Malone heard the shot and saw its result, his gaze darting left where Kathleen Richards appeared. She’d shot one of the men, the other now swinging his weapon around. He followed her lead, shooting the second man in the thigh, collapsing him. Richards ran forward and gathered both weapons, the two men writhed in pain, blood gushing from the wounds, staining the court surface.

“We’re leaving,” he told Mathews.

“A mistake.”

He stepped close to the spymaster. “I’m going to see about my boy.” What he’d just learned, coupled with the fact that he could not contact Antrim, spelled big trouble. “Stay out of my way.”

“You might not like what you find.”

“I can handle it.”

But he wondered.

“You’ve got four agents who are going to need medical care,” Kathleen said, her gun trained on Mathews.

Mathews shook his head. “You are quite the personality.”

“I did your man over there a favor with only a leg injury. Next time I won’t be as generous.”

“Neither will I,” Malone added.

“Are you willing to risk your life for this?” Mathews asked him.

“The question is, are you?”

He motioned to Richards and they fled the building, back out into the afternoon sun. No more agents were in sight and they ran left, past the famous garden maze, to a street that they followed back to the palace front. Taxis were lined near the main walk. They hailed one, climbed inside, and left.

“I appreciate that,” he said to her.

“Least I could do.”

His mind reeled.

He found his phone and tried Antrim’s number again. No answer.

“You can’t find him?” Richards asked.

He shook his head.

“Where to?” the driver asked from the other side of the Plexiglas shield.

“The Goring Hotel.”

“I heard what Mathews said about your boy.”

He faced Richards.

“I need you to tell me everything you know about Blake Antrim.”

Fifty-two