He quickly summarized his situation.
If he retreated, the only way out was the way he’d come, which the man above had covered. Forward was through the open tower, and that clearly would be a problem. He noticed he was standing on a wooden plank, about three feet wide and five feet long.
He bent down and lightly caressed the surface.
Hard, like stone.
He curled his fingers between the wood and the earthen floor and lifted. Heavy, but he could handle it. He only hoped the caliber of bullet being used up above was low.
He stuffed his gun into his jacket pocket, raised the plank above his head, then balanced the length on his open palms. He swung around so that he faced the archway and the tower beyond his shield angled downward, which he hoped would provide enough protection from any ricocheting rounds.
He gritted his teeth, drew a breath, then bolted through the archway, careful to keep the planks balanced.
Ten yards or so was all he had to negotiate.
Shots erupted immediately and a steady crack of timber sounded as lead knocked off the upper surface. He found the doorway, but immediately noticed that the plank’s width was too great. It would not pass through.
A steady tap-tap-tap continued on the wood above his head. Any bullet might signal disaster if a soft spot was found.
No choice.
He allowed the wood to slide off his palms as he pushed upward and vaulted into the doorway.
The board crashed to the ground.
He gripped his gun.
CASSIOPEIA BOLTED FORWARD, USING THE SIDE OF THE GARAGE nearest to her for cover. A man appeared, rushing her way, his attention more on what was behind him than what was ahead. She wanted to know if Jessica was okay, but realized that the first order of business was taking down this problem. She waited, then stretched out her leg and tripped him to the grass.
She aimed her gun down and whispered, “Quiet and still.”
His eyes seemed to say, No way.
So she made her point clearer, swiping the gun into his left temple, stealing his consciousness.
She then turned and advanced to the garage’s corner. Jessica stood with her gun aimed downward, both hands on the trigger. The other man lay on the grass, writhing from a wound in his thigh.
“I had no choice.” Jessica lowered her weapon. “I hit a shovel back there and tipped them off. I told him to stop, but he kept coming. I think he thought I wouldn’t shoot him.”
“The other one’s down, too. Call for medical help.”
SIXTY-THREE
KNOX LAID DOWN A FEW ROUNDS, TRYING TO FLUSH WYATT from his hiding place on the far wall.
“Where are you?” he said into his lapel mike, talking to his second associate.
“There’s another man here,” the voice said in his ear. “He’s armed, but I have him pinned down below.”
Two men?
He hadn’t expected anyone other than Wyatt. No mention had been made of any assistance.
“Take him out,” he ordered.
MALONE STARTED TO CLIMB THE STONE STAIRS THAT RIGHT-ANGLED upward. Obviously, there were others inside the fort, as gunfire had echoed from more spots above, to his right and left. Night had taken a firm hold, and darkness was now his ally. He still carried the flashlight, stuffed into his back pocket, but there was no way to use it.
He came to the top and watched for movement.
Emerging from the stairwell meant exposure, and though he was known to occasionally do dumb things this was not going to be one of them.
He studied his surroundings.
One side of the stairwell, which formed the fort’s outer wall, was gone. Through the darkness he spotted a series of arches that supported the battlements above. If he was careful, he could negotiate them and make an end run. He stuffed the gun inside his belt and climbed out. Fifty feet below, surf pounded rock. A musky smell of the birds mixed with the salt air. Below him cries mingled with a clash of wings. He balanced on the first arch and shifted to the second, hands and arms grasping the moist, gritty supports.
He shifted to the next arch, then another.
One more and he should be sufficiently beyond the stairwell’s entrance above that he could surprise his attacker.
He reached up and grasped the top of the wall.
One chin-up and he peered over the top.
A dark form huddled twenty feet away, his back to him, facing the stairwell. To climb up fully would draw attention. So he settled back on the arch and found his gun. He searched the wall above him and discovered more indentations. One hand stretched back to the top and he maneuvered himself upward, his right shoe finding a foothold, enough that he could pivot upward, aim, and fire one time.
WYATT HEARD A RETORT FROM ACROSS THE FORT, THIS ONE not from Knox’s direction. That meant somebody else was here whom Knox’s men did not appreciate. He decided to take advantage of the situation and belly-crawled back to the man he’d shot. A quick search revealed two spare magazines of ammunition.
Just what he needed.
Another bullet came his way, pinging off the stone a few feet away.
The birds had all fled with the first commotion, but their stench remained, the stones slippery from their excrement.
He found an opening that led down. No stairs, just a hole in the rampart. He gripped the coarse limestone edge and dropped the few feet to another level, protected for the moment.
He freed the backpack from his shoulders.
MALONE SWUNG HIS BODY UPWARD, HIS SOLE BRUSHING THE prickly stone then catching a grip. His target whirled, a gun leading the way. Before the man could level the weapon, Malone fired a shot to the chest. He dropped off the wall and hustled over, gun aimed, ready.
He rolled the body over, the face unfamiliar. He checked for a pulse. None. He retrieved the man’s pistol and pocketed the weapon. A quick frisk revealed spare magazines and a wallet. He pocketed them, too, then grabbed his bearings.
He was atop the fort’s west façade.
Gunfire erupted from the south wall.
KNOX HAD NOT EXPECTED AN ATTACK.
Wyatt had reappeared fifty feet away, on another wall, and started shooting, the bullets arriving around him with precision.
Too precise, considering the darkness.
WYATT HAD COME PREPARED. CARBONELL HAD PROVIDED HIM a pair of night-vision goggles, which allowed him to see Clifford Knox huddled within the rubble. Unfortunately, his target had not ventured far enough from his cover for a kill shot. He caught movement atop another wall and heard a shot. He quickly scanned the battlements and spotted an armed man frisking another who lay prone. Size, shape, and movement confirmed the identity.
Malone.
How could that be?
He returned his attention to his own problem.
“Knox,” he called out. “I know Andrea Carbonell provided you this location. She’s the only person who could have. She wants you to kill me, right?”
KNOX LISTENED TO THE QUESTION AND REALIZED THAT HIS SITUATION was bad. He’d lost one man for sure and could not raise the other on the radio. More gunfire from other parts of the fort signaled trouble. This easy kill had turned into anything but. He hadn’t risked everything just to die in this godforsaken place for Quentin Hale or any of the other captains.
“There’s another man here,” Wyatt called out. “It’s Cotton Malone. And he’s not your friend.”
MALONE LISTENED TO THE EXCHANGE. TYPICAL WYATT.
Grandiose.
One thing was certain—he wasn’t going to enter the conversation.
Not yet anyway.
WYATT SMILED. “NO, I GUESS MALONE IS NOT GOING TO SHOW himself. Knox, I want you to know that I don’t have any beef with you.”
“I do with you.”
“That stupid assassination attempt? You should thank me for stopping it. Carbonell set us both up here. So I’m going to give you a chance to leave. I want you to take a message to Quentin Hale. Tell him I plan to get what he wan
ts and he can have it. Of course, it will cost, but it’s not a price he can’t afford. Tell him I’ll be in touch.”
He waited for a reply.
“She said you wouldn’t bring those pages back to her,” Knox yelled.
“That all depended on her keeping her word. Which she didn’t. So she called on you and hoped you’d kill me for her. It’s two against one, Knox. Cotton Malone wants those pages, too. They’ll be of no use to you if he finds them. He works only for God and country.”
“And you’ll be the one to find them?”
“Malone and I have some unfinished business. Once it’s completed, I’ll get what you want.”
“And if I stay?”
“Then you’re going to die. Guaranteed. One of us will get you.”
KNOX WEIGHED HIS OPTIONS. HE WAS ALONE WITH TWO PURSUERS. One appeared to be friendly, the other unknown.
Who was this Cotton Malone?
And the crew.
There’d been casualties.
Not something that happened often.
It had been years since they’d lost anyone. He’d come here because it seemed the only play. Hale was happy, the other three captains were content. Carbonell had provided the information, seemingly wanting Knox to be here.
But enough was enough.
He was risking his life for nothing.
“I’m leaving,” he called out.
MALONE CROUCHED LOW AND STUDIED THE BLACKNESS. THE nearest light source was miles away on a neighboring island. The surf continued its relentless attack on the rock below. Wyatt was out there, waiting. It was impossible to go after the third man. Knox. Wyatt would be ready for that.
Just sit tight.
“Okay, Malone,” Wyatt called out. “Obviously you’re privy to the same information I am. One of us is going to win this fight. Time to find out who.”
SIXTY-FOUR
BATH, NORTH CAROLINA
A GALE POUNDED THE DECK, STRONG ENOUGH TO SHIFT THE CANNONS. HE held the wheel tight, keeping the bow pointed northeast. He was running at the edge of the sand that extended from shore, a narrow gap that required a tight course. Close-reefed topsails billowed outward, driving them along.
A ship appeared.
On a parallel course, its masts thrusting dangerously close to his sails. What was it doing here? They’d dodged it for most of the day, and he’d hoped the storm would be his shield.
He sounded the alarm.
The tumult increased as crewmen flooded out from below into the squall. Danger was quickly realized and weapons were burnished, ready for an attack. Men who found their cannons waited for no order and poured the newcomer’s broadside with salvos. He kept the helm steady, proud of his ship, which belonged to the house of Hale, in North Carolina.
It would not be taken or sunk from under him.
A fresh wind tested the rudder.
He fought for control.
Men were swinging across from the other ship, boarding his. Pirates. Like him. And he knew where they came from. The house of Bolton. It, too, of North Carolina. Come for a fight on the open sea, during a squall, when his guard would be down.
Or so they thought.
This kind of attack was foolhardy. It violated every principle under which they lived. But Boltons were fools, and always had been.
“Quentin.”
His name on the wind.
A female voice.
More men appeared on deck, armed with swords. One leaped through the air and landed a few feet away.
A woman.
Strikingly beautiful, her hair blond, skin pale, eyes alight with interest.
She sprang upon him and tore away his grip on the wheel. The ship slipped from its course, and he felt ungoverned motion.
“Quentin. Quentin.”
Hale opened his eyes.
He lay in his bedroom.
A storm raged outside. Rain assaulted the windows, and a howling wind molested the trees.
Now he remembered.
He and Shirley Kaiser had retreated here on the promise of some special garments she’d brought.
And special they had been.
Lavender lace, draping her petite frame, sheer enough to fully distract his attention for a little while. She’d come to his bed and undressed him. After nearly an hour of fun he’d dozed off, satisfied, glad she’d appeared without an invitation. She was just what he’d needed after dealing with the other three captains.
“Quentin.”
He blinked sleep from his eyes and focused on the familiar coffered ceiling of his bedroom, its wood from the hull of an 18th-century sloop that had once plied the Pamlico. He felt the comfort of fine sheets and the firmness of his king-sized mattress. His bed was a four-poster, stout and tall, requiring a stool for ingress and egress. He’d twisted his ankle once years ago when he stepped off too quick.
“Quentin.”
Shirley’s voice.
Of course. She was here, in the bed. Perhaps she was ready for more? That would be okay. He was ready, too.
He rolled over.
She stared at him with an expression not broken by a smile or desire. Instead, the eyes were hard and angry.
Then he saw the gun.
Its barrel only inches from his face.
CASSIOPEIA WATCHED AS THE RESCUE VEHICLE REMOVED THE wounded burglar. The remaining intruder, the one she’d taken down with a swipe of her gun, remained in custody, using an ice pack to nurse a lump the size of an egg. No identification had been found on either one, and neither was talking.
“Every minute we’re stalled,” Danny Daniels had said, “is another minute Stephanie stays in trouble.”
He stood at the door leading out of the Blue Room.
“I know the symptoms, Mr. President. Caring for someone is hell.”
He seemed to understand. “You and Cotton?”
She nodded. “It’s both good and bad. Like right now. Is he okay? Does he need help? I didn’t have that problem until a few months ago.”
“I’ve been alone a long time,” Daniels said.
His somber tone made clear he regretted every moment.
“Pauline and I should come to terms. This needs to be over.”
“Careful. Make those decisions slowly. There’s a lot at stake.”
His gaze agreed with her. “I’ve served my country. For forty years politics has been my life. I’ve been a good boy the whole time. Never once took a dime from anyone contrary to the law. Never once sold myself out. No scandal. I stayed to my conscience and principles, though it cost me sometimes. I’ve served as best I could. And I have few regrets. But I’d like to serve myself now. Just for a while.”
“Does Stephanie know how you feel?”
He did not immediately answer her, which made her wonder if he even knew the answer. But what he finally said surprised her.
“I believe she does.”
A car wheeled into Kaiser’s drive, and Edwin Davis emerged from the passenger side. Fingerprints from both intruders had been taken more than an hour ago and she’d been promised an identification. Davis had then been only a voice on the phone, but apparently he was on the move. The neighborhood had come alive with people, police cars filling the street.
No way to keep this a secret.
“The car they used was found a few blocks over,” Davis said to her as he approached. “It carried stolen North Carolina plates, and the car was stolen, too. Registered to a woman in West Virginia. We’re still waiting for the prints to run. But that assumes these guys have either been in trouble, registered to buy a gun, taught school, or any of the other thousand things that requires fingerprinting. The one I’m hoping for is military service. That would provide a wealth of info.”
He looked and sounded tired.
“How are the president and First Lady?” she asked.
“I heard he paid you a visit before you left.”
She had no intention of violating Daniels’ confidence. “He’s upset over Stephanie. He feels r
esponsible.”
“Don’t we all.”
“Anything from Cotton?”
“Nothing from him personally.”
She caught what he hadn’t voiced. “Who have you heard from?”
“Cotton wanted no backup on the scene.”
“And you went along with that?”
“Not exactly.”
HALE REALIZED THIS WAS THE FIRST TIME HE’D EVER HAD A weapon pointed at him. A strange sight, particularly given that he was lying naked in his bed. Kaiser held the gun like she knew what she was doing.
“I’ve been shooting since I was a little girl,” she said. “My daddy taught me. You used me, Quentin. You lied to me. You’ve been a terribly bad boy.”
He wondered if this was some sort of game. If so, it could be particularly arousing.
“What is it you want?” he asked.
She shifted her aim from his face to his crotch, only the blanket separating his bare skin from the gun.
“To see you suffer.”
SIXTY-FIVE
PAW ISLAND, NOVA SCOTIA
MALONE STUDIED THE CRENELLATIONS ON THE CRUMBLING walls for movement. A knot formed in the pit of his stomach. His heart raced.
Just like the old days.
He retreated to a stairway and quickly found the ground. Leading with the automatic, he crept forward into the darkness of the inner ward. He stopped in the shadows and allowed his eyes to adjust.
A deathly chill crept into his body.
One that primed every nerve to be ready.
The fort was like a maze on three levels, rooms leading one into another. He recalled what he’d read about its lowest levels and the 74 British prisoners who’d drowned. The courts-martial had revealed that the fort’s foundations rested on a tangle of tunnels, cut from rock, high tide filling them, low tide offering a respite. The colonial officers claimed that they had no knowledge of the fact and simply chose the underground locale as the securest place to hold their prisoners. Of course, none of the Brits survived to contradict that testimony and none of the hundred or so colonial soldiers refuted the account.