“Here,Capitán.” A gunner by the name of Juan José handed Bartolome a bone-handled dagger. “May the goodMadré Mariabe with you, sir.”
“May she be with each of us,” Bartolome agreed with a firm dip of his chin.
He had barely spoken the last word when the group of Frenchmen stumbled into the clearing. Once the newcomers saw the haggard faces of theSanta Cristina’screw staring back at them, their expressions registered varying degrees of confusion and surprise. Then, understanding dawned in the eyes of the leader of the group. That understanding was quickly replaced by a prurient gleam.
“Sohereyou are,” the man said in badly accented Spanish, rubbing a hand over his stubbled chin so his rough palm rasped against his whiskers. It reminded Bartolome of a snake in the grass, and he could not shake the feeling this newcomer might prove as deadly.
“Every ship that sails these waters has been looking for you since the storm. But fortune favors us, it would seem.” The French leader cocked his head, a slow, greasy grin slipping over his tanned-leather face. “Tell us where to find the treasure.”
Bartolome brandished the dagger in his hand, squinting when a ray of sunshine cut through the trees overhead, making the blade sparkle with menace. “We will die before we tell you,” he growled through gritted teeth.
The newcomer’s gaze alighted on each of Bartolome’s crewmen. No doubt taking their pitiful measure.
For one long moment, no one moved. No one dared breathe. The tension vibrating through the air was thick enough to cut with a rapier.
Finally, the French leader shrugged. “So be it.” Lifting his blunderbuss, he aimed at Juan José’s chest and pulled the trigger.
The blastfrom the weapon was obscenely loud in the silence of the clearing. But it was nothing compared to the pain-soaked cry that peeled from the back of Juan José’s throat when the young sailor was flung backward by the force of the large bore shot. He hit the sandy ground, his hands scrabbling ineffectually at the bloody, bony mess that had once been his sternum.
For a few heartbeats, Juan Jose’s brain refused to believe his body was already dead. But then reality set in, and the young gunner breathed his last. As his spirit left his body, his bladder emptied itself.
The smell of rancid urine perfumed the air, making Bartolome’s nostrils flare.
Death is such an indignity,he thought as rage rolled through him. His voice was a crack of thunder when he bellowed, “Attack!”
Bless his crew, they did not hesitate. Hurling themselves toward the newcomers, they fought with what little strength remained in their enfeebled bodies.
Battle cries, theboomof weapons, and theclashof steel echoed through the trees. But Bartolome heard none of it. He was deaf to all but one man. Thebastardowho had so callously killed Juan José.
Bartolome’s deadly intent must have registered on his face. When he charged the newcomer, he was met with a sneer and thezingingof a cutlass pulling free from its scabbard. He did not do as his instincts prompted and viciously attack the man in a bid to slice him bloody.
A dagger had no hope of defeating a cutlass in hand-to-hand combat. But what the small blade lacked in reach, it more than made up for in maneuverability. When he was but a few paces from his target, Bartolome flung the knife with all his might.
The force of his throw caused two buttons on his tattered vest to pop off and fall into the sand. And the dagger spiraled through the dense air, silver and ivory mixing together in a pinwheel of color.
The flight was silent.
Theendof the flight was not.
The blade buried itself in the Frenchman’s chest with a solidthunk.
When the intruder saw the dagger had planted itself deep, his eyes flew wide. Bartolome could see the delicate web of veins cutting through the whites. The Frenchman wrapped a hand around the bone handle, but that was the last move he made before his eyes rolled back and he toppled sideways. Dark blood oozed from the corner of his open mouth to pool in the sand beneath his head.
Bartolome might have taken a moment to bask in the precision of his throw, but a familiar voice cut through the cacophony of battle with a desperate cry for help. A quick glance to his left showed Rosario wrestled with a man twice his size.
Without hesitation, Bartolome pulled the dagger from the lifeless body of the Frenchman. Letting loose with a banshee cry, he launched himself onto the back of theputo cabrónpinning Rosario to the ground…
Chapter 1
Present Day
4:45 PM…
Even a small mouse has anger.
Ray “Wolf” Roanhorse’s grandmother had used the saying to teach him that rancor was never a bad thing, but rather an emotion that everything from the tallest man to the tiniest rodent felt. It was how onedealtwith it that mattered.
Wolf stood still as a stone outside the weathered beach house on Wayfarer Island, dealing by keeping his damned mouth shut.
