Two more shots came his way.
He veered south toward Valletta. The other boat turned, too, angling toward him in a wide arc, closing the gap.
In a few seconds they were parallel.
He released his grip on the wheel and grabbed the rifle with both hands.
His pursuer drew closer.
He turned, ready to plant his feet and fire quick enough that his unmanned rudder would stay on course.
But the driver held no gun.
Instead the other boat suddenly slowed to a stop and the driver’s hands were raised in the air, as if surrendering. He regripped the wheel and worked the throttle, swinging around toward the other craft. He eased up close and lifted the rifle with one hand, finger on the trigger, while he worked the wheel and throttle with the other.
His pursuer removed the cap and long blond hair draped out.
“Who are you?” he called out.
“Laura Price.”
“And the reason you’re shooting at me?”
“Just trying to get your attention.”
Both of their boats bobbed in the choppy water.
“It worked.”
“If I’d wanted to take you down, I would have.”
He smiled. “You always so confident?”
“I’m here to help.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that.”
“Mind if I get my cell phone?”
He shrugged. “Go ahead.”
He trained the rifle on her as she searched for something in a pocket. Her hand came back into view holding a flip phone. He hadn’t seen one of those in a while. She tossed the unit across the water at him, which he caught.
“Push 2,” she called out.
He kept the rifle trained on her. With his other hand he pressed the button and lifted the unit to his ear, his eyes never leaving Laura Price.
Two rings.
The call was answered.
“This is Stephanie Nelle.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
LAKE COMO
Pain cleaved Cotton’s head in half, starting at the nape of his neck and lancing forward to the back of his eyes. But he fought through the fog, grabbed hold of his senses, and saw a man running down the third-floor corridor, turning for the staircase.
He rose to his feet and rushed after him.
The guy had a head start and was already turning for the second floor. He decided to make up some ground and pivoted off the heavy stone railing, launching himself over the side and across the open space between the risers, catching his attacker in a flying tackle. Thankfully the other guy took the brunt of the impact and they rolled down to the next landing. The satchel flew from the man’s grasp, over the railing, careening to the foyer below. Cotton broke free, came to his feet, and threw a punch to the face. His assailant lunged and they fell onto the balustrade with its thick array of stone spindles. The landing itself was more a narrow corridor leading from one side of the house to the other, its exterior wall broken by two windows, both closed.
He pushed away and made a quick appraisal of his problem.
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.