His prey was careful; there was little doubt about that. It appeared Jon would have to expose himself in order to draw the traitor out.
That was fine, too. Tall, broad, completely unprotected, he strolled across the empty space in front of the fort. Anyone would have a clear shot at him.
He wasn't afraid. Felt little, in fact, not even nervousness or a sense of impending triumph. He'd felt almost nothing since the day Beth had left him in the woods. It was as if all his emotions had retreated into some gray, cold corner where they couldn't reach him anymore. He no longer noticed them in any but the vaguest of ways—a clinical acknowledgment of their presence, but he didn't really feel them.
The wind was off the river, bringing with it a hint of coolness. He filled his lungs and emptied his mind. Action was easier when unaccompanied by thought.
He was sure that the traitor didn't want to shoot him—not yet, anyway. Why kill him, when a bigger fish was soon to arrive? Wouldn't do to scare off the prize.
Jon silently crept up on the fort. He backed up against the solid bulk of the outer wall and let out a slow, even breath. He listened. Still nothing. Either he was alone, or the traitor was every bit as quiet as he was.
Jon was betting on the latter.
He slipped along the wall. It smelled of damp and rotting wood. He hugged it tightly, counting on its black flatness to hide both his motion and his form.
He moved slowly. Speed was almost impossible without accompanying sound, and right now, stealth was much more crucial than quickness.
The old gate was open, sagging slightly on one side. It was one of the things the captain hadn't had time to repair. Jon edged around the gate just enough to give himself a quick peek, then slipped inside the fort. The empty central yard was dark and deserted. No shadows, no light, no sound. Only an increase in intensity, a slight thickening in the blackness, indicated where the various buildings stood.
Choices now were a delicate matter. Somehow he needed to flush the traitor out into the open. In order to capture him, Jon had to find him.
Conscious of his audience, Jon turned around restlessly and stamped his feet as if he were growing impatient waiting for his contact. He was acutely aware of the heavy, comforting weight of the flintlock pistol tucked at the small of his back underneath his jerkin, and the cold familiar steel of the blade slipped into his right boot.
Not much protection against a musket or rifle— particularly if the shooter was who Jon suspected it was, for there was only one person in New Wexford who had the access to information, the intelligence, and the temperament to carry this off.
All right, all the traitor needed was a place from which to watch and listen. Safely, comfortably tucked away, all he had to do was hear and see.
There was no place to hide along the inside of the fort. The flat wall provided no cover other than the barest shadow cast by the overhang—
The overhang. Jon looked up at the walkway that rimmed the top of the wall. It was there that British soldiers had stood and fired on attacking French and Indian troops. Narrow, roughly bulwarked with thick wood, it provided rudimentary if fragile protection.
It could also, quite easily, hide a person. A person who from that position would have no trouble hearing and seeing what was happening in the yard below.
A faint prickle lifted the hairs on the back of Jon's neck. He was being watched. How was he ever going to climb to the walkway and sneak up on the traitor without being seen?
Glancing around him once more, he gave a loud, theatrically exasperated sigh. Striding wearily over to the wall, he slumped against it like a man who was tired of waiting. He whacked the wood loudly. Loud enough to be heard above, he hoped.
He was now out of sight to anyone on the ledge directly above him, though still exposed to a watcher on the walkway along the other three sides of the wall, but he had to assume the traitor was here, close enough to see clearly anyone who entered the fort and near enough to hear any conversations held just inside the entrance.
Jon moved soundlessly along the wall. Not even the packed earth and spare grass beneath his feet whispered his passing. Some way from the gate, a crude, broken ladder led to a small opening in the ledge above.
His senses focused on that access hole. He was no longer aware of the coolness of the air, the feel of his clothes, or the sounds of the forest night. He was sharply, acutely conscious only of the task in front of him, and what waited above him on the narrow walkway.
Reaching high above him, almost two thirds of the way up the ladder, he closed his hands slowly around one of the few rungs that seemed still sound. He carefully placed his foot on the fourth rung from the bottom, easing his weight onto it, testing it as much as possible.
The wood was sturdy beneath his boot. He let out a long, even breath, and moved upward.
The old wood creaked beneath his weight. He froze, clinging to the ladder, mentally cursing the sound and his completely vulnerable position.
He could detect no movement above him. No muffled footsteps crept along the ledge toward him. Perhaps the traitor wasn't up there after all, although Jon doubted it. He'd spent six years in this profession, and every shard of instinct and experience he had told him his prey was here.
Maybe the traitor hadn't heard the sound or had written it off as the noise of an old, settling structure.
Once Jon emerged through the hole, there was no going back, no making any other, safer choices.
He wanted this job over. He wanted to wash as much of the blood off his hands as possible, to bury the memories of a special, vibrant woman and her family as deeply as he could manage and go on with his empty, cold life.
He reached for the edges of the hole. The rough, splintery wood cut into his palms, as he shoved himself through the opening.
The musket was black, almost indistinguishable in the darkness. It was also no more than two feet away and pointed directly at Jon's head.
He was still for only a moment, before he finished climbing through the hole. He stood easily, comfortably balanced on the narrow walkway.
"Hello, Brendan," he said calmly. "You're very good, you know. I didn't hear you move."
The clouds blew away from the moon, and they were bathed in cold, silver light. Brendan was dressed in black, blending subtly into the night, and his face was completely composed and emotionless.
"No more so than you. I wouldn't have heard you if the ladder hadn't creaked." He gave a tiny, chilling smile. "Sometimes there are advantages in weighing somewhat less than an ox."
"Yes."
"Raise your hands where I can see them."
Jon complied, careful to make no threatening moves.
His gaze flicked quickly over Brendan, evaluating, looking for an opening.
There were none obvious. His opponent betrayed no telltale tremble of nerves, no tiny lapses of concentration that would give Jon the advantage he needed.
"Now what?" Jon asked.
"A bit of a problem, isn't it? If only you hadn't taken it upon yourself to look for me up here. It would have made things so much simpler."
Jon inched forward. "It would have?" Keep him talking. It was a time-honored tactic. Get someone to talk enough, eventually he gave something away. It was one huge advantage when he played the idiot; he hadn't had to do much talking.
"Yes." Brendan's grip on his weapon was steady, relaxed, familiar. His body was absolutely still; no wasted motion, no excess energy. "I could have simply identified you both and passed it along to the appropriate people. Now things are somewhat more complex."
"Really?" Jon lowered his hands slightly. Easy, easy, he told himself.
"Now you'll have to go back down, wait for your contact, and act like nothing is wrong. Wouldn't want the other party to suspect anything. Of course, pretending won't be much of a problem for you, will it?"
"No."
"You were really quite good. Stupidity puts most people right off. One rarely bothers to look below the surface if the
water seems so obviously shallow. Even I wasn't certain until right now."
Jon bowed slightly. "And if I won't do it?"
"Well." Brendan's eyes narrowed. "One way or another, you will never return to your company."
"Ah." Jon studied Brendan thoughtfully. Did he really have it in him to murder a man in cold blood for no other reason than they were on opposite sides of the war? He had no doubts about Brendan's ability to kill in battle. But an apparently unarmed opponent? Surely despite all, there was too much Jones in him for that.
But shooting Jon here really wouldn't be necessary. All Brendan would have to do would be to make his way safely back to the British. Jon's life would be forfeit if he ever got anywhere near British troops again.
Then again, Jon could do the same thing to Brendan.
Jon narrowed his eyes and focused all his concentration on the man in front of him. This might well be his only opportunity. "Brendan, I'm meeting no one, you know."
There was the barest glimmer of surprise in Brendan's dark eyes. "What?"
"I'm here for only one purpose. To capture you," Jon said evenly.
Brendan started for only an instant, glancing briefly toward the entrance to the fort.
He lowered his guard for scarcely a moment—but it was the only moment Jon had.
Slashing at the musket with his left hand, Jon dived for Brendan's midsection. Brendan's reaction was rapid; he stepped back, trying to bring the musket around so he could get off a shot. It was too late.
The musket went flying off into the darkness as the two hurtled over the edge of the walkway.
The men let go of each other as they fell, twisting in the air to limit any damage from the fall. Jon hit the packed earth with a muffled thud, pain shooting up through his knees and up his back. He ignored it, spinning toward Brendan, and sprang again.
The musket boomed, going off as it slammed into the ground several feet away. As the echoes of the shot faded, he heard the falling tones of a woman's scream.
A familiar scream. Yet he had no time to attend to it. He'd expected Brendan to go down as soon as he'd hit him, but the man had stood his ground, bracing himself for the blow, then clipping Jon behind the knees.
Jon grabbed Brendan's arms and brought him down with him, grappling for a secure hold, but Brendan was like a cat, quick, fluid, graceful, and surprisingly strong. Fully occupied with preventing Brendan from escaping his grasp and reaching his musket, Jon had no time to reach for the knife in his boot.
As they rolled over each other, Jon felt the hard mass of his gun digging painfully into his lower back. Little good it did him there. He swore as he took a heavy blow to his stomach, then barely managed to deflect Brendan's forearm whipping up under his chin.
Damn, he was out of practice. He'd always had a distinct advantage in a fight; his opponents mistakenly figured that the movements of a man his size would be cumbersome and slow, and he'd usually been able to overtake them quickly.
But now he faced an opponent whose quickness was perhaps greater than his. Brendan was as slippery as an eel, and twice he managed to slip through just as Jon was certain he'd gotten a solid hold.
"Stop it. Stop it now!" Jon ignored Beth's frantic demands. Unfortunately, so did Brendan.
Another musket blast, loud and extremely close, shocked him. The ball kicked up a tower of dirt not more than two feet from his head.
"Stop it, I said," Beth shouted. "Or I'll shoot again!"
It slowed Brendan for just an instant. Jon caught him under the chin, digging powerful fingers into his neck, and lifted Brendan off him. Throwing his heavy body over Brendan's, he ripped the pistol from his back and pressed it into the soft skin of Brendan's temple.
"Don't move," he said quietly. "Do you agree?"
Brendan went very still, swallowed heavily, and gave a tiny nod.
"Oh, God." Jon heard her tortured gasp and spared a quick glance at Beth before he returned his attention to Brendan. Her face was white, as pale as the moonlight that turned her tumbled curls to silver, and her eyes were wide with shock and terrible pain. The eyes of an animal that had just been shot but was unable to comprehend its fate.
"Get out of here, Beth," he said, although he knew it was hopeless. It was too late to spare her.
"No," she whispered, a single, tortured syllable that barely managed to make it out of her throat.
"Just go, Elizabeth," Brendan said, his words precise and utterly without inflection.
"No," she repeated, more strongly this time. Jon heard the tap of a ball being tamped down the barrel of her musket. "Let him go, Jon."
"Put the gun down, Beth."
"I mean it, Jon. Let him go." Her voice quavered.
"I can't do that, Beth, and you know it."
"Do it!" she said desperately.
"No. You're not going to shoot me, Beth, and we both know it. Put the gun down."
She gave a soft sob, an inarticulate sound of despair. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her lower the gun.
"Good." For emphasis, he screwed his pistol tighter against Brendan's head. "Now, I'm going to let you up. But be careful. No sudden moves. Be assured I can shoot nearly as well as you can. Understand?"
"Yes." Brendan's agreement was flat and unemotional.
Jon got slowly to his feet and backed away, keeping the pistol aimed carefully at Brendan. He wanted to turn to Beth, to comfort her, but he couldn't allow his attention to wander.
"Slowly, now," Jon ordered.
Brendan rose carefully, rippling to his feet like a hunting cougar slipping through high grass. His eyes were focused on the gun.
"Stay there," Jon said. He stepped a little farther back, putting himself safely beyond reach. He saw Brendan give a deep sigh of surrender.
"Now then," Brendan said, and turned his gaze to Beth.
"Oh, God, Brendan. Why?" Her voice was low but brittle, as though she kept herself from shattering only by great force of will.
Although her brother's voice was controlled, the sorrow in his dark eyes was brutally clear. "It's all such a waste, Elizabeth. I had to try and stop it any way I could."
"But you couldn't stop it!"
"No, I learned that. But then, I thought perhaps I could help end it more quickly. And finally it was too late to do anything else."
"Oh, Brendan," Beth said in a hoarse, thick voice.
She straightened her shoulders and turned to Jon. He could see the shimmer of anguish and moisture in her eyes, and his own burned. "What happens to him now? Exactly."
"Beth..." Never had he hated his job—and himself— so much. There was family, and there was country. There was honor, and there was love. And there was what there had always been—loyalty. "He's a traitor, Beth."
She closed her eyes. Her throat worked, and a faint tremor shook her body. "Jonathan," she whispered desperately. Her agony pierced him, a razor-sharp, vicious pain that twisted in his belly and made breathing difficult.
He turned his attention back to Brendan. "Go," he said curtly.
"What?" Brendan said, bewilderment breaking through his rigid control.
"Go. Go, I said, before I change my mind."
Brendan hesitated. "You can't mean this."
"Yes, I do," he ground out. "I'd suggest heading west, following the river, and then north. You're less likely to run into patrols that way."
"I'll manage."
"Getting through to the British might be a bit of a trick."
"I'm not going to the British."
Jon raised one eyebrow in question. "Then where?"
"I don't know." Brendan shrugged slightly. "Somewhere far to the west. Or perhaps Canada. Somewhere quiet."
"Good."
Brendan turned to his sister. Moonlight highlighted his features: elegant, patrician, unsmiling. He swallowed convulsively. "Elizabeth—" He broke off, as if unable to find the words for what he wished to say. Taking a great breath, he forced himself to continue. "Tell them... I'm sorry." His voice droppe
d until it was barely audible. "And tell them I loved you all."
He reached for her then, and when she came to him he crushed her tightly in his arms. They were almost of a height, light hair against dark; brother and sister, so different on the outside. Inside... who knew what shaped a person to make the choices he made?
"Well." He pushed her from him and stepped back, allowing himself to touch her cheek one last time. "I'll miss you most of all, you know. Good-bye, Elizabeth."
Brendan squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, the familiar gesture Jon had seen Beth make many times.
"Would you tell me one thing, Jon?" he asked. "Why? Why would you let me go?"
Jon looked down at the pistol he still held in his hand, then tucked it away in the waist of his breeches. "We're not so different, you and I." He set his jaw. "We're both traitors, after all."
Brendan stared at him. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "And we both love her."
A silky night breeze swept through the clearing. Its keening was low as soft as it flowed around the wooden corners of the old fort. In the distance, a lonely owl hooted to its absent mate.
"Yes."
"Good." Brendan nodded his satisfaction. "Take care of her, Jon."
He started away, then paused and turned back. "Oh, and Jon? I wouldn't go back to your company after this. I told them about the meeting tonight, and with your absence..."
Then he was gone, fading quickly into the night, his black clothes and dark hair blending into the shadows.
Bennie watched her brother dissolve into the blackness and felt the same, cold darkness invade her soul. Her family was broken, and there was nothing she could do to make it whole again. Brendan was going away, alone and beyond her reach.
But he had always been alone, she realized. He had his life, and perhaps, somewhere, he would be able to find some measure of peace.
And now, there was Jon. He had said he loved her. He loved her! Miraculous joy suffused her, pushing away the bleakness.
She turned to him. He was kneeling on the ground, his shoulders slumped tiredly, his head buried in his hands. He looked weary, all the strength and sense of purpose she associated with him sapped from his body. Defeated.
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