David Leadbeater: Caribbean Gold

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.

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.”