The Jefferson Key (Cotton Malone 7)
NOVA SCOTIA
WYATT WAITED FOR ANDREA CARBONELL TO PROCESS HIS DEFIANT stand. The face displaying the fifth symbol was only a few feet above his head. Wide mortar lines outlined the stone’s odd shape. The builders of this foundation chamber had used many irregular stones, carefully fitting them into place with mortar. It wouldn’t take much to break this one away-a hammer and chisel, or maybe a crowbar.
“What do you plan to do?” she asked him, a gun still in her hand.
“Is your entire life one scheme after another?” He truly wanted to know.
“My life is about survival. As is yours, Jonathan.”
“You’ve manipulated yourself all the way to this point. People have died. Do you care? Even a little?”
“I do what I have to do. Again, just like you.”
He resented the equating of herself to him. He was a lot of things, but he was not like her in anyway. He held the light down, the beam illuminating the rising seawater. He noted that the lowermost chutes were now submerged.
“What are you waiting for?” she asked.
“Our guest to arrive.”
“Did you hear them, too?” she asked.
He caught the plural them. “That’s not your men coming. I killed them both.”
She raised her gun.
He switched off the flashlight, plunging the chamber into total darkness.
A loud retort echoed off the stones, which pounded his eardrums.
Then another.
He’d shifted position, assuming she would fire at where he’d been the moment darkness arrived.
“Jonathan, this is madness,” she said through the blackness. “Why don’t we just make a deal? One or both of us is going to get hurt.”
He said nothing. Silence was now his weapon.
More cold water surged into the chamber, announcing itself with a roar. He rested on his knees, the unlit flashlight held above the surface, waiting.
Carbonell kept quiet, too.
She was no more than ten feet away, but with water gushing about them and the complete lack of light, her locating him was impossible.
Luckily, the reverse was not the case.
CASSIOPEIA AND STEPHANIE HELPED SHIRLEY KAISER OUT OF the pickup truck and onto the dock. She remained a little stunned, her hand bandaged tight.
“Damn, that hurts,” Shirley muttered.
“Hang in there,” Stephanie whispered. “There’s help on the way.”
Cassiopeia hoped that was true. Edwin Davis had to be suspicious. She saw that Adventure was now lit with activity. Hale was true to his word. They were going for a sail. She noticed fog, but also the fact that out on the river, higher in the sky, the ground mist dissipated, stars winking in and out from a misty veil.
“I’ll be all right,” Shirley said.
Hale stood six meters away near the gangway.
“You think you can kill all three of us and no one will notice,” Cassiopeia called out.
He walked closer. “I doubt anyone will raise much of a stink. That failed rescue attempt gives me bargaining power. I would say myriad laws were violated with that nonsense. Once our letters of marque are fortified, we’ll be fine. Danny Daniels doesn’t want a public fight on any of this.”
“You might be wrong,” Stephanie said.
And Cassiopeia agreed, recalling the fortitude with which Daniels had urged both she and Cotton to find Stephanie. He could well do whatever was required and damn the consequences. Hale was underestimating the president. As Daniels had told her, his political career was about over.
Which provided a lot of room to maneuver.
“Get them on board,” Hale said to his men.
MALONE FINISHED HIS CLIMB AND SLIPPED ONTO THE YACHT’S bow deck unnoticed. He’d almost lost his grip twice on the slippery chain.
He found his gun and readied himself.
Decks wrapped a path on either side of a forward cabin, its mirrored windows lit from behind, the angled front softened by rounded, tapered sides. He saw no one past the windows, but kept low.
He heard a commotion from shore.
Investigating that could prove tricky, as someone might come forward along the deck. But he decided to take the chance. He stayed low and crept to the rail. Through the darkness and mist he spotted men boarding the ship along with three women, two of them helping a third. An older man stood on the dock, watching, then followed them on board.
Cassiopeia and Stephanie he recognized.
The third had to be Shirley Kaiser.
He found his cellphone and hit a speed dial button. Davis immediately answered.
“The sloop’s leaving,” he whispered. “We’re all on board. Time to bring in the troops.”
Literally. They’d talked about that before he left the south shore.
“I’ll handle it. What are you going to do?”
“Whatever I have to.”
HALE STEPPED ABOARD ADVENTURE, IMAGINING HIMSELF AS ONE of those daring men from three hundred years ago, challenging anything and everything, caring only what his men thought of him. His had to be proud of him tonight. He’d stood with them toe-to-toe. Now he would stand toe-to-toe with Andrea Carbonell to finish what she’d started. He hoped Knox would be successful in killing her and he hoped the two missing pages had been found. He’d gladly pay whatever Jonathan Wyatt wanted. Hell, he might even hire him permanently.
“Ready to sail,” he hollered. “Cast the lines and raise anchor.”
He would personally captain this voyage.
He listened to the purr of the two 1800 horsepower, Deutz engines. State of the art. Both barely made a sound, with little to no vibration. No generators roared, either. Instead, a bank of lithium polymer batteries provided power. The DynaRig’s sails were stored safely within the yards, awaiting the command from one of twenty onboard computers to unfurl and catch the wind. That would happen closer to the Oracoke Inlet, where the Atlantic waited.
He noticed that his three prisoners were being led into the main salon.
“Oh, no,” he yelled. “Have our guests wait on the aft deck, by the pool. I have a special surprise for them.”
WYATT RE-DONNED THE NIGHT-VISION GOGGLES THAT HE’D brought in his backpack. Carbonell stood a few feet away, smart enough to crouch down, her head surveying the darkness, her eyes of no help. Instead she was probably listening for any change in the pitch or tone of the water rising around her.
He glanced down.
Water lapped his thighs.
The real shift would come when the six-foot-high chutes filled from their grottoes. Which gave him maybe half an hour.
Movement disturbed the otherwise stable background.
A man appeared from around one of the corners. He held an unlit flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other.
Clifford Knox.
Welcome.
And here’s a gift.
He switched on his flashlight and tossed it straight toward a huddled Andrea Carbonell.
EIGHTY-TWO
MALONE RETREATED DOWN INTO A FORWARD HOLD THAT opened at the bow. Two tenders, maybe thirty-footers, were lashed to the deck on either side of the hatch. He had to admire the gigantic steel-hulled sloop, a sleek tower of smooth lines, everything perfectly ae
rodynamic. And tall. Fifty feet off the water, with another thirty or so on top of that in cabins and deck. Its three masts were close to two hundred feet high. Clearly, a masterpiece of technology and design.
The yacht moved.
Interesting how the engines could barely be heard. One second they were stationary, the next off they went. He glanced out past the hatch. Fog draped the deck in a protective shield.
He fled the hold and found a doorway that opened inside the upper cabins.
The companionway led aft, casting a feeling of height and depth from a bulkhead lined with lighting that reminded him of a row of clerestory windows. A scent of magnolia and green tea came from sprayers near the ceiling. The corridor ended midship where three decks united at a circular stairway that wrapped the main mast. Above, transparent floors allowed light to stream down during the day. He noted the splendid mixture of stainless steel, glass, fine woods, and stone.
Movement from above caught his attention.
He ducked into a doorway that led into a gym. No lights burned inside. He kept close to the wall and watched as two men descended the circular stairway at a brisk pace. They did not stop, but kept going down to the bottom level.
He’d heard Hale.
The aft deck.
That’s where Cassiopeia and the others were waiting.
HALE STEPPED ONTO THE AFT DECK. HERE WAS WHERE HE’D dealt with his traitorous accountant and here was where he would deal with these three problems. He’d said he had a special surprise for them and, under the watchful eye of two armed guards, they were already examining it as he approached.
“It’s called a gibbet,” he told them. “Made of iron and shaped to the human body.”
He felt the engines kicked up. Adventure could do twenty knots, and he’d ordered maximum speed. At nearly twenty-five miles per hour they would soon be offshore.
“Good men were once encased inside these,” he said, “then hung from a pole and left to die. A horrible form of punishment.”
“Like making someone eat their own ear?” Vitt asked him.
He smiled. “In the same vein, except these were used on us by our pursuers.”
He motioned and two of his crew grabbed Vitt by the arms. She started to resist, but he raised a warning finger and said, “Be a good girl.”