The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone 13)

Which he did.

A coil of yellow nylon landed atop the water.

“The case is heavy,” I yelled. “I’ll tie it off and yank a signal, then you haul it up. I’ll be right behind.”

I grabbed the end of the coil, stuffed the regulator in my mouth, and plunged back beneath the waves.

CHAPTER SIX

I clawed my way through the water, heading for the black case that lay beyond the wreck. On the way down, using some of my clear-thinking-in-a-crisis, I decided to wrap the rope around the exterior and not trust the handle. Its unexpected weight remained a puzzle. I was no stranger to working in the dark, as few people facing a court-martial ever leveled with their lawyer, especially someone who was an officer in the same Navy prosecuting them. So I was accustomed to half the story or, worse yet, total lies. Eventually, though, the truth always prevailed and I assumed that would shortly be the case here, too.

What an idiot I was.

I reached the bottom and saw I had plenty of slack in the rope, so I worked the yellow nylon beneath the case and wrapped it around a couple of times, forming a makeshift sling that should remain firmly attached. Overhead, I heard a new rumble of engines and saw the black outline of a second keel powering to a stop. Small, oval-shaped, like an inflatable or a dinghy. Out in this chop that had to be a rough ride.

Two divers entered the water.

Both carried spearguns, their fins kicking furiously as they headed toward me.

A little extreme for park rangers.

If I yanked the line, the divers would make it to the case long before Jansen could haul it to the surface. Knives were affixed to each of their legs—it would be an easy matter for them to cut the rope. So I abandoned the case and headed for the wreck. My pursuers were nearly to the bottom. I glided across the rear deck and into the main cabin just as a spear thudded into the wood behind me.

I hadn’t heard it coming.

Unlike in the movies, there were no whining sound effects signaling its path through the water. The thing just appeared.

Definitely not park rangers.

I rolled onto my back and watched through the cabin’s rear windows as one of the divers swam my way and the other headed for the black case. I’d never been trained to handle this kind of situation, but that didn’t mean I was in over my head.

I spotted a short set of steps that led down into a bow berth. The gash I’d seen outside should be there. A diver with a still-loaded speargun arrived at the stern. I needed to slow him down, so I pushed the cabin’s rear door shut and latched the bolt. Not perfect, but it should buy a few moments. My eyes locked with the diver outside, who didn’t hesitate aiming his weapon. The wooden door was half glass, protected by a broken metal grille. I couldn’t assume that the spear would be stopped by any of that, so I kicked twice and dropped down into the forward berth. Behind me the spear burst through the glass in the door, thudding into wood across the cabin.

I immediately saw that I was right and a bow gash opened outward. It would be tight, but possible. So I wedged myself through and came up behind the second diver, who was approaching the black case. He laid his reloaded speargun down on the sand and reached for his knife, surely about to cut the rope. I had maybe ten seconds to do something. So I kicked hard and reached around, yanking the regulator from his mouth and popping off his face mask. The assault caught the guy off guard and I used his confusion to wrench the knife away. Drifting back, I drove the heel of my right fin into his forehead, further dazing him.

The other diver from the wreck had found his way to the hull gash. I knew there’d be a moment of awkwardness before he could maneuver himself through. I was running out of options, the first diver working to find his regulator and face mask. The man inside the wreck disappeared. Then I realized. He was reloading, readying himself for a shot out the gash.

I heard an engine roar louder.

The Isla Marie.

Jansen was leaving?

I yanked hard on the rope.

Several times.

The engines above revved and the slack in the rope began to recede. I snatched the other gun from the sand and sent its spear through the gash. Whether it hit anything didn’t matter. It would buy me time and give the guy in there pause. I grabbed hold as the rope went tight and both the case and I were dragged away from the wreck. I didn’t want the heavy case to strike anything, which might compromise its watertight seal, so I slipped down to the container, secure in its sling, and wrapped my arms around it. Jansen had throttled up the boat and I was now being propelled through the water, speed adding buoyancy.

Some kicks of my fins and the case and I rose.

A quick glance back.

The other diver in the wreck was free, aiming his speargun.

But I was now out of range.

* * *

The boat stopped.

We were beyond the reef in deep blue water, the bottom beneath me not visible. I was still bear-hugging the case, breathing harder than I should. So I told myself to calm down.

I felt pressure on the rope.

Jansen was pulling it in.

I released my grip and kicked for the surface, breaking through into the rain. I stayed with the case as Jansen brought it closer to the boat.

“Climb aboard,” he called out.

I didn’t want to risk the case slipping free, so I stayed with it in the water until the container nestled the stern, then I slipped off my fins, tossed them onto the deck, and climbed the metal ladder. Jansen had a death grip on the rope, and I helped him bring the case up and over the gunnel.

“Amazing how one gold coin can be so heavy,” I said.

I saw that Jansen did not appreciate my sarcasm. Too bad. He hadn’t just been shot at with spearguns. I released my waist belt and slid the tank off. That dive had taken a lot out of me. I scanned the seam of sky and sea and noticed that we’d gone far enough out that the other boat could not be seen through the murky storm.

“The third guy up here in that inflatable started to get frisky,” Jansen said. “I had to use this.” He reached behind and withdrew a semi-automatic from his waist. “I figured you were in trouble.”

But I wondered.

Jansen had powered up and moved before I yanked on the rope. Then there was that moment of surprise I’d caught on his face when he saw me on the surface.

“The water was churned up,” Jansen said. “But clear enough for me to see those two guys after you. I decided it was time to go and was hoping you were hanging on.”

“Who are they?”

“I imagine they work for the coin’s owner. One of those boats we passed at anchor might have been his. He apparently arrived sooner than we thought. You did good getting this up here.”

I’d had enough, so I grabbed Jansen by the arm. “It’s time to end this bullshit. You understand what I’m saying.”

He glared at me. “Don’t get your panties in a wad. This is all par for the course. It goes with the job. You did good. You’ve got balls.”

I released my grip.

I neither believed nor appreciated any of what he was saying, but I was in no position to either argue or barter. I was the new kid on the block, and to make friends I had to play nice.

“What now?” I asked.

“I told you we have a guy in custody. But there’s another person, on Loggerhead Cay, who’s camped out waiting for him. She came yesterday afternoon to make a deal with the guy who brought the boat from Cuba. There is a 1933 Double Eagle involved, but it’s not in that case. It’s on Loggerhead. The woman who came yesterday was going to use it to buy what’s in this case.”

“And what is that?”

He shook his head. “That’s above my pay grade. Not for either of us to worry about. Since we have the case, why don’t you take the place of the guy we have in custody and make a deal for the coin.”

“You’re going to give her what’s inside?”

“Hell no. I’m going to help the FBI arr

est her. But first we need to know some things. Get her talking. Find out what you can. Can you handle that?”

Sure.

Sounded like a plan.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I hopped ashore on Loggerhead Cay.

The rain had eased, the clouds separated, and a harsh sun was now streaming down soothing the sea and warming my body. Jansen had eased to a dock that extended out past a narrow beach to drop me off, then motored on toward the north point of the island where he’d be waiting. We hadn’t seen the inflatable with the divers on our return.

Loggerhead sat three miles west from Fort Jefferson. The black-and-white conical tower of its signature brick lighthouse continued to flash, as did the one across the water, atop the fort, each winking to the other in the ever-brightening midday. The island’s landscape was flat and uninteresting, barely a few feet above sea level, covered in low scrub and thick stands of a short, squatty pine. A beautiful thin ring of white sand wrapped its edges, dissolving into the transparent water. The reef where I’d dived lay off the far side, toward the southwest. Here, on the east, a cluster of low-slung buildings guarded the lighthouse. Jansen had told me that only a few caretakers lived here. Birds seemed the main residents along with, I assumed, its namesake turtles, which surely used the beaches for nests.

Jansen also told me that a handful of campgrounds were scattered across the forty or so acres, concentrated at the south and north extremes. No food, fresh water, electricity, or medical assistance existed. Each person had to bring everything they needed and take everything away. The remote sites were first come, first served. The contact I sought waited at the north point.

I wore a Jacksonville Jaguars T-shirt, a pair of Nike shorts, and tennis shoes, projecting an image of island simplicity. But a clean-shaven face and a regulation haircut might give away my military status. I was in good shape, the dive had just proven that. My waist remained thin, my hair a sandy blond. Middle age was years off, and thankfully my metabolism burned more calories than I took in.

Weather here seemed to change in a blink of an eye. The storms from earlier were vanishing, replaced by clear skies and sunshine. But it was also hurricane season, and I imagined that this was the last place you’d want to be if one of those paid a visit.

A concrete walk led from the dock to the lighthouse, which sat roughly at the island’s center. I avoided that path and headed north, up the beach, following the wet sand. Thunder continued to rumble in the distance as the storm moved eastward. The only other sounds were the wind, a gentle lap of tiny waves, and the shrill cries from birds overhead.