Hale studied both remaining glasses. Six inches of polished wood separated them.
One contained death.
“Enough of this,” Cogburn said. “You’ve both proven your point. Okay. You’re men, you can take it. Stop this now.”
Bolton shook his head. “No way. It’s his turn.”
“And if I choose wrong, you’re rid of me,” Hale said.
“You challenged me. We’re not stopping. Choose a damn glass.”
Hale stared down. The amber liquid lay still as a pond in each. He lifted one glass and swirled its contents.
Then, the other.
Bolton watched him with an intense glare.
He reached for a glass. “This one.”
He lifted it to his lips.
All three captains and Knox stared at him. He kept his eyes locked on their faces. He wanted them to know that he possessed true courage. He poured the contents into his mouth, swished the liquor between his gums, and swallowed.
His eyes went wide, his breathing shallow.
He choked, as the muscles in his face contorted.
He reached for his chest.
Then he dropped to the floor.
Wyatt waited as the helicopter settled on the landing area, the wheel back in the nylon bag. He’d worked intelligence since graduating from college, recruited while in the military. He was neither liberal nor conservative, neither Republican nor Democrat. He was simply an American who’d served his country until deemed too reckless to be kept on the payroll. He’d made his contribution to intelligence gathering in some of the hottest spots on the planet. He’d been instrumental in uncovering two sleeper agents within the CIA, both tried and convicted as spies. He’d also taken down a double agent, carrying out a clandestine order to kill the man, despite the fact that, officially, America assassinated no one.
Never once had he violated orders.
Not even that day with Malone, when two men died. But he was no longer bound by any rules or ethics.
He could do as he pleased.
Which was another reason why he’d stayed in this fight.
He stepped from the chopper, which immediately lifted from the ground and departed. Most likely it would soon be in a hangar, safe from any prying eyes.
Carbonell waited for him alone. No driver in the SUV.
“I see you were successful,” she said.
She’d changed, and was now dressed in a short navy-blue skirt and white jacket that clung to her curvy frame. Sandals with medium heels adorned her feet. He stood a few feet away, holding the bagged wheel. His gun rested at the base of his spine, tucked behind his belt.
“What now?” he asked her.
She motioned at one of the vehicles. “The keys are in it. Take it wherever you want.”
He feigned interest in the SUV. “Can I keep it?”
She chuckled. “If it’ll make you happy. I don’t really give a damn.”
He faced her.
“You worked the wheel and know the location, don’t you?” she asked.
“Can you get those two missing pages?”
“I’m the only person on the planet who can.”
He realized the unique position he presently found himself in. Standing here, holding the one thing in the world that this woman needed more than anything else. With it she could find the missing two congressional pages and complete whatever scheme she’d devised. Without it, she was no better off than anyone else.
He slammed the nylon bag to the pavement and heard two-hundred-year-old wooden disks shatter.
“You can glue them back together. Should take a week or so. Good luck.”
And he walked toward the SUV.
Knox locked his eyes on the body of Quentin Hale, lying on the floor. Neither Surcouf nor Cogburn had moved.
Bolton stared with visible relief, before saying, “Good riddance.”
One glass remained on the table.
The victor reached for it. “Hales are the reason we’re in this mess, and they never would have gotten us out. I say we use that woman in the prison to our advantage and make a bargain.”
“Like that’s going to work,” Cogburn said.
“You got a better idea, Charles?” Bolton asked. “Do you, John? How about you, Quartermaster?”
But Knox could not have cared less about them. He wanted only to save himself, and now more than ever. These men were not simply reckless, they were idiotic. None of them paid attention to anything.
Bolton lifted the final glass in a toast. “To our fallen captain. May he enjoy hell.”
Knox lunged forward and slapped the whiskey from Bolton’s fingers. The glass rattled across the wood floor, its contents scattering.
Bolton stared at him in shock. “What the hell—”
“Dammit, Clifford,” Hale said, rising from the floor.
Shock invaded the three captains’ faces.
“I had him right where I wanted him,” Hale said. “He would have drunk himself straight to death.”
Bolton was visibly shaken.
“That’s right, Edward,” Hale said. “Another second and you would have been dead.”
“You cheating bastard,” Bolton spat out.
“Me? Cheating? Tell me. If I had not faked dying, would you have drunk the last glass, knowing it contained the poison?”
Which would have been expected by the others to complete the challenge. Of course, if the final glass was the one with the poison, the captain faced with the choice of drinking could always withdraw, thereby declaring the other the winner.
“I need to know, Edward. Would you?”
Silence.
Hale chuckled. “Just what I thought. I wasn’t cheating. I was merely helping you along a path you never would have taken.”
Knox had immediately realized Hale was not dead. The way he’d reacted to the poison was atypical. He’d used the substance enough to know precisely how it affected the human body, Scott Parrott being the latest example just a few hours ago.
Hale glared at his three compatriots. “I do not want to hear another word out of any of you. Do not screw with me anymore.”
None of them spoke.
Knox was pleased on two counts.
First, Edward Bolton knew that he’d just saved his life. Second, so did the other two captains.
Both should definitely count for something.