Knight's Cross (The Shipwreck Adventures Book 3)

by Christine Kling

  It took them about an hour to cover the twenty miles to the last location that Viper had texted him. There had been no new texts since that last one around 11:00 a.m. Virgil recognized the castle when he entered Kekova Roads from the drawing in the back of the sea atlas. Priest had once told him that Thatcher had an uncanny talent for figuring this shit out, and it appeared to be true.

  “That’s her sailboat up ahead,” Priest said. “I don’t see the dinghy there, though. Let’s go in and tie up.”

  As they motored into the dock, Virgil watched Priest on deck preparing the lines. He wondered if he should try to get the gun as they docked.

  It was as though Priest knew what he was thinking. As they approached the dock, he came back and stood by the corner of the cabin. “Listen, Virgil. These two are slippery. You’ve already seen that. You and I would be better served working together than at odds. Two against two sounds better than two against one, don’t you think?”

  Priest jumped off and tied up the boat.

  When Virgil shut down the engines, Priest returned to the cockpit. “Why don’t you head up there to that restaurant and see if anyone knows where our old friends off Bonefish got to?” He sat in the captain’s chair at the helm and put his feet up on the dash, crossed at the ankle. “I’ll wait right here.” He let his jacket fall open, showing the gun. “But I don’t think you’ll make a fuss. We want the same thing.”

  The Turk in the restaurant told Virgil that the couple had left in their dinghy to explore a sunken city off that island. He pointed across the water and told him about the hidden harbor.

  Virgil jumped aboard and reported. “He said they went over to that island.”

  As they motored slowly through the cluster of anchored yachts, Priest said, “Might be best if they don’t know I’m here. I like that element of surprise.”

  “If we’re partners now, then you can give me my gun back, right?”

  Priest laughed, but only one side of his face moved. “Come on, Virgil, you’re a Delta. Or you were. You don’t need a gun. Aren’t your hands supposed to be lethal weapons?”

  Virgil didn’t look at Priest. He pictured Bonnie and pushed the throttle up a notch.

  “Don’t be mad, Virg. When we get to the island, you’ll get your gun back. And you can keep the manuscript. I never signed on to your Knight’s-crusade gig. Hell, you can even have Thatcher. I just want the woman.”

  The Sunken City of Simena

  Kekova, Turkey

  April 29, 2014

  Cole sat on the side of the inflatable boat, rearranging the equipment in the dinghy’s bow compartment. He intended to put the flare pistol away. He had to do something to keep his mind off the woman he loved up in the tomb on that cliff. Besides, the flare pistol looked too much like a real gun, with its six-inch blued-steel barrel and brown handgrip. Cole had never been a fan of guns.

  He had just picked up the red one-gallon jug of extra gas they kept in the bow compartment when he heard the low rumbling of a powerboat entering the little harbor. He froze, staring wide-eyed at the entrance channel. He glanced up at the cliff and saw the climbing rope disappear up into the black hole of the tomb opening. He let the lid to the fiberglass compartment drop, picked up the flare gun from his lap, and sprinted the ten yards into the brush. He flattened himself behind a boulder, where he could watch the new arrival. He looked down and was surprised to see that, in addition to the flare gun, he was still holding the red plastic gas can. He had just run without thinking.

  Maybe it was only some tourists.

  The white-blond hair was visible over the top of the windshield. Or maybe it wasn’t a tourist. Blondie was turning his head all around, looking over the little cove. Cole didn’t think Blondie had seen the rope disappear into the tomb. It didn’t seem he had noticed the tomb at all.

  Then suddenly his head swiveled over and he looked up. It was almost as though someone had told him to look, but there wasn’t anyone else visible in the boat. Then the man turned and looked at their dinghy. He took aim and increased boat speed.

  Cole set down the gas can and tucked the flare gun into his belt in the small of his back. He pulled his T-shirt down again to cover it. The shirt was black—not the best color for camouflage in the brush. He looked at the can. Better to keep it with him than to leave it behind as evidence of which way he’d gone. Cole picked up the plastic can, bent over, and starting climbing up the hill. He spotted a freestanding sarcophagus. The top had been knocked off, presumably by tomb robbers. If he could get inside . . .

  Cole crouched down in the brush and froze again when he heard the screeching noise of the fiberglass hull sliding up the rocky beach, followed by silence when the engines cut off.

  A voice called out. “Thatcher! I know you’re here.”

  He heard rocks crunch when the man jumped off the boat.

  Cole ran, keeping his body low and trying to make as little noise as possible. When he reached the tomb, he saw that it had a hyposorium, or burial chamber, on the bottom, then a base, then the actual sarcophagus on top. This type of tomb would have been for a wealthy person. No wonder robbers had taken off the top. The huge, arched stone lid lay off to one side.

  “Thatcher, we want the same thing. The manuscript. I can help you.”

  He got round the back side of the tomb, where Blondie couldn’t spot him. He wedged a foot atop the protruding edge of the hyposorium, then stepped up onto the base. He dropped the gas can into the tomb, then grabbed the upper edge of the stone lip. He was able to get a foothold on the rough stone to push himself up, and then an elbow over the top. He swung his knee over, pulled the rest of his body up, and rolled over the stone edge.

  He thought he would fall quite a distance, but he only fell about a foot. The tomb was nearly full of dirt. Okay, two- to three-thousand-years’ accumulation of dirt. The top of the tomb was high enough that he didn’t think his body could be seen from below, but if Blondie got higher up the hill, he’d see him plainly. Maybe his brilliant hiding place wasn’t so brilliant.

  “Thatcher!” Blondie called out again. “The Knights would be willing to pay you very well if you return their property to them.”

  The man’s voice was still coming from someplace lower down the hill, but not by much. Cole rolled onto his stomach, pulled himself up to the end of the tomb, and lifted his head to take a quick peek over the side. He ducked back down. The man was only about thirty yards away. Fortunately, his back was turned.

  Cole looked at the gas can. Maybe he should go on the offensive. He unscrewed the cap and pulled out the spout. Then he took out his pocketknife and stabbed the top of the plastic can opposite the opening. It would need an air spout. He cut an additional slit next to the opening to make sure the fluid could flow freely.

  How could he get Blondie to come this way? He looked around the inside of the sarcophagus for a rock to throw, but there was nothing but hard-packed dirt and a few rotting leaves. The spout and lid from the fuel can. He tossed both over the side of the tomb. He heard nothing when they hit ground.

  He wasn’t sure if it had made a noise he just couldn’t hear, or if there had been nothing loud enough to attract the man’s attention. Cole raised up to look again. Blondie was walking this way, his head down, watching his feet on the rough terrain. Cole pulled the gas can up to the stone edge of the tomb. He took another peek. Blondie had spotted the plastic on the ground, and he had zeroed in on it. He was heading straight for it with a puzzled look on his face. He was not looking up.

  Cole got to his knees, leaned back out of sight, and waited. When next he peeked, the man was bending over directly beneath him at the base of the tomb. Cole stood, turned the gas can over, and emptied it over his head and back.

  Blondie jumped out from under the stream of gasoline, reached into his jacket, and pulled out a gun. He raised it up and pointed the barrel toward Cole.

  “Wait!” Cole yelled. “Think before you set off a spark. You’ll blow yourself up.”


  Blondie squinted at him. His eyes hurt to look at. “You’re bluffing. That wouldn’t happen.”

  “Think. You’ve fired guns at night. Do you see a muzzle flash? It’s not the liquid gas all over you that’s the danger. It’s the vapors it’s giving off.”

  “Shut up and get down here, Thatcher.”

  Cole stood up. He thought, He’s not going to kill me until he gets his hands on the manuscript. He climbed down from the top of the sarcophagus. When he landed on the ground, he looked at Virgil Vandervoort, soaked in gasoline and pointing a gun at him.

  “Do you mind if I step back? I’m more worried about getting burned in the flash fire than I am about you hitting your target. Your eyes are bloodred. I’ll bet that burns, eh?”

  “Shut up. Where’s your girlfriend?”

  “She’s back at the castle. She didn’t come over here with me.”

  “Nice try. I know she’s around here somewhere. And I’ll bet wherever she is, that’s where the manuscript is.”

  “If I were you, I’d head to the water and try to get some of that gas off.”

  Blondie waved the gun toward the water. “Okay, start walking.”

  The terrain was so uneven with rocks and bushes, Cole had to keep his eyes on the ground or he would fall. But his mind was focused on the flare gun under his shirt. He was worried it would be obvious to the man walking behind him. It took considerable self-control not to tug at his shirt or check to see if it was riding up.

  When they arrived at the beach, Blondie walked over to the grounded powerboat and rapped on the hull a couple of times with his pistol.

  “Somebody else come with you?”

  Blondie smiled. “I’ll be asking the questions. Where’s the manuscript?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Do you really think I’d need a gun to kill you?” He backhanded Cole across the face with the hand holding the gun.

  Cole’s arms flew out to his sides and his legs buckled. He slammed down onto the beach and the back of his head bounced on the jagged rocks. He felt warm liquid flowing across his mouth.

  “Let’s try this again. Where’s the manuscript?”

  “I don’t know,” Cole tried to say, but what he heard sounded like gibberish. His lips felt fat and numb.

  Blondie delivered a kick to his side that knocked all the air out of his lungs and left Cole gasping and curled into a fetal position.

  “Virgil!”

  Cole recognized Riley’s voice echoing around the small cove. He rolled over and looked up at the cliff. She was standing on the ledge outside the tomb’s gaping black door. He struggled to a sitting position as Virgil spun in circles, trying to locate where the voice was coming from.

  “I found it, Virgil. Up here.” She put her foot against the edge of something and shoved it to one side of the carved tomb door.

  Virgil’s head tilted up, and he looked over Cole’s head. He turned his body to face the cliff, planting his feet solidly.

  “You hurt that man and I swear I’ll push this thing over the edge and into the water.”

  When Cole saw Virgil’s hands both grasp the gun, he reached behind under his T-shirt and drew out the flare gun. He was going to shout a warning, telling him not to shoot, when he saw a shadow of a smile cross the man’s face. Virgil’s gun started to rise.

  Cole didn’t remember pulling the trigger on the flare gun. The recoil knocked him back onto the rocks, but not before he heard the second explosion from Virgil’s gun.

  Riley. She was all Cole could think about. He was aware that something down the beach was burning, but he couldn’t bear to look at it. She wasn’t there on the ledge outside the tomb. He searched the rocks at the bottom, fearing he might see her. But no, there was no sign of her.

  Then he saw movement on the cliff face. A long rope sailed past the rock-cut tomb, followed by a descending climber. But it didn’t make sense. Someone was rappelling off the top of the cliff, from the trees above the tomb. It was a man. His feet hit the top of the carved tomb, and in one big jump he flew over the ornamental roof, landed on the ledge, ducked down, and disappeared into the black, gaping hole.

  Inside the Lycian Tomb

  Kekova, Turkey

  April 29, 2014

  Riley had ducked back inside the tomb after making her threat. An instant later, she heard two nearly simultaneous gunshots. Cole! She was rushing back to the opening when rocks and dirt began falling in front of it, followed by a snaking white rope. She jumped aside just before a man slid down the rope and swung in through the opening.

  “Hello, Riley.”

  She knew that voice. For years it had haunted her nightmares. She’d pressed herself back against the stone bench in the darkest corner. She blinked her eyes.

  He stood in the shaft of light that poured through the opening, and he did not fully turn to look at her. What she could see of his face looked like the beautiful man she had once thought she loved.

  “You’re a difficult man to kill,” she said. Her voice sounded more confident than she felt.

  He was breathing hard, watching her from the corner of his eye. Riley knew he was also waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. She used the time to squat down and pick up her Leatherman and the drill bit from the rubble at her feet. She slipped the knife in her pocket, the drill bit into the chalk bag that hung from her belt.

  He cleared his throat and said, “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

  She didn’t say anything. He’s nervous, she thought. Like a guy on a first date. He’s fantasized about this moment so many times. Cole was wrong. This was not just another job for Diggory. This was about her.

  “It’s even better than the Roman catacombs,” he said.

  “Why?” She made her voice soft and higher pitched.

  “Oh, Riley, don’t play dumb with me. Your father would be ashamed of you.”

  “Don’t you speak of him!” The words came out of her mouth faster than her brain could stop them. She couldn’t let him get to her like that.

  “Touchy, touchy, aren’t we? You still haven’t got over being Daddy’s little girl?”

  Riley concentrated on controlling her breathing. Okay. What do you see? Get the upper hand back.

  He turned to face her, and she was shocked again by the scars and the downward pull at the corner of his mouth. One side of his face was smiling, while the other wore a perpetual frown. When he spoke, his voice was soft, like it used to be when they were courting. “I’ve always enjoyed the close relationship I’ve had with your family. First it was your brother, Michael. Brilliant young man, but so odd-looking.” He held his hands up on either side of his head. “The big head and thick glasses—well, you know. That was a challenge to make it look like an accident. Couldn’t leave any marks. But I’ve always been so good at what I do.”

  He was wearing black slacks and a turtleneck sweater. No belt visible. Loafers, no socks. There were white marks on his sweater where he had wrapped the line around his back to rappel down the cliff. New short haircut.

  “Then Yorick.” He sighed. “How well I remember the feeling of my hands around your father’s neck.”

  He held his hands palms-up in front of his waist. The skin on his palms was red. Rope burns. Then he clenched his fists and squeezed so hard the fabric stretched tight around his right bicep.

  “You’ve been working out,” she said.

  Vanity. He’d cleaned up, dressed up for her.

  “After years of physical therapy, it became a habit.”

  She remembered the day he had killed her father. He’d tried to kill her, too. He strangled, then revived, his victims. He liked to play with them.

  “I find it helps with the pain,” she said.

  “Shut up!” His raised his voice almost to a shout. He moved fast, covering the ground between them in seconds. He brushed aside her fists, grabbed her by the front of her T-shirt, and pulled her into the shaft of light. “Don’t you
ever think what happened to you in Lima was anything like what you did to me.” He turned his face then and pointed to the scars. “This is because of you.”

  He let go of her shirt and shoved up his left sleeve. “And this.” The arm was mottled and covered with thick ridges of scar tissue.

  “And this.” He pulled up the sweater to reveal the same scars on his torso. “All of this is what you did to me.”

  She smiled. “Remember what you once said to me about Lima? You said, ‘You’ve already figured it out, Riley. You just can’t admit it to yourself.’ You’re just as bad, Diggory.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I didn’t do anything to you,” she said. “You did it to yourself.”

  He gripped a handful of her hair and drew her face close. His breath smelled sour. “It’s all your fault, you stupid cunt.” He shoved her down onto the stone couch.

  Riley hit the back of her head on the stone wall. As she sat there rubbing it, she watched him go back to inspect the opening she’d made in the other rock couch. He picked up the large square of stone with the Maltese cross on it.

  “So you found it? The manuscript?”

  She pointed to the rubble on the floor of the tomb. “They dug out a hollow in the bench, then cut a piece of stone to use as a door. The cracks were smoothed over with mud. It took me a while to dig all the mud out and pry out the stone.”

  “And?”

  “The box I found is outside on the ledge.” Riley reached into her pocket and wrapped her fingers around her Leatherman.

  He tried to smile, and, though both eyes glittered in the light, only one half of his face moved. “The Knights of Malta would pay a fortune for it, you know.”

  “For their crusade against the Muslims.”

  “It’s just another war,” he said. “Seven billion people on this planet? We need a good war now and again.”

  He wheeled around and dropped to one knee to reach for the box. As he slid it in front of the opening, Riley pulled out the Leatherman and opened the tool. By then he’d popped his arm back inside, and he easily snatched the tool out of her hand before she could pull the blade open.