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He found an opening that led down. No stairs, just a hole in the rampart. He gripped the coarse limestone edge and dropped the few feet to another level, protected for the moment.
He freed the backpack from his shoulders.
MALONE SWUNG HIS BODY UPWARD, HIS SOLE BRUSHING THE prickly stone then catching a grip. His target whirled, a gun leading the way. Before the man could level the weapon, Malone fired a shot to the chest. He dropped off the wall and hustled over, gun aimed, ready.
He rolled the body over, the face unfamiliar. He checked for a pulse. None. He retrieved the man’s pistol and pocketed the weapon. A quick frisk revealed spare magazines and a wallet. He pocketed them, too, then grabbed his bearings.
He was atop the fort’s west facade.
Gunfire erupted from the south wall.
KNOX HAD NOT EXPECTED AN ATTACK.
Wyatt had reappeared fifty feet away, on another wall, and started shooting, the bullets arriving around him with precision.
Too precise, considering the darkness.
WYATT HAD COME PREPARED. CARBONELL HAD PROVIDED HIM a pair of night-vision goggles, which allowed him to see Clifford Knox huddled within the rubble. Unfortunately, his target had not ventured far enough from his cover for a kill shot. He caught movement atop another wall and heard a shot. He quickly scanned the battlements and spotted an armed man frisking another who lay prone. Size, shape, and movement confirmed the identity.
Malone.
How could that be?
He returned his attention to his own problem.
“Knox,” he called out. “I know Andrea Carbonell provided you this location. She’s the only person who could have. She wants you to kill me, right?”
KNOX LISTENED TO THE QUESTION AND REALIZED THAT HIS SITUATION was bad. He’d lost one man for sure and could not raise the other on the radio. More gunfire from other parts of the fort signaled trouble. This easy kill had turned into anything but. He hadn’t risked everything just to die in this godforsaken place for Quentin Hale or any of the other captains.
“There’s another man here,” Wyatt called out. “It’s Cotton Malone. And he’s not your friend.”
MALONE LISTENED TO THE EXCHANGE. TYPICAL WYATT.
Grandiose.
One thing was certain-he wasn’t going to enter the conversation.
Not yet anyway.
WYATT SMILED. “NO, I GUESS MALONE IS NOT GOING TO SHOW himself. Knox, I want you to know that I don’t have any beef with you.”
“I do with you.”
“That stupid assassination attempt? You should thank me for stopping it. Carbonell set us both up here. So I’m going to give you a chance to leave. I want you to take a message to Quentin Hale. Tell him I plan to get what he wants and he can have it. Of course, it will cost, but it’s not a price he can’t afford. Tell him I’ll be in touch.”
He waited for a reply.
“She said you wouldn’t bring those pages back to her,” Knox yelled.
“That all depended on her keeping her word. Which she didn’t. So she called on you and hoped you’d kill me for her. It’s two against one, Knox. Cotton Malone wants those pages, too. They’ll be of no use to you if he finds them. He works only for God and country.”
“And you’ll be the one to find them?”
“Malone and I have some unfinished business. Once it’s completed, I’ll get what you want.”
“And if I stay?”
“Then you’re going to die. Guaranteed. One of us will get you.”
KNOX WEIGHED HIS OPTIONS. HE WAS ALONE WITH TWO PURSUERS. One appeared to be friendly, the other unknown.
Who was this Cotton Malone?
And the crew.
There’d been casualties.
Not something that happened often.
It had been years since they’d lost anyone. He’d come here because it seemed the only play. Hale was happy, the other three captains were content. Carbonell had provided the information, seemingly wanting Knox to be here.
But enough was enough.
He was risking his life for nothing.
“I’m leaving,” he called out.
MALONE CROUCHED LOW AND STUDIED THE BLACKNESS. THE nearest light source was miles away on a neighboring island. The surf continued its relentless attack on the rock below. Wyatt was out there, waiting. It was impossible to go after the third man. Knox. Wyatt would be ready for that.
Just sit tight.
“Okay, Malone,” Wyatt called out. “Obviously you’re privy to the same information I am. One of us is going to win this fight. Time to find out who.”
SIXTY-FOUR
BATH, NORTH CAROLINA
A GALE POUNDED THE DECK, STRONG ENOUGH TO SHIFT THE CANNONS. HE
held the wheel tight, keeping the bow pointed northeast. He was running at the edge of the sand that extended from shore, a narrow gap that required a tight course. Close-reefed topsails billowed outward, driving them along.
A ship appeared.
On a parallel course, its masts thrusting dangerously close to his sails. What was it doing here? They’d dodged it for most of the day, and he’d hoped the storm would be his shield.
He sounded the alarm.
The tumult increased as crewmen flooded out from below into the squall. Danger was quickly realized and weapons were burnished, ready for an attack. Men who found their cannons waited for no order and poured the newcomer’s broadside with salvos. He kept the helm steady, proud of his ship, which belonged to the house of Hale, in North Carolina.
It would not be taken or sunk from under him.
A fresh wind tested the rudder.
He fought for control.
Men were swinging across from the other ship, boarding his. Pirates. Like him. And he knew where they came from. The house of Bolton. It, too, of North Carolina. Come for a fight on the open sea, during a squall, when his guard would be down.
Or so they thought.
This kind of attack was foolhardy. It violated every principle under which they lived. But Boltons were fools, and always had been.
“Quentin.”
His name on the wind.
A female voice.
More men appeared on deck, armed with swords. One leaped through the air and landed a few feet away.
A woman.
Strikingly beautiful, her hair blond, skin pale, eyes alight with interest.
She sprang upon him and tore away his grip on the wheel. The ship slipped from its course, and he felt ungoverned motion.
“Quentin. Quentin.”
Hale opened his eyes.
He lay in his bedroom.
A storm raged outside. Rain assaulted the windows, and a howling wind molested the trees.
Now he remembered.
He and Shirley Kaiser had retreated here on the promise of some special garments she’d brought.
And special they had been.
Lavender lace, draping her petite frame, sheer enough to fully distract his attention for a little while. She’d come to his bed and undressed him. After nearly an hour of fun he’d dozed off, satisfied, glad she’d appeared without an invitation. She was just what he’d needed after dealing with the other three captains.
“Quentin.”
He blinked sleep from his eyes and focused on the familiar coffered ceiling of his bedroom, its wood from the hull of an 18th-century sloop that had once plied the Pamlico. He felt the comfort of fine sheets and the firmness of his king-sized mattress. His bed was a four-poster, stout and tall, requiring a stool for ingress and egress. He’d twisted his ankle once years ago when he stepped off too quick.
“Quentin.”
Shirley’s voice.
Of course. She was here, in the bed. Perhaps she was ready for more? That would be okay. He was ready, too.
He rolled over.
She stared at him with an expression not broken by a smile or desire. Instead, the eyes were hard and angry.
Then he saw the gun.
Its bar
rel only inches from his face.
CASSIOPEIA WATCHED AS THE RESCUE VEHICLE REMOVED THE wounded burglar. The remaining intruder, the one she’d taken down with a swipe of her gun, remained in custody, using an ice pack to nurse a lump the size of an egg. No identification had been found on either one, and neither was talking.
“Every minute we’re stalled,” Danny Daniels had said, “is another minute Stephanie stays in trouble.”
He stood at the door leading out of the Blue Room.
“I know the symptoms, Mr. President. Caring for someone is hell.”
He seemed to understand. “You and Cotton?”
She nodded. “It’s both good and bad. Like right now. Is he okay? Does he need help? I didn’t have that problem until a few months ago.”
“I’ve been alone a long time,” Daniels said.
His somber tone made clear he regretted every moment.
