him to succeed. I can see it in your eyes.”
“Maybe I just want you to fail.”
“Go to Monticello. Get what we both want. What you do with Malone is your business. What you and I do is between us. I’m betting you can keep those two separate. You need me. That’s why I’m still alive.”
She was right.
The only reason.
“Get that wheel,” she said.
“Why don’t you get it yourself?”
“As I told you in New York, I prefer to owe only you.”
That meant she was nearing the end of whatever she’d planned. Involving any of her agents would only require more cleanup.
“You actually wanted Scott Parrott dead, didn’t you?”
“If he’d done his job, he wouldn’t be dead.”
“He never had a chance.”
“Unlike those three agents you ordered in after banging Malone in the head with a gun? They had a chance, right?”
The fingers in his right hand tensed into a fist, but he caught himself. That was exactly the reaction she wanted.
“Get the wheel, Jonathan. Then we’ll talk.”
MALONE SPUN AND KICKED ONE OF THE RICHMOND CITY COPS in the shin. He then planted a right cross to another and kneed the third in the gut.
All three went down.
The sound of a motorcycle roaring into the lobby had provided the few moments of distraction he’d needed to act.
Cassiopeia raced toward him across the marble floor. She slowed enough for him to hop onto the saddle, then gunned the engine, turning left, heading for the staircase fifty feet away. He wrapped one arm around her midsection while the other hand found his gun. He turned back to see the cops coming to their feet and unholstering weapons.
The cycle slowed as the staircase approached.
Risers descended in three long, straight flights, maybe a hundred feet from top to bottom, two wide landings in between.
This was the part he hadn’t been looking forward to.
“Here we go,” she said.
He aimed and fired a shot over the cops’ heads.
They plunged to the floor, scrambling to use Jefferson’s statue as cover.
CASSIOPEIA HAD NEVER ACTUALLY DRIVEN A MOTORCYCLE down a staircase. A carpet runner lining the stone risers should help with traction, but it was going to be a bumpy ride.
She downshifted to second and plunged forward.
The suspension bucked as she and Malone fought for balance. She worked the handlebars, keeping them stable. She knew this machine. A low center of gravity made it easy to handle. European police had successfully utilized them for years. An earlier model was parked in her French chateau’s garage. Familiarity was exactly why she’d chosen it for the trip to Fredericksburg, as opposed to one of the Secret Service cars.
Cotton was holding her tight, her grip on the handlebars equally firm.
They found the first landing.
She added a quick burst of speed, then a nudge of the disk brakes, before dropping down more stairs. At the second landing the front end twisted hard left. She immediately yanked the handlebars right, the front wheel slamming into the final set of risers as gravity kept sending them toward the floor below.
“Company,” she heard him say.
Then a shot.
From Cotton.
A few more bumpy meters and they found a smooth surface.
She revved the engine and they sped ahead, threading a path across rugs through chairs and sofas, across the faux-marble hall, beneath the stained-glass ceiling.
People who’d been sitting rushed out of the way.
The exit doors waited thirty meters away.
MALONE WAS SURPRISED THEY’D MADE IT THIS FAR. HE’D GIVEN the whole thing about a 30 percent chance of success. They’d caught the police off guard, and he was glad to see that the way ahead was clear. Behind was their problem. He caught sight of the cops, bounding down the stairway, finding the first landing and readying themselves to shoot. He fired three times at the second set of risers, bullets ricocheting off the marble and scattering the would-be attackers.
He hoped none of the rounds hit anybody.
“Cotton,” he heard Cassiopeia say.
He turned back and stared ahead.
Glass doors, locked as she’d told him until nine AM, blocked their path ahead. Beyond, a bright morning sun signaled freedom.
Forty feet.
“Anytime now,” she said, as they kept racing ahead.
He aimed the gun over her shoulder and fired three times, obliterating a set of glass doors.
Cassiopeia aimed the cycle for the center of the exposed opening.
They roared out onto the sidewalk and she braked.
Both of their feet found pavement.
A busy street ran perpendicular to the hotel.
He checked traffic, spotted a break for a merger, then said, “Get us out of here.”
FORTY-TWO
HALE WAS SATISFIED WITH ALL OF THE PREPARATIONS. THE choice of woodling had certainly surprised Knox, who’d openly hesitated an instant before nodding his consent, then requesting a few extra minutes so the necessary items could be readied. He noticed that the other three captains were anxious. The choice of punishment had been on his motion, but they’d all voted in favor.
“Killing your accountant was foolish,” Surcouf said to him.
“Like this crewman, he disappointed me.”
“You take too many chances,” Cogburn noted. “Far too many.”
“I do what I have to do in order to survive.”
One captain was not required to explain himself to the others so long as what he did remained personal to him, and the death of his family accountant certainly fell into that category. No different from when captains controlled their own ships, and another captain’s opinion was relevant only when companies grouped together.
Knox caught his attention and signaled that all was ready.
He stepped forward and called out to those assembled in the morning sun, “We each pledged loyalty to the Articles. You have a good life, a good living. Our company works because we work together.” He pointed at the man bound to the pole. “He spit in the face of all that we hold dear, and jeopardized each and every one of you.”
The men stirred.
“Traitors deserve what they get,” he called out.
A clamor arose signifying that they all agreed. A chill crept down his spine. What a feeling, to be in charge. Only the tang of salt air and the sway of a deck was missing.
