its pine walls, sash windows, and glazed cupola, served as a meeting hall that all four families utilized. The sixteen members of Adventure’s crew had been roused from their beds, including the yacht’s captain. Most lived within half an hour of the estate on land bought by their families generations ago. He could not fathom that any one of them would betray their heritage.
But apparently someone had.
All sixteen men standing before him had signed the current Articles, pledging their loyalty and obedience in return for a specified portion of the Commonwealth’s plunder. Granted, their respective percentages were small, but combined with health insurance, workers’ compensation, and disability pay, theirs was a comfortable living.
He caught the uncertain looks on their faces. Though it wasn’t unusual for things to happen in the middle of the night, it was definitely unusual for events to involve the entire complement on land.
“We have a problem,” he told them.
He watched the faces, assessing them, recalling the four who’d lifted the gibbet and tossed his screaming accountant into the ocean.
“One of you is a traitor.”
He knew those words would grab their attention.
“Today we all were involved on a mission, one that was of great concern to the entire company. A traitor died, and one of you breached the silence we all pledged to maintain.”
None of the sixteen said a word. They knew better. The captain spoke until he said he was ready to listen.
“It saddens me to think that one of you betrayed us.”
And that was how he viewed his world. Us. A grand society, built on loyalty and success. Long ago pirate ships learned to strike with speed, skill, and urgency, the crews functioning as tight, cohesive units. Laziness, incompetence, disloyalty, and cowardice were never tolerated since those endangered everyone. His father had taught him that the best plans were simple, easy to understand, and flexible enough to deal with any contingency.
And he was right.
He paced the floor.
Captains must always be bold and daring tacticians. Crews intentionally elected them in defiance of a naval tradition that bestowed leadership regardless of competency.
But captains today were not elected.
Heredity accounted for their ascendency. He often imagined himself at the helm of one of those long-ago ships, stalking prey, following at a safe distance for days, all the while determining strengths and weaknesses. If the target proved a powerful man-of-war, he could veer away and seek weaker prey. If she seemed vulnerable they could take her either by surprise or by frontal attack.
Choices.
All born through patience.
Which he intended to exercise here tonight.
“None of you will leave this room until I find the traitor. When morning breaks your bank accounts will be examined, your houses searched, your phone records obtained. You will sign whatever releases are needed, or grant whatever permissions required-”
“That won’t be necessary.”
He was taken aback by the interruption until he realized the voice belonged to Clifford Knox, who’d entered the room.
Quartermasters were not bound by the same rules of silence.
“I know who the traitor is.”
THIRTY-FOUR
MALONE DOVE INTO THE OFFICE SIX FEET AWAY. THE BULLET fired his way thudded into drywall. More slugs cracked and hummed through the air. He readied his gun and scampered for the desk. But all he heard was the click of a door closing from out in the hall.
The man had left.
An explosion rattled the windows, followed by a flickering glow that signaled something was burning outside.
He approached the glass, keeping low, alternating his attention between the doorway behind him and a flaming car below. Across the hall, in another office, he caught a spray of light across more windows. He quickly made his way there and spotted a man leaping into a car in the front parking lot, then speeding away. He should leave, too, and fast. Though this facility was in the countryside, somebody may have heard the gunfire or the explosion and called the police.
But first…
He hustled back into Voccio’s office and noticed that the three computer screens still burned. He squinted at the glare off the first machine and caught a break.
The displayed file explained the solution to the Jefferson cipher.
Voccio had apparently left in a hurry.
He closed the file, found the machine’s email program, attached the document to a message, and forwarded it to himself. He then deleted the message and file from the machine.
No great security measure, but enough to buy him time.
He stared past the black square of night framed by the window.
The car still burned.
Needles of rain clawed the glass. To his right, a hundred yards away from the flaming chaos, he spotted a dark figure.
Running.
Away.
WYATT DECIDED THAT A PROPITIOUS RETREAT SEEMED THE BEST option. Voccio was dead. He’d told the frightened idiot to stick with him, and if he’d done that the man would still be alive.
So he shouldn’t feel bad. Yet he did.
He kept running.
Carbonell had lured him here with a double fee, wanting him not to escape. Those men were hers.
They needed to chat.
On his terms.
And he knew exactly how to do that.
KNOX ENTERED THE HALL AND STARED AT ADVENTURE’S CREW. Quentin Hale stood silent, clearly waiting to see what his quartermaster had to say.
“Captain Hale, when we spoke earlier I could not say all that I knew since we were on an open phone line.”
He was practicing, to the max, one of the strategies his father had taught him. Always have a plan. Contrary to popular myth, buccaneers never attacked anything blind. Whether their target be on land or sea, to ensure success an advance party would first reconnoiter. The preferred time for any assault was dawn, or a Sunday, or a holy festival, or, as here, late at night, the element of surprise used to prevent escapes and to overwhelm resistance.
“Periodically, I run checks,” he said. “Looking for anything out of the ordinary. Big purchases. Unusual lifestyle. Trouble at home. It’s strange, but a woman can drive a man to do crazy things.”
He allowed the last sentence to linger and watched the yacht’s crew. He was careful to keep his gaze roving, from one man to the next, never settling in one place.
Not yet, anyway.
