by Steve Berry
Of one thing he was sure.
She was not the only one whose life was in danger.
* * *
Cassiopeia sensed a clear division between father and son. The whine of the distant engine had waned, as if it had headed off in another direction.
“Follow me,” Breckinridge said.
They entered the old church. The fieldstone was in bits and pieces. The walls that still stood were all bare brick. A raised dais at the far end suggested where an altar had once stood. Thanks to most of the east wall being gone, sunlight illuminated the interior.
“In the late 19th century, a man named Angus Adams owned this church and all the land around it,” Breckinridge said.
Cotton’s ancestor.
“Adams was a clever soul. He created the vault and devised the entire map of the stones. He served the Order with great distinction and here, on this site, he hid the Alpha Stone.”
“How do you know all this?” she asked. “I thought it was a secret.”
“I spent a lifetime learning the details, but I had access to information no one else possessed. The Smithsonian has been looking into the stones for a long, long time. I suspect it wanted the gold for itself. And Adams might have wanted to have it. Why else would he have given the key and his journal back to Joseph Henry?”
She had no idea what he was referring to, but the son seemed to understand.
“I managed to purge the Smithsonian records,” the old man said. “Though I will say, my dear son here and his girlfriend gave going behind me their best shot. I understand you saw the Witch’s Stone. Do you remember the images?”
She recalled the progression of symbols that ran in a defined line, emanating from the robed figure, starting with a rectangle with a cross.
“This church is the first symbol. The cross in a rectangle,” she said.
“Correct.”
Then there was a 4 inside a heart followed by an 8, N, and P.
“The letters and numbers refer to a journal that Adams created and left with the Smithsonian. If you had that journal, then the Horse Stone becomes the key. Show her.”
Grant brought his cell phone close and displayed an image of another stone, one with a large horse.
“The three dots in the upper left are the three ruins below. Take a look out that window.”
She stepped over and peered out. From their vantage, down through the trees, she saw a cairn amid the triangle formed by the three aged structures.
“It’s an old horse trough,” the old man said. “Hence the horse on the stone. The numbers 1847 were once engraved on the trough, as they were once engraved here in the church. It’s significant to the former name of this place. The Chapel of the Psalms. The only psalm with a 47th verse is Psalm 18. Do you happen to know what it says?”
She shook her head.
“He is the God who avenges me, who subdues nations under me. Quite fitting, wouldn’t you say?”
She said nothing.
“Angus Adams built the trough,” Breckinridge said, “and incorporated the Alpha Stone into its construction. A conical cap once sat atop it, resembling the robed figure on the Witch’s Stone. I removed it when I found the Alpha Stone in 1972. I then decided to move the stone up here, which I did alone one night. Back then, this area was far more remote and much less visited.”
“Why not just destroy it?” she asked, “as you just did with the other one?”
“Because back then I still thought it might be useful. Now I realize I was wrong.”
Breckinridge walked to one corner of the church and knelt on the fractured floor. An assortment of rectangular-shaped tiles, in varying sizes, were bound by dirt joints from which weeds and grass sprang. The old man motioned for the pick and had his son work the joints around one piece until he was able to work it free. Proctor kept an eye on both her and outside. Grant bent down and turned the slab over, exposing etchings on the back side.
The old man brushed away the dry soil.
He pointed to a squiggly line running from one side to the other. “That’s the river below. And here”—he motioned to a cross just beneath the river, beside what looked like a toaster—“that’s this church. The arrow points to the first marker. Cross the river and follow the next seventeen and you come to the vault.”
* * *
Cotton flew over a low ridge. The brisk air rushing past him was an effective cooling system, clearing his mind. He’d passed several other ridges, each with a saddle of rock where the ground would rise, then drop, then rise again like a roller coaster. He was following the GPS and, atop the next ridge, he spotted the ruins.
Below, off to the west, he saw two cars parked beneath drooping trees in a narrow glen, then a river and a rope bridge. He worked the control stick and aimed the ultralight toward the high ground and the church, seeing for himself the triangle formed by three ruins below the church and another small structure at their center.
He decided a close pass would be best.
So he dropped to barely three hundred feet.
* * *
Cassiopeia heard the engine approaching and realized it was a small aircraft of some sort. She was hoping that the pilot was someone she knew—and something told her that it was. Proctor’s interest was likewise piqued and he rushed outside, his head up searching the morning sky. The two other men followed, the son motioning for her to lead the way.
Approaching from the south was a small ultralight, barely a hundred meters in the air, bearing down on the church.
“Take him down,” Breckinridge ordered.
Proctor unshouldered his automatic rifle and moved to a position where he’d have a clear shot with heavy rounds.
That would do some damage.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
Diane resented Daniels’ psychoanalyzing. The last thing she needed, or wanted, was his opinion. “Shut up. I hate you.”
“And I believe her,” Stephanie Nelle muttered.
“Do you really care for this idiot?” she asked the woman in the bed. “You couldn’t possibly. He’s a fake. A phony. A nothing. What has he ever actually accomplished, besides getting himself elected?”
A timid knock came to the door.
Then another.
“Ask them what they want,” she said to Daniels.
“Go screw yourself.”
She cocked the gun, its distinctive click telling him that she did not appreciate his refusal. Then she readjusted her aim toward Stephanie Nelle. Daniels moved into her line of fire.
“I can shoot you, then her. It’s not a problem.”
Another knock, this time more decisive.
“What is it?” Daniels called out.
“You must open this door,” a female voice said. “We have to see about Ms. Nelle.”
“She’s fine. We need a few moments alone.”
“I insist that you open the door.”
Her gaze told Daniels what he had to do.
“And I’m telling you to back off. I’ll open it in a moment.”
“I can get a key,” the voice said.
She shook her head.
“Please don’t do that,” he said. “It will only be a few more moments.”
Time was running out.
She had to finish this.
* * *
Stephanie lay in bed watching Danny’s response to the threat. Diane Sherwood had taken a serious chance coming here, but this woman had reached the end of her rope. She’d murdered her husband and God knew who else. Now she was threatening to kill her and a former president of the United States. Consequences were no longer a factor in her decision making.
Her left hand had been gripping Danny’s right arm, but he’d broken free when the gun had been aimed her way. Now he stood directly in the line of fire, a shield between her and a bullet.
He had guts, she’d give him that.
Her right hand, though, still held the control panel that allowed anyone in the bed to call for a nurse or switch the room’s
lights on and off. The problem was knowing which button to push without looking. It lay away from where Diane Sherwood stood, so it was not visible. She could push all of the buttons until the lights extinguished, but she was afraid that it would be as much of a surprise to Danny.
Which might get him shot.
She was proud of herself for thinking so clearly, especially having been out of it for so long.
But the adrenaline was flowing.
* * *
Danny kept himself between Diane and Stephanie.
“Okay, I got rid of ’em,” he said. “What now?”
Unfortunately, more than enough air distance existed between him and the gun for Diane to react to anything he might do. If he dove out of the way the bullet could find Stephanie. So he stood still, just as he would when a nine-point buck approached through the trees on a cold winter’s day.
Good things usually came to those who waited.
* * *
Diane’s mind reeled with so many troubling thoughts. Like that final day when she confronted Alex, and the knight at the National Mall. Now another man stood in her way.
Why must that always be?
Another knock came.
“We insist you open the door.”
This time a male voice.
Another man interfering.
Enough.
She fired a shot into the ceiling.
“Go away,” she screamed. “Now.”
* * *
Danny froze.
He’d considered rushing her, but Diane had quickly brought the gun back, aimed at him. At least everyone outside was now alerted to the actual problem. Whatever good that would do. Stephanie’s hand returned to his right wrist and squeezed twice.
A signal?
What was she up to?
* * *
Stephanie gripped the bedside controls. If she could plunge the room into darkness it might give Danny the moment of advantage needed to wrestle away the gun. The problem came with her not being able to tell him the plan. She hoped her touch on his wrist was enough to let him know that she was about to do something.
Diane Sherwood remained enraged. But her eyes seemed more sad than angry, and really confused.
“Get on your knees,” she told Daniels.
Danny did not move.
“I won’t say it again.”
The command had been deliberately uttered in a low voice, as if challenging him to decline.
“Do it,” Stephanie told him, releasing her grip on his arm.
He glanced down at her and she motioned with her eyes to the right. His gaze followed her lead and he saw the control in her hand. He didn’t know exactly what she intended. But at least he knew she was going to act.
He slowly dropped to his knees.
She was about to kill the lights when she noticed something behind where Diane Sherwood stood.
The latch knob for the door’s lock was slowly turning.
Someone was using a key to gain access.
* * *
Diane finally had Danny Daniels exactly where she wanted him. She stepped close and nestled the gun to his forehead. He stared up at her with not a hint of fear. She’d forced him to his knees, but he was telling her with his eyes that he was not submitting.
Which only enraged her more.
And gave her the courage to pull the trigger.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
Cotton flew close to the forlorn ruins. The church at the crown of the crest commanded rolling acres in every direction that his family had once owned. More had survived of it and the other three ruins than he expected, mostly partial walls supporting sections of clay roofs. Great old trees stood watch close to the foundations. The scene was definitely not as pastoral and complete as the fore-edge painting had depicted, but this was the same place. He was coming in low and close when he saw four people emerge from the church.
Three men.
And a woman.
Cassiopeia.
Thank goodness.
But he immediately noticed that her arms were stretched behind her back, as if her wrists were bound. One of the men disappeared into the trees, while the other two stood near Cassiopeia. He noticed that one was old, the other younger.
The two Breckinridges.
He’d make a pass then find a place to land.
He could do little from up here.
* * *
Cassiopeia assessed the situation and made her choices. Proctor was readying his rifle, his focus on the ultralight that was fast approaching. The old man had removed a pistol, keeping it trained on her, but she noticed that he could not keep his gaze from drifting skyward. Grant stood to her right, unarmed, also studying both Proctor and the aircraft.
Proctor had assumed a position behind one of the thick tree trunks, most likely planning on revealing himself when the ultralight was too close to veer away. That wasn’t a fighter jet up there. Its maneuverability was severely limited, and its speed was a snail’s pace. If that was Cotton, and she believed it to be, she had to do something.
“Stay real still,” the old man said to her, the gun aimed her way.
Right.
Keep dreaming.
The ultralight was a few hundred meters away, coming in low. Proctor dashed from his hiding place to the center of the clearing, knelt, and aimed his rifle. Her right leg swung up and her boot caught the old man square in the chest. He slumped forward and she kicked the gun from his grasp. Not waiting a second, she pivoted and slammed the heel of her right boot into the son’s crotch, doubling him over.
Proctor faced away, which gave her a few moments of freedom.
He started firing.
Rounds spit from the short barrel and headed skyward.
* * *
Cotton saw a fleeting shape, set apart from the landscape. There, then gone. Then back. Among the trees.
A man with a rifle.
He watched as Cassiopeia took out the two men standing beside her.
The rifleman had knelt and aimed skyward.
He heard shots.
Rounds whined by him.
He yanked the control stick and tried to make a quick turn, but he heard something snap as more rounds rocketed past.
* * *
Cassiopeia raced forward and slammed into Proctor.
His firing stopped.
He rolled on the ground and was preparing to pounce, but she was one step ahead of him, hammering her boot into his jaw, sending him back down. She had no time to hang around since it would be impossible to contain these three with her hands behind her back.
So she ran.
And heard overhead the sickening choke of the ultralight’s engine.
* * *
Cotton had zero feel or pressure in the joystick, and moving it in any direction accomplished nothing. The craft’s nose dipped and everything shook from turbulence.
Then, suddenly, control returned.
The engine kept sputtering and he assumed one or more of the rounds had found its mark, so he shut the motor down and used the rudder and aileron to fly on the wind. Apparently the horizontal stabilizer was gone, its cable perhaps snapped. He was flopping in the morning air, trying to find some measure of flight control. Pressing the right rudder pedal yielded no response. Luckily, the left one seemed to be working and he used it to draw the craft closer to the ground. Panic started in his toes and worked its way up his legs, and it took effort to fight it off.
Treetops were fast approaching.
He decided to use them to break his fall. If he was lucky he might be able to skip across a few, then settle down into one.
If not, the end of this flight was definitely going to leave a mark.
* * *
Grant fought the rise of nausea in his throat, vertigo turning his legs to rubber. The bitch had slammed her foot into his crotch and it hurt like hell. He fought the pain and brought himself to his knees. Proctor was recovering, too, beginning to stand, looking around for his rifle.
/> “Go get her,” his father yelled from the ground. “Kill her.”
Proctor found the weapon and ran off.
His father seemed woozy.
Then Grant remembered the gun.
Which Vitt had kicked away.
He searched the dry earth and found it, crawling over and quickly taking hold. He had the Alpha Stone, and though the Heart Stone was gone, images of it had been taken and somehow he’d get his hands on them. And now he knew the starting point. Right here. Diane could figure out the rest. She was plenty smart, and would do anything for him. Sure, he’d broken into the apartment and stolen the key, but that could be explained by using his father as an excuse. Which was actually the truth. What had his father said to him?
“I’m not you. I actually use my brain.”
Not this time, old man.
He aimed the gun.
Comprehension dawned in his father’s eyes. But there was nothing left to be said between them.
So he shot him in the head.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
Danny wondered why Stephanie had delayed acting. He was in a precarious position, one he did not particularly like. The hard end of the gun’s barrel boring into his forehead.
Then he saw the answer past Diane.
The latch for the door lock was turning.
Diane could not see what was happening, but he had a clear view as the door eased open and he saw the face of the Magellan Billet agent from outside.
“Not such a big man now, are you?” Diane said.
The gun barrel nudged his head back.
This was going to be close.
* * *
Stephanie spied the face of her agent and immediately lifted the control above her legs so he could see what she was about to do. Diane Sherwood had no idea that someone had gained access to the room. There was no telling what she might do, and that gun to Danny’s head gave both her and her agent pause.
She sent a message with her eyes.
Finesse this. No power play.
And her agent nodded, signaling that he understood.
A moment of unexpectedness should work.
So she hit the switch.
* * *
