One of the men entered through the gate to his right.
He smiled.
A little dividing and conquering? One at a time?
Okay.
To draw the man his way, he bent down, retrieved a few pebbles, and tossed them toward one of the iron grilles that protected the porticoes.
He saw the shadow react and head his way.
Another tossed pebble ensured the decision.
The Danite would have to come right past the edge of the chapel, where he waited, darkness making any danger invisible.
He heard footsteps.
Approaching.
The shadow cleared the chapel wall, staring ahead, toward the porticoes, surely wondering where his target could be. He lunged, wrapped an arm around the man’s neck, and tightened, cutting off air. A few seconds of pressure, then he released his grip, spun the man around, and slammed his elbow up and into the chin. The combination of blows staggered the Danite. A kick to the face sent the body sprawling to the ground.
He searched the man’s clothes and found a pistol.
The other threat would not be far behind so he doubled around the chapel, rounding its rear and heading for the porticoes that lined the outer wall. A tiled pavement fronted them that kept his steps silent. He came to the end and picked his way through the hard-packed earth, back toward the entrance that both he and the first Danite had used, keeping down, using the tall markers as cover. The terrain inside the compact cemetery was inclined, rising to the chapel at the center.
He spotted the second pursuer.
On the pavement, heading up the incline, through the graves.
He kept his steps light and closed the gap.
Forty feet.
He passed where he’d left the wooden box and reached down and retrieved it.
Twenty feet.
Ten.
He pressed the barrel of his pistol into the nape of the man’s neck. “Nice and still, or I’ll shoot you.”
The man froze.
“Is Salazar waiting to hear that you have me?”
No answer.
He cocked the hammer. “You mean nothing to me. Nothing at all. You understand?”
“He’s waiting on my call.”
“Nice and slow, find your phone and tell him you have me.”
THIRTY-FIVE
ORANGE, VIRGINIA
4:15 P.M.
LUKE ARRIVED AT MONTPELIER JUST IN TIME FOR THE LAST tour of the day. The group was small, led by an attractive young lady identified by a badge as Katie and wearing some impressive tight-fitting jeans. He’d driven straight from Washington in his Mustang, a wonderfully restored 1967 first-generation model that he’d bought as a gift to himself while in the army. Silver with black stripes—not a scratch on it—it was stored in a garage adjacent to his apartment building. He didn’t own a lot of things, but his car was special.
Stephanie’s sullenness had troubled him. All she seemed interested in knowing was what, if anything, awaited at James Madison’s home. He was no student of history. God knows he’d barely made it out of high school. But he knew the value of information.
So he’d managed some quick browsing.
Madison was born and raised in Orange County. His grandfather first settled the land where Montpelier stood in 1723. The house itself was built by Madison’s father in 1760 but, after inheriting the estate, Madison made many changes. He was an ardent Federalist, a believer in a strong central government, and had been instrumental in drafting the Constitution. He served in the first Congress, fought to have the Bill of Rights adopted, helped form the Democratic party, was secretary of state for eight years, then a two-term president.
“Mr. Madison retired here in 1817, when his last term as president ended,” Katie told the group. “He and his wife, Dolley, lived in this house until he died in 1836. After that, Dolley sold the estate and nearly all of their belongings. The estate was reacquired by the National Trust for Historic Preservation in 1984.”
The house was nestled on 2,700 acres of farmland and old-growth forest in the green foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. A $25 million project had restored the house to the size and shape it had boasted when Madison had lived here, its columned portico, brick walls, and green shutters now reminiscent of colonial times.
He was following Katie from room to room, more watching her jeans than the décor, but definitely absorbing the geography, his gaze occasionally drifting out the windows to the grounds.
“There were once tobacco fields, farms, slave quarters, a blacksmith’s shop, and barns out there.”
He turned and saw that Katie had noticed his interest outside. He threw her a smile and said, “Everything a 19th-century country gentleman needed.”
She was cute and wore no wedding ring. He never touched the married ones, at least not if he knew they were hitched. There’d been a few who’d lied, which he wasn’t responsible for, but a couple of their husbands had not seen it that way. One broke his nose. Another tried, but had come to regret the challenge and spent a few days in the hospital.