FORTY-EIGHT

MALONE DROPPED TO THE FLOOR JUST AS WYATT FIRED, THE bullet shattering one of the wooden spindles. He beat a hasty retreat on all fours toward the back wall, away from the railing, using the angle below for protection. Another shot and a bullet came up through the floorboards a few feet away, the two-hundred-year-old timbers offering little resistance.

A third shot.

Closer.

Wyatt was searching for him.

Something arced through the air and bounced on the balcony floor. He’d seen this movie before and quickly shielded his head as the light bomb did its thing, adding a fresh wave of smoke to the confusion.

He sprang to his feet and found the hall that led back to the stairs he’d taken earlier. Spying movement below, he stared up toward the third floor and decided to reverse the roles.

Time for Wyatt to play rabbit and for him to be the fox.

WYATT CREPT UP THE STAIRS, GUN LEADING THE WAY, SEARCHING through the smoke for Malone.

Two things happened at once.

He heard the house’s main doors open and a woman yell, “Cotton.”

Then, up above, he caught sight of Malone.

Climbing to the third floor.

KNOX WAITED FOR CAPTAINS SURCOUF AND COGBURN TO ANSWER Bolton’s question.

“I don’t know, Edward,” Surcouf finally said. “I’m not sure what to think. We’re in a mess. Frankly, I don’t like what either one of you proposes. But I have to wonder, Quentin. There’s no way you’re depending totally on Daniels caving simply from embarrassment.”

“If it were me,” Cogburn said, “I’d call the wife a lying whore and hang her out to dry. Nobody would have any sympathy for her.”

Typical, Knox thought. Cogburns had long viewed the world in black and white. He wished life were that simple. If it were, none of them would be in the mess they were in. But he, too, doubted that the tactic alone would pressure the White House into doing anything productive.

“I still have Stephanie Nelle,” Hale said.

“And what are you going to do with her?”

Knox wanted to hear the answer to that question, too.

“I haven’t decided. But she could prove valuable.”

“Talk about a thing from the past,” Bolton said. “Do you hear yourself? A hostage? In the 21st century? Like you told us about the assassination attempt. Are you going to call up the White House and say you have her? Let’s make a deal? You can’t do diddly-squat with that woman. She’s useless.”

Unless her corpse could be shown to Andrea Carbonell, Knox thought. Then, she was worth a great deal.

At least to him.

“Why don’t you let me worry about her value,” Hale said.

Cogburn pointed an accusing finger. “You’re plotting something else. What is it, Quentin? Tell us or, by God, I’ll join with Edward and make your life a living hell.”

CASSIOPEIA COULD DISTINGUISH LITTLE THROUGH THE SMOKE. The two-story entrance hall was enveloped in a gray fog. She sought cover close to the wall, behind a pine table, beneath a wall dotted with antlers.

She realized what she had to do.

Not the smartest move, but necessary.

“Cotton,” she called out.

MALONE CAME TO THE TOP OF THE STAIRWAY ON THE THIRD floor. He’d made no attempt to disguise his path. Surely Wyatt had seen or heard him and was headed this way.

Or at least he hoped.

He heard his name called out.

Cassiopeia.

WYATT HAD NO IDEA AS TO THE WOMAN’S IDENTITY, BUT SHE obviously was connected to Malone. He should simply descend to the cellar and leave, but he recalled that the staircase before him led down, not into a public area, but into a private room the staff utilized. He wondered if any of them was still there, or if they’d been told to evacuate. The one thing he did not want to do was shoot anyone. That would bring immeasurable grief his way. Better to be a simple thief, inflicting nothing more than a little property damage.

He stared up.

The third floor contained the room beneath the dome. Only the north and south staircases led there. Malone was clearly drawing him that way into a confined space.

Not today, Cotton.

He crept away from the stairs to the end of the corridor and peered out into the entrance hall. The woman had taken cover on his side of the room, behind a table, near the front windows and door. He aimed the gun above her head and obliterated a set of eighteen-paned windows directly behind her.

HALE DEBATED WHAT TO SAY IN RESPONSE TO COGBURN’S THREAT. For the first time, he saw a semblance of backbone in one of these men.

So he opted for the truth.

“I am solving the cipher,” he told them.

“How?” Cogburn asked, clearly not impressed.

“I made a deal with the head of NIA.”

MALONE STOOD JUST INSIDE AN OCTAGON-SHAPED ROOM WITH bright yellow walls, crowned by a dome and a glass oculus. Circular paned windows in six of the walls allowed bright morning sun inside. Little smoke had, as yet, drifted to this floor.

He debated how best to confront Wyatt.

Gunfire erupted below.

KNOX KEPT HIS COMPOSURE, BUT WHAT HE’D JUST HEARD SENT a chill down his spine.

Carbonell was playing every angle. Squeezing him. Dealing with his boss. Had he been compromised? Was that why he was here? He readied himself to react, but Hale still held a gun and he was unarmed.

“What kind of deal have you made?” Bolton asked Hale.

“The NIA has solved the cipher.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Surcouf asked.

“There is a price.”

The other three waited for him to tell them.

“Stephanie Nelle has to die for us to obtain the solution.”

“Then kill her,” Cogburn said. “You’re always chastising us on being blood-shy. What are you waiting for?”

“The NIA director is not to be trusted. And we can, of course, only kill Ms. Nelle once. So that death has to produce the desired results.”

Bolton shook his head. “You’re telling us you can end this simply by killing that woman in the prison? We’ll all be safe? Our letters of marque fortified? And you’re playing games?”

“What I am doing, Edward, is assuring that, if that happens, we will indeed be safe.”

“No, Quentin,” Bolton said. “What you’re ensuring is that you will be safe.”

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