Helen Brenna - Treasure

“Seems reasonable,” Claire interjected, handing Annie a towel.

As Annie dried herself off, she watched Jake deliberating. “In the water tomorrow,” he said. “Diving by day’s end. No second chances.”

He turned and issued orders to the other crew members, who’d appeared at the first sign of a commotion. “Everybody except Claire, D.W., Ronny and Simon, pack your gear and make yourselves useful on the other three survey ships. Ronny and Simon, over here. See the rest of you guys in a few weeks.”

The two men joined their group as the remaining crew dispersed in varied directions. “Ronny. Simon.” Jake held a hand toward each man in turn. “Meet Dr. Annie Miller.”

Ronny appeared to be the oldest crew member. “It’s a pleasure, Annie.” He held out a hand, the skin tanned nearly to the point of leather. With a handle-bar mustache and his long, slightly graying hair gathered in a ponytail, Annie wondered if Ronny had a Harley waiting for him back in Miami. All he needed was a bandana and black leather chaps.

Simon, probably only a few years younger than Ronny, nodded cautiously at her over the silver rims of his fashionably small glasses. Annie wasn’t sure if he was uncomfortable around women only or new people in general. “Hello, Simon,” she said, shaking his hand.

“Annie’s OEI’s new on-board marine archaeologist,” Jake continued, a sarcastic edge to his voice. “Don’t get too attached to her. She won’t be here for long.” He turned and strode across the boat deck. “Claire, I want to be diving before dinnertime. Let’s shove off.” With that, he went below.

“My brother-in-law the charmer.” Claire smiled at Annie.

“Ahh, cut him some slack,” Ronny offered. “We’ve all been working hard. He’s a little tense.”

“Humph,” D.W. mumbled. “If that’s tense, I’d hate to see stressed out.”

“D.W.,” Claire said, hitching a hand onto her hip, “why don’t you keep your comments to yourself? Nobody here cares.”

“That, Claire-belle, is certainly obvious.”

Annie watched the twinge of hurt quickly turn his warm blue eyes steely. Claire seemed oblivious. Simon quietly moved back to the stern and continued fiddling with a small engine in pieces on the deck. Ronny followed him, saying over his shoulder, “We’ll be eating lunch in a few hours. Dinner’s at six.”

“Make yourself useful, D.W., and do some safety checks on the equipment.” Claire made for the lower deck. “Come on, Annie. I’ll show you to your cabin. You can change out of those wet things.”

Annie reached for her bag.

“Here ya go, sport.” D.W. beat her to it and held the duffel toward her. The glint returned to his eyes. One eyebrow arched mischievously. “You just follow the old barracuda there and watch out for that razor sharp bite.”

“I heard that,” Claire yelled from below deck, a singsong lilt to her voice.

“You were meant to,” D.W. returned with a little melody of his own. With a wink at Annie, he hauled diving equipment from various storage compartments.

Hiding a smile, Annie crossed the upper deck and familiarized herself with the sway of the boat under her feet. She followed Claire down the ladder-steps too steep to qualify as a staircase—and below deck.

“Here’s the head.” Claire walked through the narrow hall, pointing here and there. “Back there’s the engine room and some equipment storage. Next we got a couple empty cabins, and here’s Simon’s. And there’s D.W.’s.” She indicated the first two cabin doors on the left and, after that, the next two on the right. “Ronny’s next, and mine’s last. You’re across the hall from me, and Jake has captain’s quarters at the bow.

“We can fit twelve crew members on board, so at half-staff, it’ll feel pretty spacious for once. This is it.” She stopped at the last cabin port side, opened the door and stood back. “I told Smitty to get it good and clean when I found out you were coming. If he didn’t, he owes you a pitcher of Bud when we get back to port.”

“Looks great.” Annie stepped over the threshold into the small cabin. She’d grown through the years, or boat cabins had shrunk in size. Either way, the space seemed confining. Antiseptic white and utilitarian in design, there was little to like or dislike. She set her bag on the bunk and tested the firmness of the narrow mattress.

“Hard as a rock.” Claire shrugged. “This isn’t a cruise ship.”

Annie didn’t have the heart to tell her she wouldn’t be here long enough for it to matter. Claire was probably a little overdue for some female companionship and, for that matter, so was Annie.

Claire hesitated at the door, a haze of unanswered questions shading her eyes. Finally, she said, “We’ll be shoving off in a couple minutes. Make yourself at home.” She disappeared up the ladder.

Annie shut the door and turned the lock, thankful for the reprieve. Moving back to the bunk, she unzipped her duffel and stared at the bundle sitting on top of her clothing, wishing she could heave the thing over the side of the ship, wash her hands of it once and for all, and return to Chicago.

But that would only be trading in one set of handcuffs for another. If she was going to do this, she was doing it right. She owed at least that to Aaron.

Her fingers shook as she grasped the object and drew back the cloth covering. Natural pearls of uncommon luster encrusted the full length of a twenty-four-karat, hand-tooled gold chain. Emeralds, large and virtually free of inclusions, filled an eight-inch-long by five-inch-wide gold frame. The infamous Santidad Cross. So beautiful. So lustrous. If one could look at it without fear.

All Annie felt when she held it was heartache and pain, all she saw was blood. Aaron dead. An Aztec village annihilated, its people slaughtered without remorse and innocent Spanish sailors sacrificed for the glory of gold. Not to mention the two most important people in her life gone. Forever. Nothing more, or less, than a trail of death in its wake. Even so, treasure hunters around the world would give anything for this cross, the single most valuable item onboard the Concha.

“Ready!” The shout from topside made her jump.

The Mañana’s engines fired to life as the boat was untied from the pier and the gangway stowed. Within seconds she felt the boat’s motion as they left the marina.

This was it. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears and adrenaline rushed through her as the Mañana cleared the harbor and gathered speed. It’d worked. Her plan had been set in motion.

She looked through the small porthole in her cabin and swallowed hard when both engines of the powerful boat hit cruising speed. The Florida coast dissolved into a barely discernible line, and an odd combination of dread and elation churned in her stomach.

The Santidad Cross drew her gaze. “You’re going back where you belong,” she whispered, stuffing it under her mattress. “Where all the treasure hunters in the world, including Captain Jake Rawlings, will never find you.”

JAKE SAT AT his narrow desk and studied the aerials Harold had taken of the north shore of Andros, comparing them to maps on the screen of his laptop. The wood-paneled walls of his small, neat cabin surrounded him with the comfort of familiarity. A balmy breeze from the open porthole blew fresh ocean air across his face. The Mañana’s engines droned their reassuring tune as the crew navigated toward Andros Island. And in a matter of a few hours he and his crew would be diving for the Concha. If Dr. Annie’s research was correct, his crew was poised, quite possibly closer than they’d ever been, for the discovery of a lifetime. Life didn’t get any better than this, right?

Wrong.

Thump. Bang, thump. The sounds of Dr. Annie Miller bumbling around in the cabin adjacent to Jake’s momentarily distracted him from the screen. The boat made a sudden shift, and she slammed into the wall.