by Steve Berry
“Any sign of her?”
“We’ve had trouble with the cameras everywhere tonight, but no, no other sign of her.”
“Is her boat still there?”
“Tied to a piling. Do you want it released?”
He thought a moment.
“No. I have a better idea.”
SEVENTY-FIVE
MALONE WAS ANXIOUS TO BE ON THE GROUND. THEY WERE BACK in American airspace, racing down the northeastern seaboard, headed for North Carolina. The pilots had informed him that they were about two hours from landing and the last thirty minutes would be extremely bumpy thanks to a late-season gale that had blown in from the Atlantic. In the meantime, there was nothing he could do but sit and worry.
His relationship with Cassiopeia had certainly added a new dimension to his life. He’d been married to Pam, his ex-wife, along time. They’d gone from the navy, to law school, to the Magellan Billet. Together they’d birthed and raised Gary. Pam had even become a lawyer, too, something they should have shared but actually drove them apart.
Neither one of them had been a saint.
His indiscretions were known by her from their start. Hers only came to light years later. Thankfully, they’d made their peace, but that had taken more than either of them had ever bargained for to accomplish. Now another woman had entered his life. Different. Exciting. Unpredictable. Where Pam had been the picture of patience, Cassiopeia was like a moth, fleeting from one thing to the next, all with a grace and agility that he’d come to appreciate. Her faults were there, but nothing he could not lay claim to himself. From the first moment they’d encountered each other in France he’d been drawn to her. Now she might be in trouble, single-handedly trying to challenge a company of pirates.
Damn he wished they would land.
The cabin phone rang.
“Cotton, I thought you’d like to know that it’s gone dead quiet at the compound.”
The deep voice on the other end of the line was unmistakable.
“Go get them,” he told the president of the United States. “Cassiopeia should not have been allowed to go in there.”
“She was right, and you know it. Somebody had to go. But I understand where you’re coming from. I feel awful about Stephanie. And Shirley Kaiser. The crazy fool. She’s placed herself right in the middle of this.”
“How much longer do you wait?”
“She said till dawn. We’ll give her that. Men have been arriving at the compound constantly. Beyond that, we don’t know what’s happening. She could be making progress.”
“I’ll be there in less than two hours,” he said.
“Did you find those pages?”
“I think so, but I’ll have to go back to get them.”
“Wyatt is still there. Carbonell is, too. She came after you left.”
“I figured Edwin had some eyes and ears on the ground.”
“I insisted. One of the Secret Service pilots who flew you there stayed behind. He’s watching.”
That wasn’t his main concern. “I want to know what’s happening in Bath, as it happens.”
“We’ll act the instant we have cause. Otherwise, it’s all yours in two hours.”
CASSIOPEIA STUDIED THE HALE HOUSE. LIGHTS HAD BEEN RESTORED and armed men patrolled the covered verandas.
“Stay low and in the trees,” she whispered. “Once we’re around the house, it’s not far to the dock.”
The storm continued to rage with little sign of slowing. The trip back across the river would be a challenge.
“I wish I could go in there and kill that son of a bitch,” Shirley muttered.
“How about you just testify against him,” she whispered. “That should do it.” She motioned ahead. “That way.”
They headed off.
Fifty meters past the house she heard shouts.
She turned back and, through the foliage, spotted men bursting out of doors and off the porches. Something had spooked them. None headed directly toward them. Most rounded toward the front, away from the river.
“We need to hurry,” she breathed.
WYATT WATCHED AS KNOX DOVE FOR COVER. THE SHOTS HAD come from the direction of Carbonell and her man. Through the night goggles he saw a man emerge from the stairwell Knox had just used to climb onto the wall walk.
One of the men who’d come with Carbonell, come to finish Knox off.
He decided to help out.
He aimed and fired, dropping the man to the stones.
Knox seemed to sense an opportunity and belly-crawled to the body, finding the man’s gun. He imagined what Carbonell was doing. She knew he was armed. His killing of her man had revealed his location. Now she was probably on her radio, trying to contact the two other men she’d previously stationed here.
Her aces in the hole.
Her plan with contingencies.
While she and the others occupied his attention, those two would take him out. She’d apparently captured Knox and brought him back, intent on cleaning up that loose end, too.
Poor Andrea.
Not this time.
CASSIOPEIA EMERGED FROM THE OAKS NEAR THE DOCK. THE long wooden expanse remained unlit, Hale’s sloop still tied at the end. There had to be men stationed on the boat. Unlikely that they would leave a yacht that large unattended in a storm. She motioned and they raced toward the ladder where she’d first gained ingress. Her boat waited at the bottom, tossing on the swells. They climbed down and she untied the lines.
So far so good.
She’d have to crank the engine, but not until the wind and current drove them out into the river.
A light appeared from the dock.
Bright, like the sun. Blinding her.
She raised an arm to shield her burning pupils.
She reached for her weapon and saw that Stephanie and Shirley were already raising theirs.
“That would be foolish,” a male voice said over the wind, through a loudspeaker. “We have guns trained. Your engine has been disabled and the boat is tied from beneath to the dock. You can die there, if you like. Or—”
“It’s Hale,” Shirley said.
“You can come ashore.”
“Let’s swim for it,” Cassiopeia said.
But another light appeared out on the river, coming their way.
Anxiety turned to fear.
“My men are quite the seamen,” Hale said. “They can handle this storm. There is no place for you to go.”
KNOX SCRAMBLED OVER TO THE DEAD MAN AND FOUND A GUN, along with a spare magazine in a jacket pocket.
Good to be armed.
He descended back into the fort, but avoided the ground, exiting one level above into a darkened passageway. He negotiated a short hall and entered a tight space where the outer wall, facing the sea, had collapsed. For a moment he allowed the breeze to alleviate some of his apprehension. Only the stench of guano disturbed the tranquility. He was just about to leave when something to his right, beyond a pile of rubble, caught his attention.
A leg.
He crept forward.
A mutter of concern growled among some nearby restless birds.
The darkened image sharpened.
Two legs, prone. A pair of rubber-soled shoes.
He glanced over the pile.
Two men lay sprawled. Their necks were broken, heads drooped at odd angles, mouths agape. A flashlight lay beside them. Now he knew why Wyatt was so bold.
He’d eliminated Carbonell’s safety valves.
Now it was just the three of them.
SEVENTY-SIX
NORTH CAROLINA
HALE’S TRAP FOR THE FUGITIVES HAD WORKED AND NOW HE had them all in custody at the prison. The rain outside had slackened but was still falling, a stiff breeze from the southeast hurling droplets through the destroyed windows. Crewmen were busy nailing plywood across the open frames. Another sheet already had been rigged as a makeshift door. The estate was on full alert. Nearly a hundred men had answered the late-night call. W
hile patrols began on the grounds, he’d ordered the captive man prepared for questioning. He’d housed his three female prisoners in a nearby cell so they could watch.
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.
Cliché 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.”
SEVENTY-SEVEN
HE WAS A TALL, SPARE MAN WITH A BLACK BEARD, WHICH HE WORE LONG 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 I
sland. 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.
Two armed sloops arrived at sundown on November 21, 1718, stopping just outside Ocracoke Inlet, far enough away so that the unfamiliar shoals and channels would not pose a danger. Royal Navy fighting men crewed the boats and Lieutenant Robert Maynard commanded them, an experienced officer of great bravery and resolution.
Black Beard, aboard his anchored ship Adventure, paid the vessels little mind. He was through with fighting. For six months he’d plied the local waters unmolested. His crew was greatly reduced, as there was no profit associating with a man who no longer looted vessels. Most of his experienced shipmates were either long gone or ashore in Bath. All that remained on board were twenty or so, a third of whom were Negroes.
Some precautions, though, were taken.
Powder, balls, and scrap were stacked near the eight mounted guns. Blankets were soaked and hung around the magazine, there for any deck fires that might occur. Pistols and cutlasses were piled near battle stations. All routine. Just in case. But they would not dare attack him, Black Beard was heard to say.
The assault began in the early gray light of dawn.
Maynard’s force outnumbered Black Beard’s three to one. But in their haste to gain an advantage, Maynard’s sloops ran aground in the shallow water. Black Beard could have easily fled northward, but he was no coward. Instead he hoisted a mug of liquor and yelled across the water, “Damnation seize my soul if I give you quarter or take any from you.”
Maynard hollered back, “I expect no quarter from you, nor shall I give any.”
They both knew. This would be a fight to the death.
