Excerpt from A Prisoner in Malta by Phillip DePoy, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Lopez stared at his weapon as if he'd forgotten it was there, then put it away immediately.

"Now let me ask again," Marlowe continued. "Am I in danger?"

"No." Lopez closed his eyes. "You are in no danger from the council. In fact, the opposite is probably true."

"What? The council is in danger from me?"

"Likely, but that is not what I meant either. I—there was a great deal of persuasion brought to bear on this enterprise. I tried, in fact, to save you from it altogether. But now, it's my family, you see. They always threaten my family."

Marlowe sat back, his hand well away from his blade.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, "but I can see that you're in great distress. And I think I speak for both of us when I say that no good would come from testing each other. One of us would lose a friend, and the other, a life. I'd rather not do either. Today."

"Agreed." Lopez sighed, and appeared to relax a bit. "And I'm sorry. Sorry that my wits are raw, and that I dare not tell you what the council has in mind. I can say that they require our assistance—yours and mine—and that they mean you no harm. Other than that, I am sworn to silence."

"Secrecy," Marlowe snorted. "If there is one thing I cannot abide, it's a secret."

"Spoken," Lopez offered wearily, "like a very young man."

Marlowe was about to object when Lopez suddenly raised a finger to his lips. A second later Marlowe realized that the coach was slowing down. Ear to the window, he could make out the sound of several voices whispering low: men on horseback.

Lopez silently drew out his rapier again, and turned to Marlowe, who produced his dagger. Lopez slid quietly to the floor, preparing to leap from the coach. He motioned for Marlowe to do the same.

But before Marlowe could move, the coach came to a complete stop, an arrow shattered the shutter, and the shaft plunged into the leather seat, narrowly missing Lopez's head. Outside the coach driver screamed; the horses complained loudly.

Marlowe reached out and snatched the arrow from where it had lodged. He jabbed it through the black fabric of his doublet and fell back onto the seat, concealing his blade.

A moment later the coach door opened.

Lopez sprang out, snarling and cursing in Portuguese. He scattered the men outside, taking them on all at once.

Marlowe lay stone-still, waiting for his opportunity. He knew that Lopez wouldn't need help.

A rude shadow appeared in the open doorway of the coach. Marlowe could see the man through half-closed eyes.

"You two take care of that Portuguese grease spot, boys," he growled. "I think this one in the cab is already dead."

The man leaned in, and Marlowe's senses were assaulted by the smell of sweat and garlic.

"Here he is," the odiferous voice said tauntingly. "Dead before he's old enough to whisker."

Without a word, Marlowe plunged his blade into the man's belly.

"Christ!" the man howled.

Marlowe kicked with both feet and the man flew backward out of the coach. Marlowe leapt after him.

Lopez was acquitting himself perfectly against two men near the horses. The man that Marlowe had stabbed was lying on his back, groaning. Marlowe charged. The man made an attempt to roll up, but was unable to do anything except bleed profusely.

"I'm cut dead," he wailed.

Marlowe bent over the man.

"You're not doing well," he agreed, "but you're not dying either. Excuse me."

Marlowe stood up straight and turned toward Lopez.

Lopez was still handling the matter at hand, but Marlowe spied a fourth man on horseback, mostly hidden by a nearby gathering of apple trees. That man had a pistol. The pistol was aimed at Lopez's back.

"Damn," Marlowe whispered.

He sipped a breath and began to run. Cocking his arm and steadying his eye, he used the forward motion of his body to give force to his knife. The blade flew through the air and caught the man on horseback in the forearm. The pistol jerked wildly and went off. The man fell from his horse and the horse shivered. It ran away squealing in an eerie high pitch.

Excerpted from A Prisoner in Malta by Phillip DePoy. Copyright © 2016 by Phillip DePoy. Excerpted by permission of Minotaur Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.