“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.
“That woman from the beach is in there-dead.”
“The others?”
He didn't reply. Winter knew that if they had killed an unarmed woman taking a shower, they had killed the others. Inside the rec room the floor was littered with hollow brass shell casings. He didn't use the flashlight. He didn't want the killers to see the glow and know exactly where they were. He could make out the shapes of corpses near the overturned card table, like sleeping seals. The air was lousy with the smell of cordite and spilled blood.
“Dear lord,” Sean gasped.
Once inside the windowless ordnance room, he turned on the flashlight. His heart sank as he looked at the solid steel doors of the weapons locker. A half dozen M16s and six Beretta M9s were inside the heavy steel mesh, along with stacks of loaded magazines. Opening the doors required a combination. He opened a standing cabinet, which was filled with coats and specialized items the sailors might need in an emergency. He jerked down a pair of raincoats. “This will fit you” he said.