“And have not, as yet, provided it to us,” Bolton said. “Some friend.”
“What effect has that traitor had on your dealings with NIA?” Surcouf wanted to know. “Why would they need a spy among us?”
That was the first good question he’d heard. And the answer remained unclear, except that “The NIA director wants Stephanie Nelle dead-”
“Why?” Cogburn asked.
“There’s something personal there. She did not explain, only that Nelle was investigating both her and us. It was to our advantage to stop that. She asked me to do it, so I obliged. That is what friends do for each other.”
“Why the need for the spy if she had you?” Surcouf asked.
“Because he’s a liar, a thief, and a murderer,” Bolton spat out. “A stinking, crooked pirate who can’t be trusted. His great-great-granddaddy would be proud.”
His spine stiffened. “I have had enough of your insults, Edward. I challenge you. Here and now.”
Which was his right.
Whenever ships in the past joined for a common purpose, the possibility of conflict had been great. By their nature captains were independent-mindful of their own crew, uncaring about anyone else’s. But civil wars were deemed counterproductive. The idea was to loot merchant shipping, not fight among themselves. And never were disputes settled at sea, as crews rarely chanced their own lives or damage to the ship over a silly quarrel.
So another way evolved.
The challenge.
A drama in which the captains could show their courage while at the same time not endangering anyone or anything, besides themselves.
A simple test of guts.
Bolton stood silent and stared.
“Typical,” Hale said. “You have no stomach for a fight.”
“I accept your challenge.”
Hale turned to Knox.
“Prepare it.”
MALONE HEARD THE SHOT AND DOVE TO THE FLOOR, SCRAMBLING beneath a table surrounded by chairs.
Glass doors six feet away shattered.
More shots came his way, keeping him close to the floor.
CASSIOPEIA DECIDED TO ATTACK. SHE FIRED ONCE, TWICE, THEN a third time, taking no chances, advancing toward the source of movement.
MALONE KEPT HIS HEAD DOWN AND WAITED FOR THE SHOOTING to stop. He was going to take Wyatt out, but he needed to make his one move count. He lay flat on the floor beneath the table and gripped the gun, readying himself.
Through the smoke, a shadow came his way.
From the entrance hall, toward the parlor.
He waited for the target to grow larger.
Then he’d take Wyatt down with some well-placed shots.
WYATT FOUND THE CELLAR, PLEASED TO SEE THAT NO STAFF OCcupied the small office at the base of the stairway. A series of brick-lined rooms formed both the house’s foundation and subterranean storage. They lined a long passage that stretched the building’s length, lit by incandescent fixtures springing from the rough stone walls. He recalled from the exhibits at the visitor center that the rooms served as food, beer, and wine cellars. He stared at the end of the north passage, maybe seventy-five feet away, which opened out into the morning sun.
All clear.
He rushed ahead.
He knew that behind him were what Jefferson had called the dependencies. The south set held the kitchen, smokehouse, dairy, and some slave quarters. Here, on the north side, were the carriage house, stables, and ice cellar. He came to the passage end and hesitated near a door identified as the north privy.
Good placement, he thought. Ground level, outside the walls, private.
He found his cellphone and hit SEND for the message he’d prepared earlier.
READY FOR PICKUP. NORTH SIDE.
That had been the plan.
If anything had changed, so would have the message.
He’d known from the start that getting into Monticello would be easy. Getting out? An entirely different matter. That was why he’d accepted help from Andrea Carbonell.
He fled the north dependency and crossed the asphalt road. His location, on the far side from the main entrance, among trees and shrubs, provided ample cover. A check on Google Maps earlier had revealed an open field about a hundred yards northeast of the house.
A perfect landing spot.
He heard three shots from inside the house and smiled.
With any luck, the woman would shoot Malone for him.
CASSIOPEIA KNEW SOMEONE WAS IN THE NEXT ROOM. SHE’D caught movement before her barrage, but had not seen any other disturbances through the fog. She was still concerned about Cotton.
Where was he?
Who had shot at her?
A hallway opened to her right where less smoke had collected. She spotted the base of a stairway.
Whoever was in the next room knew she was here.
But they were lying low. Waiting.
For her.
MALONE AIMED AT THE BLACK SMUDGE DRIFTING ACROSS THE smoke.
Just a few more feet and he’d have a clean shot. He didn’t want to miss. He’d tried to draw Wyatt in upstairs. That effort failed.
Now he had him.
He held his breath, finger tightened on the trigger.
One.
Two.
CASSIOPEIA HAD ADVANCED TOO FAR.
She was exposed, and knew it.
She darted right, used the hallway for protection, then called out, “Cotton, where are you?”
He lowered his gun.
“In here,” he said.
“Better for you to come out here,” she called out.
He came to his feet and stepped from the parlor. Cassiopeia appeared from the smoke to his left.
“That was close,” he said.
He saw in her eyes that she agreed.
“What happened in here?”
