The Jefferson Key

SIXTY-TWO

MALONE CAUGHT THE SUDDEN FLIGHT OF BIRDS FROM THE crest of the fort. He was just outside the main gate, using the enveloping darkness for cover, unsure if there was anyone else around.

He heard a pop, then another, and knew he was not alone.

He needed to enter the fort, but to do that meant crossing an open fifty feet. The only cover was a pile of rubble ten feet away. He rushed the mound, leaping over to its protected side.

Two bullets pinged the limestone wall behind him.

From the battlements.

He kept his head down and peered through an opening in the rocks. Movement came high on the wall walk, to the left of the doorway he wanted to negotiate. Waiting would do nothing but allow his attacker time to prepare. So he aimed at the spot on the wall where he’d last spied anything and laid down two rounds, then took advantage of the moment and dashed through the doorway.

No bullets followed him.

The base of a stairway rested to the left, a passageway deeper into the fort straight ahead. But an open space loomed directly ahead. A decayed tower.

He glanced upward.

The wall walks above were exposed.

A bad feeling swept over him.

One that signaled he’d made it here far too easily.

WYATT LUNGED FORWARD, DIVING JUST BEFORE THE MAN ACROSS the fort fired at him. He’d caught sight of the second assailant an instant before he’d killed the first-and recognized the face.

Clifford Knox.

Carbonell had sold him out to the Commonwealth.

But he told himself to stay calm and handle that later.

Puffs of stone erupted inches away as bullets penetrated the semi-darkness, searching for him. Thankfully, the battlements offered ample protection and he was now armed with the dead man’s gun.

But that wasn’t discouraging Knox.

Who kept firing.

CASSIOPEIA SWEPT ACROSS THE DRIVEWAY’S PAVERS. IF THEY timed their approach properly they should be able to catch the two interlopers off guard and snag an easy capture. Hale’s decision to make this move had changed her thinking. Living, breathing proof of a crime would finally give the White House some immediate bargaining power, and Hale would surely then be in a panic. Maybe enough to guarantee Stephanie’s safety. True, there was no tangible proof, as yet, of the Commonwealth being involved with the assassination attempt or Stephanie’s disappearance. But there would be a direct link to a burglary and violations of various wiretapping laws, and no letters of marque, valid or not, would protect them since Shirley Kaiser was not an enemy of the United States.

Something metallic clattered to a hard surface.

Movement on the other side of the garage signaled that the two men had taken notice of the sound, too.

“Freeze,” she heard Jessica yell.

A shot rang out.

MALONE STUDIED THE TOWER. AN EXPOSED STAIRCASE WOUND only halfway up to the summit, the remainder having decayed long ago. Wooden planks that once separated the various levels were gone, as were the roof timbers. A night sky loomed overhead. Moonlight had begun to spill down like smoke through the ruins.

On the wall walk above a shadow appeared. The tower’s shell stretched about thirty feet across, its lichen-encrusted walls eroded from wind and rain. Its height created a protective angle that shielded him from any bullets, so long as he stayed beyond the doorway.

He quickly summarized his situation.

If he retreated, the only way out was the way he’d come, which the man above had covered. Forward was through the open tower, and that clearly would be a problem. He noticed he was standing on a wooden plank, about three feet wide and five feet long.

He bent down and lightly caressed the surface.

Hard, like stone.

He curled his fingers between the wood and the earthen floor and lifted. Heavy, but he could handle it. He only hoped the caliber of bullet being used up above was low.

He stuffed his gun into his jacket pocket, raised the plank above his head, then balanced the length on his open palms. He swung around so that he faced the archway and the tower beyond his shield angled downward, which he hoped would provide enough protection from any ricocheting rounds.

He gritted his teeth, drew a breath, then bolted through the archway, careful to keep the planks balanced.

Ten yards or so was all he had to negotiate.

Shots erupted immediately and a steady crack of timber sounded as lead knocked off the upper surface. He found the doorway, but immediately noticed that the plank’s width was too great. It would not pass through.

A steady tap-tap-tap continued on the wood above his head. Any bullet might signal disaster if a soft spot was found.

No choice.

He allowed the wood to slide off his palms as he pushed upward and vaulted into the doorway.

The board crashed to the ground.

He gripped his gun.

CASSIOPEIA BOLTED FORWARD, USING THE SIDE OF THE GARAGE nearest to her for cover. A man appeared, rushing her way, his attention more on what was behind him than what was ahead. She wanted to know if Jessica was okay, but realized that the first order of business was taking down this problem. She waited, then stretched out her leg and tripped him to the grass.

She aimed her gun down and whispered, “Quiet and still.”

His eyes seemed to say, No way.

So she made her point clearer, swiping the gun into his left temple, stealing his consciousness.

She then turned and advanced to the garage’s corner. Jessica stood with her gun aimed downward, both hands on the trigger. The other man lay on the grass, writhing from a wound in his thigh.

“I had no choice.” Jessica lowered her weapon. “I hit a shovel back there and tipped them off. I told him to stop, but he kept coming. I think he thought I wouldn’t shoot him.”

“The other one’s down, too. Call for medical help.”