Winters automatically reached for his own gun and silently cursed its absence. Not only that, he couldn’t get to the guy with the heavy chair between them. Gun still clumsily in one hand, the pseudo-monk stuffed the pages into his robe. Pain shot up Winters’ leg as he kicked the chair into him, sending the man staggering backward. As he struggled to regain his balance, the gun came free and slid across the floor, out of reach for both of them. Surprisingly, the man abandoned his gun and instead lunged toward the doorway. Winters started after him, but he checked himself and stopped, hand on the wall. He could grab the gun and take him down, but he had no authority to do that. And who knew how many thugs in monk robes he had with him? Winters sprang to the window, calling over his shoulder, “Are you all right, Brother?” “Estoy furioso!” Winters interpreted that as an angry yes. He saw the robed man jump from the cloister wall. Moments later, the familiar banged-up compact car appeared on the road in the distance.
