Therein lay Max’s answer. The only way to get to that pedestal without impaling himself was to allow the lake to fill up until it reached the platform. Waiting that long, though, would significantly decrease his odds of getting back out of the cave alive.
There didn’t appear to be another way. It came down to two choices: walk away from the map and therefore any proof of the lost continent, or risk his life in hopes of creating fact out of fiction. He inhaled slowly and straightened his shoulders. If there was one truth about Maxwell Barrett—it was that he was relentless in his search.
He would get that map today or he would die trying. Max had left his pocket watch on the shore when he swam to the cave’s opening, so he had no true measure of time. However, nearly two feet of empty space stretched from the top of the water to the pedestal. So he guessed it would take close to thirty minutes for the lake to fill. He was a strong swimmer. He would have enough time, and he would make it out of here alive.
No spikes pierced the water immediately below him. Slowly he lowered himself from the ledge into the pool, the cold ocean water chilling him instantly. He trod water trying, in vain, to acclimate himself to the frigid water. Just a little more depth in the pool, and he could make his move.
He ignored the temperature and swam toward the pedestal. Water was now pouring over the ledge more rapidly. The surge of water pulled the dead man into the murky depths, but he bubbled back to the surface after a moment. A handful of spikes still breached the surface, but the water had swallowed most of them. Max did his best to navigate around them. He accidentally kicked one with the tip of his boot, then swam right into another one. A sharp tip scraped across his shin, tearing through his trousers and cutting his leg. Age had done nothing to dull the danger of the wooden spikes.
With considerable concentration, he made his way to the center pole that held up the wooden platform. There was enough water in the pool now that he could heave himself up to reach the pedestal. Gazing down upon his treasure at last, shivering slightly in the cold, he held his breath, not quite believing his eyes. Upon closer inspection, Max could see that the container in the center was a glass tube. He tried to pry it off, twist it, pull it—anything to remove it from its resting place—but it would not budge.
He’d come too far to give up now. With a swift movement, he slammed his fist into the side of the glass, and it shattered. He retrieved the leather package, tucked it inside his shirt, and then jumped into the water, ignoring the cuts on his hand. He came within an inch of hitting another spike. There was no time to be relieved, though; the water surged around him and soon the path he’d taken here would be completely submerged.
Quickly, he climbed back onto the ledge and made his way back to the thin crevice he’d followed to the pool. The elevated water hit him just below his waist as he slid back the way he’d come, though this time with no lantern to guide him. He’d left it behind when he’d jumped into the pool, and there’d been no time to retrieve it.
Water lapped at his belt. Panic pulled at him with bony fingers of dread. He pushed the fear aside and moved forward, but his pace was sluggish as he fought against the water’s current. Eventually, though, he made it out of the tight crevice and back into the main part of the cave, just as the water reached his shoulders.
A wave crashed against the opening to the cave, and a moment later, as water surged in past him, he nearly lost his footing. He sucked in a huge breath as the water surrounded and consumed him.
Max swam.
Against the current and with the waves slamming into him, he swam with every ounce of strength he had. His lungs burned and screamed for air as he fought the water. Salt stung his eyes as he searched for light at the surface.
Finally, he breached the surface and gasped for breath.
Yes, he could have given up and let death take him in that cave, but then he’d be as nameless as the corpse back in that lake. Finding this map would put his name on the lips of everyone in England.
He allowed the waves to rock into him as he floated and concentrated on breathing. A minute later, he was swimming again, this time to the rocks that climbed up to the shoreline above.
The cliff bit into his hand as he struggled up to the land. His damp clothes weighed him down, and the exertion from the swim had wearied his legs, but still he kept pulling himself upward. Ten minutes or so later, he stood at the top, his breathing labored and his heart pounding. He was exhausted, but exhilarated as well. He might very well have just changed history.
The package tucked in his shirt was coated with some waxy material that Max assumed made it water-resistant. He reached inside and pulled out the folded material, then slowly, reverently, opened it.
It was beautiful—unlike any map he’d ever seen— the rings of Atlantis, alternating water and land. Hand drawn and hand colored, the water channels seemed as if they’d be wet to the touch, and the mountain ridges sharp beneath his finger. Poseidon’s palace shone brightly from the center ring of land.
Max folded the map back and slipped it into the pouch at his side. He had done it. He had proven the existence of the lost continent of Atlantis.
CHAPTER1
London, January 1888
Spencer Cole turned the pistol over in his hand, the gleaming metal shimmering beneath the moonlight.
Tonight could go one of two ways, and he was prepared for either. He tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers. A carriage rumbled down the street, so he pressed himself against the outer wall of the townhome.
The cloying sweet smell of jasmine permeated the air. Damn garden was full of the stuff. He hated jasmine. With one finger, he plucked a delicate white bloom, dropped it to the dirt, and ground it beneath his boot.
His greatcoat hugged his shoulders and helped to keep him shrouded in the near darkness. Earlier, he’d changed clothes and removed his bright white shirt in favor of something darker—a muddy brown to better blend with the night.
He considered the task at hand. This officer had been more challenging to find. Initially, Spencer had been told the man was in Africa, so Spencer had decided to wait until the officer returned to London. Then two weeks ago, he had intercepted a message that stated otherwise. If the note was to be believed, the man sat upstairs now.
The first target had lived alone and was known for drinking, on duty or off. He’d been loud and boisterous and disliked by plenty. Spencer had not even bothered offering him a choice. Killing him had been easy. Too easy. He’d been passed out from too much drink, and it had taken nothing more than a lit match to the curtains for the entire townhome to go up in flames. Worthless bastard.
Spencer had been unable to leave a message with that body. He’d allowed his temper to get the better of him, letting his own personal bias distract him from his task. But it was crucial that people knew of his purpose, his destiny.
So with the second, he’d been more precise and taken more time. First, he’d offered the man a deal, a chance to be a part of something important. The fool had declined. Spencer had used a blade then, slicing the man from ear to ear until his blood had poured out and his head had nearly been severed. It had been exceptionally messy. Without a fire, he’d been able to leave his first message with specific instructions to print said message inTheTimes. Spencer had no way of knowing whether the guardians he sought read any of London’s newspapers, but Londoners did. And printing such notes would breed their fear. Spencer loved that. Certainly Scotland Yard was on alert now, and the townspeople would follow shortly.
Which led him to number three. Spencer eyed the lit window above his head. This officer had a family, a mistress, and too many friends to count. And many commendations from her majesty. The officer had much to lose. Perhaps all of those reasons would persuade him to accept Spencer’s generous offer. If not…
