John Miller - Inside Out

Sean wondered if Greg would really use the thing on Dylan, wondered if it would hurt him. She dearly hoped it would, with a newfound vengeance that would have shocked her the previous day.

“Touch me and Whitehead'll have your ass.”

“I don't take orders from Whitehead,” Greg told him. “I go by our protocols concerning whatever means are necessary to keep you safe, which are also designed to keep you from harming others. Our choices range from a takedown, like this Taser I am about to use on you, to cutting you in half with a shotgun.”

“I am not just another witness,” Dylan said, his eyes still locked on Sean's.

“No, you're a multiple murderer. The bottom line is that you will do what I say, when I say to do it, or I will fry you. End of discussion.”

“Mr. Devlin,” Martinez interposed. “Nobody can win here. We won't allow you to force Mrs. Devlin to do anything against her will. Inspector Nations won't back off and he isn't bluffing. Your call.”

Dylan finally turned his head to look at the marshals on the porch and at Beck, Bear, and Forsythe, who had appeared out on the sand behind them, armed. Dylan shook his head slowly, lifted his hands, and stepped back.

“You're a bright girl, Mar-tee-nez,” Devlin said. “Calmer heads should always prevail. I'll just say good afternoon.”

Sean stared at her husband's back as he walked inside. A burst of wind hit and brought with it the scent of rain.

“He won't bother you again,” Greg told her.

“If he comes near me again I will be forced to hold the USMS responsible,” she carped more out of pride at having been shown up as a victim in front of men. She knew this wasn't the fault of the deputy marshals on the detail. Keeping her in the dark was someone else's doing. “I want to leave now-tonight,” she said, meaning it, unable to back down now.

“I'll advise Control of the situation immediately. We're all leaving the island tomorrow. I have no idea where we'll be staying after we go. Under the circumstances, we'll make arrangements for separate quarters.”

“I will not spend another day near my husband. I absolutely refuse to travel anywhere with him.”

“Let me work on that,” Greg said evenly, trying to calm her down. “He won't bother you again. You just stay in your room as much as possible. Martinez will remain with you from now on. I wish I could do better.”

“So do I,” Sean replied curtly. “I won't stay locked up in my room like a criminal because of him. He is the one who should be locked up.”

Greg handed Martinez the Taser-a stun gun-and went inside. “Don't hesitate to use this. We have more.”

Wednesday night

What had happened with Dylan on the porch had nearly been a disaster. It was obvious that the dynamics of the safe house were rapidly deteriorating. Greg had to make some changes to stay on top of Dylan, who was obviously desperate to trigger a confrontation. Perhaps he was just playing games to entertain himself, but the consequences of a game designed by a psychopathic mind could be both unpredictable and deadly.

Winter had been scheduled for a shift in the security room, but he wanted to be outside. Just before the shift started, Bear agreed to swap places with him. As Winter and Beck were about to leave the house, Greg appeared and took Winter aside. He waited for Beck to close the door before he spoke.

“We're taking Dylan out tomorrow evening because a night move is safer. I've got permission to leave Beck and Martinez behind with Ms. Devlin. They'll escort her out on Saturday and you'll be home for Sunday.”

Winter spent from midnight until three walking the perimeter of the house. He liked the solitude, the soft roar of the surf, the pelting of the rain on his hood. He found himself unable to stop thinking about Sean Devlin. He admired her intelligence and tenacity but was perplexed at how a woman like her could have married a man like Dylan. Even so, there was something very special about Sean: hidden depths that had gradually begun to reveal themselves. Despite her strength-the fact that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself-he found himself wanting to shelter and protect her. Something in her he couldn't define had gotten to him. He hardly knew anything at all about her and he knew he shouldn't waste his time thinking about her. In less than eighteen hours he would be gone and would never see her again. But still…

Beck waved Winter up onto the porch.

“This is miserable,” Beck grumbled. “Who in their fucking right mind would come out here in this shit to pop that bastard?”

“Maybe killers in raincoats.”

“This island isn't even on a map.” Beck lifted an empty thermos. “Jet could protect Dylan out here.”

Winter didn't respond.

“You think she's pretty?” Beck asked.

“Too bossy for me. Good cook, though.”

“Not Jet. Martinez. She's fine. You've noticed, right?”

“She's good at her job,” Winter said noncomittally.

“I think she's hot. But she's never so much as… I don't know, it's weird. It's really something to see her laugh.”

“You ever asked her out?”

Beck shook his head. “I wanted to a bunch of times. I mean, sure, I hint around and sometimes she… I mean, I think she likes me okay. Hard to tell. I've been meaning to ask you something. You weren't betting for her, but against Dylan, right? You didn't think she would win over Cross? Hell, that was cool, the way she showed everybody her stuff. And you pissed off Devlin big-time.”

“I need coffee,” Winter said, uncomfortable discussing someone he respected behind her back.

“I'll go in and get us some,” Beck offered.

“No, I'll do it,” Winter said, eager to get out of the wet. “S-one,” Winter said into his mouthpiece, “W.M. coming in for coffee.”

There was no response.

“Maybe Bear's in the crapper?” Beck said. “Or hibernating.”

Winter instinctively slung the AR over his shoulder and drew his SIG.

“We go to the security room together. Cover my back,” he said quietly yet determinedly.

Entering into the foyer, Winter slipped to the arch ahead of Beck and aimed his gun down the hall. He nodded that it was clear and moved with stealth toward the security room door, which was open a crack. No light showed under either Dylan's or Sean's door. Winter stood in front of the security room door, pushed it open, and lunged inside, aiming his gun at the dark figure bent over Dixon. “Freeze!” Winter ordered.

Beck moved in swiftly behind Winter, aiming his rifle at the figure dressed in pajamas, bent over Dixon.

“Greg?” Winter lowered his gun and moved farther into the room. Dixon was as fully reclined as the swivel chair allowed. His eyes were closed and his face was so pale it looked like it had been bleached white.

“He's out cold.” Greg turned his attention back to Dixon and slapped his cheeks. “Wake up, Bear,” he coaxed angrily.

Winter saw that the coffeepot had started to smoke, so he turned it off before leaning his AR against the wall. He slipped his coat off and dropped it beside the rifle.

“Help me with him, then go and get me some water,” Greg told Beck as he and Winter lifted the big man from the chair and lowered him to the floor. Panicked at the unexpected turn of events, Beck left his Colt carbine propped beside Winter's and stepped into the bathroom, filling a glass.

“I was having trouble sleeping, went to the kitchen. I smelled the coffee burning,” Greg said.

“Heart attack?” Winter asked.

Greg shook his head. He lifted Dixon's eyelid. “I don't think so. He's breathing fine.”

When Greg poured the glass of water over Dixon's face the reaction was immediate.