The 14th Colony (Cotton Malone 11)

“I can be. But I also have my charms.”

He kept assessing this woman, who seemed plain in speech and rough in manner. He noticed the running shoes at the end of her strong legs.

“You been joggin’?”

“Out for my daily five miles. When I got back, men were ransacking the house.”

“They picked the wrong place.”

She shrugged. “That’s the way I see it.”

“Any idea who they work for?”

“That’s the whole reason why you’re still breathing. Unlike you, those guys were Russian.”

Now he was curious. “And how would you know that? I can’t imagine they carried little ID cards in Cyrillic.”

“Better. They spoke to one another. I heard them, after I snuck back inside.”

Interesting. No calling the police or simply staying away. This woman moved straight into the fray. “What’s your rank?”

“Lieutenant, junior grade.”

“Okay, Lieutenant, how about you cut me loose.”

She didn’t move. “Why are you here?”

“I need to speak with Larry Begyn.”

“His name is Lawrence.”

“And you would know that because?”

“I’m his daughter. Why do you need to speak with him?”

He debated being coy but decided that would only keep him taped to the chair longer. “He took a call a few hours ago from a man named Peter Hedlund. I need to talk to him about it.”

“On what subject?”

“The 14th Colony. The Society of Cincinnati. The state of world peace. You choose.”

She stepped toward him and used the knife to cut his bindings away. He rubbed his arms and legs to stimulate the circulation. His head remained woozy.

“What did you hit me with?”

She displayed the stainless-steel butt end of the knife. “Works good.”

More of that military training. “That it does.”

She appraised him with coy eyes. “There’s something you need to see.”

He followed her from the kitchen, through the dining room, to a short corridor that led back toward the front of the house. A third body lay on the floor, this one with wounds to both the chest and neck, the mouth frozen agape in death.

She gestured with the knife. “Before that one died, he told me they were looking for a journal. He also mentioned the words 14th Colony. Why do you and these Russians want the same thing?”

An excellent question.

Her voice stayed level and calm, never rising much above room temperature. Everything about her seemed wary and on guard. But she was right. These men had come straight here, which meant the other side knew more than Stephanie thought they did.

“You kill with a great ease,” he said to her.

They stood close in the hall, she making no effort to add space between them.

“They gave me no choice.”

He kept his gaze locked on her but gestured to the corpse. “Did he happen to say exactly what they were looking for?”

“He called it the Tallmadge journal.”

Which meant the Russians were not two steps ahead, more like half a mile. “I need to speak with your father.”

“He’s not here.”

“Take me to him.”

“Why?”

“Because these guys aren’t going away, and unless you plan to slit a lot more throats, I’m going to have to deal with this.”

A wave of uneasy understanding passed between them. She seemed to believe him. And for all her coolness, she had a tenacious air that he liked.

“All right,” she finally said. “I can take you to him.”

“I’m going to have to call in these bodies,” he said. “The Secret Service will handle the cleanup. Nice and quiet. We can’t afford any attention right now.”

“Lucky for me.”

He grinned. “Yeah, I’d say so.”

She turned toward the dining room and kitchen, walking away.

He wanted to know, “Why didn’t you kill me, too?”

She stopped and faced him. “I can still smell that stench of army on you.”

“Spoken like true navy.”

“But I almost didn’t take the chance,” she said.

He couldn’t decide if she was serious or not. That was the thing about her. You just didn’t know.

“Y

ou found out my name,” he said to her. “What’s yours?”

“Susan Begyn. People call me Sue.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Malone caught a ride with the two Maine state troopers. They’d left Eastport and headed back to the mainland across the causeway, then west. Zorin and Kelly were two hours ahead, already on Interstate 95, headed south. The GPS frequency for the rental car was sending real-time data back to the Secret Service, which allowed them to track the car with perfect precision. To be safe, though, a tail on the highway stayed at least two miles back in traffic, impossible for them to see or notice.

“These guys you’re after,” one of the troopers said from the front seat, “they’re not real smart.”

He noticed the statement contained a hook. Who wouldn’t be curious? It wouldn’t be a cop’s nature just to come out and ask. Instead, they liked to fish, throwing out conclusions that invited disagreement in the hope he would volunteer something. But this wasn’t his first rodeo.

So he kept it simple.

“These guys didn’t have much choice. Stealing a car would have been dumb.”

“But stealing a boat? That was okay?”

“No choice there, either. And they only needed it to get to Maine. A couple of hours on the water, at night. Little risk. But snatching a car and driving south? That could be a problem.”

“They never heard of GPS?”

He felt safe in offering, “They’ve both been out of touch for a while.”

And they had.

Last time Zorin was in the field GPS had not even been invented. Kelly probably knew about its capabilities, but neither one of them thought the United States cared about what they were doing. Certainly what happened at Kelly’s house told them someone was interested, but he was betting Zorin had concluded that would be his own countrymen.

Cassiopeia had handled the tail until Bangor, then the Maine state troopers took over in an unmarked car and would stay on them until Massachusetts, then the Secret Service was waiting to assume the task. Where this would end was anybody’s guess, but they had to give Zorin a long leash. Answers would come only from patience. Were there risks? Absolutely. But for the moment they had the situation in hand.