a jacket.”

Martinez went back through the kitchen, closing the door behind her. Winter and Sean sat in silence listening to the rain.

Winter looked up when he heard the front door open. Over Sean's shoulder he saw Martinez step out onto the porch holding a windbreaker. She took a step in their direction, stumbled like she'd broken a heel, then fell against the wall, dropping the coat. Winter was wondering what she'd stepped on, when she straightened and the wall where she had leaned was stained dark—blood.

“Shhhhhhh,” he hissed. He drew his SIG, squatted beside the table, and tugged Sean from her chair to the floor. This time she didn't resist.

Sean's back was to the front door so she hadn't seen Martinez stumble, or the blood. Only when she knelt beside Winter did she see that Martinez was leaning against the wall, her right hand gripping her gun, unable to get it out of the holster. A pair of red aim dots, like annoying flies, buzzed Martinez's face and her head snapped violently back, horribly staining the clapboards behind her. A fury welled up within Winter, but no target immediately presented itself.

Beside him, Sean made a small involuntary squeak as she inhaled sharply.

Winter's mind closed out the anger as it shifted into survival mode. Martinez didn't exist now. Instead, what lay before his eyes, on its side now was a used target that belonged to someone who intended to make him one, too. He existed and unless he kept it that way, Sean would cease to exist with him. There were at least two assassins armed with laser aiming devices attached to silenced weapons.

A shadowy figure carrying a machine gun sprang up onto the porch, Winter raised the SIG and let his instincts aim for him. Winter fired three .40-caliber rounds. The reports were deafening. The man's head jerked back and he was dead.

Grabbing Sean's hand, Winter led her along the side of the house at a run, passing the kitchen door. “Stay with me,” he ordered. “You'll die here unless you do
exactly
what I say.”

“I know that!”
she snapped back.

Bullets slammed into the wall like fists as the pair ran down the porch in the darkness, but they were moving too fast for another assailant to get a clear shot.

They vaulted over the railing and hit the sand, stumbled, regained their footing, and sprinted for the tree line. The rain was unexpectedly cold. Their clothes were soaked in moments. For a split second, Winter thought about the alarm and the weapons he was leaving behind, knowing that doubling back was not an option.

“How many?” Sean asked.

“Three I know of.”

“Who are they?” She stumbled but remained on her feet. “Just tell them Dylan is gone.”

“We make the radar station, we should be okay.” Winter was thinking about the weapons, radios, a boat, and six shooters to lay down covering fire that were just beyond the tree line.

“Think the sailors heard you shooting?” she asked, her breathing labored from fear and exertion.

“No.” Winter knew that the sailors couldn't possibly hear the reports.

They ran the trail full out, breaking out on the other side of the trees. The buildings were dark—no exterior lights, not so much as a glow in any window.

Thinking he should load in a fresh magazine, Winter reached back and felt his now-empty magazine holder. The two magazines had probably fallen out when he'd jumped off the porch and landed soundlessly into the sand. All he had was the eight remaining .40-caliber rounds. Without help from the sailors, and more firepower, they were screwed. The handgun was no match for MP5s in capable hands, but he didn't plan to face them toe to toe. He had to pray for the ability to surprise the remaining men, whom he knew he couldn't evade for long.

Winter opened the door to the barracks and they went inside.

“Maybe we should just get on a boat,” Sean suggested. “I saw boats from the helicopter, right?”

“I need a gun,” Winter told her. “We'd be sitting ducks out in the open.”

“Damn it, Massey, you have a gun!”

“A bigger gun with more than eight bullets. They might have someone covering the boat, or they may have already disabled it. There might be three of them or ten. Greg said there is an ordnance room here. That means M16s. First I need light to find it.” A small amber light illuminated the hand lantern holder. Winter pressed the rubber nipple and it came on, casting a brilliant stain against the wall.

They passed by doors to the sleeping quarters. An
OFF-LIMITS
sign hung on the bathroom door. Winter heard water running and edged the door open. “Anybody in here?” he called. There was no answer. He stepped inside while Sean held the door open. He played the flashlight over a woman's naked body, prone on the tiles. The water streaming away from her was clear—all the blood that was going to leak out of the two wounds he could see had long since gone down the drain.