David Leadbeater: Caribbean Gold

“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.

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.

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.