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A signal?
What was she up to?
* * *
Stephanie gripped the bedside controls. If she could plunge the room into darkness it might give Danny the moment of advantage needed to wrestle away the gun. The problem came with her not being able to tell him the plan. She hoped her touch on his wrist was enough to let him know that she was about to do something.
Diane Sherwood remained enraged. But her eyes seemed more sad than angry, and really confused.
“Get on your knees,” she told Daniels.
Danny did not move.
“I won’t say it again.”
The command had been deliberately uttered in a low voice, as if challenging him to decline.
“Do it,” Stephanie told him, releasing her grip on his arm.
He glanced down at her and she motioned with her eyes to the right. His gaze followed her lead and he saw the control in her hand. He didn’t know exactly what she intended. But at least he knew she was going to act.
He slowly dropped to his knees.
She was about to kill the lights when she noticed something behind where Diane Sherwood stood.
The latch knob for the door’s lock was slowly turning.
Someone was using a key to gain access.
* * *
Diane finally had Danny Daniels exactly where she wanted him. She stepped close and nestled the gun to his forehead. He stared up at her with not a hint of fear. She’d forced him to his knees, but he was telling her with his eyes that he was not submitting.
Which only enraged her more.
And gave her the courage to pull the trigger.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
Cotton flew close to the forlorn ruins. The church at the crown of the crest commanded rolling acres in every direction that his family had once owned. More had survived of it and the other three ruins than he expected, mostly partial walls supporting sections of clay roofs. Great old trees stood watch close to the foundations. The scene was definitely not as pastoral and complete as the fore-edge painting had depicted, but this was the same place. He was coming in low and close when he saw four people emerge from the church.
Three men.
And a woman.
Cassiopeia.
Thank goodness.
But he immediately noticed that her arms were stretched behind her back, as if her wrists were bound. One of the men disappeared into the trees, while the other two stood near Cassiopeia. He noticed that one was old, the other younger.
The two Breckinridges.
He’d make a pass then find a place to land.
He could do little from up here.
* * *
Cassiopeia assessed the situation and made her choices. Proctor was readying his rifle, his focus on the ultralight that was fast approaching. The old man had removed a pistol, keeping it trained on her, but she noticed that he could not keep his gaze from drifting skyward. Grant stood to her right, unarmed, also studying both Proctor and the aircraft.
Proctor had assumed a position behind one of the thick tree trunks, most likely planning on revealing himself when the ultralight was too close to veer away. That wasn’t a fighter jet up there. Its maneuverability was severely limited, and its speed was a snail’s pace. If that was Cotton, and she believed it to be, she had to do something.
“Stay real still,” the old man said to her, the gun aimed her way.
Right.
Keep dreaming.
The ultralight was a few hundred meters away, coming in low. Proctor dashed from his hiding place to the center of the clearing, knelt, and aimed his rifle. Her right leg swung up and her boot caught the old man square in the chest. He slumped forward and she kicked the gun from his grasp. Not waiting a second, she pivoted and slammed the heel of her right boot into the son’s crotch, doubling him over.
Proctor faced away, which gave her a few moments of freedom.
He started firing.
Rounds spit from the short barrel and headed skyward.
* * *
Cotton saw a fleeting shape, set apart from the landscape. There, then gone. Then back. Among the trees.
A man with a rifle.
He watched as Cassiopeia took out the two men standing beside her.
The rifleman had knelt and aimed skyward.
He heard shots.
Rounds whined by him.
He yanked the control stick and tried to make a quick turn, but he heard something snap as more rounds rocketed past.
* * *
Cassiopeia raced forward and slammed into Proctor.
His firing stopped.
He rolled on the ground and was preparing to pounce, but she was one step ahead of him, hammering her boot into his jaw, sending him back down. She had no time to hang around since it would be impossible to contain these three with her hands behind her back.
So she ran.
And heard overhead the sickening choke of the ultralight’s engine.
* * *
Cotton had zero feel or pressure in the joystick, and moving it in any direction accomplished nothing. The craft’s nose dipped and everything shook from turbulence.
Then, suddenly, control returned.
The engine kept sputtering and he assumed one or more of the rounds had found its mark, so he shut the motor down and used the rudder and aileron to fly on the wind. Apparently the horizontal stabilizer was gone, its cable perhaps snapped. He was flopping in the morning air, trying to find some measure of flight control. Pressing the right rudder pedal yielded no response. Luckily, the left one seemed to be working and he used it to draw the craft closer to the ground. Panic started in his toes and worked its way up his legs, and it took effort to fight it off.
Treetops were fast approaching.
He decided to use them to break his fall. If he was lucky he might be able to skip across a few, then settle down into one.
If not, the end of this flight was definitely going to leave a mark.
* * *
Grant fought the rise of nausea in his throat, vertigo turning his legs to rubber. The bitch had slammed her foot into his crotch and it hurt like hell. He fought the pain and brought himself to his knees. Proctor was recovering, too, beginning to stand, looking around for his rifle.
/> “Go get her,” his father yelled from the ground. “Kill her.”
Proctor found the weapon and ran off.
His father seemed woozy.
Then Grant remembered the gun.
Which Vitt had kicked away.
He searched the dry earth and found it, crawling over and quickly taking hold. He had the Alpha Stone, and though the Heart Stone was gone, images of it had been taken and somehow he’d get his hands on them. And now he knew the starting point. Right here. Diane could figure out the rest. She was plenty smart, and would do anything for him. Sure, he’d broken into the apartment and stolen the key, but that could be explained by using his father as an excuse. Which was actually the truth. What had his father said to him?
“I’m not you. I actually use my brain.”
Not this time, old man.
He aimed the gun.
Comprehension dawned in his father’s eyes. But there was nothing left to be said between them.
So he shot him in the head.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
Danny wondered why Stephanie had delayed acting. He was in a precarious position, one he did not particularly like. The hard end of the gun’s barrel boring into his forehead.
Then he saw the answer past Diane.
The latch for the door lock was turning.
Diane could not see what was happening, but he had a clear view as the door eased open and he saw the face of the Magellan Billet agent from outside.
“Not such a big man now, are you?” Diane said.
The gun barrel nudged his head back.
This was going to be close.
* * *
Stephanie spied the face of her agent and immediately lifted the control above her legs so he could see what she was about to do. Diane Sherwood had no idea that someone had gained access to the room. There was no telling what she might do, and that gun to Danny’s head gave both her and her agent pause.
She sent a message with her eyes.
Finesse this. No power play.
And her agent nodded, signaling that he understood.
A moment of unexpectedness should work.
So she hit the switch.
* * *
Diane could not believe her good fortune. She’d managed to force Danny Daniels right where she wanted him.
