Two men and Carbonell.
He pushed himself up on his feet.
“My little dart works, doesn’t it?” Carbonell called out.
He recalled the weapon in her hand, the pop, then the sting to his chest. She’d tranquilized him. He didn’t have to ask where they were headed. He knew. Paw Island.
“It’s the same boat you stole earlier,” she said.
He rubbed his aching head and longed for a shot of bourbon. “Why are we going back?”
“To finish what you started.”
He steadied himself. Everything tossed and turned, and not from the boat. “You understand that Wyatt is not going to be happy to see you.”
“Actually, I’m counting on that.”
CASSIOPEIA WATCHED THE ATTACK ON HALE’S RESIDENCE. WHOEVER these assailants were, they weren’t being subtle. The shooting had subsided, but there was still plenty of movement, both sides seemingly jockeying for a better position. She blinked rain from her eyes and tried to focus on the black house, every window devoid of light. In fact, there were no lights burning anywhere she could see.
From a side door, someone slipped outside.
A man, who immediately crouched low and crept to the veranda steps, where he slowly descended, staying down. Open hands signaled that he held no gun. Was this Hale? She watched as the figure hustled into the rain, toward the trees, using the wind and thick trunks for cover, advancing away, toward the dock from where she’d come.
More crackling gunfire raged in the distance.
She headed toward where the man had gone, keeping her steps light. Wet leaves, roots, and fallen branches challenged her balance. Thankfully the soil was more sand than dirt and seemed to drain fast. No mud. She found the graveled road that led to the dock, the one she’d just paralleled to the house, and spotted her quarry, maybe twenty meters away, trotting down the right side of the road.
She ran and came within ten meters of him before he realized she was approaching. As his head whirled around, she stopped, leveled her gun, and said, “Stay right where you are.”
The man froze. “Who are you?” he asked.
The voice was not of the age she knew Hale to be. So instead of answering his question, she asked one of her own. “Who are you?”
“Mr. Hale’s secretary. I’m not a pirate or a privateer. I don’t like guns and I don’t want to be shot.”
“Then you’d better answer my questions, or you’re going to find out what a bullet wound feels like.”
MALONE SWAM OUT OF THE CAVERN AND INTO MAHONE BAY. The sea was cold. He shook water from his eyes and stared up at Fort Dominion. The shaft he’d negotiated had emptied into a rocky cleft. He wondered about Wyatt. He hadn’t seen or heard any more from him. The shaft Wyatt had chosen apparently opened into another cavern. If he made it, Wyatt should be out here somewhere swimming, but Malone could not see or hear much beyond where he floated. He should be a hell of a lot angrier at Wyatt. But there was one thing. If Wyatt had not involved him, he wouldn’t be in a position to help Stephanie.
Strange, but for that he was grateful.
He had to get out of the water, so he started swimming toward a flat part of the island, south of the fort. He found a small beach and emerged from the bay. Night air chilled his bones. His jacket was back in the chamber, left there as Wyatt had done, since it would have been little more than an anchor. Thank goodness he’d come prepared with a change of clothes.
The stench of the birds returned as he plunged inland, turning toward where he’d beached his boat. He recalled a coil of nylon rope that he could use to reenter the underground chamber. He’d wait for low tide, which should provide a few hours to safely explore. Surely, Andrew Jackson had known of Fort Dominion and what had happened here during the Revolutionary War. Why else would he have selected such an out-of-the-way locale? Perhaps because, even if Jefferson’s cipher had been cracked and the cipher wheel found, nature would stand guard, ready to thwart all but the cleverest of hunters.
He pushed through the last of the foliage and found his boat. An easterly breeze stirred up tiny funnel clouds of sand near the water. He yanked off his wet shirt. Before changing he checked his cellphone. Edwin Davis had called four times. He hit REDIAL.
“How are things there?” Davis asked.
He reported the disaster, but also the success.
“We have a problem here,” Davis said.
He listened to what Cassiopeia had done, then said, “And you let her go?”
“It seemed the only course. The storm is excellent cover. Apparently, though, we’re not the only ones who think that.”
“I’m coming down there.”
“Shouldn’t you get those pages?”
“I’m not going to sit around here with my head up my ass and wait for low tide while Stephanie and Cassiopeia are now in trouble.”
“You don’t know that. Cassiopeia can handle herself.”
“Too much can go wrong. I’ll contact you from the air. Keep me posted.”
He ended the call and stripped off the remaining wet clothes, replacing them with the dry ones from the boat. Before pushing off from the beach, he called the Secret Service pilots and told them to stand by to leave, he was on his way.
WYATT FOUND HIS BOAT ON THE ISLAND’S NORTH SHORE. HIS body was chilled, his clothes soaked from the cold swim. He’d anticipated spending the night on the island and, not knowing what to expect, had brought an extra shirt and pants. He’d also packed a knapsack with supplies, including matches, which he used to start a fire just beyond the beach.
What had happened to Malone?
He had no idea, not seeing or hearing anything while in the choppy bay. He was tired from the fully clothed swim, his muscles unaccustomed to such a workout. He huddled close to the flames and increased the warmth with more brush and sticks. He hoped Knox had made it back to shore and delivered his message to the captains. He hadn’t meant a word of what he’d said about selling them the missing two pages.
He was concerned with only one thing.
Killing Andrea Carbonell.
He changed into the spare clothing and wished for another jacket like the one he’d left underground. The ride back across the bay would be brisk. He was hungry, and found a couple of energy bars along with a container of water. He would return the stolen boat to shore and leave it where it would not be found for a couple of days.
He checked his watch.
11:50 PM.
Lights on the bay caught his attention. He spotted a boat speeding toward the island from the direction of Chester. This late? He wondered if it was law enforcement, alerted by the gunfire.
He quickly extinguished the fire and hid among the foliage.
The boat changed course and headed his way.
“What do you hope to gain by going back?” he called out to Carbonell.
She stepped close to him. “First, we have to clean up your mess. Aren’t the bodies of two of your men still there? You apparently weren’t concerned with that. Or were you so intent on killing me you didn’t care?”
How did this woman read his mind?
“That’s right, Clifford. I heard what Wyatt said to you. I had a man on site, watching everything. You decided
