MALONE KEPT A DEATH GRIP ON THE GIBBET, HIS RIGHT hand finding one of the rounded vertical supports to which the flat iron was welded. A shower of color burst before his eyes. They were skimming in and out of the water about a hundred feet behind Adventure, in the center portion of the sloop’s long wake.
He gulped another breath and yelled to Cassiopeia, “Breathe.”
“Like I’m not trying.”
He had more room to maneuver than she did. The sloop’s speed allowed them to hydroplane for a few precious seconds. He realized that once the speed was reduced they would sink and be dragged underwater.
His heart rocketed in his chest.
He had to find the latch.
CASSIOPEIA WAS SUCKING IN AS MUCH WATER AS AIR, TRYING to spit it out and keep her lungs dry. She was rotating her upper body inside the gibbet as they rocketed in and out of the surf. A sharp pain pierced her cramped calves and she told herself to relax. She longed for speed, since slowing down meant sinking. Hale was toying with them. Enjoying their predicament.
“I’m… going to… get you… out,” Cotton told her as they surfaced one more time, his voice coming in staccato gasps.
“My hands,” she managed to say.
She couldn’t swim long if she were bound.
HALE STARED AT STEPHANIE NELLE.
“Are you going to shoot me?” he asked her.
“I don’t have to.”
A strange reply.
She motioned with the gun and he turned.
Shirley Kaiser held another of the automatic rifles his men had toted. Her bandaged hand supported the heavy weapon, the other was placed firmly on the trigger.
Men appeared from the main salon.
Some with guns.
Finally.
MALONE’S HAND FOUND THE LATCH. HE TWISTED, THEN YANKED. Nothing gave. He yanked again, freeing the locking pin.
The gibbet opened and Cassiopeia flew out.
He released his hold and joined her in the water.
The gibbet disappeared ahead, bucking across the surface.
He snatched a breath and plunged downward, his eyes searching for movement. He saw her and wrapped an arm around her chest and, together, they kicked upward.
Both of them coughed water.
He kept them afloat with strong kicks and a sweep of his right arm.
“Grab a breath and I’ll get your hands free,” he told her.
They dropped below the surface long enough for him to peel off the thick tape that bound her wrists, then they surfaced and treaded water. Adventure was two hundred yards away, its sails unfurled to the morning air. All was quiet except for the wind and the sea swirling around them.
Then a new sound.
Low and rhythmic.
A deep bass growing in intensity.
He turned to see four helicopter gunships powering their way.
About time.
They swept across in formation, one lingering above, the other three circling the yacht.
“You okay?”
Edwin Davis’s voice through a loudspeaker.
They both gave him a thumbs-up.
“Hold tight,” Davis said.
HALE HEARD HELICOPTER ROTORS AND LOOKED UP TO SEE THREE U.S. Army gunships above Adventure’s masts, circling like wolves.
The sight enraged him.
This ungrateful government, which his family had dutifully served, would not leave him alone. What had happened with Knox? Or the man named Wyatt? Did they have what he needed to fortify his letter of marque? And why weren’t Bolton, Surcouf, and Cogburn here to fight the battle with him? Probably because the three cowards had sold him out.
Stephanie Nelle laid down a barrage of fire at the main salon, obliterating the windscreens, ripping through the fiberglass sheathing.
His men disappeared back inside.
He faced Kaiser and her gun. “It’s not that easy, Shirley.”
He imagined himself Black Beard, facing Lieutenant Maynard on the deck of another ship named Adventure. That fight had also been close-quartered and to the death. But Black Beard had been armed. Hale’s gun lay on the deck four feet away. He had to get to it. His gaze darted between Shirley to his right and Nelle to his left.
Just one opportunity, that’s all he needed.
Shirley’s gun exploded.
Bullets tore into his protective vest. The next salvo shredded his legs. Blood poured up his throat and out his mouth. He tumbled to the ground, each nerve in his body bursting into a hot flame of burning pain.
His face betrayed the agony.
The last thing he saw was Shirley Kaiser pointing the gun at his head and saying, “Killing you was easy, Quentin.”
CASSIOPEIA HEARD THE DISTANCE TAP OF GUNFIRE. SHE THEN saw two people leap from the aft deck of Adventure.
“Stephanie and Shirley just made their escape,” Davis said from above, through the helicopter’s PA system.
They kept treading water.
Adventure’s sails had caught the wind. No gaps existed between them. They worked as a single airfoil, propelling the striking green hull through the choppy waves. She was like the buccaneer of old, sailing away to fight another day. But this wasn’t the 17th or 18th century, and Danny Daniels was one pissed-off president. These four army gunships were not here to escort the ship back to port.
More people leaped off the yacht.
“The crew,” Cotton said. “You know why they’re doing that.”
She did.
The choppers drifted back.
Flames erupted from the sides of two of the aircraft. Four missiles rocketed from their launchers. Seconds later they pierced Adventure, exploding their ordnance. Black, acrid smoke rose skyward. Like a wounded animal, the sloop canted to one side, then another, its sails unfurling and losing their strength.
A final rocket from the third chopper ended its misery.
The yacht erupted into flames, then sank, the Atlantic Ocean swallowing the offering in a single gulp.
EIGHTY-FOUR
NOVA SCOTIA
11:30 AM
WYATT CLIMBED BACK INTO THE CHASM BENEATH FORT DOMINION. Five hours ago he’d left the island and returned to shore, ditching the stolen boat near Chester and renting another. He’d also purchased a few tools to go into his knapsack and waited until the tide changed.
One last thing to do.
He dropped to the rocky floor.
As when he and Malone had visited, only a few inches of water
remained. He switched on a flashlight and started for the junction point. Halfway, he encountered the first bloated corpse.
Maybe late thirties, early forties, dark hair, plain face, one he recognized.
The quartermaster.
Clifford Knox.
Lying spine-first on the rocky floor, eyes closed.
He continued on and found the five symbols. No sign, as yet, of Carbonell, but there were two other tunnels and no way out. Her body could be anywhere. It could even have been drawn out to sea through one of the chutes.
He stared up at the symbol in the ceiling.
He hoped Malone had been right and that the triangle did indeed mark the spot. He rolled one of the larger rocks close. The ceiling was low, maybe eight feet up, so not much of a boost would be needed. He removed the hammer and chisel he’d brought with him and chipped the joint that outlined the irregular-shaped block. Nearly two centuries of tidal action had hardened the mortar, but finally it gave way. He stepped back as the rock slammed to the floor, splashing water, cracking into several pieces.
He angled the flashlight upward into the niche.
A foot up from the ceiling line a shelf had been carved into the stone. Something gleamed back from the probe of his beam. Shiny. Reflective. Green-tinted. He laid the light down, angling it upward and grabbed hold of what he’d discovered.
Slick.
Then he realized.
Glass.
He slid it from its perch.
Not heavy, maybe three or four pounds. A solid chunk, perhaps a foot square, its surface and edges rounded smooth. He bent down closer to the flashlight and splashed water onto its surface, rinsing away a layer of filth.
Something was sealed inside.
Though blurred, the image was unmistakable.
Two sheets of browned paper.
He laid the container on top of the stone that had acted as his step. He found another smaller rock and, with two blows, shattered the glass.
For the first time in more than 175 years, the paper met fresh air.