He listened as Hale told him about Shirley Kaiser and what may have gone wrong at her residence.
He decided to take a chance and said, “Captain Hale, Carbonell is using us. She’s complicating an already complicated problem. She said only she and Wyatt knew about this location, yet this Cotton Malone was there. Did she send him, too? If not, then who the hell else knows about this? How much more risk are we going to take? How much do we gamble?”
Silence on the other end of the phone signaled that Hale was thinking about that question.
“I agree,” Hale finally said. “She needs to pay.”
Excellent. Her death would right all his mistakes. He’d be right back where he started.
“First,” Hale said. “Find out if we have a problem in Virginia. I need to know. Then, you have my permission to deal with NIA as you see fit.”
Finally.
Freedom to act.
He ended the call and trotted toward the plane. He’d check the weather and receive clearance for takeoff once on board. No tower existed here, Halifax controlled ingress and egress. He popped the hatch on the jet and climbed into its spacious cabin.
“Leave the light off,” a female voice said.
He froze.
His gaze raked the blackened scene. In the glow from the outside tarmac lights he caught three forms sitting in the leather seats.
The voice was instantly recognizable.
Andrea Carbonell.
“As you can see,” she said, “I didn’t come alone. So be a good boy and close the cabin door.”
CASSIOPEIA SAT IN THE PASSENGER COMPARTMENT OF AN AIR force transport chopper, flying south from Virginia to the North Carolina coast. Edwin Davis sat beside her. Weeks ago he’d reconnoitered the Commonwealth’s compound and was able to provide her with a detailed satellite image of the acreage. The Secret Service had arranged through the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation for a boat to be waiting on the Pamlico’s south shore. From there, she’d motor across to the north bank and Hale’s land. Avoiding local law enforcement seemed the safest course for now, as there was no way to determine how far the Commonwealth’s reach stretched.
It was approaching midnight. Local news outlets in Fredericksburg would be reporting the shooting at Kaiser’s residence early tomorrow. Assuming that no one else had been around to report back the disaster, she should have a few hours in which to operate.
Surely the Commonwealth compound was monitored electronically, as cameras would offer a far better line of defense than guards. Unfortunately, Davis had little intel on what awaited her on the ground. She’d been told of a nasty storm engulfing the entire coastal region, which should offer cover.
The Secret Service agents watching Paw Island had reported all quiet there for the past hour.
And Cotton?
She couldn’t shake the thought that he was in trouble.
WYATT STARED DOWN AT MALONE, WHO WAS SLOWLY COMING to his feet. Thankfully, he’d awakened first and managed to find a flashlight that Malone had apparently been carrying, which survived the fall.
“You happy now?” Malone said.
He said nothing.
“Oh, I forgot. You don’t speak much. What was it they called you? The Sphinx? You hated that nickname.”
“I still do.”
Malone stood in ankle-deep water and worked out some kinks in his shoulder, stretching his back. Wyatt had already studied their surroundings. The chamber was about thirty feet high and half that wide. The walls were wet limestone, the rock floor engulfed by water, agate and jasper pebbles glistening in his beam.
“It’s from the bay,” he said, motioning to the water.
“Where the hell else would it come from?”
But Wyatt watched as Malone comprehended the significance of his comment. He’d apparently read the history on this place, too. Seventy-four British soldiers died at Fort Dominion in a subterranean chamber subject to the tides.
“That’s right,” he said. “We’re trapped in here, too.”
SIXTY-NINE
HALE WATCHED AS TWO CREWMEN YANKED SHIRLEY KAISER from an electric cart and dragged her through the rain into the prison. He’d called ahead and told them to be ready for another occupant. She remained groggy from his blow to her face, a nasty bruise on her left cheek.
She tugged at the grip of her two minders as they forced her inside.
He entered and slammed the door shut.
He’d ordered Stephanie Nelle roused from her sleep and brought downstairs to new accommodations. He intended on placing these two women together since you never know what they might say to each other. Electronic monitoring would not miss a word.
Nelle stood in the cell, watching as they approached. The door was unlocked and Kaiser shoved inside.
“Your new roommate,” he told Nelle.
The older woman was examining the bruise on Kaiser’s face.
“Your doing?” Nelle asked.
“She was being most disagreeable. She had a gun pointed at me.”
“I should have shot you,” Kaiser spit out.
“You had your chance,” he said. “And you were wondering about Stephanie Nelle. Here she is.” He faced Nelle. “Do you know a man named Cotton Malone?”
“Why?”
“No reason, other than he appeared somewhere he was not expected.”
“If Malone’s there,” Nelle said, “you’ve got a problem.”
He shrugged. “I doubt that.”
“You think you could get this woman an ice pack?” Nelle asked. “She has a nasty knot.”
Not an unreasonable request, so he ordered it done. “After all, she must look her best.”
“What does that mean?” Nelle asked.
“As soon as the storm passes, the two of you are taking a sail. Your last voyage. Out to sea, where you will stay.”
CASSIOPEIA NAVIGATED THE CHURNING BLACK WATERS OF THE Pamlico River. She’d arrived from the west, deposited by helicopter a kilometer or two from the south shore. The State Bureau of Investigation agents who’d waited for her and Davis had pointed across the nearly three-kilometer black expanse. Though she could see nothing, she’d been told about a dock that extended into the river, at the end of which should be moored a sixty- meter sailing yacht, Adventure, that belonged to Hale. If she wanted to gain entrance to the property, that was the place. Just maintain the right heading, which they’d provided-but it was proving difficult. A gale had blown in off the Atlantic. Not quite a tropical storm, but strong enough with high winds and sheeting rain. The last few minutes of her helicopter ride had not been pleasant. Davis would be nearby, waiting either for her signal or dawn, whichever came first. Then he’d move in with Secret Service agents who were amassing north of Bath.
Rain pelted her.
She cut the motor and allowed the boat to drift closer to Hale’s dock. She’d found it exactly where they’d predicted. Swells rose in the meter-plus range, and she had to be careful not to crash into anything. The yacht tied to the dock was indeed impressive. Three masts, their stout size and shape indicating that they housed one of
