Dourado by David Wood
A Dane Maddock Adventure
A sunken treasure. An ancient Biblical artifact. A mystery as old as humankind. On January 25, 1829, the Portuguese brig Dourado sank off the coast of Indonesia, losing its cargo of priceless treasures from the Holy Land. One of these lost relics holds the key to an ancient mystery. But someone does not want this treasure to come to light. When her father is murdered while searching for the Dourado, Kaylin Maxwell hires treasure hunter and former Navy Seal Dane Maddock and his partner Uriah “Bones” Bonebrake, to locate the Dourado, and recover a lost Biblical artifact, the truth behind which could shake the foundations of the church, and call into question the fundamentally held truths of human existence. Join Dane and Bones on a perilous adventure that carries them from the depths of the Pacific to ancient cities of stone as they unravel the mystery of the Dourado.
Praise for David Wood’s Dane Maddock Adventures
“A fast-paced adventure with action to spare. Dane Maddock is a hero cut from the Dirk Pitt mold, and “Bones” Bonebrake is the best sidekick around. If you like your thrillers with a touch mystery and Biblical archaeology, Dourado is the book for you.” Megalith Book Reviews
“Dourado is a brisk read, reminiscent of early Cussler adventures, and perfect for an afternoon at the beach or a cross-country flight. You'll definitely want more of Maddock.” Sean Ellis- Author of Into the Black
“A non-stop thrill ride triple threat- smart, funny and mysterious.” Jeremy Robinson, author of Threshold
“David Wood has done it again. Quest takes you on an expedition that leads down a trail of adventure and thrills. David Wood has honed his craft and Quest is proof of his efforts!” David L. Golemon, Author of LEGACY, THE SUPERNATURALS, AND EVENT
“Ancient cave paintings? Cities of gold? Secret scrolls? Sign me up! Cibola is a twisty tale of adventure and intrigue that never lets up and never lets go!” --Robert Masello, author of BESTIARY and BLOOD AND ICE
“Let there be no confusion: David Wood is the next Clive Cussler. From the accessible writing to the wide-ranging plot to the main characters who don't give up no matter how long the odds, Wood's latest book, Quest, is a tremendous classic adventure. Once you start reading, you won't be able to stop until the last mystery plays out in the final line.” Edward G. Talbot, author of 2010: THE FIFTH WORLD
Works by David Wood
The Dane Maddock Adventures
Dourado
Cibola
Quest
Icefall
Stand-Alone Novels
Into the Woods
The Zombie-Driven Life
Callsign: Queen (With Jeremy Robinson)
David Wood Writing as David Debord
The Silver Serpent
Keeper of the Mists
Dourado
Copyright 2006, 2012 by David Wood
Published at Smashwords by Gryphonwood Press.
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Contents
For my wife Cindy, my number one reader, critic and fan.
Prologue
And David said, “There is none like that; give it to me”
1 Samuel 21.9
January 25, 1829-The Indian Ocean
The precious dream fled like the last mist of morning before the rising sun. Another wave broke against the side of the Dourado, the resounding crash booming like thunder in the tiny cabin. Monsieur le Chevalier Louis Domenic de Rienzi clutched the side of his bed to steady himself against the pitching and rolling. He had been dreaming of a triumphant return to France, where he would display the fruits of his years of hard work. He tugged the damp, musty blanket over his head, but it made a pitiful barrier against the shouts that penetrated from above. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to force himself back to sleep, but to no avail. Muttering a curse, he pushed the sodden covers down to his chest and stared up at the aged wooden ceiling.
A man of his standing should have finer accommodations, he told himself. Of course, this was the best the captain had to offer. When he got back to France, when they saw what he had recovered, then he would be an important man. He would have only the finest lodgings. He smiled. For a moment, the aged wooden cabin was transformed into a luxurious berth on the finest ship.
Another wave sent the ship tilting like a drunkard, and his imagined stateroom dissolved in a dizzying roll. Rienzi held on until the ship righted before rising to don his boots and coat. The shouts on deck grew strident, tinged with an urgency that had not been there before. The storm must be more serious than he had believed.
He spared a moment to glance in the tiny mirror nailed to the wall opposite the bed. He was no longer a young man, but age was blessing him with a touch of the dignity he lacked in his youth. He had left home a young man, but was returning as a seasoned adventurer with a fabulous story to tell.
His cabin door opened onto a narrow hallway. A petite woman in a dressing gown peered out of the door directly opposite his own. Her nightcap was askew, giving a comical bent to her pinched features. Their eyes met and she gave a little shriek before slamming the door. Rienzi chuckled and made for the narrow stairwell leading up to the deck.
Tangy salt air filled his nostrils as he stepped out into the chill night. Fat raindrops struck his face, washing away the last vestiges of sleep. A crewman bustled past, jostling Rienzi in his haste. The sailor muttered something that might have been an apology, but Rienzi’s Portuguese was very limited.
Angry black clouds proclaimed the ferocity of the storm that assailed the ship. The brig surged through waves that broke across the deck like hungry fingers clutching its prey. He drew his coat tighter around him to fight off the chill wind that sliced through him and thanked the Blessed Mother that it was summertime here on the bottom half of the world. What might this storm be like at home in the heart of a French winter?
With a fencer’s grace, he stepped out onto the deck, keeping himself balanced on the tilting platform. Deckhands scurried about, obviously trying to put on a brave face in front of the knot of passengers who clung together near the mainmast. Strange that people felt safer on deck, where an errant wave might sweep them away, than down below where it was warm and dry.
He soon found the captain, Francisco Covilha, who was fighting with the wheel and simultaneously barking orders.
“Captain,” he shouted, “may I be of assistance?” Rienzi had some knowledge of sailing, though certainly not as much as the veteran sailor. Yet, it seemed proper to at least make the offer.
The Portuguese sailor shook his head, and called back in heavily accented French. “I am sorry, Monsieur. I must keep us from the rocks.” Maintaining his grip on the wheel, he nodded forward and to port.
Rienzi spun and saw with alarm a jagged line of rocks protruding from the sea, the faint glow of dawn illuminating their jagged features. Despite the crew’s best efforts, the Dourado hurtled toward certain peril, borne on the crest of deadly wind and waves.
There was no helping the captain and crew, nor did he hold out much hope that the ship would avert her impending doom. But there was, in fact, something Rienzi could do. Reeling with each ebb and swell, he made his way to where the frightened passengers huddled in fearful disarray. Taking him for someone in authority, they all began calling out questions.
Most of them spoke English, but a few were French. Rienzi could speak the uncultured tongue of the oafs from the north side of the channel, but he would not do so unless it was absolutely necessary. He did have his reputation to consider.
“Do not speak,” he shouted over their confused questions. “There is little time.” Though his words were in French, everyone seemed to grasp his meaning and fell quiet. He stole another glance at the looming rocks. They looked like the teeth of some primordial beast, ready to crush their fragile vessel. There was no time to get the others below, and should the crash be a serious one, belowdeck would not be the safest alternative.
He found a length of rope lashed to a nearby rail. It was one used by crewmen to secure themselves to the ship in just such a situation. He sat the passengers down and showed them how to double the rope around each of their arms so they all could tie on to the same rope. One of the Englishwomen complained about the cold and the rain, but he ignored her. When everyone was secure, he wound the end of the rope around his wrist and dropped to the deck, waiting like a condemned prisoner for the guillotine.
My treasures! The sudden thought pierced the veil of apprehension and embedded in his heart. A cold sliver of fear soured his stomach and sent a tremor of fear through him. Priceless, irreplaceable artifacts representing a lifetime’s work were stored below. How many years had he spent collecting them? Above all others, one item in particular could not be lost.
With that thought in mind, he rose up from the deck to look out at the ocean. The rocks still loomed perilously close ahead, the waves crashing over them sending up gouts of foam that put him to mind of a rabid beast. They now seemed farther to port. Was the captain gaining some control of the craft? They flew faster toward the far end of the line of rocks, the cold rain now stinging his face. He held his breath. Were they going to make it?
Unwinding the safety rope from his forearm, he belly crawled to the side, and clutched the rail, watching as the dangerous objects flashed by, the gap between the Dourado and these sentinels of doom ever narrowing. The last rock flew past with scarcely a foot to spare.
And then the world exploded.
A loud, ripping sound filled his ears, and everything somersaulted. He tumbled toward the bow, pain lancing through his cold, numb flesh as he half-rolled, half-bounced across the hard, slick deck. He crashed into the foremast with a breathless grunt and a sharp crack to the base of his skull. Dizzy, he struggled to stand. His feet and hands did not want to work, though, and his head seemed full of sand. Surrendering with an agonized groan, he closed his eyes.
“I have no choice, Monsieur Rienzi. I must give the order to abandon ship.” A barrel of a man, Francisco Covilha stood a hand shorter than Rienzi, yet managed to appear as if he were looking down his nose at the explorer. The moonlight accentuated his crooked nose and lined face.
“Captain, you cannot be serious,” Rienzi pleaded. “You have kept us afloat since morning. Surely we can hold out until help arrives.” He rubbed his head, which still throbbed from the blow that had rendered him unconscious. He had tried drowning the pain with wine, but had managed only to dull his senses to the point of being an annoying distraction.
“No help is coming.” Covilha shook his head. “We lost the rudder when we hit those rocks just beneath the surface. Most likely, we have drifted out of the shipping lanes. We cannot expect anyone to come to our aid, and this craft will not be above water much longer. The pumps have not kept pace with the inflow of water. Perhaps you have noticed, no?”
Rienzi stared at the shorter man for a moment. He had, in fact, watched the rising waterline with an equally rising sense of despair. He could not afford to lose this cargo. It was too precious. The world could not afford for him to lose this cargo. How could he make the man understand?
“Captain, if you do not know where we are,” he argued, “then how can you possibly hope to get the passengers and crew safely to port?” Perhaps it was selfish of him to try to keep the sinking ship in the water, but he had no choice. It was imperative that he convince Covilha not to abandon the ship and cargo. There remained the remote possibility that someone might come to their rescue. Any amount of time he purchased, no matter how small, increased that chance.
“I do not know precisely where we are,” Covilha said, holding up a scarred finger, “but we have drifted south and southeast all day. I have a general idea of our location, and I know that I can get us to Singapore. That is, if we get off this ship before we all drown.” The Captain’s face was a mask of determination, and in that moment Rienzi understood that he would never dissuade the man.
“Captain,” called a voice from behind Rienzi. One of the crewmen, a short, swarthy man with a crooked scar running from his left ear to his upper lip, brushed past, a frightened look further marring his disfigured face. “The water is coming much faster than before. We may have only minutes!” He flashed a sympathetic glance at Rienzi. “I am sorry, Monsieur.”
The moment of guilt he felt at having thought only of the sailor’s ugliness dissolved with Covilha’s subsequent words.
“Give the order to abandon ship,” the captain instructed. Without further word, he turned away from Rienzi and began shouting hastened instructions.
Muttering a curse under his breath, Rienzi hurried to the foredeck and descended to the level where the crew bunked. He had made certain he knew exactly where his treasures were stored, the one in particular, and he quickly found the trapdoor that led down into the hold. The sounds of frightened passengers drifted down from above, as people who had believed the worst was over now found themselves abandoning ship. Fitting this should happen at midnight, he thought.
Yanking open the trapdoor, he mounted the ladder and began his descent. Only a few rungs down, he heard the sloshing of water inside. It must be filling rapidly. An icy sense of doom rising inside him, he strained his eyes to peer into the inky blackness, but it was too dark for him to see anything. He needed to find a lantern, though it would likely do little good. Why had he not stored it in his berth? He knew the answer; it was too large for him to hide it in the tiny room, and it would have proved too great a temptation for either captain or crew. It had seemed safer to leave it crated with the other artifacts. It was certainly safe from prying hands now. Or soon would be. He gave a mirthless laugh at the irony.
He clambered up the ladder and back onto the deck. The Dourado was listing to port, and he was hard-pressed to maintain his balance as he hurried back to his quarters. Inside, he gathered his small lantern, along with his journal, which he kept safe in an oilcloth bag. Hastily lighting the wick, he returned to the deck.
The ship now listed mightily, and he was forced to place his free hand on the deck and scurry along like a wounded crab. As he made his way toward the foredeck, a noise caught his attention. He raised his lantern and the light fell on two young women, their faces frozen in terror, clutching the mast.
“Get to the boats,” he shouted. “Quickly!” The shorter woman, a blonde whose milky complexion was almost ghostly in the blended moon and lamp light, shook her head. The other did not respond at all. Fear held them rooted to the spot.
“Monsieur!” The Captain’s voice boomed. “The second boat is leaving! You must come now!”
“Wait for us, Captain! There are yet passengers aboard!” Rienzi cried. If the man would not wait for Rienzi, perhaps he would wait for them.
“Hurry, I pray you!” Covilha’s voice covered a remarkable distance. “The ship is sinking fast!”
“Mon dieu,” Rienzi muttered as he scrambled over to where the frightened women sat. “Come with me,” he ordered. “I will get you to the boats.” The one who had sat in mute silence a moment before, a thin brunette with brown eyes, nodded. She released her grip on the mast with obvious reluctance, and crawled to his side.
“Come, Sophie,” she called to the blonde. We must go quickly. There is no time.” Still Sophie shook her head and refused to move.
This time not bothering to muffle his curse, Rienzi moved to the woman’s side, his boots sliding on the damp decking. Gripping the oilcloth bag in his teeth, he used his free hand to pry Sophie’s fingers loose from the mast. He grasped her around the waist, and heaved her onto his shoulder. He felt the other woman’s arms encircle him, steadying him as they stumbled together across the sloping deck.
The captain was waiting at the rail. Together, they helped the women into the smaller boat. A short distance away, the longboat awaited. Each craft overflowed with anxious looking sailors and travelers.
“That is everyone?” Covilha asked.
Rienzi nodded and tossed his oilcloth bag down into the boat. “Cast off. I will join you shortly.” He turned and left the captain gaping open-mouthed at the top of the rope ladder. He stumbled and skidded his way back down through the crewdeck to the opening that led into the hold. He dangled his lantern through the open trapdoor and felt his heart fall into his stomach. Everything was under water. All would be lost. It would be lost. He should have taken it from the hold when the ship first struck the rocks. Burn it all, he had not believed that the ship would truly sink!
A pitiful whimper snapped him out of his dark thoughts, particularly when he realized that it did not come from his own throat. He looked down to see a small dog furiously paddling through the icy salt water that sloshed through the flooded hold. How had it gotten there? The water level was so high that he was easily able to reach out and catch the pitiful creature by the scruff of the neck, and lift it to safety.
The Dourado lurched, and now he could actually feel the craft sinking. If he did not get clear before it went down, the suction could pull him under. He tossed away the lantern, ignoring the tinkle of shattering glass. Clutching the frightened dog to his chest, he stumbled to the ladder and clambered up onto the deck. Not even looking for the lifeboats, he dashed to the rail and leapt over. The Dourado was sitting so low that he scarcely had time to brace himself for the shock of the cold water.
When he felt his feet touch, he kicked furiously, trying not to go too far under. He raised the yelping, clawing dog above his head, and managed to keep the tiny creature above water. He broke the surface with a gasp and shook his head to get the stinging salt water out of his eyes. He was relieved to see the smaller boat close by, and heading in his direction. Ignoring his body’s instinct to curl into the fetal position, he fought to stay afloat as his rescuers rowed to him. His legs felt like lead and his sodden clothes and heavy boots weighted him down. He kicked with desperate fury, but he was sinking. His shoulders sank beneath the surface of the water, then his chin, then his entire head. He was going to die.
Strong hands took hold of his shoulders and hauled him up. Covilha and the scarred sailor dragged him into the boat. He dropped to the bottom and slumped, exhausted, against someone’s legs.
“All of that for a dog,” a voice behind him whispered.
Rienzi was too tired and disconsolate to reply. Instead, he clutched the wet ball of fur to his chest, and watched with tear-filled eyes as the greatest discovery in the history of mankind sank into the depths of the sea.
CHAPTER 1
A dead ship makes better company than a live person, Dane thought as he propelled himself with two solid kicks through the gaping hole in the side of the sunken vessel. He drifted, careful not to upset the fine layer of silt that covered the boat’s interior. It would be the underwater version of a whiteout if he did, and it would spoil his exploration. A school of bright blue sergeant majors, so called for their dark, vertical stripes that made them resemble a sergeant's insignia, swam past seemingly oblivious to this intruder into their watery domain. Dane greeted them with a mock salute and they scattered out into the sea. Another small flip of his swim fins and he slid deeper into the bowels of the wreck.
It was a tuna seiner, and not a very old one. The outside was white with broad bands of green striping down the side. He did not expect to find anything of interest inside, but he desperately needed a diversion after a long and fruitless day of searching for the remains of the sunken Spanish galleon.
He switched on the dive light strapped to his forehead and looked around. More than likely, this had been a drug runner’s boat. It was stripped down to bare bones on the inside, all of the trappings of the fishing trade absent. A fire extinguisher was still strapped to the wall, one of the few remaining accoutrements in this sunken tin can. He floated over to it, and gently brushed away the silt over the inspection label to reveal the year 2002. He looked around a few moments more, his eyes taking in the crumbling upholstery on the seats and the bits of marine life that were beginning to homestead on the interior. There was nothing here to hold his interest. He took a quick glance at his dive watch and calculated that he had about ten minutes of air remaining. It was time to head back up.
He turned and swam out of the wreck. As he left the boat, a shadow passed above him and something large and dark appeared at the edge of his vision. He looked up to see the thick, gray form of a bull shark circling above him. Dane paused, watching the fierce creature swim back and forth. Aggressive and unpredictable, a bull shark was not to be trifled with. The best option was to wait until it went on its way.
The large creature swam a tight circle five meters above him. Dane held tight, not wishing to draw its attention. Faint shafts of sunlight filtered down through the crystalline waters, shining on its tough hide. The beast’s angry eye seemed to fix on Dane, though he knew it was only his imagination.
Minutes passed, with no sign of the shark leaving. He could have sworn the thing was standing guard over him. Its jagged white teeth seemed to grin back at him, daring him to chance it. Again, he checked his watch. Six minutes of air left. He couldn’t wait much longer. He would have to chance it, but at least it was a shallow dive. The water was no more than thirty meters deep here, if that, but it was safest to make a slow ascent, making a couple of stops to avoid decompression problems. His heart beating a bit faster, he suppressed the urge to strike out hard for the surface, and began a slow, controlled rise.
He had read stories of men who had dived on bull sharks, and had even met a few of the guys. Most of them were crazed adrenaline junkies. It was, however, at least theoretically possible to share space without provoking the beast. Problem was, it depended quite a bit on what kind of day the shark was having.
Holding his arms close to his sides, he stretched out, propelling himself with controlled kicks. He slowly drifted upward toward his waiting boat, remaining as still as possible and trying to resemble nothing more than a piece of floating debris. Don’t rise faster than your bubbles, he reminded himself.
The shark continued to patrol the area, showing no signs of agitation, or so Dane hoped. He now had a good view of the marine predator. It was at least ten feet long, probably a female. Viewed through aquarium glass or from within a dive cage, she would be a real beauty. Sharks were fascinating creatures; all muscle, teeth and stomach, his Dad used to say. So far she gave no sign that she had noticed him. He flipped his fins, and he was now gliding upward at a steep angle. Just then, the shark veered to her left, heading directly at him.
Dane tensed. The dive knife strapped to his thigh would do him little good against her tough hide. Struggling against his instincts, he forced himself to remain still, feigning death, floating free. The wide, ugly snout and rows of glistening razor teeth filled his field of vision as the shark barreled toward him.
His natural survival response battered at his will, screaming for him to take out his knife and start hacking. Just as he was about to give in, the shark angled past him, brushing his shoulder with her rough hide as she swam past. As quickly as she had come, she was gone again.
Dane closed his eyes for a moment and said a brief prayer of thanks to the gods of the sea. Without looking around to locate the shark, he hastily pinched his nose closed and blew, forcing his ears to pop, before resuming his gradual ascent. He looked down at his wrist. Five minutes. Glancing up, he was surprised to see two boats floating above him. His attention had been so focused on the shark that he had not heard the second craft’s arrival. He continued on with suspicious thoughts rising in his mind. The newly arrived craft floated directly above him. Warily, he surfaced just behind the stern.
The bright Caribbean sun danced on the cerulean water, and he squinted against the glare. The boat was an old Coast Guard cutter. Someone had repainted it an ugly shade of green with the Cuban flag emblazoned sloppily on the back. Four men stood with their backs to him, three of them holding rifles at the ready. One of them was talking to the crew of Dane’s boat, the Sea Foam. The newcomers were armed with old AK-47’s and garbed in a motley mix of military uniform bits, as green and ugly as their vessel.
Aboard the Sea Foam, Dane’s partner, Uriah Bonebrake, known to friends simply as “Bones,” stood facing the unwelcome intruders. A false smile painted his face, and his body was deceptively relaxed. The Carolina-born Cherokee, Dane’s friend since their days together as Navy SEALS, carried a nine-millimeter Glock on his right hip, out of sight beneath his loose-fitting Hawaiian print shirt. Bones was outgunned, but Dane could tell that his friend was looking for an opening. Matt Barnaby and Corey Dean, the other two members of Dane’s crew, stood behind Bones. Matt’s lean, tan face was drawn in concern, while Corey looked frightened.
“You are in Cuban waters, Señor,” the man without a rifle said. “We must inspect your boat for drugs.” One of his comrades snickered, and he shut him up with a wave of his hand.
“These here ain’t Cuban waters, Chief,” Bones said, his deep voice relaxed, almost friendly. “Like I told you, we’re marine archaeologists. This is a research vessel. If you’re looking for drugs, there’s this dude who hangs out on the corner near the Walmart by my house who can probably hook you up.”
Bones knew as well as Dane that these clowns might be Cubans, but there was no way they were government agents. They were self-styled pirates, thugs who preyed mostly on private pleasure craft. He needed to help his crew, but how?
“You, my tall friend, are not so amusing as you seem to think. I suggest you cooperate. Do not force us to harm you.” The fellow’s voice was as oily as his skin.
“No need for any of that now,” Bones said in a friendly tone. “We’ve got a cooler in the cabin. Maybe you dudes would like a Diet Mountain Dew or something?”
Bones was stalling for time, waiting for Dane to do something to help them out. Hoping he would not be heard over the sound of the cutter’s idling engine, Dane quickly submerged and dove back down to the tuna boat. He had an idea.
He re-entered the submerged vessel, scraping his shoulder on a jagged piece of metal. The salt water burned, but he had no time to think about it. He checked his watch again. Less than three minutes now. He had to hurry.
A quick swim through the dimly lit vessel, and he soon found what he was looking for. He hefted it and turned to find himself blind. In his haste, he had disturbed the silt on the bottom of the craft, and the interior of the submerged craft was now filled with a thick, opaque cloud of sediment.
More angry than concerned, he took a moment to orient himself. It was a small boat, and he should not have any problem getting out, but precious seconds were ticking away. He blew out a few bubbles just to make sure he knew which direction was up, and reached up to put a hand on the ceiling. He swam his way to the opposite side of the boat, the side in which the hole was rent, and hugged the wall as he worked his way back.
The way out appeared like a sliver of sky through gray clouds. Exiting the sunken craft, he made ready to return to the Sea Foam and his crew. Something moved in his peripheral vision. The shark again! This time he had no choice but to make a bolt for the surface and hope that the primordial creature would continue to ignore him. He set his jaw and swam to the surface as fast as he could. The shark ignored him, and he surfaced without drawing notice.
Tensions were at a peak. The leader of the intruders was waving his arms and shouting in Spanish. Dane caught a few of the words, enough to know that they contained threats of bodily harm. Bones’ eyes flitted in Dane’s direction for the briefest of instants. It was enough to let him know that Bones had seen him, and was ready. Dane kicked free of his flippers and slipped out of his dive tank just as the bull shark resurfaced on the other side of the boats and made straight toward him, its fin slicing through the calm gulf waters. The cut on his shoulder! It had scented him. First things first, though.
This had better work, Dane thought. He hefted the fire extinguisher he had retrieved from the drug runner’s boat, and opened it up full blast on the pirates.
Surprised shouts rang out from the men on the cutter, and gunshots erupted as Bones used the diversion to draw his Glock and open fire. The two intruders farthest from Dane went down immediately. The man in the stern opened up wildly with his AK, spraying the Sea Foam with a deadly torrent of hot lead.
The shark was ten meters away and closing fast. Flinging the fire extinguisher in its direction, Dane grasped the side of the boat and heaved himself out of the water. He tumbled over the stern and sprang to his feet, freeing his dive knife as he went. Only a few paces away, the confused attacker, still struggling to keep his burning eyes open, spotted Dane and turned, bringing his weapon to bear.
Bullets buzzed past Dane’s ear as he closed the gap between himself and the Cuban. He lashed out with his left hand, smacking the barrel of the weapon to the side. Simultaneously, he thrust hard with his right. Still gripping his rifle, the Cuban could not protect himself. Dane drove his knife into the man’s chest. Giving it a quick jerk to the left, then back to the right, he yanked the weapon free, and shoved the dying, self-styled pirate away.
The last enemy was down on one knee, exchanging gunfire with Bones. He was armed with a .38-caliber revolver, of all things. Holding his breath, Dane dashed toward him. The brigand must have espied him in the corner of his vision. He turned and leveled his pistol at Dane, and pulled the trigger. The hollow sound of a hammer striking repeatedly an empty cylinder seemed deafening to Dane as he charged in. Cursing in Spanish, the man threw the useless weapon at Dane’s head, and then jumped up to meet his attacker.
Dane thrust low and hard at the man’s midsection, but his opponent was a skilled fighter. The Cuban spun to the right, grasping Dane’s left wrist in both hands, and tried a shoulder throw. Dane saw the move coming, and managed to grab hold of the man by the loose fabric of his uniform pants behind his left thigh. He yanked up hard, throwing them both off balance. As they tumbled to the deck, the Cuban struck Dane’s wrist, sending his dive knife sliding across the deck. He rolled away, sprang to his feet, and leapt at Dane again.
Years of combat training kicked in. Dane dropped into a long stance, bending at the knees. He wrapped one arm around the man’s waist and the other between his legs. Allowing the attacker’s momentum to carry him, he heaved the man onto his shoulder like a log. Ignoring the pain from his wound, he turned and dropped his opponent over the side of the boat and into the water.
The Cuban broke the surface, shouting angrily, but his cries quickly turned to frightened shrieks as the water around him began to churn and froth. The bull shark ripped into him in an eerie, silent assault. The man shrieked and beat at the shark with his fists, but to no avail. Dane saw Bones, who had held his fire during the fight for fear of hitting the wrong man, raise his pistol and take aim at the shark. Just then, the Cuban ceased his struggles. Great gouts of blood erupted from his mouth as the ferocious predator carried him under, leaving a crimson pool spreading between the two boats. It was surely his imagination, but Dane thought he could smell the coppery scent of carnage.
The strength left his legs and he leaned heavily against the rail
“Thanks for coming to my rescue,” he called across the intervening waters to his friends.
“Hey man, just because he didn’t see the shark doesn’t mean we all missed it,” Bones yelled back. “The guy was a moron, anyway.” The big, ponytailed native leaned his muscled, six-foot frame over the rail, cupped his hands, and shouted down at the water, “How many shots in a revolver, pal?”
“That’s cold,” Dane said, feeling a touch guilty at his enjoyment of the dark humor Bones had adopted as a means of coping with the realities of combat they had experienced in the service.
“Yeah, but I’m right.” Bones’ mirthless grin reminded Dane too strongly of the action they had seen in the SEALS.
“I put a call in to the Coast Guard when we first saw these guys coming,” Matt said, leaning against the rail of the Sea Foam. He ran his long, tan, fingers through his spiky brown hair, and scanned the horizon. The condition of his hair was always of paramount importance to him. “They should be here any minute.” Matt was a former army grunt, but the skinny mate and engineer had proven himself an able seaman.
“You know what that means,” Corey, the fair-skinned, redheaded computer specialist interjected. He sat on the deck behind Bones with his elbows propped on his knees and his chin cupped in his hands, looking despondent.
“I know,” Dane groaned, “back to the docks.” They could not afford a delay. Business had been slow, and he had been counting on the Spanish galleon to change their fortunes. He had done his homework, researched it thoroughly, and was certain he had a line on it. But nothing remained secret for long in this business. His competitors would hear about the shootout and wonder what he was looking for out here.
“It should only be for a day,” Bones said hopefully. “It’s pretty obvious what these guys are. Or should I say were?” He twisted his mouth in a wry smile.
“It had better not be for long,” Dane said. “We’ve got to get back to work.” He did not add, or we’re going to go under. Everyone knew that fact already. “If somebody finds that wreck before us…” His words trailed away as a Coast Guard cutter appeared on the horizon.
CHAPTER 2
Dane and Bones were surveying the damage to the Sea Foam when the sound of approaching footsteps drew their attention. Though they had returned to port, they remained on their guard after the attack. Even Corey, who abhorred violence of any sort, had armed himself with Matt’s spare .9 millimeter and was keeping an eye out for danger.
A young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, stood at the end of the dock. She was tall, with long, deeply tanned legs, which her khaki shorts displayed to good effect. A tight, white, sleeveless shirt clung to her trim, athletic body in all the right places. The intense Key West sun glistened on her long, white-blonde hair, which she wore pulled back, displaying a strong, yet attractive face that appeared untouched by the humidity. Her chin was a bit too small and her nose just a touch too big for her face, but that only added character to her appearance. She regarded Dane with an intense, green-eyed stare that took his breath for an instant. She was a beauty.
“Good afternoon,” she said, smiling broadly. “Permission to come aboard?” She asked the question as if it was a mere formality, which Dane supposed it was. Beautiful women on the Sea Foam were few and far-between.