The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

  Malone was surprised they’d made it this far. He’d given the whole thing about a 30 percent chance of success. They’d caught the police off guard, and he was glad to see that the way ahead was clear. Behind was their problem. He caught sight of the cops, bounding down the stairway, finding the first landing and readying themselves to shoot. He fired three times at the second set of risers, bullets ricocheting off the marble and scattering the would-be attackers.

  He hoped none of the rounds hit anybody.

  “Cotton,” he heard Cassiopeia say.

  He turned back and stared ahead.

  Glass doors, locked as she’d told him until nine AM, blocked their path ahead. Beyond, a bright morning sun signaled freedom.

  Forty feet.

  “Anytime now,” she said, as they kept racing ahead.

  He aimed the gun over her shoulder and fired three times, obliterating a set of glass doors.

  Cassiopeia aimed the cycle for the center of the exposed opening.

  They roared out onto the sidewalk and she braked.

  Both of their feet found pavement.

  A busy street ran perpendicular to the hotel.

  He checked traffic, spotted a break for a merger, then said, “Get us out of here.”

  FORTY-TWO

  BATH, NORTH CAROLINA

  Hale was satisfied with all of the preparations. The choice of woodling had certainly surprised Knox, who’d openly hesitated an instant before nodding his consent, then requesting a few extra minutes so the necessary items could be readied. He noticed that the other three captains were anxious. The choice of punishment had been on his motion, but they’d all voted in favor.

  “Killing your accountant was foolish,” Surcouf said to him.

  “Like this crewman, he disappointed me.”

  “You take too many chances,” Cogburn noted. “Far too many.”

  “I do what I have to do in order to survive.”

  One captain was not required to explain himself to the others so long as what he did remained personal to him, and the death of his family accountant certainly fell into that category. No different from when captains controlled their own ships, and another captain’s opinion was relevant only when companies grouped together.

  Knox caught his attention and signaled that all was ready.

  He stepped forward and called out to those assembled in the morning sun, “We each pledged loyalty to the Articles. You have a good life, a good living. Our company works because we work together.” He pointed at the man bound to the pole. “He spit in the face of all that we hold dear, and jeopardized each and every one of you.”

  The men stirred.

  “Traitors deserve what they get,” he called out.

  A clamor arose signifying that they all agreed. A chill crept down his spine. What a feeling, to be in charge. Only the tang of salt air and the sway of a deck was missing.

  “Bear witness to punishment,” he yelled.

  Knox stood near the bound and gagged man and Hale watched as the quartermaster directed two other crewmen. The chosen punishment was especially harsh, though simple in design. Two boards were connected at each end by leather straps, about three feet long. The prisoner’s head was positioned between the two straps, the men standing on either side, gripping the boards with both hands.

  He hoped Stephanie Nelle was watching. He’d had her moved from a windowless cell to one where she could see the yard. He wanted her to know what he was capable of doing. He still had not heard from Andrea Carbonell about any cipher solution, so Nelle’s fate remained undecided.

  The two crewmen began rotating the boards, twisting the straps until they embraced the man’s skull. The prisoner wiggled his head, trying to thwart their effort, but the gesture proved useless.

  Knox threw Hale a final look.

  He glanced at the other three captains, who nodded.

  He stared back at Knox and added his own nod.

  The command to continue was given and the boards were rotated more. For a few turns, as the straps tightened, the skull endured. By the sixth, pressure was building. The prisoner’s body wiggled against the restraints. If he hadn’t been gagged, the man would surely be screaming in agony.

  The boards continued to turn.

  Pupils went wide, the eyeballs bulging unnaturally. Hale knew what was happening. Pressure from inside the compressed skull was literally forcing them outward.

  The other three captains noticed, too.

  He knew these men were not accustomed to witnessing violence. They could order it done with no remorse. Watching it, though, seemed another matter.

  More turns.

  The man’s face turned crimson from the pressure.

  An eyeball burst from its socket.

  Blood poured from the gaping hole.

  The tightening continued, slower now as the straps had little give left in them.

  His father had told him about woodling. How the last few seconds were the worst. Once the eyes gave way all that remained was for the skull to crack. Unfortunately for the victim, the skull was tough. That was the one thing about this particular form of punishment—many times it did not kill the victim.

  The other eyeball escaped and more blood soaked the face.

  Hale walked toward the yard’s center.

  The prisoner had stopped all movement, his body limp, the head held aloft only by the straps.

  Knox ordered the twisting to stop.

  “Just know that there are two traitors in your precious company.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “When it comes time for me to die, I hope you’ll at least be merciful.”

  He’d thought about little else since the man uttered those words less than an hour ago.

  Two traitors in your precious company.

  Though the prisoner had said he’d never bought into the company mentality, he was wrong. I betrayed you, not my friends. He cared about his fellow crewmen.

  And that made him believe the man.

  He stared at the bloodied face. Then he reached beneath his jacket, brought out a pistol, and fired one shot to the head.

  “Punishment has been administered,” he called out. “Dismissed.”

  The crewmen began to drift from the yard.

  He turned to Knox. “Have the body dumped at sea. Then come to my house. We need to talk.”

  Cassiopeia shifted the Honda into fifth and kept the cycle moving down U.S. 250. They’d purposefully avoided Interstate 64 west, opting for a secondary highway, hoping they could avoid any alerts to adjoining counties. But she agreed with Cotton’s assessment. After having failed with the easy catch, whoever had ordered his arrest might not be so willing to involve others again. Next time they’d do it themselves, their way.

  Cotton tapped her on the belly and said in her ear, “Pull over up there.”

  She veered into an abandoned restaurant, the building collapsing, an asphalt parking lot infested with weeds and grass. She wheeled to the rear and brought the cycle to a stop.

  “No sign of anybody on our tail,” he told her as he climbed off. “We need to talk to Edwin Davis again.”

  She found her phone and dialed the number. Davis answered on the second ring. She pressed SPEAKER. They’d talked with him earlier, just before Cassiopeia descended to the lobby on her reconnoiter mission.

  “Glad to hear you made it out,” Davis said. “Not too much damage to the hotel, I hope.”

  “It’s insured,” Cotton told him.

  “The dead man in the car at the Garver Institute was Dr. Gary Voccio,” Davis said. “We have an ID on the body, and it was his car.”

  They listened as Davis explained how the FBI and CIA had descended on the institute. Power and phones had been deliberately cut, one building’s lobby obliterated, bullet holes spread across two floors.

  “The big man isn’t happy,” Davis said. “More casualties.”

  “We’re headed to Monticello,” Cotton said.

&
nbsp; “When you deleted the cipher key off the institute’s server,” Davis said, “you eliminated it. Voccio had not saved anything. It’s gone. That file contained all of his notes and results.”

  “At least we have it,” she said.

  “But we have to wonder who else managed to get it, too.”

  “We’re going to need access to the wheel,” Cotton said. “The estate’s website says it’s displayed in Jefferson’s cabinet, near his library and bedroom.”

  “I’m headed to Monticello,” Davis said. “I’ll be at the visitor center, waiting for you to arrive.”

  Cotton smiled. “Aren’t we Johnny-on-the-spot today.”

  “This has to be handled, along with the other situation Cassiopeia has uncovered with the phones.”

  He was right about that, Cassiopeia thought, in more ways than one. “We’ll be there in about forty-five minutes.”

  She ended the call.

  “What’s the problem?” Cotton asked her.

  “Who said there was one?”

  “Call it boyfriend intuition. I saw it on your face. What happened with the First Lady? You only gave me the short version.”

  True. She’d abbreviated the events, leaving off the last part of her conversation with Shirley Kaiser.

  The First Lady is having an affair. Isn’t she?

  Not exactly. But close enough.

  “I’m thinking how we can use that phone tap to our advantage,” she said. “It’s our fastest ticket to flush out Hale.”

  He gently grabbed her arm. “There’s something else. You’re holding back. That’s okay. I do it, too. But whatever it is, if you need my help, ask.”

  She liked that he didn’t try to be the fixer. Instead, he was her partner, watching her back.

  And she just might take him up on his offer.

  But for now that something else was her problem.

  FORTY-THREE

  BATH, NORTH CAROLINA

  8:30 AM

  Knox was troubled. Quentin Hale had met privately with the traitor before the execution and now he’d been ordered to the main house with no explanation. The corpse was on its way to sea, where it would be weighed down and tossed into the Gulf Stream. Perhaps the traitor had told Hale that he’d compromised the murder but not the assassination. But why would Hale have believed him? And even if Hale harbored doubts, nothing pointed Knox’s way, except that he was one of four men who knew every detail, from the beginning, the other three all being captains. True, at least a dozen had worked on the weapons in the metal shop, but they were not told of any planned use. Were they suspects? Of course, but weak ones.

  He entered the Hale house and walked straight for the study. All four captains were there, waiting, which immediately raised his anxiety level.

  “Good,” Hale said, as Knox closed the door. “I was just about to play something for the others.”

  A digital recorder lay on the tabletop.

  Hale activated it.

  “My marriage has been a problem for a long time, Shirley. You know that.”

  “You’re the First Lady of this country. Divorce is not an option.”

  “But it is once we leave, and that’s only a year and a half away.”

  “Pauline, do you realize what you’re saying? Have you thought this through?”

  “I think about little else. Danny’s held office nearly our entire marriage. It’s been a distraction for us both, neither one of us wanting to face reality. In twenty months his career is over. Then it will only be him and me. No distractions. I don’t think I can stand that.”

  “It’s the other thing. Isn’t it?”

  “You talk like it’s dirty.”

  “It’s clouding your judgment.”

  “No, it’s not. He actually clears my head. For the first time in many years I can see. Think. Feel.”

  “Does he know that we talk about this?”

  “I told him.”

  Hale clicked off the recorder. “Seems the First Lady of the United States has a boyfriend.”

  “How did you record that?” Surcouf asked.

  “About a year ago I cultivated a relationship, one I hoped might provide us with some valuable information.” Hale paused. “And I was right.”

  Knox had researched Shirley Kaiser and learned of her long-standing friendship with Pauline Daniels. Luckily, Kaiser was outgoing, attractive, and available. A supposed accidental introduction was arranged and a relationship blossomed. But neither he nor Hale had realized the deep chasm that existed in the Daniels’ marriage. That had been an unexpected bonus.

  “Why didn’t you tell us what you were doing?” Cogburn asked.

  “That’s easy, Charles,” Bolton said. “He wanted to be our savior so we’d be in his debt.”

  Which wasn’t too far off the mark, Knox thought.

  “You berate us,” Bolton said, “for acting alone. But you’ve done the same thing, and for a long time.”

  “With the difference being that my actions were calculated and private. Yours were stupid and public.”

  Bolton rushed across the room, heading straight for Hale, arm cocked back, fist balled. Hale’s right hand reached beneath his jacket and the same gun used to ease the prisoner’s misery appeared.

  Bolton stopped.

  The men glared at each other.

  Cogburn and Surcouf stood silent.

  Knox was delighted. They were fighting among themselves—again—the perfect distraction from him. But it only went to prove what he’d already concluded before dealing with NIA. These men would not survive the waves that were about to wash across their decks. Too much conflict, too many egos, too little cooperation.

  “One day, Quentin,” Bolton said.

  “What will you do? Assassinate me?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “You’ll find killing me far harder than any president.”

  Wyatt arrived at Monticello. He’d driven the 120 miles from Washington in less than two hours and parked in a treed lot, adjacent to an attractive complex of low-slung buildings identified as the Thomas Jefferson Visitor Center and Smith Education Center. Its rooflines followed the contour of the adjacent hillside, the wooden walls blending naturally into the surrounding forest and encompassing a café, gift shop, theater, classrooms, and exhibit hall.

  Carbonell had been right. He could not allow Malone to succeed. He’d involved his adversary in New York to place him in danger, perhaps even eliminate him, not provide another opportunity for him to save the day.

  Carbonell had also been right about one other thing.

  He needed her. At least for the short haul.

  She’d provided some useful information on Monticello, including its geography, security system, and maps for roads leading in and out. He walked from his car up a stairway into a courtyard dotted with locust trees. He found the ticket center and bought a spot on the first tour of the day, leaving in less than twenty minutes, when the mansion opened at 9 AM.

  He wandered around and read the placards, learning that Jefferson had labored forty years on the estate—naming it Monticello, Italian for “little mountain”—creating what he eventually called his “essay in architecture.”

  It had been a working estate. Livestock, hogs, and sheep had all been bred there. A sawmill produced lumber. Two other mills provided corn and wheat. A barrel shop fashioned casks for flour. Firewood was harvested and sold from the surrounding forests. Jefferson had raised tobacco for sale to the Scots, then switched to rye, clover, potatoes, and peas. At one point he could ride ten miles in any direction and never leave his land.

  He envied that independence.

  But inside the exhibit hall he learned that Jefferson had died broke, owing thousands of dollars, and that his heirs sold everything, including his slaves, to satisfy his creditors. The house survived through a succession of owners until being repurchased in 1923 by a foundation, which had labored to restore its original glory.

  He drifted among the various exhi
bits and learned more. The house’s main floor consisted of eleven rooms, each part of the official tour. The careful use of space and natural light, one room easing into another, once divided by glass doors, was meant to convey a sense of a free and open life—nothing hidden, no secrets. The second and third floors were not accessible to visitors, but the cellars were open to the public.

  He studied a diagram.

  Satisfied, he stepped back outside into a beautiful late-summer morning and decided that quick and fast was the only way to get this job done.

  He made his way toward where a shuttle bus would ferry him and the first group nearly nine hundred feet up the mountainside. The fifty or so people consisted of many teenagers. A life-sized bronze of Thomas Jefferson waited with them near the curb. A tall man, he noticed, over six feet. He studied the likeness with a few of the youngsters.

  “This ought to be neat,” one of them said.

  He agreed.

  A little fun.

  Like the old days.

  Malone and Cassiopeia motored into the Monticello visitor center. Edwin Davis stood at the base of a stairway, waiting for them. Cassiopeia ignored a parking attendant, who was directing her toward a vacant part of the lot, and wheeled to the curb, switching off the engine.

  “I arranged for you to see the wheel,” Davis said to them. “I’ve spoken with the foundation chair, and the estate manager is here to take us up to the house.”

  Malone had never before visited any former president’s home. He’d always meant to come here and Mt. Vernon, but had just never made the time. One of those father–son trips. He wondered what Gary, his sixteen-year-old, was doing today. He’d called Friday when they arrived in New York and talked with him for half an hour. Gary was growing up fast. He seemed a levelheaded kid, particularly pleased to hear that his father had finally made a move on Cassiopeia.

  She’s hot, the boy had said.

  That she was.

  “The manager is waiting by the shuttle buses with a car,” Davis said. “Only estate vehicles are allowed to drive up. We can slip in with the first tour and see the wheel. It’s displayed on the ground floor, then we can take it upstairs where there’s privacy.”