They hit a logging trail and followed it to a clearing carved into the forest. A white van sat there, engine running. Nora used her headlamp to flash a signal, and Larkin emerged from the driver’s seat. He shook hands with Byron and they all piled inside. Headlights off, Larkin eased down the logging road at a crawl. Jasper spotted a long case on the back seat that definitely looked like it had a big gun in it. More than a few duffle bags of ammo were lying on the floor.
“I thought this was a neutral meeting.”
“The plan is to keep it that way,” Nora said.
A dark blur ran across the road, then another. Larkin jammed on the breaks and everyone drew their guns, scanning the woods.
“Byron, on me,” Larkin said. “Three, two, one. Move.”
Larkin lit up the woods with his high beams right before he and Byron exited the van. Jasper tracked a figure running off the road into the underbrush.
“Step out of the woods,” Byron said. “Hands up.”
Five seconds passed before Tucker shuffled onto the road, followed by Lacy and Sheldon. Colton came from the other side, bringing up the rear.
“Shit,” Nora whispered.
“Walk to me,” Byron said. “Hands on your heads.”
“It’s us, Byron,” Lacy called.
“Hands on your heads.”
They obeyed the command. Jasper saw the fear and surprise and confusion lining their faces. They were in the dark with him.
“Clear,” Byron said after patting each of them down. He took Colton’s walkie and made sure it was off.
Larkin finally lowered his gun. “Why did you follow us?”
“The better question is, why did you disable the wall sensors and sneak Jasper over in the middle of the night?” Lacy asked. She sounded pissed.
“That’s not your concern.”
“Cyrus made Jasper our concern when he got here, and we already screwed up that responsibility once. Wherever he’s going, we are, too.”
Larkin pointed back up the hill. “Return to campus.”
“Where I will call my dad immediately,” Lacy said. “I’m sure the Directors would love to hear all about this.”
Nora climbed over Jasper to the front seat and slid out the driver’s side door. She muttered something in Larkin’s ear. He growled and shook his head. But after a glare from Nora, he relented.
“Get in,” Larkin said.
“Where are we going?” Lacy asked.
“You don’t get to know that.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Nora pushed at Jasper’s shoulder until he shifted to the back row, gun still drawn.
She rode like that the whole way.
Nobody talked. Jasper stared at the back of Tucker’s head thinking how weird he looked without the giant headphones slung around his pale neck. Sheldon snuck glances over his shoulder every now and then, but when Nora scowled at him he turned back to the front. They paused once for Lacy to take a pit stop—the sun was rising and Colton held up a jacket to give her some privacy.
At nine, Jasper spotted the Philadelphia skyline. Larkin got off I-95 at the Center City exit and cut through heavy traffic to Independence Mall. Lines of yellow school buses waited to drop kids off at the Constitution Center. Larkin pulled into a parking garage one street back, winding up the tight lanes to the third level, where he parked near the beat up Crown Vic. Cyrus exited the car and climbed into the van holding a briefcase.
He examined the four who hadn’t originally been invited to the party. “You should not have interfered.”
“You blasted us for not noticing the brownie guy,” Tucker said. Jasper actually heard some emotion behind it. “We took notice.”
“Like martyr Nora taking over the gun range,” Lacy snapped. “I asked Sheldon to keep a closer eye on Jasper, and last night we thought he’d been kidnapped.”
“Your concern is admirable, but misplaced,” Cyrus said. “Stay in the vehicle with Larkin until we return.”
Lacy stopped the door from closing. “Either we come, or I call my dad.”
Jasper felt the tension in the air, like they were tiptoeing through a minefield.
“I could have Larkin physically restrain you,” Cyrus said.
“Try it,” Lacy shot back. Jasper caught a little trace of Nora in that response. Maybe they weren’t so different after all.
Cyrus took a slow, deep breath. “I need you here, in the event that things go … poorly. You will be shadowing us and provide cover fire for a quick escape. Does that satisfy you?”
Lacy looked to Nora, who nodded. “Fine,” she said. “Now get me a weapon.”
Larkin handed pistols to her and Sheldon. Tucker grabbed a box of ammo and mumbled something about being on reloading duty.
Jasper got out of the van with Nora and followed Byron and Cyrus to a stairwell, up one floor, then across the parking garage to another stairwell, and all the way down to the street. They walked past busy professionals and aggressive joggers and a homeless guy who was adjusting his sign—people running through the motions, oblivious to Jasper’s world of ancestral ties and diaries and minors packing serious heat.
This was his life, the only one he got.
A block behind Independence Hall, they crossed into a small park and followed the brick path toward a big statue in the center. On the other side of the park, three men in dark suits and red ties were walking toward them. Out in front was a guy who stood over six feet and was built like a Mack truck. He had brown hair and a big hawk nose that matched everything else giant about him.
“Black sedan, south side of the park,” Byron said.
“I see it,” Cyrus replied. “They’ll wait until we leave to make a move.”
Jasper scanned the streets for the car but couldn’t find it. Nora let out three deep breaths.
On a park bench near the statue sat a barrel-chested man in his sixties sipping coffee and reading a paper. Twice he adjusted a gray fedora that he didn’t look comfortable wearing.
“Your Honor,” Cyrus said as he sat down on the man’s right. “I’m Cyrus Barnes.”
The linebacker Libertine settled on the man’s other side. “Silas Washington, Your Honor.” Washington’s voice was a triple bass. Jasper worried the two security guards back near Independence Hall might hear everything he said.
“Murder.” Chief Justice Addison Fletcher snapped his paper to straighten out the page. “Reshuffling my day—my week—for this was absolutely murder. Do either of you have any idea what my schedule is like?”
“I apologize, Your Honor,” Cyrus said. “It was our only option.”
“Why?” Silas asked, looking past the Chief Justice at Cyrus. “I have met with your Directors several times in the past without the Arbiter present.”
Cyrus glared at the Libertine. “I am less trusting, and with good reason.”
Silas stared back, brows knitted. “Are you accusing me of something, Counselor?”
“Okay, let’s keep it civil,” Fletcher grumbled. “Not sure you people existed, to tell you the truth. My predecessor left very vague notes about my responsibilities on the off chance I was contacted. Apparently, you didn’t need his services. Lucky him.” The Chief Justice glanced at Cyrus. “Which, eh … organization … do you hail from?”
“The League of American Traitors, Your Honor.”
“Out with it then, Mr. Barnes. The longer we sit here, the more likely some spoiled law student will recognize me and ask to clerk this summer.”
“The matter is simple, Your Honor: we would like you to broker a permanent ceasefire between the True Sons of Liberty and our organization.”
“And how,” Fletcher asked, “do you expect me—who until five minutes ago had you in the same category as Bigfoot—to do that.”
“By hearing our evidence,” Cyrus said.
“Evidence of what?” Silas asked.
“That Joseph Reed bribed a Continental officer to provoke Benedict Arnold into committing treason.”
It was quiet for a few seconds. Jasper could hear a group of students on a field trip, giving their parent chaperone absolute hell.
Cyrus cleared his throat, then continued on. “Joseph Reed served as George Washington’s personal secretary and, later, as governor of—”
“I know who he is, Mr. Barnes,” the Chief Justice snapped. “Did you bring this evidence?”
“Your Honor,” Silas Washington interjected. “Even if this assertion were remotely true—which it is most certainly not—Counselor Barnes is suggesting blackmail. As an officer of the court, surely you cannot entertain this ‘evidence.’”
“But this is not a court of law, Mr. Washington,” Fletcher said. “This is an off-the-books, did-not-happen meeting. And I can entertain blackmail as much as I can overlook the number of concealed weapons your friends there are carrying.”
Cyrus slid over and motioned for Jasper to join them. “Your Honor, this is Jasper Mansfield, the sole surviving heir of Benedict Arnold. He made the discovery.”
Fletcher gave Jasper a once-over and then snapped his paper back in place. “Do I have to drag it out of you?”
“We found a diary.” Jasper fumbled with the briefcase and finally got it open. Keeping his winter gloves on, he took the diary out of its plastic sleeve and saw someone had marked the entries with little neon strips. Sybil, probably. “Actually, we found three but this is the one that matters. It belonged to a woman named Alice Boswell, who lived in Philadelphia. Her husband, Ira, was on Arnold’s staff.”
Fletcher shielded the diary with his newspaper. It only took him a minute to read each entry. Jasper figured old people could read cursive because it was still being used when they were in school.
“Interesting.” Fletcher handed the diary back to Jasper, and he locked it back up. “You are implying that this nation’s most hated traitor was, in fact, inspired to commit treason by this state’s greatest founder—and perhaps Washington himself.”
“We are, Your Honor.”
“I have a right to see this evidence,” Silas said. “And to validate its authenticity before an agreement is even discussed.”
“That you do, Mr. Washington. But not here. We’ve been loitering about long enough.”
“The matter must be resolved here and now,” Cyrus said. “It is imperative.”
“In a park at nine thirty in the morning? No, Mr. Barnes. This matter requires time. Consideration. A hearing and sifting of evidence.”
“In the past, the Arbiter has—”
“We are not in the past. This is the present—something both of your organizations seem to have trouble grasping. And in this present you have come to me—and I’m in charge. And I have decided to hear your case—properly.” Fletcher folded his paper. “If you defend your evidence and convince me that it means what you hope it does—what Mr. Washington clearly hopes it does not—then I will gladly order a ceasefire. God knows we don’t need any more gun deaths in this country. What do you say to that, Mr. Washington?”
Silas leaned his head forward. “The True Sons of Liberty will, of course, abide by the ruling, Your Honor.”
“And you, young man?”
Jasper thought that was weird—the Chief Justice calling Cyrus young.
“Young man.”
Cyrus elbowed Jasper.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Jasper said. “Wait—what?”
“You found this evidence? You transcribed it?”
“Yeah … I mean—yes, sir.”
“Your ancestor is the individual in question?”
“Uh huh.”
“Did you think someone else would argue the case?”
Jasper felt that tilting sensation again—the same one he’d had in Cyrus’s office when the lawyer had dumped all this into his lap back in October. Only this time, the park took a little longer to level out. “Right.”
“Perhaps read a thesaurus in the meantime.” Fletcher sighed. “I have your contact information, Mr. Barnes, and will reach out with the date. You will reply with copies of this diary and any other evidence required for review by Mr. Washington. I expect briefs from each side no fewer than three days before the arranged hearing, at which time you will each have thirty minutes to present your arguments and answer any questions I may pose.”
“And the matter of authenticating the diary, Your Honor?” Silas asked.
Fletcher turned to Cyrus. “I suppose you aren’t willing to part with this evidence, Mr. Barnes?”
“We are not, Your Honor.”
“Hmm. What about the other diaries—the two without the sensitive information. Would you part with one of them? I have a friend at the Smithsonian who could take care of the matter discreetly.”
Cyrus thought about it, then nodded to Byron. He removed one from inside his coat and handed it to Fletcher.
“Does that satisfy you, Mr. Washington?” Fletcher asked.
“It does, Your Honor.”
“Well, isn’t that grand.” Fletcher cleared his throat and squashed the fedora farther down his head. “I really do hate this thing. Terrible idea for a disguise.”
And then he walked off.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Jasper sat perfectly still. The briefcase felt like a ton of bricks on his legs. He wondered if he could get to his gun fast enough if he had to.
“I am still confused, Counselor,” Silas said. “Why did the Directors not communicate this to me personally?”
“There is no need to pretend anymore,” Cyrus said icily. “His Honor is gone.”
Silas looked at his guards. At Jasper and Nora. “Pretend?”
This guy was an even better liar than Cyrus, Jasper thought. He was really selling this performance.
“Are you seriously going to deny that you know nothing of Elsbeth Reed and her attempts to bury this diary?” Cyrus asked.
“Elsbeth Reed?” Silas boomed. “Attempts to bury—what are you referring to?”
“Leave the briefcase,” said one of Silas’s bodyguards.
He stepped into view, gun drawn low at his hip. Nora’s coat made a swishing sound behind Jasper.
“Wesley,” Silas said. “What—Put that down!”
“Reach for it,” the guard said to Nora, “and the boy dies.”
“Wesley,” Silas growled through his teeth. “I have just given my word to the Arbiter. Do you know what that means?”
“Leave the briefcase on the bench,” Wesley said. “Walk away.”
The Libertine bodyguard would pull the trigger. Jasper could see it in his eyes. They showed the same strain of metal as the EMT’s, the same as Elsbeth—big league assassins who actually meant what they said. This guy wouldn’t lose a minute of sleep.
So the question was, Is this worth it? Cyrus had asked Jasper this on the rooftop, but he’d never gotten around to answering. He could go on—live his one life in hiding. Forget that awful year when I learned to kill and saw people get shot. His quest could be over right now. It would be a huge relief, wouldn’t it?
Jasper sat up straighter, giving Wesley a better target.
“Even at this range,” Jasper said, “I’ll live long enough to watch you bleed out next to me.”
The Libertine’s eyes twitched.
Didn’t expect that, did you, Wesley?
Silas lunged at his bodyguard and drove him to the pavement. The gun went off. It was muffled, silenced by the mass of Silas’s body. Wesley wriggled beneath him for a couple seconds, and Jasper still wasn’t sure who’d shot whom. The other bodyguard had his gun out, swinging it between Byron and Wesley, uncertain who was the real threat. He made his choice, but it was the wrong one.
Another shot ripped across the park, this one louder. Wesley had taken out Washington’s other bodyguard and was now aiming at Jasper …
But he didn’t have a chance. Byron and Nora unloaded their rounds into his torso. His head smacked against the pavement. Silas fell facedown next to him.
Cyrus crawled to Silas’s side and heav
ed his body over. Confused eyes stared straight up to the sky.
A kid from that field trip group screamed nearby. Security guards were herding fleeing tourists into Independence Hall. Tires screeched somewhere behind the park.
“We need to leave,” Byron said. “Now.”
Jasper’s feet slammed into the sidewalk. Nora was screaming at him to go faster. He clutched the briefcase to his chest, scared he might rip the handle off. Horns blared as they cut across traffic; some idiot on a Vespa almost turned Jasper into roadkill. Byron led them down an access road and then up an alley to a tiny lot where the white van was waiting, engine running.
A gun cracked and Jasper heard something whistle by his ear. He turned and saw Elsbeth Reed fifty yards behind them, gun aimed in his direction. Ahead, Colton leaned out of the driver’s side window and loosed two shots from something long and sleek—crackcrack. The van doors flew open and Jasper launched himself inside, bowling over Sheldon and Tucker.
Larkin peeled out of the lot. Colton fired off another round from the machine gun. Windows shattered and glass flew everywhere as Elsbeth returned fire, taking out the van’s back windows. Jasper saw her jump into a black sedan, which was now tailing them. Larkin picked up speed, brushing a few cars along the narrow alley before cutting back toward the congested Philadelphia streets.
Sirens wailed in the distance—how would that play out when they were caught? Three dead bodies in the park? They’d only killed one of them, but good luck explaining that to the police.
Larkin blew through a red light, but the black sedan stayed with them. Nora was trying to get a shot off, but couldn’t steady her sights long enough. Elsbeth fired and the van lurched right: a tire blown out, maybe. Larkin wrestled the wheel and nearly hit a SEPTA bus as he careered into the other lane and down a side street. The van sagged on the blown tire and almost flipped as he jerked the wheel right, sending them underground to the parking garage Cyrus had first brought Jasper to. They flew down two levels, tires squealing on the tight turns. Headlight beams bounced off of the walls behind them. Just a couple more turns and they’d be at the elevator. Help had to be waiting, right?
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