CHAPTER 24
Wilson Estate
Cliff Road, Nantucket
For forty-five minutes as I recounted what had gone down in Iraq, Constance Wilson said not a word nor displayed any sign that I had crossed a boundary by sharing too much. When I finished speaking, she leaned forward from her chair and gently took my paw in her tan hands.
“We’re so lucky to have men like you protecting us, Nathan. Thank you for all you and your brave men and women do for us.” She was so sincere I thought she was going to cry.
I thanked her for her thoughtful words. At a loss for what else to say after that, like an idiot, I complimented the Wilsons on their beautiful rosebushes.
I should have taken them up on their offer of dinner—it would surely beat whatever I was going to cook—but I was on overdrive. I desperately wanted to get home and finally get a solid night’s sleep.
I called Tristan as I headed back across the island.
CSTC had issued us all encrypted phones with satellite capabilities so that we could talk securely from almost anywhere in the world.
CSTC had a high-powered server and wireless network that could operate not only encrypted but also when other civilian networks were down.
Don’t ask me how that stuff works. All I knew was that it was a rare occasion when we couldn’t communicate with each other.
Tristan approved of my plan for Si Wilson, and said he’d send a plane next week to fly us both down to Maryland for a look around. He even invited Si’s parents, with the extra incentive of knowing there might be some synergy between CSTC and Alan Wilson, who managed billions in assets.
We made plans for next week and said sayonara.
I realized that I’d stayed at the Wilsons’ longer than I’d planned. It was coming up on 10 p.m. by the time I made it home.
I went inside, closing all the window shades and locking all the doors before opening the gun vault in my living room. I wanted to make sure the Secret Service had not monkeyed around with the rest of my guns.
Inside one of the closets, I had built a false wall and hidden one of the safes.
A push of the recessed button sprang the door open.
Either I had done a really good job of building the trapdoor or maybe they were just sloppy, but all my weapons—an assortment of assault rifles, shotguns, and pistols—were secure inside the miniature arms room.
I checked another Colt M4, an MP5 submachine gun, and a Remington 870 shotgun, as well as a Benelli that I used for duck hunting, along with a few cases of ammunition.
Everything looked good. I locked up and headed for bed.
No sooner had my foot hit the top step than there was a knock on the front door. Who the hell would be coming by at this hour?
I opened the door to find Special Agent Rowan Anderson standing on my doorstep with two rifles slung over her shoulder and a six-pack of beer in one hand. Sleep would have to wait a little longer.