The Lost Order (Cotton Malone 12)

What else is going on here?

“The Knights of the Golden Circle respect history,” Weston said. “And though we may be divided at the moment, both sides are interested in the vault. And not just for its wealth. There’s a legend.”

He remained enraged. “Legend? Stephanie Nelle is fighting for her life because of this nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense,” Weston said. “This country was founded by men who stood together, bound by common desires and beliefs. Ideas were important to them. They meant something. And look what they created. The greatest nation on earth, one that has endured going on three centuries. The men who started the Golden Circle were honorable. At least at first. Eventually, though, as what happens with untempered movements, their actions evolved into unrestrained, irrational violence. They got caught up in a war that was unwinnable. The knights who came after the Civil War were more thoughtful, more lawful, more patient. They saw things differently. As the Order faded in the late 19th century, while the vault was being prepared and stocked, it’s said those men left instructions on what they wanted us to do.”

“Marching orders?”

Weston shook his head.

“More a lost order.”

* * *

Cotton stepped out of the Gulfstream to a dark tarmac where deputies from the Taos County Sheriff’s Department informed him that the Breckinridges had landed a little over an hour ago. His watch read 4:50 A.M. The Learjet was in a nearby hanger, the pilots in custody. The Breckinridges themselves had left in another car that had been waiting at the terminal.

“We managed to GPS-tag it,” one of the deputies told him. “We thought you might want to know where it was headed.”

“That is the question of the day.”

“Right now it’s going north, into the Carson National Forest.”

“I need to get ahead of it. Or better yet, above it.”

Which he’d already communicated to Magellan Billet headquarters, as it had been working with the local authorities.

“They told us you were a navy fighter pilot.”

He nodded. “I can fly most anything with wings.”

The deputy smiled. “That’s good, ’cause what we have is definitely unique.”

* * *

Following his father’s instructions, Grant drove the two-laned highway up into the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, entering the Carson National Forest. Twice his father had made a call from the plane. The first had been to obtain information, the second to provide instructions to the person on the other end. Apparently, someone else was headed for the same place.

“Unfortunately, the police have intervened and seized the gold I was shipping out here,” his father said.

“What about my payout?”

“It’s gone.”

“How would the police have known about that gold?”

“My guess is we have you to thank for that. Far too much shooting and killing that drew too much attention.”

“A chip off the old block.”

His father smirked. “Far from it. When we use violence, it’s always with caution. You, on the other hand, don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“I’m not sure what you’re going to do when you don’t have me to blame for your mistakes anymore. How could what I did in DC lead to that gold in a truck on its way here? Seems like you’re the culprit there.”

No reply, and he could almost hear the old man’s mind churning through the possibilities.

“It’s impossible that anyone knows we’re here,” his father said, as if trying to convince himself.

“And why are we here?”

“To retrieve the fifth stone.”

Good. That was just what he needed.

“We will find and destroy it,” his father said.

Or maybe not.

* * *

Cassiopeia was becoming concerned. Her watch had led the police to the gold, but not to her. She was out in the middle of nowhere with a man who had little to no conscience, his intentions regarding her all too clear.

He planned to kill her.

Her hands remained bound behind her back, her arms sore. She was tired, hungry, and thirsty. But she’d been in worse predicaments.

“How about some of that water and crackers,” she said. “On the floorboards.”

“When we stop I’ll feed you,” Proctor said. “It’s close now.”

Dawn seemed not far away.

She’d been brought along as insurance, which apparently Proctor and his allies had thought a good idea, an easy matter to dispose of her in this wilderness. The seizing of the gold truck had surely given them pause. But only she knew that was from her efforts, which meant Cotton, or someone at the Magellan Billet, was on her trail.

Just be patient, she told herself.

And wait for the right opportunity.

* * *

Danny had heard enough.

He was tired, the night weighing on him, and he needed to get back to the hospital.

“What the hell are you talking about? What lost order?”

“You must understand,” Weston said. “We’re talking about the deep passions of dedicated men. For them history was not something in a book. It was alive, part of them. It mattered. For them, to be a knight was to be something of importance. They saw themselves as the means for reshaping the country in a fundamental way. Those passions remain today in the current members. Maybe even more. So for us, it’s important to know what those who came before us have to say.”

He’d had enough. He was done. “Warren, a man is dead at the Smithsonian and Stephanie Nelle is in a coma—”

“Which was all done by a man outside the Order.”

“You brought that dead librarian and Stephanie into a firestorm, without telling either one of them the danger they were facing. You sent Malone into it blind, too.” His voice had risen. “This is not some intellectual exercise. People are dying because of it.”

The room passed into an uncomfortable silence.

“Frank Breckinridge has gone to find the Alpha Stone,” Weston said. “He surely knows about the fore-edge painting, so we have to assume he knows the starting point for finding the vault. Once he obtains that stone, he’ll destroy it and this will all be over. He’ll have exactly what he wants. We won’t have the vault, which means you’ll have what you want. It remains to be seen if Lucius Vance will get what he wants.”

“He won’t.”

He’d heard the surrender in Weston’s voice. Time to leave.

He stood. “I’ll be in touch.”

“I appreciate all that you’re doing here,” Weston said.

One more thing.

“When I was president, you refused to resign, though you should have left the bench a long time ago. I knew that was because you didn’t like me, so why give me the plum appointment of your successor. Okay, I can respect that. It’s your call. You’re the one with the lifetime job. But now I learn you’re the head of a covert organization that wants to change this country. I’ll say this for you, I can’t recall a single decision you’ve made as a justice that reflected your private bias. I’m sure it crept in here and there, but not enough for me, or anyone else, to notice. Again, that’s your call. All judges have biases, some more than others. Now that I know yours, though, I’ll give you thirty days to resign. On the thirty-first day, if you’re still there, I go public. Sure, I might sound crazy, but that’s not unusual for me. I assure you, it’ll be enough noise that you’ll be asked a lot of uncomfortable questions. So do yourself a favor and leave gracefully.”

He headed for the door.

“What are you going to do right now?” Weston asked.

“End this.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

WASHINGTON, DC

7:25 A.M.

Diane reentered Alex’s apartment building. She’d stewed over everything that had happened and decided few options remained. Yesterday, she and Grant had searched the place, finding n

othing that related to them or to what Vance was planning. But none of that mattered any longer. Exposure was no longer a problem.

Instead, revenge had taken hold.

She climbed the stairs, defeated.

Always before she’d been ready with her next move, calculating every angle before acting. She prided herself on deliberateness. Never had she pursued an uncalculated route. Even when she killed Alex, she’d sat in the quiet of their home and debated the pros and cons, deciding that she had no choice. Interesting how murder had become so easy an option. She supposed that desperation accounted for most of its attractiveness, along with a nothing-to-lose mentality.

And that was exactly where she found herself now.

She came to the right floor and walked down the corridor. The door to Alex’s apartment hung half open and she could hear someone inside.

Like yesterday, with Danny Daniels.

She burst in and saw a woman. About her age. Curvy. Dark hair. Glasses. Attractive.

A stranger.

Then she knew. “You were my husband’s mistress.”

The woman had been tidying up, but stopped and faced her. “Mrs. Sherwood. I apologize for—”

She moved farther into the room and took advantage of the other woman’s shock. “I assume that since you did not deny my allegation, that you were Alex’s lover.”

The other woman seemed to steel herself. “That, I was not. But we were in love.”

“Do you have a name?”

No reply came.

“Come now, don’t I at least deserve to know who you are?”

“Taisley Forsberg.”

“You live nearby?”

“Across the hall.”