Russo’s captives, instead of questioning him, had each decided to fight him. Russo stood at the center of the container, a large man covered in tattoos snuffling in his face like a fierce bull. A haymaker missed him by an inch. Russo backed away. Men cheered and laughed around him, eight of them. Russo wished the number was a little less, he could probably have taken them out. But eight in such a tight space? No chance. The bull came in again, roaring this time. Russo took a blow to the chest so the man opened himself up, then came down hard with elbows and a knee to the stomach. Bull-Face fell to one knee.
Russo hesitated.
A mistake he rarely made, but worry for his fellow captives and their unknown fates played havoc with his senses. Bull-Face drove up off one knee, striking Russo under the chin and sending him reeling. Russo struck the back of the container with a loud bang, but the attack brought some clarity. Russo saw the bull charging again, sidestepped rather niftily for a man his size and helped the running bulk on its way. The bull struck the metal solidly, face-first, and slithered slowly to the floor.
Russo turned to face the man who’d been talking. “There’s no point to this. Nobody wins.”
“Are you not having fun, big lad? We are. It’s not often we get a big lad to play with. This is what we do. Day an’ night. Don’t worry ’bout hittin’ hard.”
The next in line stepped up, a scrawny rake with hard knots for muscles. Stripped to the waist, his body bore bruises both new and old, attesting heavily to these men’s pastimes. He came at Russo instantly and hard, not caring about taking a hit and trying to bring the big man down with some well-placed nerve-cluster shots. Russo was aware of them all, striking back in a similar manner. The two circled each other like wary animals until the sound of a phone ringing distracted the leader.
“Shit, that’ll be Jensen.”
Men grinned as if admitting they’d gotten a little distracted, but the leader was clearly worried. “Just keep it down. Hello?”
“What have you got?”
“Umm, nothing yet, boss. Guy’s tighter than a zip tie.” A grin at his men for thinking fast.
“Then what’s all the noise for?”
“Ah . . .”
Russo chose that moment to roar loudly and take the scrawny man down, using the element of surprise without guilt, knocking him out with a single punch to the right temple. As if in answer, Jensen’s voice roared out of the open cell.
“Stop fucking around, Holmes, and get me some answers!”
Holmes spent another few minutes apologizing and then turned a red face to Russo. “Get him tied down. We have to go to work.”
Russo evaluated the situation. Seven against one. Was it worth a shot? Was it worth risking potential broken bones now or waiting for a better chance later? It was always hard to pass an opportunity by when your life might depend on it.
Fight now? Or later?
He heard noises outside the container and wondered if anyone else might be abroad tonight. There was always that chance. He might not see eye to eye with the inimitable Alicia Myles, but he’d follow her into any battle. She would always have his back.
There was just a chance that she might make it.
Russo sat himself down in the chair.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Michael Crouch had known some perilous situations in his time and counted this among them. He saw no way—and certainly no sign—that these opportunistic bandits would let them go.
Their leader, a man who’d introduced himself as John Jensen, had been questioning Crouch on and off for some time now, his attempts hindered by phone call after phone call and some hard decision making.
Now he put the phone down once more, shaking his head. “A crew mostly made up of idiots and losers,” he said. “But with an inherited crew you have to work with what you got. Am I right?”
Crouch nodded agreeably. “I guess so.” Talking always helped prolong these situations and the more they spun it out, the more chance there was of the bad guys losing control.
“We think you’re the leader. We think you know the most. Let’s start with those five ships, Mr. Crouch, and go from there.”
Crouch gritted his teeth, just managing to refrain from shaking his head. Of all the weirdness surrounding this case, meeting an old colleague had to be near the top of the pile. John Jensen was tall and brawny, with just a scrubbing of bristle covering the top of his head. He was also ex-SAS, and a good solider in his day, a man Crouch had brushed shoulders with but never commanded. The shock of their meeting was still fresh.
“You didn’t leave under a cloud. What happened?”
Jensen evaluated him. “You know, I never slipped under any cloud. Not once. And I never made anything for myself either. Not once. About a decade ago I put two and two together and decided to see what I could make with what little I had. Turned out—” he spread his arms “—we’re still waiting to see.”
“That’s a little vague, to be honest.”
“Oh, sorry. So sorry. I really thought I was the one asking the questions here. You’re a treasure hunter, right, Crouch? Always was. I’m similar, only in a nastier way.”
“I waited until after retirement to pursue my dream.”
Jensen shrugged. “Retirement’ll get you killed quickly, mate. If you love life you don’t stop living it.”
Crouch studied the man whom he gauged to be in his late forties, early fifties. In some ways he reminded him of a few old pupils. There were flashes of Matt Drake, his friend and prodigy, others too, but of course all these men were trained the same. Similarities had to exist.
Jensen reached out a hand so that it could be filled with a glass of alcohol. “You know,” he said, swigging it down and wiping his mouth, “the pirates of old, they supposedly didn’t bury their treasure. So a hundred experts tell us. But I say take your bloody experts and make ’em walk the damn plank.”
Jensen was grinning now, playing it up, swigging the alcohol and waving the glass around. And though he was smiling, Crouch fancied he saw a mad glint deep down inside those Caribbean blue eyes, a madness buried deep.
“Oh, don’t worry.” Jensen laughed. “It’s not that I really do think I’m a pirate. But we’ve been pillaging these shores for nigh on half a decade now. It’s hard not to identify.”
Crouch drew a breath. They were all in deeper trouble than he’d realized. And the truth was, he did know a little more than the others.
“So, let me start you off, old boy.” Jensen held the glass out for a refill. “Henry Morgan and his band of brigands sack Panama. Their ships sink. Fast forward to a few years ago and they’re found but so deeply entombed they might never be opened. A process they call carbonate concretion. So far, they’ve got into one. I’m sure you know that. A further complication exists with the Lajas Reef. Many ships have crashed into it and sunk over the years, so it becomes even harder to pick them apart. So far all they’ve discovered is a bunch of old cannons and a few lead seals. Hardly treasure now, is it?”
Crouch nodded. “I agree. But efforts are continuing. Perhaps they will bring up something useful soon.”
Jensen raised a brow. “Or perhaps they already have.”
Crouch felt some trepidation. “What makes you think that?”
Jensen rose. “It’s been five hundred years, Michael. Morgan’s treasure is still out there somewhere, never found. Still sitting in its iron-bound chest. Still waiting for that day . . .” Jensen pretended to pluck something from the air.
Crouch sighed. “Thoughts like that can send a man mad.”
Jensen punched him right in the face. “Ya think?”
“I do now.” Crouch reached up to rub his jaw, thankful his wrists hadn’t been tied.
“This is where it gets tough, Crouch. I’ve been a little lenient up to now for old time’s sake, but this . . . this is a tricky situation for you. I need to know what you know right now.”
Crouch looked across at the man he’d been captured with. Named Leno, he was a
local of sorts, a diver that plied his trade all across the region. Of course, there were good pickings around and good money to be made in the sparkling waters of the Caribbean. Leno, though, was the kind of diver that liked to supplement his income.
“You’ve seen what he brought to us. I just finished going over them myself when you turned up. They’re a bunch of treasure maps found alongside the seals and swords. Leno spirited them away for profit.”
“When you say treasure maps . . .” Jensen glanced over at the sheaf of papers Leno attested were from the sunken ship and had been protected by some kind of leather and tarpaulin pouch.
“Well, not in the Hollywood sense,” Crouch said. “But I’m sure you know this is about as close as it gets.”
“I guess.”
Leno had made no movement or sound until now, but looked up when he felt Jensen’s eyes upon him.
“Tell me now. These are from Morgan’s ship? And you took them to do what with? Sell to the highest bidder?”
Leno nodded miserably.
“And why would that bidder be this man?”
“We have backing,” Crouch immediately jumped to Leno’s aid. “A man with great resources who wants ancient treasures to go back to their rightful owners.”
“Oh, how nice, a rich man with nothing else to do. I get it. Hard to say who those ‘rightful owners’ would be though, don’t you think? Such a corrupt world these days.”
“Nothing changes, not really,” Crouch said. “We just think we’re advancing.”
Jensen looked over at Crouch as if he were suddenly in a different world.
CHAPTER EIGHT
John Jensen hid it well, but fancied that his humanity might be gone. Hardship and ill-living, dark thoughts and bottles of rum had stripped away whatever light veneer of compassion he’d once had, leaving a living shell of greed and decadence behind.
He knew it, but the knowledge seemed to have diluted in intensity over the years. Jensen was a pirate now, plying these fair shores for whatever bounty he could carry off. The old days were gone—the hours of watching and waiting for the enemy, the endless days of following orders and jumping from one dangerous den of vipers to the next.
Now, he was the viper. And he knew how to stay under the radar.
The raids had started low-key, nothing more than daylight robberies and midnight break-ins. He’d made his way, paid for it with the belongings of others. It was a different life, lived in peace and under a wonderful sky with such peaceful waters nearby always ready to help with the cleansing. Petty crime had led to bigger stuff, and when he started to apply his military training to problems and new concepts an exciting new world showed the potential of opening up.
Men came along, recruited from bars at first and then by word of mouth. Jensen achieved a small reputation and then some good men. Things moved on. They targeted lone boats and well-guarded properties. They leaned on influential people who had secrets to keep. Jensen learned the art of leverage. He founded a base, tailored himself after a seventeenth century pirate or two. As a group they even began to search the old wrecks for sunken treasure, finding very little but occasionally coming home with a bagful of doubloons. The things that lay on the ocean floor fascinated Jensen. He knew of shipwrecks that might be worth millions.
It had come as a bit of a shock when Henry Morgan’s name had come up. Of course he knew about the five ships. Of course he knew the legends. But there were thousands of wrecks at the bottom of the sea. Could there really be a new hoard in his own backyard?
Well, strictly—no.
Jensen watched both Crouch and Leno, trusting them less than he trusted most of his own men. His three lieutenants, Labadee and Forrester were his first and second mates, with Levy coming a close third. If he trusted anyone at all it was these three. They had been there from the beginning.
Jensen let his mind wander a little. Their current workload was heavy, made up of small jobs across many islands, but everything paled in comparison to finding such a treasure hoard. It was nothing short of a life’s dream. All resources, all in. Jensen had built up a solid network of spies, snitches and well-placed informants through the years. Now he could reap the rewards of such judicious planning. And truth be told, he didn’t care too much for Crouch and his cronies. Didn’t care how they ended up. All he wanted to wring from them was information.
The time to talk was almost at an end.
Truth be told, in his younger days he’d been a little in awe of Michael Crouch. But then so had everyone. Even an outfit as professional and superior as the SAS loved to talk. The whispers were that Crouch had started a covert splinter division, and that they were kicking some major European ass. All good, but that and a few other victories sent Crouch’s reputation toward the stratosphere. And now Jensen knew how this crew had been able to move forward so quickly and efficiently.
Crouch was better connected than Vodafone.
Still, he moved alone these days. Part of this crew. Jensen very much doubted anyone in authority would know where he was. It was time to move things along.
“It was good to see you again, Michael.”
He raised a gun.
CHAPTER NINE
Alicia Myles never stood on ceremony nor backed down, and a night like this was hardly about to make her change her ways. A rap on the door of the container and a wrench of the handles brought a shaven head into view which she promptly introduced to a piece of broken metal she’d found just outside. When the head went down hard she found the shoulders and hauled out the rest of the body. Then she took its place.
Inside the door of the container she glared straight at Rob Russo.
“Crap, Myles, where the hell have you been?”
“Tanning. You?”
“Fighting. Wanna help?”
“Ooh, now you’re just teasing.”
Alicia sidestepped a lunging man, whipped the length of metal up and made contact with his head. He spun away, bleeding. She whirled the piece again, one skull, then another, leaving the men dazed in her wake. Russo bear-hugged a man into unconsciousness.
“Stop cuddling them and start hitting,” Alicia hissed. “No wonder you’re still a prisoner. Or . . .”
She paused as a man flew at her, then she spun on the spot and hefted him over a shoulder.
“Maybe you enjoy the manly contact?” she finished.
Russo finished the groaning man off. “Stop talking, Myles. The shit that comes out of your mouth could bury a cruise ship.”
Alicia met the next man head on, surprising him with her strength and speed. His blows were deflected, his arms bruised. She ended up breaking the metal spar across his skull and then stared down at the damaged pieces,
“Bollocks.”
Russo engaged the three men she’d already injured whilst another two confronted her. It seemed they’d learned their lesson as they came at once, fists flying. Alicia danced away but the area was tiny, leaving her nowhere to go. These men loved a fistfight, though. Alicia had counted on it—their guns had been left at the sides of the container. She bobbed and weaved, took a punch to the jaw and gave one back. Russo heaved one of his adversaries atop the other, and now there was a smile on his face.
Alicia echoed it.
“Come closer, boys. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
They leapt impetuously. Alicia was already sidestepping away. Three lightning fast jabs into nerve clusters doubled them over. The first she then sent smashing into the metal wall, an impact that dented the surface. The second she spun around and finished off with several more jabs, all faster than he could breathe.
He went down beside his friend, out cold.
Alicia turned to Russo, and saw him dealing with the two remaining, almost comatose, adversaries.
“Take your time,” she muttered and walked past, leaving him to finish. Outside, the air was balmy and the night relatively quiet; only a few thuds and quiet laughter from the nearby container that housed Healey and Caitlyn. Alicia angled her
walk toward it, knowing those inside wouldn’t be as lax as Russo’s captors and Healey might not be in a position to help.
Russo bounded up, panting.
“Good dog,” Alicia said. “Finish your bones? There’s a good boy. Now get serious for a minute will you?”
Russo was caught between glaring and indignity, unable to think of a single thing to say.
“Jeez, you take a hit back there? Scramble what few brains ya got left? Now listen—they have Healey and Caitlyn in here. Healey’s been taking some damage. You ready?”
Russo held up two guns and two knives he’d taken from his own container. “Yeah, Myles. Are you?”
Alicia took her weapons without comment, then rubbed sharply at the place where one of the bruisers had socked her in the jaw. In her line of work such an injury wasn’t unusual but she wished more than a day or two could go by between the knocks.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
Alicia wrenched the bars that opened the doors and Russo barreled his way inside. Her first view was of his back and then the square box opened up to her eyes. Men stared in shock from various positions around the walls. Several were seated, caught out. A younger man standing by the only table in the room reached for one of the guns that lay there, but Russo shot him. Alicia opened fire and took down another. Her eyes happened upon a rifle that lay next to another handgun, confirming the remainder of a plan she’d been hatching in her mind. No time for that now though. Men flew at her from the edges of the container.
Healey’s head was hanging, a ribbon of blood pooling onto the floor at his feet. Caitlyn stared fixedly, unharmed, but almost unable to believe help had arrived in time to save them. Alicia willed her to remain as still as possible.
She remained close to the table, not allowing anyone to get past her and reach the weapons. A knife-wielder slashed at her throat but Alicia managed to fend him off, using her own blade to take him down. A man then flung himself at her, causing a wild back-peddle. She crashed into the table itself which broke under the impact, all four legs shattering and breaking away. Handguns tumbled and the rifle slithered to the side. Alicia dropped her knife but picked up one of the table legs and battered her opponent across the face. He rolled away, groaning. She jumped on him, then saw a blur rush by to her right, spun again and snagged the man’s legs just as he reached down for a weapon,
Caribbean Gold Page 3