The Lost Order--A Novel

by Steve Berry

Diane could not believe her good fortune. She’d managed to force Danny Daniels right where she wanted him.

  Time to kill him.

  Should she kill the woman, too?

  Why not?

  The lights in the room extinguished.

  * * *

  Stephanie heard a shot and quickly re-pressed the button on the control box.

  The lights sprang back on.

  She had no idea what to expect, as the last thing she’d seen was the gun at Danny’s forehead. But it was Diane Sherwood who lay sprawled on the carpet, a bleeding wound in her chest. Her agent was in the room, gun drawn. But the threat had ended.

  Danny reached down, checked for a pulse, and shook his head. “A lot of demons crawled around in that woman’s head.”

  He stood.

  “Seal this room off,” she told her agent. “And call the police.”

  The man nodded and left, closing the door.

  “I can’t say that I have any sympathy for her,” Danny said. “She killed my friend and got what she deserved.”

  She did not disagree.

  “I have to see about Taisley. The police have to be notified. She may need help.”

  “And you still have another problem,” she reminded him, thinking like the head of an intelligence agency.

  He glanced at his watch.

  “It’s a little before 9:00 A.M. I agree. I’ll deal with Lucius Vance, too.”

  * * *

  Cassiopeia raced headlong through the trees, down the incline past the horse trough. She heard a gunshot, but no round came her way. Her options were limited. She had only a minor head start on the three men back at the church. The whine from the ultralight had stopped and she wondered if Proctor had shot it down. Unfortunately, she could not worry about that at the moment.

  Getting gone was her priority.

  She spied the rope bridge back toward the cars, but those would be of no help with her hands bound behind her back. The bridge itself was far too exposed given Proctor and his rifle.

  But the heaving river.

  That might be her best bet.

  She’d noticed earlier that it seemed shallow and carried a current fast enough to whisk her downstream and out of rifle range. She could work with her feet and stay as close to shore as possible to avoid drowning. Risky, for sure. But no less dangerous than her current situation.

  She approached the riverbank and spied a drop of ten meters to the water, the pebbly slope eroded and dotted with man-sized boulders, stacked one atop the other with passages here and there. A thick growth of reeds and cottonwoods sprouted everywhere, providing cover but also making the way down more treacherous.

  She turned back and spotted Proctor as he emerged from the trees.

  He saw her and aimed the rifle.

  No choice now.

  She dropped over the side and rolled down. Bullets skipped behind her like flung stones. Dust caught in her mouth, nose, and eyes, making her cough. Gravity carried her downward until she hit a boulder. She glanced back up, head spinning. The sky wheeled. The river rushed by a few meters away, past more boulders that towered upward, forming small canyons among the stunted bushes.

  Proctor would be on her in a moment.

  She eased herself upright, feet scrambling heels-first, and blundered toward the nearest cover. Everything seemed desiccated, almost otherwordly in appearance. More dust filled her throat and she spat it away. Enough rocks now surrounded her that Proctor would have to come down to find her. She scrambled toward the river.

  Shots rained down.

  Bullets skipped off stone, rock slivers grazing her cheeks.

  She stopped her advance.

  Sweat bathed her face.

  Then she heard it.

  A low steady growl.

  Looking up, she found its source.

  A mountain lion.

  * * *

  Danny left Stephanie’s room just as the DC Police and the FBI arrived. Both had been called, the FBI because a U.S. senator was involved. He did not mind the attention. In fact he welcomed it, since Diane’s death had played right into his hands.

  He’d reported a shooting in Alex’s building, which the police were already aware of. A second call back to his cell phone told him that Taisley Forsberg was dead.

  Which ripped at his heart.

  He’d tried hard to keep her out of it, but failed.

  He took a moment and gathered himself, using the composure that decades in public office had taught him.

  Stay with the plan.

  Get the job done.

  The House Rules Committee was scheduled to convene at ten. That gave him forty-five minutes to act. He’d learned a long time ago that politicians were a lot like penguins entering the ocean. A whole horde would go right to the edge, but none would leap into the water until one went first. Then everyone followed. If one hesitated, they all hesitated, and the process started all over. Vance had taken them to the edge and leaped. Now the rest had to decide to follow. Was it clear and inviting, full of fish to eat? Or was there a shark or killer whale waiting to gobble them up? Vance had assured them of a safe ride.

  But Danny was about to change that.

  He found a quiet corner and dialed his cell phone. His chief of staff had provided him the Speaker’s cell phone number just after his visit to the Willard.

  The phone rang in his ear.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Then it was answered.

  “Who is this?” Vance asked.

  “Danny Daniels.”

  “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you found me again. What could we possibly have to discuss this time?”

  “Diane Sherwood is dead.”

  Silence.

  “I’m listening,” Vance finally said.

  * * *

  Cassiopeia stood paralyzed.

  The big cat weighed at least fifty kilos, lying three meters up on top of a boulder beneath the shade of another. A smug certainty filled the animal’s face, maybe a lordly indifference, its impressive paws extended like a harmless house cat’s. She forced herself not to move, trying to breathe slow. She knew that wildcats were mainly night hunters and it would not be here now, amid noise and gunfire, if its belly was full. Most likely it had assumed an early-morning perch waiting for something tasty to come along for a drink of water. She’d been told once that moving prey evoked curiosity.

  Stillness urged caution.

  So never, ever run.

  She swallowed drily, too unnerved to even twitch, trying to become accustomed to the predator’s proximity. The pounding of her pulse thumped in her ears. Past the rocks, back from where she came, she heard Proctor sliding down the bank, heading her way.

  The lion’s ear flicked, not against an insect, more as a sign of catching the sound, too. She wondered. Now that the animal was fully alert, would the scent of her own fear distract it from the approaching possibility?

  Or would it focus on something easier?

  Within sight and reach.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  Grant headed for where the ultralight had crashed. He needed to deal with its pilot while Proctor killed the woman. Then he’d take care of Proctor. All the bodies could be tossed into the river where they’d head downstream, making it next to impossible to determine where they’d died. The small aircraft had skirted the treetops under no engine and he’d heard the final crashing impact.

  He was again in command and on top. Good riddance to his father. He had enough pieces of the puzzle that he was sure Diane could connect the dots. And he had the ceremonial key back in his possession, retrieving it from his dead father. As soon as this was done, he’d get Diane out here. Together they could solve the puzzle and find the vault. The only rub would be the rest of the Order, since he now knew they were out there, watching.

  He’d just have to be careful.

  Shafts of light stabbed through the lacy canopy overhead. He spotted the wreckage dangling high above in a stately
pine. Incredibly, the pilot had managed to avoid crashing to the ground. He approached close and studied the open cockpit. The seat was empty, the harness hanging free, as was a headset that stretched downward, a good twenty feet up in the air.

  A helmet lay on the ground.

  He came alert.

  Where was the pilot?

  * * *

  Cotton had maneuvered the wounded ultralight to a stop, using branches to cushion his descent. It had not been as smooth as he’d wanted and he’d ended upside down, but the ultralight had lived up to its name, finally settling into the treetops. He then managed to ditch his helmet, slip from his harness, and climb down to the ground.

  He was armed with a Beretta.

  He assumed someone would come his way, so he’d taken a position behind one of the stately pines and watched as a short-haired, younger man approached.

  The same guy from Fossil Hall.

  Grant Breckinridge.

  Just the guy he came to see.

  * * *

  Grant could feel he was being watched. Tall, old-growth trees rose all around him like a natural cathedral, blocking the morning sun, casting long deep shadows. It was similar to the feeling he’d had in Kentucky months ago when he followed the signs in the woods, searching for one of the gold caches. He’d thought then that a sentinel had been stalking, but no one appeared when he found the end of the trail and dug the coins from the ground.

  A shot rang out in the distance.

  Most likely the woman dying from Proctor’s rifle.

  He needed to end this.

  * * *

  Cotton watched his prey.

  This man had gunned down Stephanie Nelle without remorse. He was concerned about Cassiopeia and the rifle shot he’d just heard.

  Not good.

  But he kept his position behind the tree and angled himself so that as Breckinridge kept advancing, the trunk stayed between them. He waited until his adversary passed, then stepped out, aimed his weapon, and cocked the hammer.

  The click said it all.

  Breckinridge stopped but did not turn. “I knew you were here somewhere.”

  He wasn’t impressed. “Drop the gun.”

  “I recognize the order. You’re the same guy from the museum.”

  “For someone who hears so good, you’re not doing as I asked.”

  “You with the feds?”

  “Who else?”

  “I thought maybe the Knights of the Golden Circle.”

  “They’re the least of your worries.”

  He kept the gun aimed. This idiot actually thought he could one-up him. Apparently his spate of good luck had been so good, and so long, that he thought himself invincible. The killing of Martin Thomas, finding the Trail Stone, shooting Stephanie, stealing the Heart Stone. Quite a run, though some of the cards had been stacked in his favor.

  He tried one more time.

  “Drop. The. Gun.”

  * * *

  Grant kept his finger tight on the trigger. He’d have only an instant once he turned. His hope was that this man, though equipped with a weapon, did not have the nerve to pull the trigger. Sure, in the heat of a moment, in reaction to a direct threat, to save their own hides, anybody would shoot. But if he was slow and careful he might be able to tick off a round before this guy knew what hit him. Then Proctor was next. And if he dawdled long enough perhaps Proctor would come looking for him and take care of this problem for him.

  He heard the man order him for a second time to drop the gun.

  But he ignored the command.

  And slowly started to turn.

  * * *

  Cotton could tell that this guy intended to see how much nerve he possessed. That was the trouble with wise guys. They never knew when to quit.

  Breckinridge slowly swung his body around, as if he intended to drop the gun and raise his hands in surrender. The right hand still held the weapon, the left empty and heading upward.

  A diversion.

  And a poor one at that.

  He decided to give him every opportunity, hoping not to be disappointed.

  And he wasn’t.

  Breckinridge swung his right arm up, but never made it level.

  One round left Cotton’s gun.

  The bullet bore a neat hole in Breckinridge’s skull, passing right through, exploding a spray of brains and blood outward. Death came in an instant, the body collapsing in a lifeless heap.

  He lowered the gun.

  “That’s for Stephanie.”

  But he immediately thought of Cassiopeia.

  And ran back toward the ruins.

  * * *

  Cassiopeia lay on the rocky soil, the mountain lion’s staring eyes never leaving her, not even as the sound of Proctor approaching through the rock maze grew louder. The big cat heard it, too, tensing with a slight alteration of its shape and readiness, which it released, then built again, slowly rising to its feet.

  She did not move a muscle, barely breathing.

  “Be a good kitty,” she muttered, swallowing, trying to control the tremor in her voice.

  She could see no escape from either danger.

  All she could do was watch.

  Proctor rounded a corner and spotted her, the rifle held ready as by a hunter on safari.

  “You saved me the trouble of carrying your body down to the river,” he said.

  The mountain lion growled.

  Proctor heard it, too, and sent a bullet to the rock near the animal’s head.

  Which sent the cat scurrying away.

  “It would be a shame to kill something so beautiful,” he said to her. “Unfortunately, the same doesn’t apply to you.”

  * * *

  Cotton found Frank Breckinridge’s body, the old man shot dead. That meant only the one other man and Cassiopeia remained.

  But where?

  A gunshot cracked.

  And not all that far away. Toward the river.

  He headed that way, following an uneven gravel path strewn with dead limbs. Overhead a vulture circled, riding the day’s first thermals.

  An omen?

  He hoped not.

  * * *

  Cassiopeia had always wondered when the end would come. She’d tempted death many times, taking risks that most people went out of their way to avoid. Now she’d maneuvered herself into an untenable position, trapped on a riverbank, among a cluster of boulders, a man with a rifle staring her down.

  “You do understand,” Proctor said. “This is not personal.”

  “It is to me.”

  He chuckled. “I suppose it might be.”

  “My usefulness has waned?”

  “I’m afraid so. The pilot of that plane is probably dead and you’re about to join him. Then we knights disappear back into the shadows.”

  If that pilot was Cotton, she had to believe he was okay. And why wouldn’t he be? He was Harold Earl “Cotton” Malone. The best man she’d ever known.

  So she decided to do something radical.

  Something she hadn’t done since she was a child.

  * * *

  Cotton heard a scream.

  Loud. Piercing.

  Nearby.

  At the river.

  Since Cassiopeia was the only woman he’d seen for miles, it had to be her.

  He ran toward it.

  * * *

  Cassiopeia kept up the ruse, feigning fear, buying time.

  “I expected a little more courage from you,” Proctor said.

  “Nobody wants to die.”

  “No, I suppose not. But your time is here.”

  “Any way to talk you out of it? Like you said in the diner, women have been known to offer things when cornered.”

  He shook his head. “Not this time.”

  He aimed the rifle.

  She had regrets, but not all that many. She’d lived life her way, on her terms, and could not complain. There’d been ups, downs, mistakes, misfortunes, and great successes. The one major regret w
as Cotton. They wouldn’t get to finish what they’d started.

  Which she hated.

  But this fight was over. She could dive in the river, but Proctor would only shoot her. Without arms and hands she’d be little more than a floating duck. Apparently, there was no one around to hear her scream. It had been a calculated move that had not paid off. So in her final moments she dropped the pretense of fear, rose to her feet, and stared the gun down.

  “Go ahead. Pull the damn trigger.”

  “Killing is never easy,” he said. “But sometimes it’s necessary.”

  She closed her eyes.

  A shot exploded.

  But no bullet pierced her body.

  Instead Proctor lunged forward as something slammed into him from behind. Then another shot echoed and his head exploded from a high-powered impact. The body pitched from side to side before folding to the rocky ground.

  She ran ahead, past the rocks blocking her view, and saw Cotton at the top of the bank. Relief swept through her.

  God, she loved that man.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I am now.”

  She climbed up, kissed him hard, and said, “I thought it was all over.”

  “Never.”

  She liked the sound of that. “I was hoping you’d hear that scream.”

  “Good thing I came along to save your hide.”

  He was right. Lately, it had been more the other way around. “About time you start repaying the favor.”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  He found a pocketknife and freed her bindings. Her arms ached from being in one position for so long, her fingers numb and slow to flex. She stretched them toward the sky.

  “What about the Breckinridges?” she asked.

  “Both dead.”

  “Your work?”

  “Only for the one that mattered.”

  “So that about wraps it up?”

  “Not exactly,” he said.

  She knew what he meant.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  CARSON NATIONAL FOREST

  SUNDAY, MAY 30

  Cotton stood beside the old horse trough, built—he now knew—by Angus Adams. Two days had passed since the carnage. They’d spent yesterday connected by the Internet to the Castle and Rick Stamm, where they’d combined all five stones into a single digital mosaic.

  Cassiopeia had shown him the Alpha Stone that Frank Breckinridge uncovered in the church. The five images had all been similarly sized and scaled, just as if the actual stones had been lying side by side. When the Trail and Alpha Stones were placed alongside each other, with the Heart Stone inserted, the line with eighteen markers formed a clear path leading to the center of the heart.