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Stocky, fair-haired, dressed in jeans and a pullover knit shirt.
The guy rushed forward, avoiding another punch, wrapping his arms across Cotton’s chest in a tight embrace. Together they staggered back and crashed into one of the windows. The glass shattered from the impact and he tried to rebound, but the man kept pushing him closer to the shattered window. He kicked backward and caught the man just above the ankle with the heel of his shoe. A grunt of pain and the pressure around his chest slackened. He drove an elbow into the midsection and managed to reverse positions, thrusting one of his attacker’s hands through the shattered window, raking the arm from side to side across ridges of broken glass. The man bellowed in agony and tried to withdraw, but Cotton shoved all of his weight forward, slashing the arm from elbow to wrist.
Another scream of pain and his adversary held up the torn arm, gaping at the ripped flesh that hung loosely like red ribbons.
Blood poured out.
The man retreated toward the stairs and the outer railing, trying to get away.
A bang startled him.
The man jerked from an impact, as if in a spasm. Blood spewed from an exit wound as a bullet ripped through the chest.
Another bang.
More spasms.
He realized what was happening. Somebody was shooting from below. A third bullet pitched the guy forward, then he fell, straight as a falling tree, smacking the floor face-first, fighting for breath, groaning in pain. Cotton dropped down below the railing and risked a peek through the spindles. No one was below. The rifle he had used with the bear still lay upstairs in the third-floor hall.
He heard another shot from beyond the front door.
His attacker was no longer moving or moaning. He rose and hustled down the stairs and out the front door. Black spots still danced before his eyes from the blow to his neck. Thankfully, adrenaline surged through him and helped with the vertigo. Outside he continued to see no one. The grounds rose steadily in three directions up toward the forested highlands. He heard the distant, muted churn of an engine coughing to life, the sound magnified by the silence.
But from where?
Echoes made it difficult to pinpoint.
He stared up toward the trees but saw no vehicle. Luckily there was only one road leading up from the lake. He might be able to cut off whoever had been here.
He turned for the Alfa Romeo.
And stopped.
The right front tire was flat.
Now he knew what the fourth shot had been for.
He wasn’t going anywhere. Not quickly, at least. Somebody had come here ahead of him, prepared, obviously in the know.
Another buyer?
Possibly.
He headed back inside the villa and climbed to the second floor. He checked the body for a pulse and found none. He riffled through the dead man’s pockets and discovered no ID or wallet. Perhaps MI6 could provide an identification.
He noticed something on one finger.
A ring.
Pewter.
Old looking.
With letters etched onto its face.
He slipped it off and examined it closer. Nothing else appeared on its exterior, but inside he saw a tiny image.
The four distinctive arrow points, joined at the center, a dead giveaway.
An eight-pointed Maltese cross.
He pocketed the ring.
Then he recalled the satchel that had gone over the railing. He descended to the ground floor and searched for where it should be lying.
Nothing.
Apparently the shooter had retrieved it.
Wonderful.
The Brits were going to love this.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MALTA
Luke’s attention alternated between the phone and the woman in the boat across the water, one arm keeping the rifle trained. He was having trouble hearing over the hum of the outboard, so he cut the engine.
“Who is she?” he asked Stephanie.
“She wanted me to bring her on, noting you might need help. I asked how she knew anything about anything, but she offered nothing. I told her you could handle it without her help.”
“Any reason you didn’t pass that intel on to me?”
“Her call just came about an hour ago. I tried to reach you, but you didn’t answer.”
He’d left his phone in the rental car.
“I answered this call because it’s the same number from earlier,” she said.
He was drifting away from the other boat and watched as Laura Price maneuvered herself back near him. He lowered the rifle, deciding she was no longer a direct threat. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t trouble.
“Tell me about her,” he said.
“What makes you think I know anything?”
“We wouldn’t still be talking if you didn’t.”
He’d worked with Stephanie long enough to know that she never left anything to chance. She ran the Magellan Billet with military efficiency, accepting nothing less than perfection from her agents. Thanks to her personal relationship with his uncle, former president Danny Daniels, Luke liked to think that he enjoyed a closer connection with his boss, though he knew she would never show favoritism. Stephanie expected her people to do their jobs. Period. Who you were mattered not. Mistakes were barely tolerated. Results. That’s what she wanted. And she’d diverted him here to get results.
But he’d messed up.
Bad.
“She works for the Malta Security Service,” Stephanie said.
“This little island has an intelligence agency?”
“Part of the Armed Forces of Malta. It’s not big, but it does exist. She worked at the CIA for a few years. They remember her at Langley. Seems she doesn’t follow orders well. An adrenaline junkie. A loose cannon, but generally one that fires in the right direction.”
“That sounds like me.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Any idea why the Maltese are involved in this?”
“Not a clue. But she’s apparently been on you the whole time.”
Which he’d missed.
Another mistake.
He stared across the water at his stalker. She was blond and striking with high cheekbones and a pretty mouth. Straight, squared-off bangs highlighted a narrow brow. She wore jeans, belted at the waist, with an open-collared shirt that revealed deeply tanned arms. A looker. No question. And she seemed in terrific shape, muscle-hardened in a way he liked. Obviously, she knew how to drive
a boat, shoot a gun, and try to make herself useful. Combined with the balls of an alley cat he could see how she might be regarded as a loose cannon.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“I don’t like pushy people or liars. Get rid of her.”
He smiled to himself. “It’d be my pleasure.”
“Tell me what happened with Gallo.”
“A slight problem. But I’ll fix it.”
“Do that.”
And the call ended.
He continued to speak into the phone, pretending the conversation was ongoing, but assessing the situation. He still held the rifle. Laura Price lingered about twenty feet off his port side. He simulated ending the call and motioned with the phone that he needed to return it to her. If he kept it cool he may just be able to catch her off guard. Things were bad with the cardinal, but he’d find that trail again. Crap happened. The trick was not to let it stink everything up.
The rifle was pointed down toward the deck.
He motioned with the phone and she worked the boat closer. He tossed it over. She caught the unit and he used that moment to level the weapon and fire three rounds into her engine.
She lunged to the deck.
The outboard erupted in sparks and smoke.
He chuckled.
Those three hundred horses were now useless.
He turned the key and brought his own boat to life, spinning the wheel, engaging the throttle, throwing out a wake as he motored away that soaked the other boat. A glance back and he saw Price rebound to her feet, but he was already too far away for any meaningful shot from her on a pitching deck.
He threw her a wave, hoping never to see her again.
Time to find Gallo and get back on track.
He glanced toward shore and the Madliena Tower. The cardinal and the other man were gone. He worked the wheel and avoided some of the larger chops, paralleling the coast, cruising east toward Valletta where his rental car awaited. Vibrations from the engine rattled up through the deck and energized him.
No one was following.
Clearly, Laura Price would have to find a lift back to shore.
But those were the breaks.
He tried to fool himself into thinking that he understood women. But truth be told, he didn’t. He liked to toss out a devil-may-care attitude and make the ladies think he was some kind of bad boy they could tame. That worked in his favor more times than not, but there was always the occasional disaster.
