John Miller - Inside Out

“You're right about one thing. You are dead, Massey.”

“You're dead wrong. You've made a fatal mistake. Killing me with my own gun was a totally predictable move.”

Winter couldn't see the expression on the assailant's face, but he knew there would be no fear in his cold green eyes. If the man he'd known as Dylan Devlin had possessed normal human feelings and emotions, Herman Hoffman would never have selected him to seduce a woman and frame Sam Manelli so his, and Russo's, plan would work.

“Checkmate, loser,” Winter said.

The cutout reacted the way Winter had known he would. Unable to accept he'd been outmaneuvered by a deputy marshal, he failed to raise his own gun, which he held in his left hand pointing at the floor. Dylan Devlin squeezed the SIG's trigger.

There was an earsplitting report. The sheet at Winter's right side was burned black by the blast, shattered open where the bullet had passed from the World War II vintage Walther PP in Winter's right hand.

The SIG's hammer had snapped on an empty chamber. Dylan Devlin, a man who had been declared dead, was indeed dead when he hit the floor. Winter's SIG Sauer was still locked in the cutout's right hand; the silenced SOCOM. 45 rested on the floor beside him.

Two of the deputies that Shapiro had sent stormed into the bedroom, guns at the ready. The light came on, blinding Winter for a second. He set the Walther down on the bedside table.

“All clear!” one of them shouted.

The deputy in charge came in holding a shotgun, and Sean came around him a second later, jumping up onto the bed and putting her hands on Winter's chest. Her eyes were wide with fear and concern. She looked at the masked shape on the floor and back at Winter. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.”

“Who is that?” she asked.

“It was Russo's pal, Lewis.”

“I thought the helicopter got him on the levee? You said it was over,” she said. “It wasn't, was it?”

“It's over now. He was the last one.”

“You knew he was coming,” she said accusingly. She lowered her voice. “That's why you sent me to my own room last night.”

“I thought he might and I figured you'd been through enough already. Go back to your room while they deal with this. I'll be there in five.”

She nodded. “Okay, if you're sure.” She kissed his cheek and left the room.

The deputy in charge knelt beside the body, checking the neck for a pulse. “He's all done.” He lifted up the nylon mask and inspected the bullet hole that was centered in the cutout's throat. The round had punched through, exiting at the base of his skull, exploding the medulla and severing the spinal cord.

Winter hadn't really paid any attention to the deputies on the detail, because they didn't come into his room and he hadn't been outside it. When he looked at them he spotted an unpleasantly familiar face. Winter had last seen the man, now wearing a USMS khaki assault suit, when he had been standing in the hallway in Herman's building holding a silenced SIG Sauer-the same man who had beckoned Fifteen from the communications room-the same man who had first appeared as an FBI agent on Winter's porch. Winter glanced at the gun in the cutout's hand, which he was putting into his side holster.

“We'll clean this up,” the cutout said. His eyes remained locked on Winter's. There was no malice in them, but there was also no warmth there, either. “You need help, Deputy?”

“I can manage,” Winter said as he slid over to the side of the bed where the crutches waited.

“I believe you can,” the cutout said, smiling wryly. “Good luck.”

“It's really all over?” Sean asked Winter once he was in her bedroom.

“Word of honor, ma'am.”

“Where do we go from here?” she asked, studying him with serious eyes.

“Far as I'm concerned, that totally depends on you.”

“Yesterday you told me that nobody would ever have to order you to keep me safe again.”

“I stand by that offer.”

“Are you sure? I mean after all this, do you really want to be reminded of the time since we met, the losses you've suffered, the pain this has brought you?”

“I don't understand.”

“Won't I be a reminder of the terrible things you…”

“Do I remind you of the terrible times we've been through?”

“Oh, no. Of course not. I want to know if you're sure, that's all.”

“I've never been as sure of anything in my whole life, Sean. I was hoping we could get to know each other better, under calmer circumstances.”

“Quality time. Calm circumstances. That sounds wonderful.”

“I've got some people back in North Carolina I want you to meet. I think you'll like them and I know they'll like you. Why don't we just take it as it comes?”

“I'd like that, Winter. I'd like that a lot.”

Sean was suddenly overcome, so Winter pulled her to him and held her tightly as she wept.

Now she was finally free to shed tears for Angela Martinez, for Wire Dog and Max, and for all of the others she had cared about but couldn't grieve for before. And she cried because a man she loved-a man who loved her-was comforting her.

Now she was truly safe.

They stretched out on the bed. Sean put her head on Winter's shoulder, her arm across his stomach and hugged him.

Winter put his hand on her shoulder and massaged it gently.

For a very long time, they stayed just like that.