The 14th Colony (Cotton Malone 11)

Spears of light appeared in the hallway fifty feet ahead.

He crept forward, using the commotion from the far room as cover for his steps. Anya Petrova seemed unconcerned about attracting attention. She most likely assumed that there was nobody around for miles. And normally she’d be right.

He came to the open doorway where the light leaked out into the hall. Carefully, he peered around the jamb and saw what was once a large paneled study, one wall floor-to-ceiling with bookcases, the empty shelves collapsed and lying askew. He caught a glimpse of the ceiling overhead. Coffered with plastered decorations. No furniture. Anya seemed focused on the far wall, where she was gouging a hole in the wood paneling. And not subtly, either. She clearly knew how to use the ax. Her flashlight lay on the floor, splashing enough illumination for her to judge the progress.

His assignment was to watch, not engage.

“Don’t get made.”

She kept pounding, hacking away chucks of wood until a hole appeared. He noticed that the wall was an interior one, the space being opened up beyond it hollow. She used her right boot to splinter more wood, completing her incision and inspecting the area past the opening with her flashlight.

She laid the ax down.

Then she disappeared through the gash.

CHAPTER FOUR

GIVORS, FRANCE

8:50 A.M.

Cassiopeia Vitt realized too late that something wasn’t right. Two days ago her quarrymen had bored a series of holes into the limestone, not with modern drills and concrete bits, but the way it had been done 800 years ago. A long, metal, star-shaped chisel, the bit as thick as a man’s thumb, had been pounded into the rock, then turned and pounded again, the process repeated over and over until a neat tunnel penetrated several inches deep. The holes had been spaced a full hand apart, ten meters across the entire cliff face. No rulers had been used. As in olden times a long rope with knots had served that purpose. Each cavity had then been filled with water, capped, and allowed to freeze. If it had been summer they would have been packed with wet wood or split with metal wedges. Thankfully, the temperature had plummeted enough that Mother Nature could offer a helping hand.

The quarry sat three kilometers from her French estate. For nearly a decade she’d been hard at work trying to build a castle using only tools, materials, and techniques available in the 13th century. The site she’d purchased had first been occupied by the only canonized king of France, Louis IX. It contained not only the castle ruins but also a 16th-century château that she’d remodeled into her home. She’d named the property Royal Champagne, after one of Louis XV’s cavalry regiments.

A mason tower was once the symbol of a nobleman’s power, and the castle that stood at Givors had been designed as a military fortress with curtain walls, a moat, corner posts, and a large keep. Razed nearly three hundred years ago, its resurrection had become her life’s mission. And just as in medieval times, the surrounding environs still provided an abundance of water, stone, earth, sand, and wood—everything needed for construction. Quarrymen, hewers, masons, carpenters, blacksmiths, and potters, all on her payroll, labored six days a week, living and dressing exactly as they would have eight centuries ago. The site was open to the public and admission fees helped defray costs, but most of the work had been funded from her own extensive resources, with a current estimate of another twenty years needed to complete.

The quarrymen examined the holes, the water inside frozen solid, expansion cracks radiating outward signaling all was ready. The cliff face towered many meters, the rock face bare with few cracks, crevices, or protrusions. Months ago they’d extracted all of the usable material at or near ground level, now they were twenty meters up, atop scaffolding built of wood and rope. Three men with mallets began pounding chase masses. The impact tools looked like hammers, but one side was forged into two sharp edges joined by a concave curve. That side was nestled to the rock, then struck with a hammer to expose a seam. By moving the chase masse along that seam, striking over and over, shock waves pulsated through the rock causing splits along natural fissures. A tedious process, for sure, but it worked.

She stood and watched as the men kept maneuvering the chase masses, metal-to-metal clashing in an almost lyrical beat. A series of long cracks indicated that enough fissures had fractured.

“It’s about to break,” one of the quarrymen warned.

Which was the signal for the others to stop.

They all stood silent and studied the cliff face that rose another twenty meters above them. Tests had shown that this gray-white stone came loaded with magnesium, which made it extra-hard, perfect for building. Below them a horse-drawn cart stuffed with hay waited to take the man-sized chucks—those one person could lift on his own—straight back to the construction site. The hay acted as natural padding to minimize chipping. Larger pieces would be hewn here, then transported. This was ground zero for her entire endeavor.

She watched as the cracks increased in length and frequency, gravity now their ally. Finally, a slab the size of a Mercedes broke free and dropped from the rock face, crashing to the ground below. The men seemed pleased with their effort. So was she. Many stone blocks could be extracted from that prize. A gaping indentation remained in the cliff, their first excavation at this level. They’d now move left and right and drop more of the limestone before raising the scaffolding higher. She liked to watch her people at work, all of them dressed as men would have been long ago, the only exception being that the coats and gloves were modern. As were hard hats and safety goggles, accommodations her insurer had insisted upon and that history would have to forgive.

“Good job, everyone,” the foreman said.

And she nodded her agreement.

The men started shimmying down the wood supports. She lingered a moment and admired the quarry. Most of the workers had been with her for years. She paid good wages, year-round, and included room and board. French universities provided a steady supply of interns, all anxious to be part of such an innovative project. During the summer she employed seasonal help but here, in the dead of winter, only the hardcores kept at it. She’d reserved today to be at the construction site, starting with this extraction. Three of the four curtain walls were nearly complete and the stone just acquired would go a long way toward finishing the fourth.

She heard a crack.

Followed by another.

Not unusual since they’d affected the cliff’s integrity.

She turned back toward the rock face. Another series of snaps and

pops from above drew her attention.

“Get everybody away,” she screamed to the workers below. “Now. Go.”

She waved her arms signaling for them to flee the scaffolding. She wasn’t sure what was happening, but caution seemed the right course. The breaks came louder and quicker, like rounds from a distant automatic weapon, a sound she knew all too well. She needed to go and turned for the far side of the platform where it was easier to climb down. But a limestone chuck split from the cliff face and crashed into the top-level planks. The wooden scaffolding pulsated beneath her feet. There was nothing for her to hold on to and balancing was tricky, so she dropped to the cold wood and clung to the edges until the rocking subsided. The tower holding her aloft seemed to have survived the assault, its rope bindings able to give and take. Voices from below asked if she was all right.

She came to her knees and glanced over the side. “I’m okay.”

She stood and shook off the dirt and dust.

“We’re going to need to examine the scaffolding,” she yelled down. “That was a hard hit.”

A new pop drew her attention.

She glanced up and knew what was happening. Rock from above where they’d just extracted was freeing itself along a sedimentary layer, gravity now becoming their enemy and exploiting every weak point. For all its seeming invincibility stone could be as finicky as wood.

Two cracking explosions shook the rock wall.

Dust and scree rained down from overhead and fouled the air. Another boulder-sized piece fell and just missed the scaffolding. She could not flee ahead, as that would lead her directly into the problem. So she turned and rushed toward the other end of the platform. Behind her, more limestone found the planks and obliterated part of the supports.

She saw that all of the workers had fled out of harm’s way.

Only she remained.

Another huge piece slammed into the exposed wooden beams. In an instant she’d have nothing to stand on. She glanced down and spotted the hay cart, still in place, ten meters below. The pile looked sufficient but there was no way to know for sure.