Free Hell Ship by David Wood Page B

I’m the better looking one.”
    She gazed up at him, the devious twinkle in her eyes undiminished. “Well, you’re not too hard on the eyes. I like tall guys.”
    Bones let that pass. “Listen, I’ve used ROVs before. You don’t need to come along.”
    She shrugged. “I want to.”
    He drummed his fingers on the bar. “Fine. It’s your funeral.”
    “Hey, why so serious ?” She scooped up the bottle again and emptied it in a long guzzle. She set it down on its side and gave a whoop of triumph. “The night is young. Let’s have some fun, and tomorrow we’ll go treasure hunting!”
    Bones placed a hand over hers. “Let’s save the celebration for after we find it.”
    She smiled again. “Is that a promise, Bones?”
    “You have my word on it.”

CHAPTER 8
     
    England—30 miles north of London,
     
    Alex stepped down off the bus into Baldock, a small town near the edge of Hertfordshire, and as close to her destination as public transportation would take her. Over the past five days, she had used planes, buses, and trains to get from the District of Columbia to London and ultimately to this place. The actual cumulative travel time was only about fourteen hours, but with a killer on her tail, she was traveling cautiously. It had taken her two days just to establish a false identity for getting out of the United States. She had spent another full day walking around London checking to make sure that she wasn’t being shadowed, eventually crashing in a youth hostel near Piccadilly Circus for the night.
    She was now, at last, satisfied that no one was following her, but if her suspicions were correct, she might very well be walking into the lion’s den. A few miles up the road lay the manor house where Trevor Lord Hancock had lived until, at age twenty-six, war had taken him away forever. That much, at least, she had been able to learn from her initial Internet searches in Washington, searches which had, she now realized, led the killer right to her. But if Hancock was as important as she believed him to be, his ancestral home would be a likely target for surveillance. Instead of the killer finding her, she might very well find him or his accomplices.
    Or she might find nothing at all. All of her suppositions were predicated on the belief that everything that had happened—Don’s murder and the attempt on her life at the hotel—was a response to that one specific piece of information. If she had deduced wrong, then this trip would be a colossal waste of time.
    Using her tourist map, she oriented on the road which would lead her to her destination, and struck out on foot. She considered trying to hitch a ride, but doing so might attract unwanted attention. Instead, she set a brisk pace walking along the roadside, careful to stay well clear of the lanes, particularly when the occasional vehicle sped by. She took this latter precaution partly to avoid being hit but mostly so that she could bolt for cover or make a hasty overland escape if trouble found her.
    Trouble did not find her though. Two and half hours after leaving Baldock behind, she reached an unpaved road that led off into the countryside. Forty-five more minutes, in which she saw no cars and very little evidence of human habitation, she reached the gated entry to the Hancock property. The gate was unlocked and she slipped through, continuing down the gravel road toward a small manor house that had perhaps once been elegant but now looked almost run down.
    She lingered there for several minutes, studying the unkempt grounds for some hint of watchful eyes or a menacing presence, but if anyone was there, they were well hidden. As she drew near the house, she could hear music—something classical—punctuated occasionally by a sharp clicking noise. The sounds seemed to originate from behind the house, so she circled the perimeter and found herself on the edge of an expansive English-style garden, gone mostly to seed.
    The source of the music was a