Cassiopeia was nearing panic. Her hands were bound, her body encased in iron straps. Hale’s men were busy tying a line to the top of the gibbet. She stared at Stephanie, whose eyes signaled that there was little she could do, either.
“What’s the point of this,” Shirley screamed out. “Why do this, Quentin?”
Hale faced Kaiser. “This is what pirates do.”
“Killing unarmed women?” Stephanie asked.
“Teaching enemies a lesson.”
The men securing the line stood.
Hale drew close. “Kings and governors loved to use the gibbet on us, so occasionally we reciprocated. But instead of hanging them up to die, we dragged them until they drowned. After, we cut the rope, and down to the bottom they went.”
Hale signaled and his men lifted the iron cage from the deck.
Malone could delay no longer. Tumultuous emotions churned inside him. He raised his gun and prepared to fire—but before he could snap the trigger a pair of strong hands locked onto his shoulders and whirled him back from the railing.
One of the crew.
A swift kick to his right arm jarred the gun from his grip.
Fury welled inside him.
No time for this.
He planted a kick to the gut, which doubled his opponent forward. He brought his knee upward into the face, righting the man’s spine. He then jammed his elbow into the bridge of the nose, snapping the neck backward. Two swipes from his fists and the man spilled over the railing, falling the fifteen or so feet to the deck below.
The men hoisting Cassiopeia heard the thud and momentarily stopped. Hale heard it, too, and whirled, then glanced upward and spotted the source of the problem.
Malone searched for the gun.
“Toss her,” he heard Hale scream.
He found the gun, snatched it up, then leaped over the railing, dropping to the deck below. He hit, rolled, and fired at the two men with guns, dropping both.
He sprang to his feet and raced ahead.
Hale tried to cut him off, a gun in his hand, but he shot the older man once, the bullet tearing into the chest and hurling the body backward to the deck.
He kept moving.
“Go,” Stephanie yelled. “Help her.”
The four men reached the railing with the gibbet.
Too late for him to use the gun to stop them.
They tossed Cassiopeia into the sea.
Wyatt retraced his route to where the rope waited. The water had risen to waist-high. Shortly, the upper chutes would complete the flooding. Only fitting that these two meet their end here, both of them so smug. Carbonell counting on her backup to save her, Knox thinking he had an easy opportunity to eliminate two problems. Even more fitting that they were both armed with lights and weapons, neither of them any good to them.
Carbonell was responsible for the needless deaths of several agents. Knox had personally killed a few, too.
For that, they both had to pay.
Knox had also tried to kill the president. And though Wyatt wasn’t a big fan of the U.S. government, he was an American.
And always would be.
These two problems would end here. By the time they realized their dire predicament and decided to save their hides, it would be too late.
Only a few more minutes remained.
High tide had arrived.
Through the night-vision goggles, he spotted the rope.
He grabbed hold and hauled himself up.
Once there, he yanked the line from the hole and walked away.
Cassiopeia was falling. She tried to brace herself with her feet, anticipating the water’s impact. Her hands were of no use and she reminded herself to grab a breath and keep sucking air for as long as she could. Unfortunately, the tight confines offered her no opportunity to use her legs, each of which was encased separately. The gibbet was snug, and the latch mechanism was nowhere close to where she could reach it. Besides, it operated from the outside.
Just before they’d tossed her overboard she’d heard what sounded like gunfire and Stephanie yelling Go. Help her.
What was happening back there?
Malone fired two shots at the four men, scattering them. He then tossed the gun aside and leaped from the railing, hurling his body outward and bear-hugging the falling gibbet.
His added weight increased momentum and, together, he and Cassiopeia smacked the sea.
Something had slammed into the gibbet, startling Cassiopeia. A body. Male. Together they hit the water.
Then she saw the face and relief poured through her.
Cotton.
Malone held tight. No way he was letting go. They teetered on the surface, tossing in the surf, as the line’s slack played out behind the yacht.
“Glad you finally made it,” she said.
His gaze found the latch mechanism.
The gibbet was starting to sink.
He reached out but the line went taut.
And they were dragged through the water.
Hale was stunned. The intruder had shot him, but thankfully in the chest. The body armor he’d donned earlier before leading the defense of the prison had saved him, though his ribs throbbed. He’d dropped to the deck, but not before seeing the man leap from the railing toward the gibbet.
He brought himself to his knees and sucked a few deep breaths.
He turned for his men, who were nowhere to be seen.
Instead Stephanie Nelle stood with a gun aimed straight at him.
“I told you Cotton Malone was trouble,” she said.
Malone kept a death grip on the gibbet, his right hand finding one of the rounded vertical supports to which the flat iron was welded. A shower of color burst before his eyes. They were skimming in and out of the water about a hundred feet behind Adventure, in the center portion of the sloop’s long wake.
He gulped another breath and yelled to Cassiopeia, “Breathe.”
“Like I’m not trying.”
He had more room to maneuver than she did. The sloop’s speed allowed them to hydroplane for a few precious seconds. He realized that once the speed was reduced they would sink and be dragged underwater.
His heart rocketed in his chest.
He had to find the latch.
Cassiopeia was sucking in as much water as air, trying to spit it out and keep her lungs dry. She was rotating her upper body inside the gibbet as they rocketed in and out of the surf. A sharp pain pierced her cramped calves and she told herself to relax. She longed for speed, since slowing down meant sinking. Hale was toying with them. Enjoying their predicament.
“I’m … going to … get you … out,” Cotton told her as they surfaced one more time, his voice coming in staccato gasps.
“My hands,” she managed to say.
She couldn’t swim long if she were bound.
Hale stared at Stephanie Nelle.
“Are you going to shoot me?” he asked her.
“I don’t have to.”
A strange reply.
She motioned with the gun and he turned.
Shirley Kaiser held another of the automatic rifles his men had toted. Her bandaged hand supported the heavy weapon, the other was placed firmly on the trigger.
Men appeared from the main salon.
Some with guns.
Finally.
Malone’s hand found the latch. He twisted, then yanked. Nothing gave. He yanked again, freeing the locking pin.
The gibbet opened and Cassiopeia flew out.
He released his hold and joined her in the water.
The gibbet disappeared ahead, bucking across the surface.
He snatched a breath and plunged downward, his eyes searching for movement. He saw her and wrapped an arm around her chest and, together, they kicked upward.
Both of them coughed water.
He kept them afloat with strong kicks and a sweep of his right arm.
“Grab a breath and I’ll get your hands free,” he told her.
They dropped below the surface long enough for him to peel off the thick tape that bound her wrists, then they surfaced and treaded water. Adventure was two hundred yards away, its sails unfurled to the morning air. All was quiet except for the wind and the sea swirling around them.
Then a new sound.
A deep bass growing in intensity.
He turned to see four helicopter gunships powering their way.
About time.
They swept across in formation, one lingering above, the other three circling the yacht.
“You okay?”
Edwin Davis’s voice through a loudspeaker.
They both gave him a thumbs-up.
“Hold tight,” Davis said.
Hale heard helicopter rotors and looked up to see three U.S. Army gunships above Adventure’s masts, circling like wolves.
The sight enraged him.
This ungrateful government, which his family had dutifully served, would not leave him alone. What had happened with Knox? Or the man named Wyatt? Did they have what he needed to fortify his letter of marque? And why weren’t Bolton, Surcouf, and Cogburn here to fight the battle with him? Probably because the three cowards had sold him out.
Stephanie Nelle laid down a barrage of fire at the main salon, obliterating the windscreens, ripping through the fiberglass sheathing.
His men disappeared back inside.
He faced Kaiser and her gun. “It’s not that easy, Shirley.”
He imagined himself Black Beard, facing Lieutenant Maynard on the deck of another ship named Adventure. That fight had also been close-quartered and to the death. But Black Beard had been armed. Hale’s gun lay on the deck four feet away. He had to get to it. His gaze darted between Shirley to his right and Nelle to his left.
Just one opportunity, that’s all he needed.
Shirley’s gun exploded.
Bullets tore into his protective vest. The next salvo shredded his legs. Blood poured up his throat and out his mouth. He tumbled to the ground, each nerve in his body bursting into a hot flame of burning pain.
His face betrayed the agony.
The last thing he saw was Shirley Kaiser pointing the gun at his head and saying, “Killing you was easy, Quentin.”
Cassiopeia heard the distance tap of gunfire. She then saw two people leap from the aft deck of Adventure.
“Stephanie and Shirley just made their escape,” Davis said from above, through the helicopter’s PA system.
They kept treading water.
Adventure’s sails had caught the wind. No gaps existed between them. They worked as a single airfoil, propelling the striking green hull through the choppy waves. She was like the buccaneer of old, sailing away to fight another day. But this wasn’t the 17th or 18th century, and Danny Daniels was one pissed-off president. These four army gunships were not here to escort the ship back to port.
More people leaped off the yacht.
“The crew,” Cotton said. “You know why they’re doing that.”
She did.
The choppers drifted back.
Flames erupted from the sides of two of the aircraft. Four missiles rocketed from their launchers. Seconds later they pierced Adventure, exploding their ordnance. Black, acrid smoke rose skyward. Like a wounded animal, the sloop canted to one side, then another, its sails unfurling and losing their strength.
A final rocket from the third chopper ended its misery.
The yacht erupted into flames, then sank, the Atlantic Ocean swallowing the offering in a single gulp.