Yes, he did. But that didn’t mean he either liked or approved of them. One day, maybe, he’d get out, and then he could play by his own rules.
“My brother-in-law took a lot of chances. But he never played for keeps. His marks were the nonviolent type. He didn’t know the rules of this game.”
“But he took something Simon wants back.”
Herr Brown managed to get ahead of us.
“Unfortunately, we don’t know what that is.”
“And you want me to find out?”
“We were hoping you might help.”
He was still pissed about the cavalier attitude toward Scott’s death. He may not have liked Scott Brown, but the man was Ginger’s husband and she was family, and that counted for something.
And another reality hit home.
Seemed not only Scott had stumbled into a mess. So had he.
“I’m leaving,” he said.
“Not until I say you can.”
“I don’t work for you.”
“But if you’re not going to cooperate, you’re going to leave this island. I can’t risk any more interference.”
He’d already assessed the situation and concluded that the two young men who’d brought him were all the army Schwartz had, at least here. Only a handful of others wandered through the ruins, none raising any alarm. He assumed Schwartz was armed, so the first play was obvious.
He shook his head and grinned. “You don’t give up, do you?”
Schwartz pointed both palms skyward, shrugged, and said, “It’s my nature.”
“Look,” he said, casually stepping closer, as if he wanted to say something in private, “I’ll leave—”
His right arm swung out and clamped Schwartz’s neck in a vise as he brought the man toward him. The move caught his opponent off guard, and he was able to reach beneath the hanging shirttail and find the gun he knew was there. With weapon in hand he kneed Schwartz in the groin, doubling the man over.
An elbow to the nape of the neck sent the Israeli to the ground.
He whirled and caught the other two problems reaching for their own weapons. He fired at both, sending them scattering for cover among the crumbling stones.
He darted right, seeking refuge behind a standing column. Making his escape would require a sprint of fifty yards, back down the grassy path to the parking lot. Schwartz was still on the ground, barely moving, the other two agents somewhere to his left. The next patch of safety lay twenty feet away. He leaped, hit the ground, and rolled toward it.
Bullets came his way, but missed.
He sprang to his feet behind a clump of stone infested with lichens and caught sight of Twittily Dee and Dittily Doo trying to make their way to Schwartz. He used that moment of distraction to race ahead and hop a waist-high stone wall that separated the grassy path from the rocks beyond.
Crouching low, he kept heading forward until he turned a bend and was out of the line of fire. He leaped back over the wall, onto the grass, and raced to the parking lot.
Now what?
The car he’d come in waited to his right.
No way were the keys in it, but he checked to be sure.
Three more cars were there and he checked those too.
No keys, either.
He’d have to keep moving.
The growl of an engine could be heard from the steep switchback road that led back to the highway.
A vehicle appeared around the last bend.
One he recognized.
Dubois.
The engine rattled and strained, but sounded to him like a fine orchestra. His ally wheeled to a stop. He jumped into the passenger’s side and said, “Good timing.”
“I follow from hotel. They don’t look like good men.”
“They’re not. Let’s get out of here.”
Then something occurred to him.
“Wait.”
He popped open the door, stood, and fired one round into the Israeli’s car, flattening a rear tire.
They drove back toward Cap-Ha?tien, the tires wobbling, the wretched road more holes than pavement. No one had followed, and Dubois decided to take them to his house.
“Scotty come there a lot. He like it.”
The dwelling was another shanty, tin-sided, tin-roofed, a few hundred square feet. It sat among a cluster of several hundred, east of town, not far from the airport, the rough land succumbing to weeds. Goats milled around in the front and on the sides, and a group of children played. The stench was overpowering, but he’d become accustomed to the pall. Then again, who was he to judge? Dubois seemed like a hardworking, decent man who’d genuinely liked Scott Brown. Life was tough here, but he was making the best of it.
Besides, he owed him one.
Two of the children rushed over. The boy maybe nine or ten, the girl a bit younger. Both hugged Dubois.
“These be mine. Violine is my precious girl, but Alain is future man of house.”
Malone nodded to them both.
“This be Cotton Malone. He was close to Scotty,” Dubois told them.
“Are you a secret agent, too?” Alain asked.
He threw Dubois a curious look.
“Scotty told them he be an agent for the Americans. Worked for the Billet.”
He decided not to burst anyone’s bubble. “I think it’s called the Magellan Billet.”
“That’s what Scotty say. Very secret thing.”
“Scotty say anything else?”
Dubois shook his head. “Only that he be here on a mission. He need help. I give it, like I do with you.”
The children ran back to their friends. A woman appeared in the shanty’s door. She was thin, long-haired, with bright eyes and a fresh face.
“This be Elise. My wife.”
Malone shook the woman’s hand, and she threw him a warm smile.
“You were Scotty’s relative?” she asked.
He nodded. “He was married to my wife’s sister.”
“We liked him a lot. He was a good man.”
Her English was cleaner than Dubois’ and carried no accent, each syllable perfectly pronounced.
“Elise teaches school,” her husband said with pride in his voice. “She be real good at that.”