The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)(88)

“That boat that just left,” I said to him. “How can I cut it off and get to it?” He tossed me a puzzled look so I decided to make myself clear. “I’m a federal agent. I need to get to that boat. Now.”

On the run over I’d tucked the gun beneath my shirttail and considered using it to make my point clearer. But my stern tone seemed to grab the young man’s attention. He pointed across the narrow waterway.

“The river winds in a big circle back to here. Through those woods and you’ll get to the boats anywhere they may be along the track.”

“Is there a way out of the park through this ride?”

He nodded. “Beyond the fake jungle is a service road, near the railroad tracks, that leads out. But you’d have to get off the boat.”

Valdez surely wouldn’t know that, but he might discover that fact once he fled the boat anywhere along the way.

I couldn’t allow him to escape.

A narrow wharf cordoned off the boats as they arrived at the pavilion. A wooden walkway, about two planks wide, stretched across the water to the “jungle” on the far side. I sidestepped the visitors, hopped onto one of the boats that had just emptied, balanced myself on the benches, then leaped off on the other side, finding the walkway and rushing toward the foliage. I pushed my way into the ferns and shrubs, heading up a short incline among tall trees, and realized this was a berm that shielded one side of the ride from the other, offering privacy during the experience. I could hear boats churning along beyond the greenery, their engines alternating between bursts of speed and slow cruising.

I crested the berm and pushed through more ferns and shrubs. The foliage was thicker along the edges, which made sense as that would be the most noticeable part to the people on the boats. Here, on the other side of the sight line, concealed trails led in all directions, service routes like the corridors back in the Pirate ride. I could hear water falling and the guides as they entertained people in their boats over PA systems.

I spotted the Nile Nellie.

A man was tossed over the side near the bow. He hit the water with a splash and I saw that Valdez was now driving the boat, revving its engine and picking up speed. But, as I’d assumed, there were limits on the boat’s abilities. He seemed to be trying to steer the craft closer to shore, but it stayed out in the center of the “river,” surely tracked like those in the Pirate ride.

I heard a commotion behind me.

Men yelling and others saying, “He went up that way.”

Apparently security had arrived. Perhaps even the police, too, given what had happened earlier.

In just a few moments they would find me.

Valdez seemed to realize that the boat’s maneuverability was limited. He fled the craft, hopping into the chest-deep water and wading his way toward the far shore and an animatronic display of animals. The bank beyond was clear and open, angled upward to another berm lined with vegetation. On the other side might be that service road the attendant had mentioned. There he could find a way out of here with nobody the wiser. I was hemmed in among the trees and the darkness.

Valdez had no idea I was there.

I heard thrashing behind me.

Whoever was coming would be here in a moment.

Valdez exited the water, walking up among the mechanical lions, giraffes, and zebras.

About a hundred feet away.

I reached for my gun.

To that point I’d never once, in my entire life, had the urge to kill someone. But I desperately wanted to end Juan Lopez Valdez’s life. The only thing that stopped me was the knowledge that he was a critical witness in a diabolical conspiracy. One part of me wanted him dead, the other screamed that justice demanded he be taken alive.

“Fan out and find him,” I heard a voice call out from the plants behind me.

And not all that far away.

I stood just off one of the trails, at the water’s edge. Warm beads of sweat trickled down my forehead. Valdez shook the moisture from his clothes and turned to head up and out of the attraction.

I aimed the gun, steadying it with both hands.

The navy had taught me how to shoot. My proficiency with a firearm was rated above average. If I called out to tell him to stop, the pursuers behind me would be on me. They’d take my gun and Valdez would get away. He might also ignore the command and use the many robotic animals that dotted the far rocky shoreline for cover, easing his escape.

But if I said nothing—

I couldn’t allow him to just slip back to Cuba and pay no price for all that he’d done.

Not only for King.

But for Coleen and Nate.

He was moving away.

Farther into the gloom.

I had to make a decision.

“There, I see him,” I heard a man call out.

Do it.

I pulled the trigger.

The round smacked into Valdez’s spine, jerking him forward. He turned around toward me, searching for the source of the attack.

I fired again.

Then again.

Both slugs found flesh.

Valdez collapsed.

I lowered my weapon.

“On the ground,” an excited male voice yelled behind me. “Now. I won’t tell you again.”

I assumed the man was armed, so I dropped the gun and raised my hands, allowing my knees to fold to the dirt. There I lay as he pounced, cuffing my hands behind my back.

Just like when all this had started.