Steve Berry - The Jefferson Key

Unfortunately, there was the matter of the police.

Cassiopeia had descended three long flights of carpeted stairs into a faux-marble hall, then walked a hundred feet to glass doors at the south end of the lobby. They were locked and the hostess in a nearby restaurant explained that the doors were not opened until nine each day. Apparently the police had decided the locked doors were enough protection, and controlling the upper lobby, the stairwells, and the main exit would be their play. Since he hadn’t registered using his real name, searching every room was impractical. Easier to simply wait for him to walk off the elevator and into their arms.

But they’d never met Cassiopeia Vitt.

She’d told him her escape plan over the phone. He’d shook his head, then said, Okay. Why not?

The elevator door opened.

He stepped off, turned left, and walked toward the main desk, intending on making another left and descending the stairs to the lower level. He realized he’d never get that far and, just as predicted, three uniformed officers appeared from his right and yelled for him to stop.

He did.

“Cotton Malone,” the lead officer said, who appeared to be a captain. “We have a warrant for your arrest.”

“I know I have a lot of unpaid parking tickets. I tear ’em up. I shouldn’t, but-”

“Put your hands behind your back,” a second officer ordered.

CASSIOPEIA WATCHED AS THE ATTENDANT ROARED UP ON THE motorcycle. The Honda NT700V came with a liquid-cooled, 680cc, V-twin, eight-valve engine that packed a kick, and the young man seemed to enjoy the jaunt from the parking lot. He climbed off, leaving the engine running, holding the two-hundred-plus-kilo gram machine steady while she climbed on.

She handed him a fifty-dollar bill.

He nodded in appreciation.

Two police cars were parked beyond the porte cochere, ahead of her, another positioned behind her, all with drivers inside. She’d caught the officer at her flank giving her ass the once-over, her tight jeans doing their duty.

“I need you to do something for me,” she said to the attendant.

“Name it.”

She pointed to one of the entrances that led into the lobby. “Could you hold that glass door open for me?”

MALONE TURNED AND COMPLIED WITH THE OFFICER’S COMMAND. The important thing was to keep the guns in holsters and, so far, none of them had drawn a weapon.

“What’s this about?” he asked.

“You’re a person of interest,” the first cop said as he gripped Malone’s wrists. “The feds want to talk to you.”

“Why aren’t they here?” he asked.

The grip on his wrists tightened.

“Cotton,” one of the other cops said. “Where’d you get a name like that?”

The growl of a motorcycle grew louder as a glass door opened fifty feet to his left.

“Long story,” he said, spotting Cassiopeia, outside, astride the motorcycle.

He smiled.

You had to love her.

CASSIOPEIA REVVED THE SIXTY-FIVE-HORSEPOWER ENGINE AND noticed in her rearview mirror that the policeman behind remained more concerned with her ass than where she might be going. Clearly he hadn’t paid the attendant, standing ten meters away holding the door open, any attention.

She yanked the handlebars to the right, popped the clutch into first, and strained the engine. Tires spinning, she swung right, straightened out, and sped through the open doorway into the lobby.

KNOX STOOD BEFORE THE COMPANY, WHICH HAD ASSEMBLED in the yard before the jail at precisely seven AM. Two hundred and four of the 214 were present, the absentees excused only because they were out of town. One rule was clear. A call to assemble could not be ignored.

Since none of the three Hale children was on the estate, the gathering could be held in private. The front gates were locked, video-monitored by staff in the security building who were witnessing punishment electronically. This was sacred ground. Where the company had gathered since the Commonwealth’s formation. For 250 years, thousands of men had stood and listened to pronouncements, buried captains, elected quartermasters, or, as today, bore witness to punishment.

He’d personally supervised the prisoner’s preparation, making sure the hands were bound and the mouth gagged. He did not want any outbursts or speeches. This matter had to end here and now.

But he’d been troubled by what the jailer had reported. The prisoner had requested to speak privately with Hale and the captain had obliged, spending a few minutes alone with the man.

Disturbing. No question.

His gaze focused on the four captains, clustered at the far end of the yard. The prisoner was tied to a pine stake in the center, the company assembled at the other end.

He stepped forward.

“This man has been tried and convicted of treason. Punishment was proclaimed to be death.”

He allowed those words to take hold. The whole idea of discipline was for it to be memorable.

He faced the captains. “What say you as to the method?”

In centuries past there were options. Shackled and chained, then locked away with no food or water? That took days. Dangled from a mast until exposure and starvation proved fatal? Faster. Flogging with a cat-o’-nine-tails? Even quicker since the knotted leather strips killed in a matter of minutes.

Today, options existed, too.

Hanging. Shooting. Drowning.

“Woodling,” Hale called out.

WYATT WAITED BESIDE THE SPRING GUN AS A KEY WAS INSERTED into the lock on the other side of the door.

He watched the knob turn.

Andrea Carbonell was about to enter her residence. Was she oblivious to the fact that the simple act of coming home would end her life?

The door opened.

Nylon whined as it tightened through the screw eyes.

Hinges pivoted thirty degrees, forty, forty-five.

He’d already determined that at least a sixty-degree arc would be needed for the trigger to engage.

His foot stopped the door’s advance and he snipped the line with scissors.

He withdrew his shoe and the door fully opened.

Carbonell stared at him, then the gun, the nylon swinging in the dim light. Not a hint of surprise flooded her face.

“Was it a tough choice?” she asked.

He still held the scissors. “More than I thought it would be.”

“Obviously not your doing. Who?”

He shrugged. “A man came, did his thing, and left.”

“Whom you did not stop.”

He shrugged. “Not my business.”

“I suppose I should be grateful you’re here.”

“How about grateful that I snipped the string.”

She stepped inside and closed the door. “Why’d you do it? You have to be angry about what happened last night.”

“I am. You wanted me dead.”

“Come now, Jonathan. I have a much greater respect for your skills.”

He lunged at her, his right hand clamping tight on her neck, slamming her thin frame into the wall. Framed pictures nearby rattled on their hangers.

“You wanted my skills to kill me. You wanted me to get Voccio out of there. Flush us both to the car, then blow us up.”

“Did you come to kill me?” she breathed out, his grip still tight. Not a hint of concern seeped from her.

He’d made his point. He released his grip.

She stood and stared at him, composing herself. Then she caressed the spring gun, admiring its workmanship. “High caliber, automatic fire. How many rounds? Thirty? Forty? There would have been little left of me.”

He could not care less. “You have the cipher solution.”

“Voccio emailed it to me a few hours before you arrived. But I suppose you already know that. Hence, your anger.”

“I have more than that to be angry about.”