The Jefferson Key (51 page)

Carbonell was responsible for the needless deaths of several agents. Knox had personally killed a few, too.

For that, they both had to pay.

Knox had also tried to kill the president. And though Wyatt wasn’t a big fan of the U.S. government, he was an American.

And always would be.

These two problems would end here. By the time they realized their dire predicament and decided to save their hides, it would be too late.

Only a few more minutes remained.

High tide had arrived.

Through the night-vision goggles, he spotted the rope.

He grabbed hold and hauled himself up.

Once there, he yanked the line from the hole and walked away.

CASSIOPEIA
WAS
FALLING
.
SHE
TRIED
TO
BRACE
HERSELF
WITH
her feet, anticipating the water’s impact. Her hands were of no use and she reminded herself to grab a breath and keep sucking air for as long as she could. Unfortunately, the tight confines offered her no opportunity to use her legs, each of which was encased separately. The gibbet was snug, and the latch mechanism was nowhere close to where she could reach it. Besides, it operated from the outside.

Just before they’d tossed her overboard she’d heard what sounded like gunfire and Stephanie yelling
Go. Help her
.

What was happening back there?

MALONE
FIRED
TWO
SHOTS
AT
THE
FOUR
MEN
,
SCATTERING
THEM
. He then tossed the gun aside and leaped from the railing, hurling his body outward and bear-hugging the falling gibbet.

His added weight increased momentum and, together, he and Cassiopeia smacked the sea.

SOMETHING
HAD
SLAMMED
INTO
THE
GIBBET
,
STARTLING
CASSIOPEIA
. A body. Male. Together they hit the water.

Then she saw the face and relief poured through her.

Cotton.

MALONE
HELD
TIGHT
. NO
WAY
HE
WAS
LETTING
GO.
THEY
teetered on the surface, tossing in the surf, as the line’s slack played out behind the yacht.

“Glad you finally made it,” she said.

His gaze found the latch mechanism.

The gibbet was starting to sink.

He reached out but the line went taut.

And they were dragged through the water.

HALE
WAS
STUNNED
.
THE
INTRUDER
HAD
SHOT
HIM
,
BUT
THANKFULLY
in the chest. The body armor he’d donned earlier before leading the defense of the prison had saved him, though his ribs throbbed. He’d dropped to the deck, but not before seeing the man leap from the railing toward the gibbet.

He brought himself to his knees and sucked a few deep breaths.

He turned for his men, who were nowhere to be seen.

Instead Stephanie Nelle stood with a gun aimed straight at him.

“I told you Cotton Malone was trouble,” she said.

MALONE
KEPT
A
DEATH
GRIP
ON
THE
GIBBET
,
HIS
RIGHT
hand finding one of the rounded vertical supports to which the flat iron was welded. A shower of color burst before his eyes. They were skimming in and out of the water about a hundred feet behind
Adventure
, in the center portion of the sloop’s long wake.

He gulped another breath and yelled to Cassiopeia, “Breathe.”

“Like I’m not trying.”

He had more room to maneuver than she did. The sloop’s speed allowed them to hydroplane for a few precious seconds. He realized that once the speed was reduced they would sink and be dragged underwater.

His heart rocketed in his chest.

He had to find the latch.

CASSIOPEIA
WAS
SUCKING
IN AS
MUCH
WATER
AS
AIR
,
TRYING
to spit it out and keep her lungs dry. She was rotating her upper body inside the gibbet as they rocketed in and out of the surf. A sharp pain pierced her cramped calves and she told herself to relax. She longed for speed, since slowing down meant sinking. Hale was toying with them. Enjoying their predicament.

“I’m ... going to ... get you ... out,” Cotton told her as they surfaced one more time, his voice coming in staccato gasps.

“My hands,” she managed to say.

She couldn’t swim long if she were bound.

HALE
STARED
AT
STEPHANIE
NELLE
.

“Are you going to shoot me?” he asked her.

“I don’t have to.”

A strange reply.

She motioned with the gun and he turned.

Shirley Kaiser held another of the automatic rifles his men had toted. Her bandaged hand supported the heavy weapon, the other was placed firmly on the trigger.

Men appeared from the main salon.

Some with guns.

Finally.

MALONE’S
HAND
FOUND
THE
LATCH
. HE
TWISTED
,
THEN
YANKED
. Nothing gave. He yanked again, freeing the locking pin.

The gibbet opened and Cassiopeia flew out.

He released his hold and joined her in the water.

The gibbet disappeared ahead, bucking across the surface.

He snatched a breath and plunged downward, his eyes searching for movement. He saw her and wrapped an arm around her chest and, together, they kicked upward.

Both of them coughed water.

He kept them afloat with strong kicks and a sweep of his right arm.

“Grab a breath and I’ll get your hands free,” he told her.

They dropped below the surface long enough for him to peel off the thick tape that bound her wrists, then they surfaced and treaded water.
Adventure
was two hundred yards away, its sails unfurled to the morning air. All was quiet except for the wind and the sea swirling around them.

Then a new sound.

Low and rhythmic.

A deep bass growing in intensity.

He turned to see four helicopter gunships powering their way.

About time.

They swept across in formation, one lingering above, the other three circling the yacht.

“You okay?”

Edwin Davis’s voice through a loudspeaker.

They both gave him a thumbs-up.

“Hold tight,” Davis said.

HALE
HEARD
HELICOPTER
ROTORS
AND
LOOKED
UP TO
SEE
THREE
U.S. Army gunships above
Adventure
‘s masts, circling like wolves.

The sight enraged him.

This ungrateful government, which his family had dutifully served, would not leave him alone. What had happened with Knox? Or the man named Wyatt? Did they have what he needed to fortify his letter of marque? And why weren’t Bolton, Surcouf, and Cogburn here to fight the battle with him? Probably because the three cowards had sold him out.

Stephanie Nelle laid down a barrage of fire at the main salon, obliterating the windscreens, ripping through the fiberglass sheathing.

His men disappeared back inside.

He faced Kaiser and her gun. “It’s not that easy, Shirley.”

He imagined himself Black Beard, facing Lieutenant Maynard on the deck of another ship named
Adventure
. That fight had also been close-quartered and to the death. But Black Beard had been armed. Hale’s gun lay on the deck four feet away. He had to get to it. His gaze darted between Shirley to his right and Nelle to his left.

Just one opportunity, that’s all he needed.

Shirley’s gun exploded.

Bullets tore into his protective vest. The next salvo shredded his legs. Blood poured up his throat and out his mouth. He tumbled to the ground, each nerve in his body bursting into a hot flame of burning pain.

His face betrayed the agony.

The last thing he saw was Shirley Kaiser pointing the gun at his head and saying, “Killing you was easy, Quentin.”

CASSIOPEIA
HEARD
THE
DISTANCE
TAP
OF
GUNFIRE
.
SHE
THEN
saw two people leap from the aft deck of
Adventure
.

“Stephanie and Shirley just made their escape,” Davis said from above, through the helicopter’s PA system.

They kept treading water.

Adventure’
s sails had caught the wind. No gaps existed between them. They worked as a single airfoil, propelling the striking green hull through the choppy waves. She was like the buccaneer of old, sailing away to fight another day. But this wasn’t the 17th or 18th century, and Danny Daniels was one pissed-off president. These four army gunships were not here to escort the ship back to port.

More people leaped off the yacht.

“The crew,” Cotton said. “You know why they’re doing that.”

She did.

The choppers drifted back.

Flames erupted from the sides of two of the aircraft. Four missiles rocketed from their launchers. Seconds later they pierced
Adventure
, exploding their ordnance. Black, acrid smoke rose skyward. Like a wounded animal, the sloop canted to one side, then another, its sails unfurling and losing their strength.

A final rocket from the third chopper ended its misery.

The yacht erupted into flames, then sank, the Atlantic Ocean swallowing the offering in a single gulp.

NOVA
SCOTIA

11:30 AM

WYATT
CLIMBED
BACK
INTO
THE
CHASM
BENEATH
FORT
DOMINION
. Five hours ago he’d left the island and returned to shore, ditching the stolen boat near Chester and renting another. He’d also purchased a few tools to go into his knapsack and waited until the tide changed.

One last thing to do.

He dropped to the rocky floor.

As when he and Malone had visited, only a few inches of water remained. He switched on a flashlight and started for the junction point. Halfway, he encountered the first bloated corpse.

Maybe late thirties, early forties, dark hair, plain face, one he recognized.

The quartermaster.

Clifford Knox.

Lying spine-first on the rocky floor, eyes closed.

He continued on and found the five symbols. No sign, as yet, of Carbonell, but there were two other tunnels and no way out. Her body could be anywhere. It could even have been drawn out to sea through one of the chutes.

He stared up at the symbol in the ceiling.

He hoped Malone had been right and that the triangle did indeed mark the spot. He rolled one of the larger rocks close. The ceiling was low, maybe eight feet up, so not much of a boost would be needed. He removed the hammer and chisel he’d brought with him and chipped the joint that outlined the irregular-shaped block. Nearly two centuries of tidal action had hardened the mortar, but finally it gave way. He stepped back as the rock slammed to the floor, splashing water, cracking into several pieces.

He angled the flashlight upward into the niche.

A foot up from the ceiling line a shelf had been carved into the stone. Something gleamed back from the probe of his beam. Shiny. Reflective. Green-tinted. He laid the light down, angling it upward and grabbed hold of what he’d discovered.

Slick.

Then he realized.

Glass.

He slid it from its perch.

Not heavy, maybe three or four pounds. A solid chunk, perhaps a foot square, its surface and edges rounded smooth. He bent down closer to the flashlight and splashed water onto its surface, rinsing away a layer of filth.

Something was sealed inside.

Though blurred, the image was unmistakable.

Two sheets of browned paper.

He laid the container on top of the stone that had acted as his step. He found another smaller rock and, with two blows, shattered the glass.

For the first time in more than 175 years, the paper met fresh air.

Two columns of printing appeared on each page along with a header.

OF
DEBATES
IN
CONGRESS

And a date.

February 9, 1793

He scanned one of the pages until he found

Mr. Madison. The subject of the proposition laid before the House will now, I presume, Mr. Chairman, recur for our deliberation. I imagine it to be of the greatest magnitude, a subject, sir, that requires our first attention and our united exertion. In drafting our Constitution this Congress was bestowed the specific power to grant letters of marque, as the current policy of nations so sanctions throughout the world. Indeed, our victory over England would not have occurred but for the courageous efforts of entrepreneurs possessed of both ships and the ability to make appropriate use of them. Happy it is for us that such a grant was, and remains, within our power. We are all painfully aware that we do not, as yet, possess sufficient men and ships to float an adequate navy in our common defense, so I concur in the proposal for the grant of these letters of marque to Archibald Hale, Richard Surcouf, Henry Cogburn, and Samuel Bolton, in perpetuity, so that they might continue a robust and continuous attack on our enemies
.