Starting at the left, and the disk he knew was labeled 1, he rotated until he found a G. He continued with the next disk, locating a Y. He kept finding the relevant letters in the sequence.
The chopper brushed the outskirts of Charlottesville, flying over the University of Virginia. Carbonell was waiting for him a few miles ahead. They’d agreed to no calls or radio contact during the flight to lessen the chance of anyone listening in or following. The pilot was payroll NIA, loyal to his boss. He began to realize why the disks were so tightly packed on the spindle. Friction kept them from moving once the desired letter was found.
A forest of foliage spread out below as they flew westward toward more trees.
He had little time left.
So he kept finding letters.
HALE GULPED HIS SECOND GLASS OF WHISKEY, WASTING NO time in his selection. He waited five seconds, knowing that the poison worked incredibly fast.
His father had told him about another challenge, one that happened long ago with Abner Hale. After the failed attempt on Andrew Jackson’s life, and the gutting of the Commonwealth’s letters of marque, tension among the four captains reached a climax when a Surcouf challenged a Hale. Kentucky bourbon had been the beverage of choice then. On the second selection, the one he’d just swallowed, Abner’s eyes had rolled to the top of his head and he’d dropped dead. That had happened not in the room they now occupied, but somewhere within the current house’s footprint in a parlor not all that dissimilar to this one. Abner Hale’s death had relieved the pressure within the Commonwealth. His successor, Hale’s great-grandfather, was more moderate and did not suffer the stigma of what his father had done.
That was another thing about pirate society.
Each man proved himself.
The whiskey settled in his stomach.
No poison.
The odds had just worsened for Bolton.
One in three.