Steve Berry - The Jefferson Key

He entered the prisoner’s cell, two of his men following. “I want to know the answer to a simple question. Who sent you?” The man, on the stout side, with wet, stringy black hair and a mustache, stared back at him.

“Your comrades are dead. Do you want to join them?”

No reply.

He’d almost hoped this fool would be difficult.

“Centuries ago, when my ancestors took prisoners, they had a simple way of extracting the truth. Would you like me to explain the method?”

CASSIOPEIA WATCHED QUENTIN HALE, HIS EYES AGLOW WITH fire. He carried a gun in one hand, brandishing it toward the prisoner as if it were a cutlass.

“He takes this pirate crap seriously,” Stephanie mouthed. “I watched him torture another one.”

Hale turned toward them. “Whispering over there? Why not speak up so we can all hear?”

“I said I watched you mutilate another man, then shoot him in the head.”

“That is what we do to traitors. Do you perhaps know the answer to the question of what my ancestors once did to their prisoners?”

“My knowledge of your family tree is limited to Pirates of the Caribbean, so why don’t you enlighten us.”

Shirley Kaiser stood silent but Cassiopeia spied the hate in her eyes. This woman had, so far, shown not the slightest hint of fear. Surprising. She hadn’t expected such courage.

Hale faced them. “There’s a book that I particularly don’t like, written long ago. A General History of the Pyrates. Mainly garbage-fiction-but there is one thing in it I agree with. Like their patron, the devil, pirates must make mischief their sport, cruelty their delight, and damning of souls their constant employment.”

“I thought you were some virtuous privateer,” Shirley said. “Who saved America.”

He glared at her. “I am what I am. What I am not, is ashamed of my heritage.” He motioned with the gun toward the man in the cell with him. “He is the enemy, employed by the government. Torturing government officials was acceptable then and remains so today.” He turned back to the prisoner. “I’m waiting for an answer to my question.”

Still nothing.

“Then I owe you an explanation. Bring him.”

The two men with Hale dragged the prisoner out into an open area before the cells. Three stout timbers rose about ten meters apart and supported the upper story. Candles wrapped the center post, held aloft in iron brackets.

The plywood shielding the front door was pushed open and seven men entered. Among six of them, in both hands, they carried knives, pitchforks, and shovels. A seventh held a fiddle. The prisoner was shoved toward the center post wrapped with the burning candles. The six men encircled him, standing a meter or so away, making it impossible for him to flee.

Hale said, “It is called the sweat. In the glory days, the candles would encircle the mizzenmast. Men would surround it with points of sword, penknives, forks, anything sharp in each hand. The culprit enters the circle. The fiddler plays a merry jig and the culprit must run around the circle while each man jabs him. The heat from the candles works on the culprit. Hence, the sweat. Exhaustion becomes an issue as the men gain the upper hand, thrusting the points ever deeper. Eventually-”

“I’m not watching this,” Stephanie said.

“You shall watch,” Hale made clear. “Or you will be next to experience it.”

WYATT WAITED FOR CARBONELL TO COMMUNICATE WITH THE two men she’d stationed within the fort. Maybe they already had their orders and knew what to do? They’d both carried guns and radios, and he’d relieved the corpses of both just after breaking the men’s necks. He now held a radio and heard nothing through its earpiece. He hadn’t killed anyone so directly in a long while. Unfortunately, it had been necessary. He’d hidden the bodies near where Knox had disappeared back into the fort. Perhaps he’d found them.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Cliche as hell, but appropriate here.

Carbonell had yet to leave her hiding spot. He had a clear view of where she’d ducked for cover. She was probably waiting for some sort of radio confirmation from her men.

Since none would ever come, he decided to move things along.

“Andrea,” he called out.

No reply.

“You can hear me.”

“Let’s talk this through,” she said in her usual calm voice. “Come out. Face-to-face. You and me.”

He wanted to chuckle.

She didn’t know a damn thing.

“Okay. I’ll come out.”

HALE WATCHED AS THE CULPRIT TRIED TO AVOID THE POKES and prods from the six men encircling him. The prisoner rounded the timber post, the flames on the candles dancing, like him, to the fiddler’s tune. He hugged the timber, drawing close, but his men showed no mercy. Nor should they. This man had attacked their sanctuary. He was part of the enemy trying to imprison them all. He’d made that clear to each one of them earlier, and they’d understood their duty.

One of the men jabbed his shovel, a sucking sound indicating that the sharpened blade had penetrated deep. The culprit lurched forward and grabbed for his left thigh, staggering around the post, trying to avoid the others. He’d cautioned them against finishing him too soon. That was the thing about the sweat. It could last as long as the captain desired.

Blood stained the man’s pants, oozing from fingers that tried to keep the wound contained.

Wax dripped from the candles. Perspiration beaded on the victim’s brow. He raised a halting hand.

The music stopped.

His men ceased their prodding.

“Are you ready to answer my question?” he asked.

The culprit panted, trying to grab his breath. “NIA,” the man finally said.

Just as he suspected.

He motioned to one of the men holding a knife. Two of the others dropped their tools and grabbed the wounded man by the shoulders and arms, forcing him down to his knees. A third locked his fingers onto a handful of hair and angled the head back. The man with the knife approached and, with one slice, removed the prisoner’s right ear.

A howl filled the prison.

Hale stepped over, retrieved the ear, and ordered, “Open his mouth.”

They did.

He stuffed the ear past the man’s front teeth and protesting tongue.

“Eat it,” he said, “or I’ll cut the other one off.”

The man’s eyes went wild at the thought.

“Chew it,” he screamed.

The man shook his head and gurgled as he fought for breath.

Hale motioned and his men released their grip.

He raised the gun he was holding and shot the man in the face.

CASSIOPEIA HAD SEEN PEOPLE DIE BEFORE, BUT IT SICKENED her still. Stephanie, too, was surely hardened. But Shirley Kaiser apparently had never witnessed a murder. She heard Kaiser’s gasp and watched as the older woman turned away.

Stephanie offered comfort.

Cassiopeia kept her gaze on Hale. He stared over at her, past the bars, and pointed with the gun.

“Now, little lady. It’s your turn to answer questions.”

and tied with ribbons. A sling draped his broad shoulders and held a brace of pistols. Smart, politically astute, and bold beyond measure. No one knew his real name. Thatch? Tache? He chose Edward Teach, but his nickname was the one that everyone remembered.

Black Beard.

Born in Bristol but raised in the West Indies he’d served with Jamaican-based privateers during the War of Spanish Succession. After, he arrived in the Bahamas and signed on with the pirate Hornigold, learning the trade, and eventually acquiring his own ship. In January 1718 he came to Bath Town and established a base at the mouth of the Pamlico River, on Ocracoke Island. From there he pillaged ships and bribed the local governor for protection. He cruised the Caribbean and blockaded Charles Town harbor. Then he retired, sold his plunder, bought a house in Bath, and secured a pardon for all his past acts. He even managed to gain title to the vessels he’d captured. All of which made the adjacent colony of Virginia both angry and nervous. So much so that its governor vowed to flush out the pirate’s nest that was Bath Town.