The King's Deception (Cotton Malone 8)

“That what this is about?” Antrim asked. “Defending the honor of your ex-wife? You didn’t seem to care much about her sixteen years ago.”

He refused the bait. “You enjoy beating up women?”

Antrim shrugged. “Yours didn’t seem to mind at the time.”

The words stung, but he kept his cool.

“If it’s any comfort, Malone. The boy means nothing. I just wanted to see if it could be done. Pam pissed me off a few months ago. She thought she could tell me what to do. One rule I always live by. Never let a woman be in control.”

GARY HEARD MORE OF WHAT ANTRIM SAID.

A wave of revulsion and anger welled inside him.

He moved to rush into the chamber, but Ian again grabbed him and shook his head.

“Let your dad handle it,” Ian breathed. “It’s his fight right now.”

Ian was right. This was not the time. Him suddenly appearing would only complicate things. Let his dad handle it.

“You okay?” Ian breathed.

He nodded.

But he wasn’t.

ANTRIM WAS TAUNTING MALONE, PUSHING EVERY BUTTON, goading him into a reaction. But he wasn’t lying, either. Not about Pam or Gary. Neither mattered anymore. He would have to take Malone down, then flee out the other entrance, detonating the explosives as he left. Fifty feet would be more than enough protection, considering the dirt walls that surrounded him. The resulting heat and concussion would surely crack the stone and collapse the chamber, providing a proper grave for ex–Magellan Billet agent Cotton Malone. All he had to do was get through the doorway ten feet away.

That meant incapacitating Malone for a mere few seconds.

Enough for him to bolt and press the detonator in his pocket.

Careful, though.

He could not engage in too much jostling, as he did not want the button jammed accidentally.

But he could handle this.

MALONE LEAPED, HIS ARMS CATCHING ANTRIM AROUND THE waist.

He and Antrim pounded to the stone floor.

But he held tight.

IAN HEARD BODIES THUD AND A GRUNT FROM ONE OF THE TWO men. He risked a look and saw that they were fighting, Antrim flipping Malone off him and springing to his feet. Malone, too, was up and swung his fist, the blow blocked, a counterpunch delivered to the stomach.

Gary watched, too.

Ian’s gaze raked the chamber and located the gun, to the right of the entrance, at the base of steps that led down into the room.

“We need to get that gun,” he said.

But Gary’s attention was on the fight.

“Antrim has explosives.”

GARY SAW THAT IAN WAS SURPRISED BY WHAT HE’D REVEALED. “In that pack on the floor. The detonator is in his pocket.”

“And you’re just now mentioning this?”

He’d seen what those packs of clay could do to bodies.

Special stuff, Antrim had said.

He recalled that Antrim had been around fifty feet away from the carnage in the warehouse and had been unharmed. If he could toss the backpack out the doorway on the other side of the room, that might do it. He doubted Antrim planned to blow anything as long as he was still around.

But the detonator.

In Antrim’s pocket.

It could accidentally be pressed in the fight.

His dad was in trouble.

“You get the gun,” he said to Ian. “I’ll toss that backpack.”

MALONE DODGED A RIGHT JAB AND SWUNG HARD, CATCHING Antrim in the face. His opponent staggered back against the chamber wall, then charged.

More blows rained down.

One caught him in the lip. A salty taste filled his mouth. Blood. He landed more blows to the head and chest but, before he could punch again, Antrim reached for one of the metal pitchers on the shelves and propelled it toward him.

He ducked the projectile.

Then Antrim was on him, slamming something heavy into the nape of his neck, which hurt. He grabbed hold of himself and joined his hands together, sweeping his arms upward, the double fist clipping Antrim below the chin.

A bronze flask clanged to the floor.

His head spun, the throbbing in his temple became a blinding ache. A kick to his legs twisted him sideways.

He turned, pretended to have lost his breath, and readied himself to attack.

Ian rushed into the room, leaping down the stone stairs, heading straight for the gun.

Then Gary appeared.

What the hell?

Their appearance momentarily stunned him.

Ian reached for the gun, but Antrim was on him, yanking the weapon free, backhanding the boy across the face.

Gary grabbed the backpack from the floor and tossed it into the darkness of the other room.

ANTRIM’S FINGER FOUND THE TRIGGER AND HE AIMED THE weapon. “Enough.”

Malone seemed woozy, the boys staring at him.

Ian rubbed his face from the blow.

Fear surged through him. His sweat cast a sweet, musky scent.

One thought filled his brain.

Leave. Now.

“All of you, over there, by the stairs.”

His left eye was swollen from Malone’s fist, his chin, temple, and brow aching. He retreated toward the second doorway, his pounding heart rising against his ribs.

Malone moved slow so he aimed the gun straight at Gary and yelled, “Would you rather I shoot him? Get over there.”

Malone straightened up and stepped back, Ian and Gary joining him.

“You okay?” Malone asked Ian.

“I’ll be fine.”

Gary stepped forward. “Would you shoot me? Your own son?”

No time for sentiment. “Look, we haven’t known each other in fifteen years. No need to start now. So, yes, I would. Now shut the hell up.”

“So this was all about hurting my mom?”

“You were listening outside? Good. So I don’t have to repeat myself.”

Malone laid his hand on Gary’s shoulder and drew him back close, but the boy’s gaze never left Antrim.

Antrim found the exit, a quick glance confirming that the chamber beyond was safe. The darkness was thick, but enough light spilled in for him to see the outline of another exit thirty feet away.

He reached into his pocket and found the detonator.

“Stay right there,” he told Malone.

He backed from the room, keeping the gun trained.

Sixty-two

KATHLEEN AIMED THE GUN STRAIGHT AT THOMAS MATHEWS. Never had she imagined that she would be in a face-off with Britain’s chief spy. But that’s exactly what the past two days had been.

“Give me the key to the door,” she said again.

“And what will you do?”

“Help them.”

He chuckled. “What if they don’t need your help?”

“All of your problems are in there, right? Nice and neat. Tucked away.”

“Good planning and preparation made that result possible.”

But how could Mathews know that all of his problems would be solved? So she asked, “What makes this a sure thing?”

“Ordinarily, I would not answer that. But I’m hoping this will be a learning experience for you. Your Blake Antrim brought percussion explosives with him. The same type used in St. George’s Chapel.”

The dots connected. “Which you want him to detonate.”

He shrugged. “It matters not how it ends. Intentional. Accidental. So long as it ends.”

“And if Antrim makes it out, after blowing everyone else up?”

“He will be killed.”

Now she realized Mathews was stalling, allowing whatever was happening behind the locked door to play out.

That meant time was short.

And those two kids were in there.

“Give me the key.”

He displayed it in his right hand, the one that held the radio.

Then he thrust his arm over the side

of the bridge.

“Don’t do it,” she said.

He dropped the key.

Which disappeared into the torrent.

“We do what we have to do,” he said to her, his face as animated as a death mask. “My country comes first, as I suspect it does with you.”

“Country first means killing children?”

“In this case it does.”

She hated herself for not stopping Ian and Gary sooner. It was her fault they were now behind that locked door. “You’re no different from Antrim.”

“Oh, but I am. Quite different, in fact. I am no traitor.”

“I will shoot you.”

He smiled. “I think not. It’s over, Miss Richards. Let it be.”

She saw his fingers flick a switch on the radio. Surely there were more men nearby, which meant that shortly they would not be alone. She’d heard about moments when a person’s entire existence flashed before them. Those instances when life-changing decisions were either made or avoided. Turning points, some called them. She’d come close several times to such an instant, when her life had been on the line.

But never anything like this.

Sir Thomas Mathews was, in essence, saying that she was too weak to do anything.