The Jefferson Key

THIRTY-FOUR

MALONE DOVE INTO THE OFFICE SIX FEET AWAY. THE BULLET fired his way thudded into drywall. More slugs cracked and hummed through the air. He readied his gun and scampered for the desk. But all he heard was the click of a door closing from out in the hall.

The man had left.

An explosion rattled the windows, followed by a flickering glow that signaled something was burning outside.

He approached the glass, keeping low, alternating his attention between the doorway behind him and a flaming car below. Across the hall, in another office, he caught a spray of light across more windows. He quickly made his way there and spotted a man leaping into a car in the front parking lot, then speeding away. He should leave, too, and fast. Though this facility was in the countryside, somebody may have heard the gunfire or the explosion and called the police.

But first…

He hustled back into Voccio’s office and noticed that the three computer screens still burned. He squinted at the glare off the first machine and caught a break.

The displayed file explained the solution to the Jefferson cipher.

Voccio had apparently left in a hurry.

He closed the file, found the machine’s email program, attached the document to a message, and forwarded it to himself. He then deleted the message and file from the machine.

No great security measure, but enough to buy him time.

He stared past the black square of night framed by the window.

The car still burned.

Needles of rain clawed the glass. To his right, a hundred yards away from the flaming chaos, he spotted a dark figure.

Running.

Away.

WYATT DECIDED THAT A PROPITIOUS RETREAT SEEMED THE BEST option. Voccio was dead. He’d told the frightened idiot to stick with him, and if he’d done that the man would still be alive.

So he shouldn’t feel bad. Yet he did.

He kept running.

Carbonell had lured him here with a double fee, wanting him not to escape. Those men were hers.

They needed to chat.

On his terms.

And he knew exactly how to do that.

KNOX ENTERED THE HALL AND STARED AT ADVENTURE’S CREW. Quentin Hale stood silent, clearly waiting to see what his quartermaster had to say.

“Captain Hale, when we spoke earlier I could not say all that I knew since we were on an open phone line.”

He was practicing, to the max, one of the strategies his father had taught him. Always have a plan. Contrary to popular myth, buccaneers never attacked anything blind. Whether their target be on land or sea, to ensure success an advance party would first reconnoiter. The preferred time for any assault was dawn, or a Sunday, or a holy festival, or, as here, late at night, the element of surprise used to prevent escapes and to overwhelm resistance.

“Periodically, I run checks,” he said. “Looking for anything out of the ordinary. Big purchases. Unusual lifestyle. Trouble at home. It’s strange, but a woman can drive a man to do crazy things.”

He allowed the last sentence to linger and watched the yacht’s crew. He was careful to keep his gaze roving, from one man to the next, never settling in one place.

Not yet, anyway.

He was playing to an audience of one. Quentin Hale. So long as Hale was convinced, that was all that mattered.

He focused.

Make your case.

Then figure out how to kill Stephanie Nelle.

MALONE FLED THE BUILDING AND MADE A QUICK INSPECTION of the destroyed car. Indeed, somebody had been behind the wheel, the body now burning with a fury. The license plate was charred but readable and he committed the numbers to his eidetic memory.

He rounded the building and found his government-issued sedan. The rear windshield and most of the windows were gone, the sidewalls riddled with holes. No gas had leaked, though, and the tires were intact, so at least two things had gone right. Soon this place would be awash with the corona of blue and red revolving lights, police everywhere.

The wind moaned through the trees, as if telling him to leave. He glanced up at the sky, clearing of clouds and rain, revealing half-lit stars.

The wind was right.

Time to go.