KNOX LAID DOWN A FEW ROUNDS, TRYING TO FLUSH WYATT from his hiding place on the far wall.
“Where are you?” he said into his lapel mike, talking to his second associate.
“There’s another man here,” the voice said in his ear. “He’s armed, but I have him pinned down below.”
Two men?
He hadn’t expected anyone other than Wyatt. No mention had been made of any assistance.
“Take him out,” he ordered.
MALONE STARTED TO CLIMB THE STONE STAIRS THAT RIGHT-ANGLED upward. Obviously, there were others inside the fort, as gunfire had echoed from more spots above, to his right and left. Night had taken a firm hold, and darkness was now his ally. He still carried the flashlight, stuffed into his back pocket, but there was no way to use it.
He came to the top and watched for movement.
Emerging from the stairwell meant exposure, and though he was known to occasionally do dumb things this was not going to be one of them.
He studied his surroundings.
One side of the stairwell, which formed the fort’s outer wall, was gone. Through the darkness he spotted a series of arches that supported the battlements above. If he was careful, he could negotiate them and make an end run. He stuffed the gun inside his belt and climbed out. Fifty feet below, surf pounded rock. A musky smell of the birds mixed with the salt air. Below him cries mingled with a clash of wings. He balanced on the first arch and shifted to the second, hands and arms grasping the moist, gritty supports.
He shifted to the next arch, then another.
One more and he should be sufficiently beyond the stairwell’s entrance above that he could surprise his attacker.
He reached up and grasped the top of the wall.
One chin-up and he peered over the top.
A dark form huddled twenty feet away, his back to him, facing the stairwell. To climb up fully would draw attention. So he settled back on the arch and found his gun. He searched the wall above him and discovered more indentations. One hand stretched back to the top and he maneuvered himself upward, his right shoe finding a foothold, enough that he could pivot upward, aim, and fire one time.
WYATT HEARD A RETORT FROM ACROSS THE FORT, THIS ONE not from Knox’s direction. That meant somebody else was here whom Knox’s men did not appreciate. He decided to take advantage of the situation and belly-crawled back to the man he’d shot. A quick search revealed two spare magazines of ammunition.
Just what he needed.
Another bullet came his way, pinging off the stone a few feet away.
The birds had all fled with the first commotion, but their stench remained, the stones slippery from their excrement.
He found an opening that led down. No stairs, just a hole in the rampart. He gripped the coarse limestone edge and dropped the few feet to another level, protected for the moment.
He freed the backpack from his shoulders.
MALONE SWUNG HIS BODY UPWARD, HIS SOLE BRUSHING THE prickly stone then catching a grip. His target whirled, a gun leading the way. Before the man could level the weapon, Malone fired a shot to the chest. He dropped off the wall and hustled over, gun aimed, ready.
He rolled the body over, the face unfamiliar. He checked for a pulse. None. He retrieved the man’s pistol and pocketed the weapon. A quick frisk revealed spare magazines and a wallet. He pocketed them, too, then grabbed his bearings.
He was atop the fort’s west facade.
Gunfire erupted from the south wall.