the steel riser that supported his weight on the chute. Once in the water he’d have to free himself fast, then deal with the newcomers.
He hit hard and submerged, shaking off the cold water, wiggling from the harness, then clawing upward. He broke the surface and saw that the boat with the two men had drawn close. He was a quarter mile offshore and the currents were working against him. No way he could swim to land. He saw the man with the rifle level the weapon, aiming his way. He sucked a deep breath, tucked and rolled, then powered himself deep.
Bullets swished downward, slowed by the dense water.
He stopped sinking and settled, maintaining depth, staring back up to the surface. He could not hold his breath forever. And what was the old saying? A good offense is the best defense.
He kicked hard and made a free ascent, swimming beneath the dark outline of the boat. The angle of the bullets still trying to find their way through the water indicated on which side the men thought he would surface. He kept his eyes on the keel, staying close to the swaying hulk. The outboard rested in idle, the boat drifting along with the current. If they decided to power up and speed off he could be in real trouble from a spinning prop.
He surfaced and sucked a quiet breath, waiting until his side of the boat rocked down, then he planted his palms and used the sway back up from the swells to flip out of the water.
His body felt primed, coiled, his brain calm and controlled. He had only an instant of surprise, which he used to his advantage, pivoting off the gunnel and kicking the pilot in the chest, sending the man over the side.
The guy with the rifle swung around.
Luke lunged forward and, with a solid right, caught the guy hard in the jaw, then pounced and wrenched the weapon away, slamming the rifle butt up under the shooter’s chin.
Something cracked and the man slumped to the gunnel.
He shoved the body into the water.
That was easy.
Now he had the high ground.
He stared across at the Madliena Tower. Gallo and the other man were still there, watching. He laid the rifle down and pushed the throttle forward. The engine roared to life. He swung the boat around toward shore and heard a shot.
Behind him.
He turned.
Another boat was racing his way.
Single occupant wearing a ball cap, steering the craft and firing a handgun. He had the rifle, but he could not pilot the boat and fire too. He started to zigzag across the water, making himself a more difficult target.
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