MALONE RETREATED DOWN INTO A FORWARD HOLD THAT opened at the bow. Two tenders, maybe thirty-footers, were lashed to the deck on either side of the hatch. He had to admire the gigantic steel-hulled sloop, a sleek tower of smooth lines, everything perfectly aerodynamic. And tall. Fifty feet off the water, with another thirty or so on top of that in cabins and deck. Its three masts were close to two hundred feet high. Clearly, a masterpiece of technology and design.
The yacht moved.
Interesting how the engines could barely be heard. One second they were stationary, the next off they went. He glanced out past the hatch. Fog draped the deck in a protective shield.
He fled the hold and found a doorway that opened inside the upper cabins.
The companionway led aft, casting a feeling of height and depth from a bulkhead lined with lighting that reminded him of a row of clerestory windows. A scent of magnolia and green tea came from sprayers near the ceiling. The corridor ended midship where three decks united at a circular stairway that wrapped the main mast. Above, transparent floors allowed light to stream down during the day. He noted the splendid mixture of stainless steel, glass, fine woods, and stone.
Movement from above caught his attention.
He ducked into a doorway that led into a gym. No lights burned inside. He kept close to the wall and watched as two men descended the circular stairway at a brisk pace. They did not stop, but kept going down to the bottom level.
He’d heard Hale.
The aft deck.
That’s where Cassiopeia and the others were waiting.
HALE STEPPED ONTO THE AFT DECK. HERE WAS WHERE HE’D dealt with his traitorous accountant and here was where he would deal with these three problems. He’d said he had a special surprise for them and, under the watchful eye of two armed guards, they were already examining it as he approached.
“It’s called a gibbet,” he told them. “Made of iron and shaped to the human body.”
He felt the engines kicked up. Adventure could do twenty knots, and he’d ordered maximum speed. At nearly twenty-five miles per hour they would soon be offshore.
“Good men were once encased inside these,” he said, “then hung from a pole and left to die. A horrible form of punishment.”
“Like making someone eat their own ear?” Vitt asked him.
He smiled. “In the same vein, except these were used on us by our pursuers.”
He motioned and two of his crew grabbed Vitt by the arms. She started to resist, but he raised a warning finger and said, “Be a good girl.”
Before appearing on the aft deck he’d instructed that Vitt’s hands be bound behind her back. The other two he’d left alone. One of the crew kicked Vitt’s feet out from under her and she slammed hard to the deck. They then grabbed her by the shoes and head, tossing her into the gibbet, which lay open like a cocoon. Its top was hinged shut and secured with a clamp and pin. Little room existed now for her to struggle.
He bent down.
“You killed two of my crew. Now you will experience what my ancestors felt when they died inside one of these.”
Wind rushed back from the ship’s sleek contours and washed him in moist, cool air. He caught the tart smell of the ocean and knew the sea was not far away. The fog seemed to be lifting, too.
Excellent.
He’d been worried that he would not be able to see this woman die.
KNOX SAW A LIGHT APPEAR IN THE DARKNESS THEN ARC TEN feet to the right. He wasn’t sure who it was, but it didn’t matter.
He fired straight at it.
Nothing happened.
The light continued on its path, splashing into the water, the bulb now submerged. His bullet found no target, but instead ricocheted off the walls, its pings signaling trouble. He’d caught a momentary shadow to the right of where the light found the water. More movement betrayed a position as the light was lifted from the water and shut off.
That was a target.
He fired again.
WYATT DROPPED BACK INTO THE WATER, SLOW AND SILENT. IN the instant after he tossed the light toward Carbonell, he’d locked his fingers onto the edge of a chute and pulled himself upward. The last place he wanted to be when bullets were ricocheting was near the floor.
Gravity sent slugs directly that way.
Through the goggles he watched Knox and Carbonell. Each carried a gun and a flashlight.
Even odds.
He used the rising surge of water to ease his retreat toward the tunnel from which they’d come. He realized that neither of them would risk switching on their lights or speaking, and firing wildly in the dark was risky.
He wondered how long they’d stand there.
Did they comprehend the danger?
Escaping through the chutes, as he and Malone had done, would not be possible with the rising tide. Fighting the flow of water inside the tight confines would be like trying to swim up a fast-moving stream, no way to hold your breath long enough to make it out.
They’d each worked themselves into a corner, from which there was no escape.
Only low tide would offer a respite.
But they’d both be dead by then.
MALONE CREPT DOWN THE MIDDECK, CAUTIOUS AND QUIET, using the open doorways and darkened rooms for cover. He passed a theater, dining room, and staterooms. He’d noticed no cameras, yet every nerve in his body tinged, his finger on the gun’s trigger, ready to react.
The passageway ended at a grand salon, a juxtaposition of conservative appointments in wenge wood, ivory, and leather. A baby grand piano anchored one corner. Everything was sleek and polished, like the yacht itself. He had to see what was happening on the aft deck. The exterior walls were lined with elongated windows, so he crouched low and made his way toward the glass exit doors, where he spotted a deck, pool, and people.
A spiral stairway to his right led up.
He slowly climbed the steep risers, which opened onto a small sundeck overlooking the ship’s stern. He noted their position. Center of the river, both banks visible in the distance, a sun rising ahead, toward the east, the fog all but gone. He glanced toward the bow and spotted open water. They were entering the sound, which meant the ocean was not far away.
He stayed low and made his way to the aft railing.
Staring down, he spotted Stephanie and Shirely Kaiser, two men with guns, four more standing nearby, Quentin Hale-
And Cassiopeia.
Sealed inside an iron gibbet.
EIGHTY-THREE
CASSIOPEIA WAS NEARING PANIC. HER HANDS WERE BOUND, HER body encased in iron straps. Hale’s men were busy tying a line to the top of the gibbet. She stared at Stephanie, whose eyes signaled that there was little she could do, either.
“What’s the point of this,” Shirley screamed out. “Why do this, Quentin?”
Hale faced Kaiser. “This is what pirates do.”
“Killing unarmed women?” Stephanie asked.
