Steve Berry - The Jefferson Key

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.”

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.

Wyatt had reappeared fifty feet away, on another wall, and started shooting, the bullets arriving around him with precision.

Too precise, considering the darkness.

WYATT HAD COME PREPARED. CARBONELL HAD PROVIDED HIM a pair of night-vision goggles, which allowed him to see Clifford Knox huddled within the rubble. Unfortunately, his target had not ventured far enough from his cover for a kill shot. He caught movement atop another wall and heard a shot. He quickly scanned the battlements and spotted an armed man frisking another who lay prone. Size, shape, and movement confirmed the identity.

Malone.

How could that be?

He returned his attention to his own problem.

“Knox,” he called out. “I know Andrea Carbonell provided you this location. She’s the only person who could have. She wants you to kill me, right?”

KNOX LISTENED TO THE QUESTION AND REALIZED THAT HIS SITUATION was bad. He’d lost one man for sure and could not raise the other on the radio. More gunfire from other parts of the fort signaled trouble. This easy kill had turned into anything but. He hadn’t risked everything just to die in this godforsaken place for Quentin Hale or any of the other captains.