Inside Out

31

Avery Whitehead preferred to move through life with men in suits encircling him the way sharks ring their prey, whenever possible. He felt vulnerable alone. The federal prosecutor stood out of the rain in an open maintenance hangar, watching the window-rattling takeoffs and landings on the runway a hundred yards away.

Whitehead stared out at a line of faintly illuminated A-10 Warthogs and the Falcon 900B he had arrived aboard. Coming down from D.C. he'd removed his jacket and flown in his shirtsleeves so his coat wouldn't be wrinkled when he saw Devlin. His gray Zegna suit was impeccably tailored, his tie a loud red splash against a crisp white wedge of shirt.

He had come alone because there wasn't room in the jet for his assistant, the marshals, a witness, his wife, and their luggage and other equipment. His short meeting with Devlin on Tuesday had left him rattled and worried that the killer might be self-destructing and about to destroy the government's case. Just before Avery boarded the airplane at Andrews, Attorney General Katlin had called to tell him that things at the safe house had seriously deteriorated. Avery caught the implicit threat in his boss's tone: Fix it or else.

It was imperative that Whitehead gain control of his witness before Devlin lost him his case and killed his stellar career.

Whitehead was wondering how long it would take the two-man flight crew to empty their bladders, when he saw the pair sprinting through the rain toward the Falcon Jet. He had told them that he wanted to take off as soon as the deputies showed up, so they needed to preflight the thing before.

They waved at him and he returned the gesture out of habit. “Yeah, you bastards get my plane ready. Christ, if all I had to do was fly around for a living like a taxi driver…”

He checked his watch, a plain gold Patek Philippe with an alligator band. The helicopter was due any second.

He heard the Blackhawk before he saw it. It materialized from the sky as though it was being lowered by cables, and came to rest near the jet. Whitehead buttoned up his Burberry trench coat, snapped open his umbrella, and strode out into the rain as soon as the blades had slowed enough. He was between the Blackhawk and the passenger jet when the marshals stepped down out of the chopper. The black inspector came first, immediately followed by the others, who formed a protective circle for Devlin to step down into. Whitehead was relieved to see that Dylan wasn't wearing leg irons. He relaxed slightly. “Where is Mrs. Devlin?” he asked in a voice low enough so that only the inspector would hear it.

“Due to an incident between the Devlins, I left Mrs. Devlin behind in the company of two deputies. They will be leaving tomorrow.”

“The A.G. told me there was some sort of problem at the safe house.”

“This morning, Mr. Devlin drugged two deputies, decapitated a cat, punched his wife, assaulted two of my men, and put a gun to one of my people's head. He spent the day in handcuffs.”

Avery's knees felt rubbery. “God damn it! In all of my years-Nations, I have never seen such an out-of-control sideshow as your safe house. You are the most incompetent marshal I have ever come across. As soon as I get to Katlin, I'm making sure Devlin gets a new crew. As far as I can tell, you have not yet been in control of the security situation.”

“Your star witness is a complete psycho,” Greg said evenly.

“I need a quick word with Mr. Devlin,” Avery told him, loudly enough for Devlin to hear. “Alone.”

Inspector Nations shook his head. “I have to get him out of the open, into the craft.”

“There's no danger here, damn it! We're in the middle of a fucking air base-”

“Sorry, sir,” the inspector insisted, looking at his watch. “We have a schedule to hold to. We're on a communications blackout and due at Andrews in-”

“Sorry, suh,” Dylan Devlin mocked, speaking for the first time since they had arrived. “We is, uhhh, all blacked out.”

Whitehead shot Devlin a warning glare over Nations' shoulder. Dylan held up his hands to show the cuffs.

“Dylan and me inside the plane, you and your crew outside. Give me two minutes with him. The pilot can make up that loss.”

Reluctantly, Nations agreed. Whitehead knew that what happened while Devlin was under WITSEC's protection was all up to the inspector in charge. Whitehead was hoping that this Inspector Nations felt like he owed Avery something after the trouble at the safe house. Avery intended to see that Nations took a career hit for it. Examples had to be made.

“Beck,” Nations called. “Check the plane.”

After the deputy marshal searched the jet, Devlin and Whitehead entered. Whitehead positioned him out of the crew's hearing range.

“What the hell happened on the island?” Whitehead demanded of Devlin. As he spoke, despite his best efforts, his voice rose with each accusation. “Dead cat… drugging officers, punching your wife, and, for Christ's sake, pulling a gun on a deputy marshal?”

“A small misunderstanding. Two deputies took drugs and wanted a scapegoat. I think the cook's cat must have climbed into a drawer and my wife accidentally slammed it shut. The rest is-”

“I'm talking about you pulling a gun on a United States deputy marshal! Where the hell did you get a gun?” Avery hissed, cutting him off.

“He gave it to me. Easy, I was getting to that. The man is a loose cannon. Power-drunk and, Avery, he's been diddling my wife.”

“Your deal will be history if you don't make sure this goes off without a hitch. Blow this and you'll wish you were in a cell with Sam Manelli and a blowtorch. When we get to D.C., we are going to have a come-to-Jesus meeting. The next time you make the slightest wave you are going to find yourself up shit creek. We don't get Manelli, we still have you. Is that perfectly clear?”

“Absolutely, but I've got a request about changing these guards, Avery. This detail is so fucked, I'd be safer if I was being guarded by Manelli's thugs. I have everything under control. When I testify I will be believed.” He winked. “Trust me.”

What choice do I have? Whitehead tapped on the window to signal the marshals that it was time to go.

As the plane filled with people, Avery Whitehead closed his eyes and prayed.

“By the way, guys,” the pilot called back over his shoulder, “no hot chambers in my plane. I have this morbid fear of one of you guys sneezing and blowing a hole in my airplane and me getting sucked out right along with you.”

“No problem,” Greg answered. “Guys, clear your long guns.”

There was a series of clicks and slapping metal as magazines were withdrawn, the round in the chambers removed, and the magazines returned with a sharp rap of their palms.

“Our copilot will be passing through to the rear, and if anyone wants to stow a coat or anything, he will handle that. We will be without a stewardess tonight because we lack room for one. This is a smoke-free flight. After we are upstairs, and I have turned off the seat-belt sign, you are free to help yourselves to a drink out of the fridge.”

The copilot slipped from his seat and made his way to the rear.

“Kinda cramped, ain't it?” Bear said.

“But fast,” Beck said.

Dylan yawned and closed his eyes. “Wake me when we get there.”

The pilot turned in his seat and looked back into the cabin. “I would appreciate it if you'd close the shades until we are at altitude.”

Whitehead closed the shade beside him and, as he turned back, saw the pilot on his feet, holding a silenced pistol in his hand, a tattoo of barbed wire on his right wrist. Whitehead felt like ice water had been thrown in his face. He hadn't been paying attention to the things around him. This pilot was not the same man as the one who'd flown him down. This man was younger, taller. As Whitehead was about to call out, the pilot in front of him and copilot at his back opened fire.

Avery Whitehead's last thought was not that the marshals were dying around him. His last thought, which was interrupted by a Glaser round through his brain, was whether, earlier in the day, he had locked his car door at the airport.