Seconds ticked by. Max helped Ronish over to Juan's makeshift redoubt.
How many?
At least two, Juan said. The one at the door is an officer of the Ninth Brigade.
I figured since you shot at him that he wasn't selling Avon. The front picture window exploded under a murderous onslaught of gunfire. Glass rained on the men as they cowered behind the sofa. The house's thin walls didn't slow the high-powered rounds, so smoking holes appeared in the wallboard. The bullets passed through the living room, and probably didn't stop until they hit trees in Ronish's backyard.
Those are rifles, Max said. He had his pistol out now but looked at it dubiously. Judging by the rate of fire screaming overhead, they weren't just outgunned, they were outmanned as well.
Do you have any weapons? Juan asked.
To his credit, the old man answered quickly, Yeah. I got a .357 in my bedside table and a 30.06 in the closet. The rifle's empty, but the ammo's on the top shelf under a bunch of baseball caps. Last door on the left.
Before Cabrillo could retrieve the guns, an Argentine round slammed into one of the oxygen tanks Ronish kept for when he ran errands. The bullet blew through the tough steel skin and fortunately the oxygen didn't explode, but the twenty-pound bottle took off like a rocket. It crashed into the dining-room table, snapping a leg and sending it crashing under the weight of old magazines.
Next, it hit the couch hard enough to shove it into the men hiding behind it and then punched a hole in the Sheetrock wall, before dropping to the floor. It spun like a top until the last of the gas escaped.
Juan knew how lucky they had been. Depending on the type of ammunition they were facing, the tank could easily have exploded and started a chain reaction with the dozen or more bottles next to them. They were sitting in what amounted to a death trap.
Forget the guns, Juan shouted. We need to get out of here.
I can't make it, James wheezed. His lungs were working overtime but he wasn't getting enough air. I need the oxygen. I won't last five minutes.
We stay here, we won't last five seconds! Cabrillo said, even though he saw the truth. James Ronish couldn't be moved.
The firing subsided as the Argentines regrouped after the first frantic moments of the gun battle. The only thing that made sense was that they needed Ronish alive. Juan knew he and Max hadn't been trailed to Washington, so he assumed that the men outside had followed the same informational bread crumbs as he had. It meant they knew something about the Flying Dutchman's fateful voyage that he did not. Some piece of information that only James Ronish had. And he felt certain it had nothing to do with Pierre Devereaux's pirate loot.
Cabrillo pulled the Glock's trigger three times, laying down suppressing fire to keep the Argentines pinned. Their next tactic would be to encircle the house and come in from multiple angles. Juan still didn't know how he was going to get the three of them out of this.
Mr. Ronish, he said, they're here because of something your brothers found in the Treasure Pit. Something linked to the blimp we discovered. What did they find?
Another crackle of gunfire from outside drowned out Ronish's answer. Dust filled the air from the destroyed drywall, and sofa stuffing was falling like snow. Ronish suddenly stiffened and whimpered softly.
He'd been hit. In the darkness, Cabrillo put his hand on the older man's chest. Feeling nothing, he moved his hand lower. Ronish hadn't been hit in the stomach, so Juan moved to his legs. In just the few seconds since the round penetrated his body, the amount of blood pumping from his thigh told Juan that the bullet had severed Ronish's femoral artery. Without medical help, he'd bleed out in minutes. Juan transferred his pistol to his left hand and pressed into the wound as hard as he could, while Max fired out through the picture window. There were definitely fewer men on the front yard. One or two of the Argentines were flanking them.
What did they find? Juan asked desperately.
A way to the junk was the pained reply. The mantel. I kept a rub.
Juan vaguely recalled a framed piece of art above the faux-brick fireplace. Had it been some sort of rubbing? He didn't remember. It had made barely a passing impression. He looked through the darkness in the direction of the mantel and fired. The muzzle flash revealed the outline of the picture on the wall but no details. It was much too big to be easily portable.
Mr. Ronish, please. What do you mean 'ya way to the junk'?
I wish they'd never gone to the island, he replied. He was in shock, his body's response to his plummeting blood pressure. It all would have turned out different.
Max changed out an empty magazine. Both men had brought only two spares from the Houston safe 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 Dutch
man. 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?
If I may hazard a guess . . . The men were obviously soldiers. I think it's most likely they came here to tell the target about his brothers as a military courtesy. A Band of Brothers type thing.
You believe they will drop it?
I think they will tell their superiors what happened tonight, and it will be they who decide to drop it.
Yes, that's most likely how the military would act. There is no obvious threat to national security, so the soldiers will be told to stand down. Even if they want to pursue it, they will have their orders to let it go. This is good, Jorge, very good.
Thank you, sir. May I ask what this is all about?
General Espinoza chuckled. Even if we were alone together here at the house, I could not tell you. I am sorry. I can say that in a few days an alliance is going to be announced that will forever change the world's balance of power, and, if I am correct about your find, you will have contributed to its success. I sent you to hunt a wild goose and it may yet turn out to lay a golden egg.
His father wasn't one to use such a frivolous turn of phrase, so Jorge took it as a sign of his happiness. Like any good son, he was especially proud when he could bring his father joy.
See to your injured man, the General continued, and be ready to move at a moment's notice. I am not sure if you will come back home or if you will have another mission. It all depends what we learn from the rubbing. He paused to give weight to his following words. I am proud of you, son.
Thank you, Father. It's all I ever want you to be. Espinoza hung up. He had more on his mind than simply waiting for orders. He wasn't sure what the Americans had learned from the old man, but it wasn't unreasonable to guess they might show up at his private island.
CABRILLO HAD ALWAYS HELD the belief that if you threw enough money at a problem, it would go away, and he figured getting to the bottom of the Treasure Pit should be no different.
He and Max spent two hours in the woods watching the cheery glow of the fire as James Ronish's little ranch house burned to the ground. They waited that long to make sure the better-armed Argentines had left the area. Nothing remained of the house but a toppled chimney and smoldering ash piles that spat and hissed in the rain. As a parting gift, all four tires on their rented SUV had been shot out, forcing them to drive back to the motel on flats.
Before they could think about hot showers and beds, they had to cut up the tires to retrieve the bullets so when they brought the truck to a garage the mechanic wouldn't report the incident to the police. They also smashed a headlight and keyed dozens of random lines into the glossy paint. Coming on the heels of such a fatal fire, it wouldn't do to arouse any kind of suspicion in the sleepy little town. The truck looked like the victim of juvenile vandals.
It was this kind of attention to detail, no matter how minute, that made the Corporation such a success.
The next morning, while Max went to find a garage to get the truck repaired, muttering about 'ythose damned kids these days,' Juan set up a video conference with his brain trust. When he told Mark and Eric that he had no choice but to dive the Treasure Pit, they looked like they were ready to jump ship to join him.
My question to you is: How do I do it? How do I duplicate what only the Ronish brothers managed to accomplish on the eve of World War Two?
Have you gone over the information you recovered from the Flying Dutchman? Eric asked. Juan had caught them eating breakfast. Over Stone's shoulder, Mark Murphy was munching on a banana. They could have left a clue there.
I took a quick peek. Despite the protection, the paper is in pretty bad shape. I don't know if I'll be able to get any
thing off of it. Assume I can't, and tell me what you two think. The pit has thwarted a number of attempts. You mentioned one that used some pretty high-tech solutions and yet they failed. What do you think the brothers figured out?
Mark swallowed a mouthful of food, and said, We know their first attempt ended in disaster, so obviously one of them learned something during the war that gave him the answer.
Which one?
I doubt the pilot. He was an observer on a blimp. I can't imagine that kind of job giving him much inspiration.
So it's either the Marine or the Army Ranger, Juan said.
Mark leaned in toward the webcam. Look, this is an engineering problem, hydrodynamics, stuff like that. The Marines faced some pretty tricky booby traps as they fought their way to Japan. My bet is, he saw something the Japanese had done and thought Pierre Devereaux had come up with it first.
Eric looked at him crossways, and said what Cabrillo was about to. You still think this is about an old pirate? There's no way the Argentines would be this interested if the Treasure Pit turns out to be just that.
Murph looked a little defensive. What is it about, then?
Obviously, I can't answer that question. Eric turned back to Juan. Do you have any ideas, Chairman?
Nothing. Ronish died before he could talk. And Max and I weren't in any position to search his place. Come on, think. What did they figure out? How do we crack the Treasure Pit?
Mark tapped his chin. A device . . . a device . . . A booby trap . . . Something involving water . . . Hydrostatic pressure.
You have an idea?
Murph didn't answer because he didn't have one. Sorry, man. I've been so wrapped up in the history, I never really thought about the technology.
Juan blew out a breath. Okay. Don't sweat it. Max and I will think of something.
May I ask what? Eric said.
God, no. I'm winging it here.
For the next hour, they created a list of equipment the pair might need and went about filling it. What couldn't be purchased in Port Angeles would be delivered from Seattle. By the time they were done, a delivery van was headed to Forks from Washington's queen city and a small ferry was under way from Port Angeles and would pick up Max and Cabrillo at the fishing pier in the town of La Push. That coastal village was just a few miles north of Pine Island. The only problem was that they would lose another day because the sophisticated underwater communications equipment was coming in as airfreight from San Diego.
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