didn't miss anything—one missing object, no matter how small, and the consequences could be catastrophic. This operation would be his masterpiece, even though he would never get the recognition for it. When ops went right, someone else always got the credit.
“How do you feel?” Herman asked Ralph.
“Sir?”
“In your gut. How do you feel?”
“Fine.”
“Are you nervous? Any unease? Premonitions?”
“Nothing at all.”
“And the others? Focused? Eager? Chomping at the bit?”
“Sure.”
Herman closed the notebook and stood up. He felt like a hunter at wood's edge, ready to release his dogs.
11
Rook Island, North Carolina
“This is Winter Massey,” Greg told the other five members of the WITSEC team. “Starting with Cross, I want each of you to introduce yourselves.”
“I'm Bill Cross. Welcome aboard.” Cross had an auburn crew cut and gunmetal-gray eyes. He was about Winter's size, in his midtwenties.
“Dave Beck.” Beck had obviously been awakened for the meeting. He was in his early thirties, no taller than five-six, and in need of a shave. The ball cap he wore splayed his mousy hair out over the tops of his ears. “We're all looking forward to working with you, Massey.”
“I'm Ed Dixon.”
“We all call him Bear,” Greg said.
“Ed,” Winter said, extending his hand.
Dixon shrugged shyly as he shook Winter's hand. “Bear's cool. Been my name since I was in diapers.”
“Bear” was a nickname that fit the man perfectly. Dixon was six-four and weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds. His deep-set eyes seemed too small for his head, and his voice was pitched so low it vibrated.
“Bob Forsythe,” Greg said.
“Robert,” Forsythe corrected.
Forsythe was in his late thirties, and his features were acute. He wore his slick, jet-black hair combed straight back against his skull like a gangster in an old B movie. Winter's instant impression was of a thrifty man who didn't waste expressions or words. His eyes were as alert as a falcon's. He looked at Winter as though he were sizing him up as competition.
“I saw you shoot a few years back,” Winter told him.
Forsythe formed what might have been a grin if his lips hadn't been so tight. “How'd I do?”
“You came in second on account of that sudden gust of wind.”
“I took first the next year—ninety-eight,” he replied, too quickly.
“I know,” Winter said. “Then you quit competing.”
“What's the point in repeating yourself?” Forsythe said.
“We've all seen
you
shoot!” Bear blurted out. Then he blushed. “Sorry. It's just that you're a phenom. Like Forsythe. Naturally the rest of us wish—we just get by.”
“Get by?” Greg said incredulously. “Bear here can hold a Jeep off the ground while you change the tire and not even break a sweat.”
Winter nodded. He knew that for the past seven years every recruit entering Glynco had viewed the court security tapes of Winter's Tampa shootout. The tapes, taken as a record for the Justice Department of the trial of a drug lord, were included in the training as an example of a deputy putting himself between a threat and innocent people. That was the official excuse for showing the tapes, but it was strictly a prurient exercise of “Watch the marshal get shot at and somehow not die. Now watch him even the score. Man, that was some shooting, but don't try and trick-shoot like that, rookie, or you'll be dead.” He had been invited to speak to the first class that viewed the tapes, but he had declined in such a way that the invitation had never been offered again. Winter had never seen the tapes and didn't want to.
“And you know Angela Martinez. Okay, sailors, back in the barrel,” Greg told them. “I need to show Winter and Martinez around the island.”
Winter and Martinez accompanied Greg on a tour of the island. Starting in front of the safe house, Greg pointed at the water tower forty yards to the south. “That doubles as a
“How do you feel?” Herman asked Ralph.
“Sir?”
“In your gut. How do you feel?”
“Fine.”
“Are you nervous? Any unease? Premonitions?”
“Nothing at all.”
“And the others? Focused? Eager? Chomping at the bit?”
“Sure.”
Herman closed the notebook and stood up. He felt like a hunter at wood's edge, ready to release his dogs.
11
Rook Island, North Carolina
“This is Winter Massey,” Greg told the other five members of the WITSEC team. “Starting with Cross, I want each of you to introduce yourselves.”
“I'm Bill Cross. Welcome aboard.” Cross had an auburn crew cut and gunmetal-gray eyes. He was about Winter's size, in his midtwenties.
“Dave Beck.” Beck had obviously been awakened for the meeting. He was in his early thirties, no taller than five-six, and in need of a shave. The ball cap he wore splayed his mousy hair out over the tops of his ears. “We're all looking forward to working with you, Massey.”
“I'm Ed Dixon.”
“We all call him Bear,” Greg said.
“Ed,” Winter said, extending his hand.
Dixon shrugged shyly as he shook Winter's hand. “Bear's cool. Been my name since I was in diapers.”
“Bear” was a nickname that fit the man perfectly. Dixon was six-four and weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds. His deep-set eyes seemed too small for his head, and his voice was pitched so low it vibrated.
“Bob Forsythe,” Greg said.
“Robert,” Forsythe corrected.
Forsythe was in his late thirties, and his features were acute. He wore his slick, jet-black hair combed straight back against his skull like a gangster in an old B movie. Winter's instant impression was of a thrifty man who didn't waste expressions or words. His eyes were as alert as a falcon's. He looked at Winter as though he were sizing him up as competition.
“I saw you shoot a few years back,” Winter told him.
Forsythe formed what might have been a grin if his lips hadn't been so tight. “How'd I do?”
“You came in second on account of that sudden gust of wind.”
“I took first the next year—ninety-eight,” he replied, too quickly.
“I know,” Winter said. “Then you quit competing.”
“What's the point in repeating yourself?” Forsythe said.
“We've all seen
you
shoot!” Bear blurted out. Then he blushed. “Sorry. It's just that you're a phenom. Like Forsythe. Naturally the rest of us wish—we just get by.”
“Get by?” Greg said incredulously. “Bear here can hold a Jeep off the ground while you change the tire and not even break a sweat.”
Winter nodded. He knew that for the past seven years every recruit entering Glynco had viewed the court security tapes of Winter's Tampa shootout. The tapes, taken as a record for the Justice Department of the trial of a drug lord, were included in the training as an example of a deputy putting himself between a threat and innocent people. That was the official excuse for showing the tapes, but it was strictly a prurient exercise of “Watch the marshal get shot at and somehow not die. Now watch him even the score. Man, that was some shooting, but don't try and trick-shoot like that, rookie, or you'll be dead.” He had been invited to speak to the first class that viewed the tapes, but he had declined in such a way that the invitation had never been offered again. Winter had never seen the tapes and didn't want to.
“And you know Angela Martinez. Okay, sailors, back in the barrel,” Greg told them. “I need to show Winter and Martinez around the island.”
Winter and Martinez accompanied Greg on a tour of the island. Starting in front of the safe house, Greg pointed at the water tower forty yards to the south. “That doubles as a
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