house.
Juan could no longer feel Ronish's heart pumping blood against his hand over the wound. The old man was gone. He didn't feel responsible. At least not directly. The Argentines would have killed him with or without the Corporation's presence. But had Juan and his team not stumbled onto the wreckage of the Flying Dutchman, James Ronish would have lived out his final days in obscurity. And therein lay the indirect guilt.
A voice boomed from outside. He spoke English. I compliment you on your mastery of my language. My pilot thought you were from Buenos Aires.
And you sound like that Chihuahua from the taco ads. Juan couldn't resist. Adrenaline was seething in his veins like champagne bubbles.
The Argentine shouted a curse that brought into question the marital status of Juan's parents. I give you one chance. Leave the house through the back door and my men will not fire. Ronish stays.
A kitchen window shattered. A few seconds later, wavering light came from the archway connecting it to the dining room. They'd tossed a Molotov cocktail to hasten the decision.
Juan jumped from the floor, firing from the hip through the window, and swept the rubbing, or whatever it was, from the wall. He heaved it into the kitchen like a Frisbee. The frame caught on the jamb, breaking the glass, and it vanished from sight.
Max opened fire again, covering Cabrillo while he changed mags, and together the two men ran down the hallway leading to the bedrooms. The house was a standard ranch, like millions of others built after World War II, like the one Juan had lived in until his father's accounting practice took off, like the ones all his friends lived in, like the one Max had grown up in. The two men could navigate it with their eyes closed.
The master bedroom was the last door on the left, just past the single bath. Juan even knew where the bed would be placed, as it was the only logical location, and he jumped on it, bending his knees to absorb some of the spring, and leapt again. He covered his head with his hands when he smashed through the window.
He hit the wet, needle-covered ground, shoulder-rolled, and came up with his gun ready. The muzzle flash from a snap shot fired from the far corner of the house gave away the gunman's location. Cabrillo put two rounds downrange. He didn't hear the meaty slap of a strike, but a low, mounting wail rose from the patch of darkness where the shooter had been.
Max came through the window a second later, having paused to let Juan clear the area. His exit wasn't as dramatic as Cabrillo's, but he made it nevertheless. They moved through the downpour as fast as they could, the wind and rain masking the sound of their escape. There was barely enough light to see but enough so they didn't run headlong into any trees. After five minutes, and several random turns, Juan slowed and dropped to his belly behind a fallen log.
Max's deep chest pumped like a bellows next to him. You mind telling me, he panted, what the hell they're doing here?
Cabrillo's breathing was far less labored, but he was twenty years younger than his friend and, unlike Max, knew what a workout routine was. That, dear Maxwell, is the million-dollar question. Are you okay?
Just a small cut on my hand from going through the window. You?
Nothing's hurt but my pride. I should have had that guy with my first shot.
Seriously, how did they get here?
Same as us. They followed the trail from the Flying Dutchman. What I really want to know is what they hoped to find.
Unless they're as nerdy as Mark and Eric, they're not looking for Devereaux's treasure.
And we'll never know. The rubbing burned up in the kitchen, and I'd already given the journal or log, or whatever it was, to Ronish.
Max fished around in his jacket pocket and tapped something on Juan's wrist. He felt the spongy mass of latex-sheathed papers. I nabbed this when I tackled him.
I could kiss you.
Let me shave first so you really get to enjoy the experience. Humor had always been their way of decompressing from a high-stress situation. So what's our play?
Where Max had always been the dogged one, the person who would bull through any challenge, it had always been Cabrillo who came up with the plan. Hanley really didn't see what to do next while Juan had figured it out the moment he leapt up and tossed the picture frame into the growing kitchen fire. If he was honest with himself, he'd known the instant the Argentine Major had shown up on James Ronish's doorstep.
It's simple really, he said, turning on his back so that the rain washed the taste of gunpowder from his mouth. You and I are going to solve the mystery of the Pine Island Treasure Pit.
The Silent Sea
Chapter THIRTEEN
A GROUP OF FIVE LATINOS, ONE OF WHOM WAS WOUNDED, would have stood out in a town as small as Forks or Port Angeles, so Espinoza and his men were forced to return to Seattle. Their injured comrade, shot through the side, suffered in silence for the hours it took to drive to the city. It wasn't until they were in the seedy hotel on the outskirts of the city that they were able to treat the wound properly. It had been a clean in and out and hadn't perforated the intestine, so unless he developed an infection he should be fine. They loaded him up with over-the-counter medications and half a bottle of brandy.
Once his men were settled, Espinoza returned to the room he shared with Raul Jimenez. He asked his friend to excuse himself and powered up a satellite phone. He wasn't sure how his father would react to the call. He was nervous nonetheless.
Report, his father said by way of greeting, no doubt recognizing the number.
Espinoza hesitated, well aware that the computers of the American NSA monitored nearly every wireless transmission in the world, trolling through the mountains of data for key words that would make the call of interest to the intelligence community.
We ran into competition. The same man I saw a couple of days ago.
I wasn't sure they would be interested, nor did I expect them to move so fast, the General said. What happened?
The target was collateralized, and one of my men was grazed.
I don't care about your men. Did you learn anything? Or have you failed me again?
I retrieved a document, Espinoza replied. I think the American tried to destroy it by throwing it into a fire before making his escape. However, we entered the target's house before it was damaged. You said it was possible we'd find evidence that the target knew something about China, so when I saw it on the kitchen floor I grabbed it.
It appears to be a rubbing of some kind, like when families make tracings of headstones. It shows the map of a bay, but no location is given. There are glyphs on it that almost look like some Asian language.
Chinese? The General's tone was eager.
It looks like it.
Excellent. If this leads where I think it might, we are going to change the world, Jorge. Were you able to speak to the target?
The elder Espinoza hadn't explained what it was he was after, but the words of praise made his son swell with pride. He was already gone when we got inside. We burned his house to the ground afterward. I doubt they will bother checking the body for any sign of foul play, so we're clear.
Where are you now?
Seattle. Do you want us to return home?
No. Not yet. Tomorrow, I want you to overnight the rubbing to me. The General paused. Jorge knew his father was considering angles and odds. He finally asked, What do you think the competition will do now?
It depends if they extracted any useful information from the target. I checked the hood of their truck when we reached the house. It was still warm, so they hadn't been there long.
They were interested enough to reach out to the target, General Espinoza said, more for his own benefit than his son's. Will they continue on or have they had enough?
