MALONE OPENED HIS EYES. HIS BODY ACHED. PAIN RADIATED throughout his legs. He was lying on his back, his gaze shooting upward back through the gaping hole of rotting wood that he and Wyatt had plunged through.
He tested his limbs and discovered that nothing seemed broken.
Shafts of moonlight spilled down from above, enough for him to see that they’d fallen about thirty feet. The spongy wood had cushioned the landing. Rock lay beneath him.
Along with chilly water.
The walls around him glistened a silvery sheen in the faint light, signaling that they were damp.
He heard surf and smelled the birds again.
Where was Wyatt?
He pushed himself up. A light switched on. Bright, singular, a few feet away. He shielded his eyes with an arm.
The light moved away from his face.
In the ambient glow he saw Wyatt holding the flashlight.
KNOX ARRIVED AT THE PRIVATE AIRSTRIP WHERE HE’D LANDED the Hale Enterprises corporate jet, just south of Halifax, the facility catering to tourists who could afford the luxury of owning their own planes.
He’d made it out of Mahone Bay and back north without incident.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the display. Hale. Might as well deal with this now.
He answered, told the captain what had happened, then said, “Carbonell lied to you. Again. There was another person here. Wyatt called him Cotton Malone. He was definitely not on our team. From what Wyatt implied, he was from the government. I can’t be responsible for all of this-”
“I understand,” Hale said.
Which surprised him. Hale generally comprehended nothing other than success.
“Carbonell is a liar,” Hale said, bitterness in his tone. “She’s playing us all. You were right, and I have to now wonder if the information she provided about the cipher was even real.”
“It still could be true. Wyatt said to tell you that once he had those two pages, he’ll sell them to you. He specifically wanted that message brought back.”
“So we have to hope that this renegade, whom Carbonell obviously dislikes and distrusts, is right and will cooperate.”
“We’ve also got two dead crewmen here,” he made clear.
“And we have an even worse problem.”
He listened as Hale told him about Shirley Kaiser and what may have gone wrong at her residence.
He decided to take a chance and said, “Captain Hale, Carbonell is using us. She’s complicating an already complicated problem. She said only she and Wyatt knew about this location, yet this Cotton Malone was there. Did she send him, too? If not, then who the hell else knows about this? How much more risk are we going to take? How much do we gamble?”
Silence on the other end of the phone signaled that Hale was thinking about that question.
“I agree,” Hale finally said. “She needs to pay.”
Excellent. Her death would right all his mistakes. He’d be right back where he started.
“First,” Hale said. “Find out if we have a problem in Virginia. I need to know. Then, you have my permission to deal with NIA as you see fit.”
Finally.
Freedom to act.
He ended the call and trotted toward the plane. He’d check the weather and receive clearance for takeoff once on board. No tower existed here, Halifax controlled ingress and egress. He popped the hatch on the jet and climbed into its spacious cabin.
“Leave the light off,” a female voice said.
He froze.
His gaze raked the blackened scene. In the glow from the outside tarmac lights he caught three forms sitting in the leather seats.
The voice was instantly recognizable.
Andrea Carbonell.
“As you can see,” she said, “I didn’t come alone. So be a good boy and close the cabin door.”
CASSIOPEIA SAT IN THE PASSENGER COMPARTMENT OF AN AIR force transport chopper, flying south from Virginia to the North Carolina coast. Edwin Davis sat beside her. Weeks ago he’d reconnoitered the Commonwealth’s compound and was able to provide her with a detailed satellite image of the acreage. The Secret Service had arranged through the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation for a boat to be waiting on the Pamlico’s south shore. From there, she’d motor across to the north bank and Hale’s land. Avoiding local law enforcement seemed the safest course for now, as there was no way to determine how far the Commonwealth’s reach stretched.
It was approaching midnight. Local news outlets in Fredericksburg would be reporting the shooting at Kaiser’s residence early tomorrow. Assuming that no one else had been around to report back the disaster, she should have a few hours in which to operate.
Surely the Commonwealth compound was monitored electronically, as cameras would offer a far better line of defense than guards. Unfortunately, Davis had little intel on what awaited her on the ground. She’d been told of a nasty storm engulfing the entire coastal region, which should offer cover.
The Secret Service agents watching Paw Island had reported all quiet there for the past hour.
And Cotton?
She couldn’t shake the thought that he was in trouble.
WYATT STARED DOWN AT MALONE, WHO WAS SLOWLY COMING to his feet. Thankfully, he’d awakened first and managed to find a flashlight that Malone had apparently been carrying, which survived the fall.
“You happy now?” Malone said.
He said nothing.
“Oh, I forgot. You don’t speak much. What was it they called you? The Sphinx? You hated that nickname.”
“I still do.”
Malone stood in ankle-deep water and worked out some kinks in his shoulder, stretching his back. Wyatt had already studied their surroundings. The chamber was about thirty feet high and half that wide. The walls were wet limestone, the rock floor engulfed by water, agate and jasper pebbles glistening in his beam.
“It’s from the bay,” he said, motioning to the water.
“Where the hell else would it come from?”
But Wyatt watched as Malone comprehended the significance of his comment. He’d apparently read the history on this place, too. Seventy-four British soldiers died at Fort Dominion in a subterranean chamber subject to the tides.
“That’s right,” he said. “We’re trapped in here, too.”