The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone 13)

“Aren’t you the clever one,” she said. “Like a matador with a bull.”

I heard the falcon freeing itself with more shrieks, its beak pecking at the door.

My heart raced. “Let’s go.”

Coleen grabbed the coin and we fled the room, heading back down the stairs, my eyes alert for both danger and opportunity. Far across the open parade I saw three men enter the fort through the sally port, all dressed in park service uniforms.

They turned and headed for the main office.

“That’s going to be a problem,” Coleen said.

To say the least.

We’d never make it out the main portal before they burst from the office and headed this way. So I decided to go high and went back up the stairs, this time turning away from the living quarters and rushing down one of the brick casements. Arches appeared every few feet and we were careful as we made our way around the fort, toward the sally port below us and the only way out. Loose scree and chipped brick were everywhere, as were masonry mounds in the floor that threatened like speed bumps. All of the heavy iron shutters, which would have shielded the exterior arches so the cannons could be reloaded, were gone, exposing the open sea, which stretched in a delft blue to the horizon. Calm had returned after the storm.

“What are we doing?” she asked.

“I’m not sure, but at least we’re above them.”

In the distance came the familiar drone of a seaplane. We stopped at one of the arches to watch a blue-and-white Cessna drop from the sky and land not all that far from Valdez’s boat, which remained anchored about two hundred yards offshore. The plane taxied for the beach, but not before I caught the ID numbers.

1180206.

“That’s the same one from before,” she said.

Which meant no salvation.

The plane swung around, its prop facing out, then it reversed thrust and beached the pontoons.

The engine switched off.

The passenger door opened and Jim Jansen hopped down to the water’s edge, as did another man from the rear seat. The pilot remained inside. The two new players headed toward the fort’s main entrance. Below, I heard shouts, and we eased over to an interior arch and watched as an older ranger and the young man I’d subdued ran across the parade toward the living quarters. Another ranger took up a guard position at the sally port. This was now a damned-if-you-do-damned-if-you-don’t situation.

My mind raced.

Amazingly, Coleen Perry stayed calm.

Now it was clear how the “FBI” was close enough to get here.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice—

That’s just being an idiot.

I’d been wondering how I could get out of here with minimal questions and avoid Valdez at the same time.

Now I had a way.

I eased back to the exterior arch and pointed at the boat. “Valdez is out there. And as you say, the FBI down there is not our friend. You game to leave here?”

Since I was her only play on the board, the answer was not in doubt.

“How?” she asked.

I pointed to the new seaplane.

“Can you fly?” she asked.

“What do you think?”

She stared down at the clear moat twenty feet below us. The tide seemed to be in, as the water level was high. I also caught sight of a rather healthy-looking barracuda hovering in the clear water.

“How deep do you think it is?” she asked.

Apparently she’d surmised what we had to do.

“Only one way to find out.”

And I leaped off.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I hit the water feetfirst, found the grassy bottom about six feet below and pushed up. Coleen splashed down beside me and rebounded, too. The salt water felt like a hot bath. Surely the barracuda had been sufficiently spooked to have swum far away. We quickly made our way to the brick counterscarp and climbed out.

Wasting no time, we hustled around the east side of the fort, water dripping from our clothes, back toward where the bridge spanned the moat along the south perimeter. Jansen and the other man were nearly across the wooden bridge to the sally port, headed inside. I fled the counterscarp and angled toward the beach. I still had the gun, but it had just taken a warm dousing. Sometimes they worked afterward, sometimes not. Three seaplanes were now beached, but our best bet was the one that had just arrived. I knew the keys for its ignition were still there, as was the pilot.

Double-crossing Valdez could be risky, but there was no way I could actually deal with the guy. Coleen had the Double Eagle and she wasn’t about to give it up. Besides, the son of a bitch would probably shoot me dead the minute I delivered the coin.

So screw him.

Everyone said I was a maverick.

Okay. Time to be one.

We made for the beach and used the other two planes for cover as we approached the Cessna. I kept glancing back toward the fort and hoped everyone there was busy trying to figure out where we might be. I halted my approach behind the second plane.

“Wait here and keep a lookout behind us.”

I approached the Cessna from the rear, on the pilot’s side, and wrenched open the door, which clearly surprised the man sitting behind the controls.

I aimed the gun straight at him.

“So you did make it off the boat,” he said. “We couldn’t tell for sure.”

Not a hint of surprise, or shock, or even a denial, just a flat-out admission that they’d tried to kill me.

“Get out.”

“You’re making a big mistake. This isn’t your fight. Go back to JAG while you still can.”

“It became my fight when you tried to kill me. Get out.”

“What are you going to do? Shoot me?”

No, but I did smack the butt of the gun into the side of his head, which sent him reeling over toward the passenger seat. Violence was becoming easier for me with each attempt. While he was still stunned I grabbed his left arm and yanked him from the plane. Coleen had abandoned her post and rushed up alongside. The pilot splashed into the shallow water lapping the beach and she added to his misery with a kick to the face.

“Feel better?” I asked.

“Much. We’ve got company.”

Over her shoulder I saw Jansen and two rangers running across the wooden bridge. They were a hundred yards away, which should offer us enough time.

“Get in,” I said, climbing into the pilot’s seat and starting the engine.

It revved quickly, enough so that I could throttle up and power away from the beach out into the lagoon.

I heard gunshots.

More power and we moved farther from land.

“Give me my gun,” she said.

I handed it over.

She popped open the passenger-side door and returned fire as I turned the plane so her side faced the fort. As we continued to taxi I studied the instruments. Nothing unusual. Standard issue.

More gunfire came from shore.

She curled back inside and slammed the door. “Get us in the air.”

We were now far enough out in the bay to be safe from any bullets. Valdez’s boat sat five hundred yards away, but I wasn’t going anywhere near that, either. I turned toward the east so the breeze I’d noticed on shore would be to our back. I throttled up the engines and sent the pontoons skimming across the surface. The controls tightened and I gripped the yoke

in a hard embrace. I only needed a few hundred feet before the wings caught air and the plane lifted. No rotating or climbing, just a rise, as if in an elevator. Not bad, if I did say so myself. Certainly no tougher than landing a fighter on a pitching carrier deck, at night, which I’d done several times.

I banked into a long turn, eased off on the throttle, and adjusted course toward the northeast. The sky had turned a soothing cobalt blue with only a few puffs of scattered clouds. Fort Jefferson, the Dry Tortugas, Jim Jansen, and Juan Lopez Valdez all lay behind us. I checked the fuel gauge and saw that we carried three-quarters of a tank. I’d flown many a Cessna and knew that the range on a full tank was around 850 miles. I had no intention of heading for Key West—that would be the first place Jansen would look. What I needed was to contact Stephanie Nelle and now I could do that by radioing to shore, with someone there placing a call.

Coleen was busy checking out the cabin, seeing what was behind us.

“What did the case look like that you brought up from the wreck?” she asked.

I told her.

She sat back in her seat. “We hit the jackpot. It’s sitting in the back.”

I couldn’t help but smile.

Lady Luck had finally dealt me a good hand.

I was alive, in a plane, with the case, the coin, and a radio.

All in all, not a bad first day as a special operative with the Justice Department.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I reached for the radio, but Coleen stopped me.

“You can’t do that,” she said. “They’ll be listening, and you do realize this plane can be tracked.”

Of course, but thanks to my fighter-piloting days I had a few ideas on how to minimize that problem. I had already decided to vector toward Florida’s western Gulf shore. The Cessna’s range was enough to get us to Tampa, but I saw no reason to fly that far north. Jansen had probably already radioed the mainland and alerted the appropriate folks, and Coleen was right: We were surely being tracked on air traffic control radar. The trick would be to land quick and then get away before they, whoever they might be, could find us on the ground. The Everglades stretched fifty-plus miles up Florida’s southwest coast. Landing anywhere along that wilderness would be easy, offering perfect isolation and plenty of places to hide, but it would also be difficult to traverse without a boat or car.