The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone 13)

He grabbed for the wound, then dropped to the grass.

I lunged for Coleen and we both hit the ground, scrambling for the pavilion’s protection, huddling close to a thick stone pillar. Hard to say for sure, but the shooter could be atop one of the taller buildings across the street, on the other side of the pavilion. The bullet had definitely come from that direction.

Another round skipped off one of the stone pillars and thudded into the grass.

Yes, the shooter was behind us, testing our shield.

No sound was associated with the firing, which meant the rifle was sound-suppressed. People had begun to notice Veddern and the blood. A scream and shouts of oh my God echoed. The afternoon crowd began to scatter, like ants from the mound. That confusion could work in our favor. As would the trees.

“Let’s go.”

We sprang to our feet and joined the chaos, bolting from the plaza to the street, which was only a few feet away, weaving our way through the congealed traffic, using the cars for protection. A round ricocheted off the sidewalk just a few feet way. As I suspected, the trees in the plaza were now blocking the shooter’s aim. But most likely, here and there, we would be visible through the canopy.

We rushed past the shops.

People were beginning to notice what was happening across the street and the panic spread. None of them realized they were also in the line of fire.

And that bothered me.

We needed to disappear.

Past the traffic I saw the two suspect men from earlier in the plaza hustle across the street on an intercept course. They had no idea there was a separate shooter. For all they knew we’d taken Veddern down.

“You see them,” I asked.

“I’ll take one. You the other.”

I liked the way she thought.

The two men angled their approach so they would find the sidewalk about twenty feet ahead of us. I’m not sure what they expected, but what they got was a tackle from Coleen and a fist to the jaw from me. My guy fell back against a parked car at the curb. The people around us reacted to the fight and began to flee. I didn’t give my guy time to react, planting my curled, hard knuckles into his face, then reaching beneath his jacket for a shouldered weapon. I removed the gun as he slumped to the pavement. Coleen was on her feet, having driven her man to the concrete hard enough to knock him out.

She, too, had a gun in her hand.

We both stuffed the weapons at our spines, beneath our shirts, and kept moving, turning right, heading down an even busier path. I knew where we were. St. George Street. A pedestrian-only way lined with olden buildings that housed an eclectic array of galleries, shops, and cafés, running right through the center of downtown to the old city gate. Being the middle of a summer afternoon, there were a lot of people in shorts, T-shirts, and flip-flops—which helped hide us, but they also made it much more difficult to determine any new threats. I heard sirens and realized the local authorities were about to arrive on the scene. My eyes scanned back and forth, studying faces.

“Do you know where we’re going?” I asked Coleen.

“Not really.”

That was encouraging.

Behind us the two guys we’d taken down on the sidewalk were nowhere to be seen. We kept hustling forward, excusing ourselves, delving deeper into the pedestrian-only quarter. I knew that this part of the old town was a warren of narrow lanes and even narrower alleys. Some car traffic was allowed, but not much. Ahead of us, through the crowd, I saw a tall, angular, gaunt man with a beard standing in the center of the street.

Juan Lopez Valdez.

We stopped.

Then I felt something hard touch my spine. I stole a glance over my shoulder and saw the two men from Palm Beach who’d try to steal the files. One behind me, the other Coleen, both with guns to our backs. I noticed that Coleen recognized them, too.

Both of our weapons were discreetly taken away.

Valdez beckoned with a friendly wave and we all four walked forward.

“Are you hungry?” he asked as we came close.

Strange question.

He pointed to a restaurant over his shoulder and said, “Shall we?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

We entered the Columbia—which ironically featured Cuban cuisine. Pam and I had eaten there a couple of times.

“With what just happened,” Valdez said, “you both need to be off the street.”

“Your doing?” I asked.

He nodded. “A favor to Oliver. He’s not in the best of moods, particularly considering you managed to escape this morning. He decided a message needed to be sent. I was here. So he asked me to send it. But we do have a common interest.” He pointed at me and Coleen. “You two. Thankfully, Oliver learned of Agent Veddern’s presence, so we drove up.”

“Veddern was here to take Bruce Lael.”

Valdez nodded. “I know, and I would have shot them both if that had happened. But luckily, you two appeared, providing new opportunities.”

“Oliver’s got problems with his own people,” I said.

“Far overdue, if you ask me.”

We approached a hostess station and Valdez asked for a table for three. It was midafternoon, past lunchtime, but the place remained reasonably busy. The two guys behind us continued to stand close, keeping their weapons concealed within their shirttails. Making a move would endanger not only us but everyone around us, so I decided to sit tight. Looking back, I’ve always been amazed at my patience that day, especially considering my lack of experience and the threat level.

We were shown to a table on the second floor. Valdez instructed his two men to wait below and keep an eye on the exits. The restaurant’s interior cast a measured Spanish feel with colorful tiles in bright yellows and blues, a faux garden of a place where ferns and potted palms accentuated the sense of being outdoors. The main dining room resembled an enc

losed two-story patio-courtyard, complete with a working fountain at the center. A skylight high overhead added light and ambience. Our table was near the railing on the second floor overlooking the fountain.

“I must say,” Valdez noted, “I’ve never eaten here. But I have visited the Columbia in Tampa. Their version of Cuban cuisine is reasonably good.”

“What do you want?” Coleen asked.

“Such hostility,” he said. “You should be grateful. Outside is about to be crowded with police. A downed FBI agent is going to attract attention.”

“Is he dead?” I asked.

“I certainly hope so. That’s what Oliver wanted. It seems he and Veddern are not the best of friends.”

“Is Oliver always so reckless?” I asked.

“More desperate at the moment. He has a lot to keep contained. He thought it could be done in Stuart, but you both managed to get away. Was the confrontation at the dock your people trying to stop you?”

“More my people not keeping their end of a bargain.”

He chuckled. “That I can appreciate, amigo.”

Obviously, Stephanie Nelle had not seen Valdez.

“Murder is a serious crime,” Coleen stated.

“I agree. Which is why Oliver wanted me to deal with things. I would have handled it differently, but at the moment I have to please Oliver. We have a mutual problem.” He pointed at us. “You two. I’m hoping we can come to an understanding and end all this.”

A server approached and left menus, promising to be right back.

“I was electronically listening to your conversation in the plaza,” Valdez said. “You’ve both read the files and you, Lieutenant Malone, have my coin, so let’s have a meal and I’ll answer all questions for Senora Perry that Veddern avoided. The ones about your father. I don’t suffer from the same lack of knowledge that Veddern possessed. I was there in 1968. Then you will give me my coin and we can be done.”

The server returned.

“If you don’t mind,” Valdez said. “I’ll order for the table.”

He perused the menu and selected several different entrées, which the server assured were all excellent choices. Coleen and I just sat, our gazes meeting occasionally as we both assessed the situation from differing perspectives. She seemed intrigued by what she might learn. I was more concerned with getting out of here in one piece—with the files and the coin.