Uncharted: The Official Movie Novelisation
Author: S.D. Perry
Date: 2022-02-02 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Adventure; Fiction; Video Games; Action
Description: The official novelization of the hotly anticipated Uncharted, the new movie featuring Tom Holland and Mark Wahlberg adapting the bestselling video game series. FORTUNE FAVORS THE BOLD Nathan Drake has always been obsessed with treasure, and with the places out there that you can’t find on any map. They aren’t gone, just lost. When Victor “Sully” Sullivan approaches Nate with a clue that could lead them to “the greatest treasure never found,” the two embark on an epic adventure that spans the globe. Together, they must track down the missing fortune…and possibly find Nate’s long-lost brother al
Publisher: Titan Books

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a review

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

THE OFFICIAL MOVIE NOVELIZATION

NOVELIZATION BY

S.D. PERRY

SCREENPLAY BY

RAFE JUDKINS AND ART MARCUM & MATT
HOLLOWAY

SCREEN STORY BY

RAFE JUDKINS

BASED ON THE PLAYSTATION VIDEO GAME
BY NAUGHTY DOG

TITAN BOOKS

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Uncharted: The Official Movie Novelization

Print edition ISBN: 9781789097313

E-book edition ISBN: 9781789097320

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
www.titanbooks.com

First edition: February 2022

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

™ & © 2022 Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

“I know not all that may be coming, but be it
what it will, I’ll go to it laughing.”
—Herman Melville

“Oh man, I’m so tired of climbing shit.”
—Nathan Drake

For Cyrus and Dexter, who are the coolest.

PROLOGUE

The sky was beautiful, a deep, dazzling blue. Nathan Drake opened his eyes and for half a second he saw only the wide empty void, only knew its cloudless beauty. A perfect day, the smell of salt on the breeze, the wind in his hair, Sam’s ring banging his forehead, his clothes flapping violently—

Wait, what?

He blinked, and the world spun. A thousand aches came to life as the wind blasted over him, as he turned his head and saw the endless sea, also blue, about 15,000 feet below wherever he was. Which appeared to be hanging upside down by one leg, whirling through the beautiful sky.

“Oh, crap,” he said, abruptly wide awake. His right foot was caught under heavy netting wrapped around a big crate, which was connected to more crates by various chains and cables, the whole string of boxes hanging out of the back of a roaring cargo plane. Which meant he was hanging out of the back of a roaring cargo plane.

The airdrop. Memory hit like a ton of bricks. The gold, the keys, the map! Sully was gone and—

Nate’s foot started to slip out from beneath the netting, that precious web of nylon that was the only thing keeping him from a very, very long fall.

“No no no no no—”

He reached up for the thick netting just as his boot slipped free, and the wind whipped him off the crate like he was a feather. Nate bounced into the crate whistling along behind him and scrabbled to hold onto it, but the wind had other ideas. He clawed at the next heavy box he slammed into, padded with equipment bags and smaller boxes, then a third, his eyes wide, his fingers grasping. He was nearing the end of the clumsy, waving line of crates and equipment streaming from the plane, could see the last crate, big and square, sturdy-looking, wrapped in nylon straps and dragging a dead, tangled bundle of flopping parachute—and past that, nothing but empty air and the sparkling sea far below. Far, far below.

He hit the box and his hands skittered across the thick netting, sliding over one of the bags strapped to the side. For a second he thought he was done for, but his grasping fingers caught the strappy net. He grabbed hold with a death grip and jerked to a halt, slammed down on top of the crate, immediately adding new aches to his battered body.

Nate hunched against the wooden slats. He was glued to the crate. He looked up and back to the yawning cargo hold, counting the boxes and bags between him and safety. Four? Five? He could climb back, he had to climb back, and fast, before one or more of the villains on board decided to cut their losses and ditch their hazardous tail.

He reached forward, keeping the death grip thing going with his left hand, grasping at the connecting cable with his right—

—and a hand came down on his left calf, thick fingers squeezing like a vise.

“Aaaah!”

Nate jerked around, saw he wasn’t the only rider to catch the last crate. One of the bad guys was hanging off the back, his thick ugly face contorted with terror and fury. The man raised his left hand, which held a great big gun, and pointed it at Nate.

Shocked, Nate kicked out, his work boot landing square in the man’s snarling face. The guy lost his grip on Nate’s leg and shrieked as he fell away, wheeling his arms and his useless weapon, plummeting to the sea far below.

“Oh my god, that was purely reactive, I really didn’t mean to—”

The man was already a flailing speck, too far away to hear Nate’s apology, the sound of his diminishing screams lost to the thunder of the plane’s engines and the blast of the wind. Nate shut up and turned back to face his climb, pulling himself across the top of the box, reaching again for the main connecting cable.

He’d just touched it when the entire daisy chain of boxes lurched down six feet, as another crate jounced out of the cargo hold to lengthen the whipping equipment tail. How many more were connected? How much weight was still on board, keeping the clumsy line from falling? How much longer before everything was yanked out into the sky, or the ropes gave way?

THINK LATER, GO NOW!

Nate grabbed the primary cable between his crate and the next, and pulled himself into a crouch. The crates were spaced just close enough for him to reach up and grab the netting on the one above, but he had to steel himself for the attempt, fully aware of his extremely precarious position. Up on the plane, someone was shooting. A lot. A couple of random lone crates flew out of the hold and plunged past him, disappearing into the blue void.

Nate stood, grabbed the net overhead, and jerked himself up, swinging his legs up after him. He shoved his feet into the nylon net of the penultimate box and threw himself at it, muscles clenched against the unyielding blast of wind that sought to peel him away and drop him into the sea like that poor jerk with the gun.

He edged forward to the top of the crate, making the next jump the same way he had the first, thankful for the millions of crunches he’d endured in his short life. Nothing like core strength to fight wind shear. He’d be at the top in no time and—

Ahead of him, near the top of the jostling chain, another mercenary leaned out from his own precarious perch and opened fire with a semi.

“Hey, whoa!” Nate shouted. “No need to shoot—I—”

Bullets slammed into the bulky equipment bags strapped to the box, dug divots into the thick gray plastic of the container. One of the rounds shredded the stabilizing line that kept Nate’s crate from being spun like a top, the inevitable result a dizzying spin through the open air, out of the shooter’s line of sight. Nate didn’t wait to swing back, he’d be a sitting duck—he launched himself at the crate overhead and clambered up the side facing away from the gunman. He could see the shooter’s boots sticking over the edge of the flapping net above, and threw himself upward again, deliberately not thinking of how easy it would be to plunge to his death, praying that the guy would blame the sudden shift of weight on the screaming wind.

Nate scaled the netting, coming to the crate’s top as the gunman rose into a crouch, his back to Nate as he stared down the line of spinning boxes. There was now only one crate between them and the cargo hold. The man started to turn, scowling through a bushy beard, his gun swinging around—

—and Nate threw himself forward, hitting the guy low, knocking him into the open air while he grabbed the netting, hanging tight to the bucking crate.

The gunman let out a cry and fell—onto the box right below. He clung to the crate’s side, padded with duffels and packs of equipment, and immediately started climbing.

Cut the cable!

Great idea, but no knife!

Nate squinted against the buffeting wind, taking in the straps twined through the netting of his crate, connecting it to the others. Amid the fluttering ropes was a flat buckle flush against the plastic, right along the primary cable. Nate flipped the connector and was immediately rewarded—the cable slid free of the netting, all the crates beneath his suddenly dropping away, the plane’s engines roaring.

Easy-peasy, only one more to go and I’ll be—

Beard-guy launched himself off the falling chain and snatched one of the flapping straps now hanging off Nate’s crate. He swung wildly, rocking what was left of the equipment train. Nate held on tight, stomach lurching.

The cargo hold was so close, only one crate above. He heard more shots on board, and shouting, but figured he’d rather take a bullet than fall to his doom with Beardo, who was already panting up the side of the heavy crate at his feet. At least he’d lost his gun.

Nate stood and launched himself at the top crate, grabbing the netting under a bulging zippered duffel roped to the side. He brought his feet up and dug them into the nylon on the bottom, pushing himself over the duffel bag. His clawing hands found the top edge of the crate and he hooked his fingers into the net, dragging his head level to the top, just in time to see one of the cable’s smaller connecting straps go zing, and disappear.

The box lurched to the right, suddenly unsteady in its cradle of net. Better, the primary cable, the line holding it all together, was sawing itself in half against the steel lip of the open cargo hold, and—

Ahh!

Nate’s body was jerked down by Beardo’s weight, the henchman suddenly hanging from his left ankle, gripping with both meaty hands. Nate flailed, left arm swinging out, nearly losing his grip.

“You are an asshole!” Nate screamed. “If we would just help each other, this would—Jesus!”

Beardo was trying to climb his leg, kicking off against his own crate, jerking Nate further off balance. Nate heard another high-pitched zing from whatever system of straps still connected them to the plane. He couldn’t kick the guy—he’d be hanging by his hands—and the weight was too much to lift and shake off. He hugged the wall of bags and boxes, hooking his right arm through the net, the answer right in front of his face: the zipper of the duffel bag.

He ripped it open, unleashing a small flood of random equipment—flashlights and hand radios, a shovel blade. The stuff smashed into Beardo, who clung ever tighter, ducking his head against the onslaught.

Nate fumbled deeper into the bag, grabbed what felt like a baseball bat, and jerked it out. A long black stick, maybe the shovel’s handle? Scaffolding? Who cared. He swung it at Beardo’s head, connecting with a solid whap. Instead of letting go, Beardo leaned back, still hanging on, pulling Nate’s body away from the diminishing safety of the crate’s netting and putting his noggin out of whapping range. Nate swung again and got air, the crate shifting along with another tiny, zipping snap.

Shit! Unless an act of God came along, he was in trouble. Beardo was strong and heavy and he wasn’t letting go.

A flash of movement over Nate’s head, a heavy scrape across the open ramp, and something big was barreling through the hold. Nate ducked and hung tight as a lone crate was sucked off the ramp and into the air, missing him by inches—before it smashed into Beardo’s upturned, grimacing face.

The iron grip fell away from Nate’s ankle, the crate and the henchman suddenly dwindling against the sparkling blue below. Nate felt like he’d lost a couple of hundred pounds.

Go go go!

He clambered up the sagging net, bent his knees, and jumped. He could feel the top crate’s surface drop away just as his feet left the surface, but his hands touched shuddering cold metal, gripped the rubber strip of insulation at the ramp’s edge.

Got it! The ramp felt shockingly stable after his wild climb. He shot a look down, saw the clumsy chain of boxes spinning into the distance, speeding away, then hauled himself up and out of the sky, gasping, with arms that felt like rubber. Air was somehow blasting from inside the plane, but it was mostly going past him, shuttling around an upended storage locker. Nate tucked his boot under a steel bar on the ramp and stood up. He’d made it, he was finally—

From the hold of the plane, a car revved its engine. Nate braced against the relentless push of the wind, and peered, blinking, into the shadowy hold. Guns were fired, flashes in the dark.

He saw it coming and felt the blood rush out of his face.

“This is just not my day.”

The red 1955 Mercedes Gullwing sped toward the open ramp, toward him, and there wasn’t time to get out of the way.

Nate jumped straight up and threw himself forward, some idea of shoulder-rolling over the hood his only play, but there wasn’t time for that either, the car was suddenly in his face, cherry-red and flying. He crashed flat across the hood—

—and then he was back outside, still thousands of feet above the sea, the Benz’s wheels spinning pointlessly as the car rocketed downward and the plane flew away.

BOSTON, ELEVEN YEARS AGO

Sam made the jump look easy. He leapt from the gnarled old tree branch to the museum’s open second-floor window and was through in a single motion, disappearing into the darkness inside.

Easy. Sam was already adult-sized, but Nate could hold his own against his big brother. He was fast and strong, too. Nate took a deep breath, the tree’s old bark rough against his hands, the night air cool and secret in the rustling leaves, and then kicked off from the heavy branch, hurtling for the open window. I’m a bullet, a rocket, I’m an arrow fired straight and—

AAH!

The window had moved away somehow, and gravity was real. Nate lunged and stretched, but only his fingers hit the painted sill. He scrabbled for a hold, his vision of landing in a cool pose next to Sam flushed away by the bright reality of plunging to his death.

“I got you!” Sam grabbed Nate’s right hand, warm fingers closing over his sweaty ones. Nate’s sneakers scuffed at the brick, his whole weight suspended by one arm. He looked down, saw the manicured grounds a million miles below, dark and bone-breakingly flat.

“Help! I’m gonna fall!”

“I said I got you, be cool,” Sam said, and grabbed his other hand. Sam’s grip was like steel.

Nate’s heart was hammering but he looked up into his brother’s face, tight with the strain, and forced his panic into submission. Sam had him. He leaned over to pull Nate in, the ring he always wore on a cord around his neck bonking Nate’s forehead lightly.

Sam held on until Nate was safely inside, both of them standing at the end of a shadowy corridor. The air was silent and infused with museum smell: age and dust and floor polish.

“What part of ‘wait for me in the tree’ did you not get?” Sam whispered.

“I said I’m coming with you,” Nate whispered back. He heard the quiver in his own voice and wished it wasn’t there. He was twelve, not a little kid anymore.

“Okay, okay,” Sam said. He pulled a slightly smooshed cube of gum out of his pocket, held it out. “Bubble Yum?”

Nate quickly unwrapped the gum, eager for something to take the sour taste of terror out of his mouth.

“It’s my last piece, so let’s split it,” Sam said.

Nate was already defiantly chewing. Sam gave him a look, but Nate could tell he wasn’t really mad… and he realized that his heart was finally slowing down. The familiar sweet pink taste of Yum made him feel better. Not breaking his neck was good, too.

Sam led them down the hall, past dozens of big oil paintings and a few small glass cases full of pottery and the like. All the little spotlights were turned off, but the light by the stairs was enough for Nate to see some of the stuff—a hand-thrown pot decorated with birds, a tattered piece of blue cloth, a painting of flowers along a forest trail… All of it had been created by people who’d probably been dead for hundreds of years. The idea was somehow awesome to Nate, and to Sam, too; they’d talked about it lots of times. The world was old and full of interesting things. Valuable things.

Downstairs was a hundred times better. The McKeown Museum’s main hall was a series of connected rooms, big and chock-full of glass cases and more paintings. The lighting was dim, but Nate saw a trio of antique cannons lined up in a big case near the front wall and just had to take a look. The biggest cannon was taller than him and made of heavy, pitted metal. It was on blocks. A ship’s cannon, maybe? He imagined manning a gunport, the air thick with smoke, blasting at the pirates coming in from starboard, the crash of the thundering cannon rattling the deck overhead…

“Badass,” he muttered, wishing he could touch the dark metal.

“Quiet,” Sam whispered, right in his ear, and Nate jumped. “Get down!”

Nate dropped and ducked his head, staring hard at his shoes. He’d been daydreaming, so he’d missed the approaching clack of footsteps echoing softly through the silent rooms. A flashlight’s beam passed right over their heads and Nate shut his eyes, willing himself to be invisible. He held his breath.

The steps paused for a scary long time… and then started up again, through the room and out, the museum’s security guard continuing his beat. When the last echoes died away, Sam nudged him.

“We’re looking for the Age of Explorers exhibit,” Sam whispered, and stood up, lighting his prized silver Zippo and holding it up like a torch, like they were explorers, too. The flickering light shimmered on his mop of reddish-brown curls, made his lean face look kind of haunted and spooky. Older. Sam wasn’t scared of anything, not jumping through windows or security guards or even Sister Bernadette. Nate crawled to his feet, exhaling his own fear, putting on a brave face.

Fake it ’til you make it. Sam said it was the trick to getting things done.

Sam led them through more big rooms, in the opposite direction to where the guard had gone. Nate saw a hundred things he wanted to stop for—an antique saber, a tarnished suit of armor, a huge pale statue of a Roman soldier on a rearing horse—but kept forcing his eyes back to Sam’s makeshift torch. He wasn’t going to miss hearing that guard again.

They stepped into some kind of lobby area, past a dark reception desk, and saw a massive gold and red banner hanging over the archway to another dimly lit exhibit hall, off to the left. Hidden Treasures: Lost Artifacts from the Age of Exploration. Nate’s guts tingled, and Sam was grinning as he snapped the Zippo closed, both of them hurrying for the entrance.

Right at the front of the exhibit was a pair of sailing ship replicas, perfect miniatures of carracks down to the way the sails were rigged, with triangular sails on the mizzenmast. Sam rested his hand on the glass of one of them, his gaze going dreamy for a beat.

“Think about what it was like, on one of these galleons,” he said. “No idea what’s ahead of you.”

“Technically they’re carracks,” Nate said. “Galleons came later.”

“Technically you’re a nerd,” Sam said, and started walking again, leading them toward one of the smaller adjoining rooms. Nate cracked his stolen gum and followed.

There was a painting at the entrance to the smaller room, a glowering, black-bearded face topped with a funky black hat. Sam put his hand over the gold name plate.

“Alright, smart guy, who’s this?”

“Too easy. Ferdinand Magellan, first guy to sail around the world.”

“Wrong. Magellan never made it all the way around, he just got the credit…”

Sam trailed off and walked to a tall case deeper in the room, the kind made to show off documents. Behind the glass was an old map of the world that looked like the artist had been drunk. The continents were smooshed and weirdly rounded. Tiny cherub faces were painted around the flattened globe shape.

Nate joined Sam just as he reached out to touch the glass, tracing the narrow black line that wavered across the misshapen seas, beginning and ending in Spain and spanning the entire map.

“First map of the whole world,” Sam said, following the line around the southern tip of South America and across the Pacific. “Know what he was looking for?”

He glanced back at Nate, who shook his head slightly.

“Gold. A shit ton of it.”

Wow. “Did he find it?”

“Legend says he did,” Sam said. “But he never made it back.”

“So all that gold, it’s just gone?”

“Lost, not gone,” Sam said. “There’s a difference. If something’s lost, it can be found…” He turned back to the map. “But you gotta be willing to risk everything. Even your life.”

Fake it ’til you make it, Nate repeated to himself. Sam wasn’t faking, though, he always meant what he said. Nate wished he was half as courageous.

“Lucky for us, we have pirate blood,” Sam continued. “Descended from Sir Francis Drake himself. At least, that’s what Mom and Dad used to say.”

Nate’s chest tightened a little. Sam never talked about their parents. He looked back at the map, at the weird blobs of land, the broad emptiness of the oceans. Before he knew he meant to, he was talking.

“You know, sometimes I think they’re out there somewhere. Like they’re just lost…”

“They’re not lost, they’re gone,” Sam said, firmly, and Nate suddenly couldn’t swallow, the pain a lump in his throat.

“But hey, we got each other, right?” Sam caught his gaze and smiled a little. “All you need is one person you can trust. Then you’re never alone.”

Nate nodded. Sam was right. St. Francis’ wasn’t home, just a stop on the way to their true destiny, to their real life. They were going to travel the world searching for lost things, they were going to have adventures and fights and see everything there was to see.

Sam flipped his Zippo open, chink, and spun the wheel. He held the wavering flame to the edge of the sealed case, to the putty or glue holding the glass together. When it was good and scorched, Sam took out his pocketknife and used the blade to pry at the seal.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Nate asked. Sam hadn’t said anything about trying to steal a map. What if the guard comes back?

“We’re pirates, remember?” Sam dug at the softened sealant. “This thing’s worth a fortune.”

A shrieking alarm went off suddenly and all the lights snapped on, the shadowy, dreamy silence wrenched away at dizzying speed. Nate turned for the exit and saw the security guard coming right at them.

“Oh crap!” Nate cried, even as Sam held up his hands, his knife clattering to the floor. They were busted.

*   *   *

The ride back to St. Francis’ was miserably silent. The back of the police car stank and Sam looked defeated, his head down and shoulders slumped. Being escorted up the steps to St. Francis’ Boys Orphanage by the grim-faced cop was bad enough, but when Sister B opened the door to let them in, Nate felt a thousand times worse. His face was on fire, and his heart thudded like a funeral drum. She was going to be so mad.

Nate stood next to him, staring down at the nasty old linoleum of the front hall, worn and scoured. St. Francis’ smelled like cafeteria food and hard work, like disinfectant and hopelessness. Even the lights were old, yellow, bathing everything in sickness. Sister B’s stern, lined face looked especially forbidding as the blustery middle-aged cop laid out the situation in no uncertain terms. Breaking and entering, attempted burglary, destruction of property.

“We came here first out of respect, Sister B, but it’s his third strike,” the cop said. “He’s the city’s problem now.”

Reform school. Sam would be eighteen soon, but that was a whole month and a half in a place where kids got stabbed and beat up, where you were locked in a room at night with actual criminals.

Nate waited. Sister Bernadette had told the last cop that she would personally see to it that Sam stayed out of trouble, then given Sam high hell and every kind of detention; she’d made him scrub toilets for two weeks straight and pray while he did it. And that was for shoplifting a book.

Sister B didn’t look mad, though. She nodded at the cop, then looked at Sam. Her eyes were almost sad.

“Go get your things, Sam.”

Shocked, Nate looked at Sam, who looked back at him with no real expression at all, only a kind of stony determination. Sam glanced at Sister B’s calm lined face and then turned for the stairs, jogging up the dented steps to the dorm.

Nate felt hot tears spring up. He couldn’t help it, and his stomach was in knots. What was even happening? Sister B watched Sam disappear into the upstairs hall, her mouth a pinched line.

“You can’t just let them take him away!” Nate felt the tears fall and didn’t care.

The old nun looked at Nate, her eyes hard. “Actions have consequences, Nate. You need to learn that or you’re going to end up just like him.”

He stared at her, unable to fathom her casual cruelty. Sam was his brother, he was all Nate had! If he even survived to eighteen, he’d be too old to come back to St. Francis’. How was Sam going to get a job and a place for them if he had a record?

Sister B’s gaze softened just a little. She tipped her head to the stairs. “Go on. Say your goodbyes.”

Nate ran up the stairs, wiping his cheeks. Sam couldn’t be leaving, none of this was real. I should have stopped him from trying to take the map, I should have said something—

He turned into their tiny, shared room, just the two of them, and saw Sam opening the window, his pack on his shoulder.

“What the hell?” Nate’s jaw dropped. “Where you going?”

Sam turned and shushed him with both hands, glancing at the doorway. “I’m not letting them lock me up. No way.”

“So you were just gonna leave?”

“No choice,” Sam said. “I gotta get out of Boston.”

“I’m coming with you,” Nate said. He could pack fast, he just needed a few things—

Sam unshouldered his backpack and crouched in front on Nate. He took off his necklace, the shining silver ring on its leather cord. “Nate, you ever see me go anywhere without this?”

Nate shook his head, not trusting himself to speak without sobbing.

“So you know I’d never leave it behind. I’ll always be with you.”

Sam spread the leather cord and put it over Nate’s head. The ring landed on his chest and he grabbed it, the silver cool on his fingers. It was heavy, perfectly smooth. He squinted to read the writing etched inside.

“It says Sic Parvis Magna,” Sam said. “Greatness from small beginnings. That’s you and me.”

Nate smiled a little through the tears. Sic Parvis Magna. Sam never lied to him, they were going to have the most amazing life once—

The cop’s growly voice bellowed up the stairs. “Let’s go, kid! Hurry it up!”

Nate could hear the boys in the next room stirring. In a minute there’d be a dozen curious faces leaning out to watch Sam get dragged away.

Sam scooped up his pack and hurried back to the window. He got one leg over the sill and looked at Nate, his gaze serious and fierce.

“I’ll come back for you, Nate. I promise.”

And just like that, Sam swung out and dropped from sight. Nate could hear him shuffle down the crumbling brick, heard him thump to the ground, and then nothing.

Wiping his tears, he turned back to the door—and saw a folded piece of paper on his bunk. He picked it up and Sam’s Zippo slid out. Like the ring, Sam always had it with him.

The paper itself was blank. Nate turned it back and forth, then remembered the trick Sam had shown him last week, from the code book. Homemade invisible ink. Sam had snuck down to the kitchen to steal lemon juice to see if it worked.

Nate lifted the weighty, well-made lighter and opened it, then flicked the wheel. It took him three tries before a flame appeared, burning steadily. He carefully held the paper over the fire, passing it back and forth as the paper started to singe.

The letters bloomed orange and then smoky brown on the blank page.

Never forget you’re a Drake.

Nate closed the lighter and put the secret message on his scratchy blanket. He could hear the heavy tread of the cop coming up the stairs and doors opening in the hall, but he only stared at the crooked letters, holding the ring tightly. He wouldn’t forget, and Sam was coming back. Just because it felt like the end of the world, didn’t mean that it was.

NEW YORK CITY, TEN DAYS AGO

A glance at his watch and Nate picked up his pace, hurrying through the bright, scattered nightlife of Manhattan’s Lower East Side. The well-dressed and wealthy were out in force, leaving theaters and fine restaurants, filing out of cabs and into bars, all enjoying their absolute right to conspicuous consumption.

Nate hung a left on Rivington and checked his watch again, hiking his bag over his shoulder. Carlos bitched about anybody who didn’t show up for their shift ten minutes early, which was patently ridiculous; if management wanted their workers to come in early, they could pay for those ten minutes. On the other hand, it was a good job, full of opportunity for an enterprising young man such as himself. No matter how good he was at mixology, pissing off the boss would get him fired.

He cut into the alley between the bar and the sushi place next door and hit the employee entrance with three minutes to spare, tapping in the access code, breathing through his mouth to avoid sucking in the charming back-alley smell. He hurried through the dim hall, hoping that Carlos was out front—

—but of course there he was, standing in the tiny downstairs kitchen, frowning severely as Nate burst in.

“The late, great, and formerly employed Nate. I said—”

“You got the great part right,” Nate interrupted. It never hurt to remind people of one’s worth. He smiled brightly to make sure Carlos knew he wasn’t being an asshole, unzipped his bag, and was dressed in a crisp white shirt and spotless black vest before his boss had time to write himself another clever quip. Carlos resorted to his “serious” frown, pulling the lines of his face into the very picture of disapproval, which Nate pretended not to notice.

Nate mussed his hair and rolled up his sleeves, grabbed a dishtowel and slapped it over his arm, then smiled again on his way to the floor. “See you upstairs, Carlos.”

Carlos shook his head, but in an exasperated, whaddaya-gonna-do? kind of way, rather than a you’re-definitely-fired way. All was well. Nate didn’t bend and scrape at work, but he projected honest, friendly optimism as hard as he could, and it generally paid off. People liked to give him the benefit of the doubt.

The Slaughterhouse was hopping, Chris and Tara on the floor, Rex ready to hand off behind the bar. Pulsing music and overloud chatter, plush seats and expensive drinks, the bar was buzzing with the ultra-cool and the tragically wealthy.

Nate glanced over the open tabs while Rex cashed himself out, and then turned to scan the bar, ready to work.

He smiled at a beautiful young woman as she stepped up to order. Early twenties, dirty blond, flawless skin and teeth, artfully distressed Gucci jeans. A diamond tennis bracelet was drooping on one slender wrist.

“What can I get you?”

The debutante smiled back. “Vodka tonic.”

“C’mon, my first drink of the night,” Nate said. “Test me a little.”

Deb’s smile widened, and she hesitated for a beat, looking at him more closely. All-American boy, that was him, and he let his eyes twinkle at her. Apparently, he passed muster; she picked up a drink card and gave it a once-over, her smile lingering.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, still scanning the card. “Negroni?”

“I’m sorry, a what?” Nate quipped, but her smile faded, her perfectly arched brows drawing together. What was it going to be? Puzzled? Annoyed?

“Kidding,” he added, before she could decide, and grabbed an old-fashioned glass off the bar, shoveling in ice. The trick to recovering from a bad joke was a good performance.

He tipped the Tanqueray 10 off the second shelf with his left hand, grabbing it low with his right, and turned back to the glass, pouring a healthy shot while he grabbed the vermouth rosso.

“The Negroni, first made in 1919 for Count Camillo Negroni…” He leaned back and plucked the Campari off the bottom shelf while the sweet Italian vermouth gurgled into the glass. He kept his eyes on the pour, determined to get the proportions exactly right. The flashy bottle-flipping stuff and the patter was all fine, and he was good at it and getting better, but making perfect drinks was where he shone.

“…who swapped the soda water in his usual drink, the Americano, for gin.”

Nate finished the pour, reached for an orange. “Haven’t seen you in here before,” he said, slicing the peel.

“Not really my neighborhood,” Deb said.

“Oh, yeah? What’s your neighborhood?”

“Greenwich.”

Nate raised his eyebrows. “That must be nice.”

“Bartenders in Greenwich don’t usually talk so much,” she said.

“Well, you can’t get a Negroni like this in Greenwich,” Nate said. Perfect. He garnished the glass and pushed it forward, anticipating another smile when he looked up.

Deb had turned to chat with her friends, a handful of honest-to-god clones—healthy good looks, artfully applied product, ripped items of clothing that cost more than a working person’s monthly rent. She reached back and took the drink without looking at it, dropping a titanium Amex black card on the bar in its place. The card clattered dismissively.

Nate swallowed his disappointment within a heartbeat. No place for hurt pride in his industry, bartending or otherwise. “Open or closed?”

Deb didn’t look back, or acknowledge his existence in any way. Nate scooped up the card and turned to the register, tapping at the screen. Okay then, open.

“Who cares, right?” he muttered. “It’s only money.”

There were more faces waiting. Nate did his thing, pouring and dancing, smiling, making jokes as he served up drink after drink. A sneering private-school type wanted a Vesper martini, wore a Chopard watch with a loose band. A tray of mojitos for the big group in Tara’s section. Whiskey sour to the older guy at the end of the bar, who carried a cane with a platinum inlay. Nate made a gimlet for a Japanese art student with a hammered gold brooch in her hair, definitely an heirloom. Edo period for sure, an aristocrat’s treasure.

“Haven’t made one of those in a minute, see what you think,” he said to the artiste, who didn’t bother to answer.

Next up, a pair of young bucks out of Jersey. Both wore bulky watches, Tag Heuers. $2,300 apiece retail, easy. Nate flipped bottles and nailed the pour, smiling brightly as he pushed the drinks out. “Two Long Island iced teas, extra Long Island.”

Nate sent out a round of various imported beers and was showing off his new martini spin to a nice older lady with a thick rope of 18K around her neck when Carlos walked behind him, scowling.

“Just pour the drinks,” his boss chided, real disappointed dad energy.

Killjoy.

The Slaughterhouse’s discreet front door slammed open wide enough to draw eyes, and in strode a handsome older guy in a tailored Tom Ford tuxedo. He carried himself like he was important, rugged chin up, shoulders back. Mid to late forties, dark hair with just a few silver threads.

The guy sauntered toward the end of bar, loosening his tie and the top button of his collar. The bar patrons returned to their respective conversations as the sharp-dressed man slid onto the stool left of Nate’s station. Closer, Nate could see the etched lines around his eyes. Either he laughed a lot or he spent a fair amount of time outdoors, squinting at the sun.

“Little young for a bartender, aren’t you?” the man asked, his gruff voice slightly raspy, with a hint of working-class background. Boston?

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Nate said. “Little old for prom, aren’t you?”

The guy sighed. “Fundraiser across the street. 10K a seat, and they don’t know how to make a goddamn Hemingway daiquiri.”

Nate brightened, casually tossing a napkin down in front of the well-dressed patron. “One Papa Doble it is. You can have it by the book—splash of grapefruit, splash of maraschino—or you can have it the way the Old Man and the Sea actually drank it, professional alcoholic that he was: straight rum, extra cold, with just a few drops of lime.”

The rich guy actually made eye contact, and not in a creepy way. Just one human being actually seeing another one, a rare event for any server. His own gaze was sharp, eyes a clear green-brown hazel. “And a teaspoon of sugar, just like they do in the Floridita bar.”

Nate was already pouring the rum, and his eyebrows went up.

“You’ve been to the Floridita? Hemingway’s Floridita?”

The rich guy nodded. “Buncha times. Don’t always remember walking out.”

Nate grabbed a cut lime, unable to help a wistful ache of jealousy. “I always wanted to go to Havana.”

The guy fixed him with that sharp gaze. “Yeah? What’s stopping you?”

Nate felt a surge of defensiveness. He was barely twenty-one, had just started out and had bills to pay, he had an apartment that he could barely afford even with the side gig. He was going to travel, he was going to go around the goddamn world, but it wasn’t like he could just go.

Chill out, he’s just some guy.

“Put it this way,” Nate said, amiably. “I’m not dropping 10K at fundraisers.”

He set the completed drink down on the napkin. “Here you go. Just the way Papa liked it.”

The older man smirked in a friendly kind of way, and slid a fat money clip out of his jacket. Heavy gold, stuffed with bills. He pulled a fifty out of the folded wad and dropped it on the bar, then stood up, drink in hand.

Mr. Moneyclip took a sip of the daiquiri and cocked an eyebrow. “A bit on the sour side.”

“No it isn’t,” Nate said, promptly.

The guy smiled. “I’ll let you get back to your Jägerbombs and vodka tonics.”

He started to walk, which was when Nate noticed that the heavy gold clip was on the bar, under the bill. His hesitation was super brief, however; as tempting as it seemed, Nate wasn’t entirely stupid.

“Hey man, you forgot something,” Nate called, and when the guy turned, Nate tossed him the bankroll.

The guy’s arm snapped out and he caught the clip easily. Good reflexes. He made eye contact again, and Nate got the impression he was being assessed, somehow.

A beat later the older man had wandered away, and the trio of drunk gal-pals at the end of the bar started calling for more margaritas. Nate went back to work.

*   *   *

Nate took his fifteen when he saw the debutante slip out the front door, already rummaging through her tiny purse with the guilty, needy look of the smoker. The floor was busy but under control, and Chris could mix anything that wasn’t too complicated.

His heart picked up speed a bit as he walked outside, made a small show of breathing in the cool night air, stretching his arms, rolling down his sleeves. A handful of chatting smokers milled around the door.

Deb was alone at one of the outside tables, tapping an unlit cigarette against the side of her pack. When she spotted Nate, he allowed a pleased, surprised look to cross his face. Fancy meeting you here!

Smiling, he stepped closer to where she sat. “The cigarette. Invented by Alfonso Cigaretti, 1462.”

She stared at him, confused.

“Kidding,” he said, and then she remembered him, and smiled a little. She wasn’t drunk but was getting there, her eyes a little on the glassy side.

“You’re kind of weird, but you’re kind of cute, too.”

Nate put his hands in his pockets, the familiar weight of the Zippo settling into his palm. “Then I’m kind of flattered and kind of offended.”

Deb tittered, and raised the cigarette to her slightly smeary lips. Nate leaned in with his Zippo.

He flipped the wheel, and the wick didn’t light. He flicked it again, and then chuckled self-consciously. Deb leaned in to cup the Zippo with her soft hands, making eye contact while he flicked the wheel about a thousand times. Nada.

Still touching his hands, Deb smiled a little. “I have been trying to quit.”

“Maybe it’s a sign,” Nate said.

“Maybe it is,” Deb agreed, drawing back just a little. “Or maybe you just need to get one that works.”

Nate put all of his charm into his rueful smile, and snapped the Zippo closed—while simultaneously flipping the tiny latch on her diamond bracelet. The sparkling stones slid off her wrist and into his sleeve smoothly, not a hitch.

“Oh, it works,” he said, stepping back. He waited for long enough to see that she hadn’t noticed, too busy looking for her own lighter, and then turned away, meandering past the scattered smokers. She probably thought he was embarrassed at blowing his shot. He rolled his head on his shoulders, just another overworked server taking his break. In this crowd, that made him invisible.

Nate put his hands in his pockets again, transferring his new acquisition to safety, and then looked at his watch. Gosh, look at the time! He headed for the door, a little extra bounce in his step.

*   *   *

Parked at one of the Slaughterhouse’s tiny tables, Sully kept his eye on the kid when he came back inside. As usual, Nathan Drake just radiated fresh-faced innocence, a poster boy for clean living. He went back to work behind the bar, cheerfully pouring drinks and keeping up a line of friendly patter. It was getting late, the crowd thinning, but the die-hard drinkers pressed in at the sound of last call, desperate to extend their night by one more overpriced cocktail.

A few minutes later, the pretty young lady Nate had followed out the door came back in, too, only weaving a tiny bit. When she waved at one of her friends, all gathering their stuff to leave, Sully saw that the girl was missing a small but extremely valuable piece of her ensemble. Not that she’d noticed.

Nice.

Sully drained the last of his daiquiri—kid should’ve added sugar—and took out a business card and a pen. He scrawled a short note on the card and pocketed it, then went back to watching the bar.

The kid was fast and had a good shtick, juggling bottles like he was in a movie. A less observant watcher wouldn’t notice the way Nate’s gaze flicked over his customers, the split-second assessments he was performing on watches, phones, necklaces, open bags. The kid was sharp, no question, but plucking shiny baubles from drunks wasn’t much of a challenge. Waste of talent, really.

Nate poured his last drink and closed out a few tabs, finally stepping away from the register so that one of the servers could get in and run her own numbers. The kid picked up a tray and headed onto the floor, scooping empties off the deserted tables. Sully sat back and waited until Nate was picking up the empty martini glasses off the table next to his own, against the wall.

“That trust fund ingénue, she was the right mark,” Sully said, keeping his voice low and pleasant.

Nate turned, expression carefully blank—but he couldn’t hide the flush that had crept up into his face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nate said, injecting just the right note of sincere confusion.

“Sure you do,” Sully said. “But you didn’t jump at my clip, so you’re going slow, playing it safe, not lifting too much at once. Stop me if I’m wrong.”

The kid didn’t hesitate. “You’re wrong. And we’re closed, so pack it in.”

He turned to another table, picking up more empties, trying to seem nonchalant, indifferent, but his shoulders were tight and that little blush was still in evidence. Adorable.

“I’ve got a job coming up, a big one,” Sully said evenly. “And I need another set of hands on it.”

Nate smirked and raised his eyebrows, but didn’t look up from his task, wiping down the table. “So, what—you stumble into bars looking for accomplices?”

“I didn’t stumble,” Sully said. “Been in and out of here all week. Surprised you didn’t notice.”

That got his attention. Nate looked at him full on, studying Sully’s features, obviously trying to place him. Bright kid, but he didn’t necessarily pay attention when it mattered. He’d get better.

“Victor Sullivan. You can call me Sully.”

“Thanks, I won’t,” Nate said, irritation finally winning the day. He’d thought he was so slick, it must be quite the blow for him to realize he’d been made.

“How far you gonna get, lifting Tiffany bracelets?” Sully asked, honestly curious, and the kid’s face clamped down.

Sully went on, unperturbed. “Think you’re gonna get to Havana? I don’t. I think you’re stuck. I’m offering you a real ticket outta here. A chance to see places you’ve only read about in books.”

Nate’s expression didn’t soften. “You missed the read, Victor. I’m not a mark in some bar. Now get out.”

Sully shrugged, stood up. “Fair enough.”

He made a point of pushing past the kid, bumping him slightly, his own practiced hands making the trade effortlessly—his business card for the diamond tennis bracelet in Nate’s pocket. It was the work of a second, performed between heartbeats, and the kid didn’t even know what had happened.

Yet.

Sully walked outside, unable to resist a grin when he thought about the look on the kid’s handsome face, when Nate realized that his spendy trinket had magically turned into a business card with Sully’s address on it. Sully had added a note—thou shalt not steal.

Chuckling to himself, Sully hailed a cab. The kid might not come tonight, but he was definitely coming, and Sully meant to be home when he finally showed up.

*   *   *

Nate turned the corner onto Vesey, hiking his backpack over his shoulder, staring intently down at his phone. The doorman in front of the apartment building where Victor Sullivan lived was silver-haired and half asleep, standing woodenly in front of the high-rise, but he perked up some as Nate approached, straightening his cap. Poor old guy, stuck on the night shift; who the hell would be coming or going at four in the morning?

Nate very deliberately didn’t notice him, using his thumb to scroll through the terms and conditions of a random app he’d tapped, preparing himself for the lift. The silver-hair edged backward a step as Nate continued to march forward, seemingly oblivious to anything but his phone.

Nate crashed right into him, looking up with wide-eyed shock as his walk was so suddenly interrupted. He and the doorman stumbled together, and Nate’s free hand slid into the old guy’s bulging suitcoat pocket.

Gotcha.

“Hey! Take your head out of your ass!” The oldster glared at him.

“Sorry, man,” Nate said, backing away. He slid the doorman’s key set into his own pocket, careful not to let them jangle. “Didn’t see you.”

“No shit,” the doorman said, scowling. “Look up, there’s a whole world out there!”

Nate nodded, murmuring more apologies, then continued on down Vesey, going back to his phone. Just another screen-addict, that was him. The side entrance was around the corner, the door not nearly as nice as the guarded one, but set deeply into the fancy brick façade. Shadows were helpful.

Nate let himself into a service corridor, moving like he had a purpose. That was the great trick to being where you weren’t supposed to be—acting like you belonged there. Not that he was particularly worried; it was the dead of night in a posh building, nobody would be around. He’d dropped by home after work for a few tools and come straight to Sullivan’s apartment building, not willing to put off payback. If he got caught by one of the tenants, he’d tell them he was Sullivan’s nephew, just in from D.C.

There were service stairs midway down the hall, and Nate breezed in, jogging easily up the bare concrete steps. He looked through the rest of the doorman’s keys on his way, frowning. Each key was clearly marked, but there was nothing for the penthouses. Sullivan’s business card had him in penthouse C. No worries, though, that was why he’d dropped by home.

Nate exited on the second floor, out of the sterile, brightly lit stairwell and into luxury, plush carpeting, and muted wall sconces. Nice place. The elevators were a bit farther along, next to the much finer tenants’ stairs. Nate punched the up button, and the shiny door slid open in less than a minute.

Thou shalt not steal, he thought, jaw clenching, waiting while the opulent elevator carried him to the penthouse floor. The goddamned nerve.

The elevator pinged, and even that sounded expensive, a resonant chime. Nate stepped out into the artfully decorated hall, noting the small, attractive letter plaque next to the first door on his right—a B. He noted the door’s lock, too, and smiled. Standard pin tumbler.

He turned right, casually unshouldering his backpack, reaching in for his pick gun. He preferred to use individual picks, liked testing his skills, but the gun was faster.

Nate stopped in front of penthouse C. A quick insertion, a squeeze of the trigger, and the gentle click of the lock giving up. The door handle turned. He cracked the door, waited a beat—no alarms blared—then slipped inside, closing the door gently behind him.

Alright, Victor Sullivan, let’s see what you got.

A low-wattage lamp burned in one corner of the spacious, ultra-modern living room, giving him plenty of light to see by—low couches, expensive art, metal sculptures standing around. No clutter. The kitchen was visible through an arch to the right, dark. A hall to the left, with a number of closed doors.

Nate ventured farther into the room, saw it opened to the right, into a large study. Sullivan had gone for sparse, but the study was cozier than the living room. There was a heavy antique desk stacked with books, and several display cases with pin spots shining on the pieces they held. Except for an old-fashioned glass on the coffee table—the drink in it was pink—and an ashtray with a half-smoked cigar in it, there wasn’t any clutter in the study, either. Sullivan’s collection was all neatly distributed on the shelves that lined the walls. A stone fertility idol. A tribal mask. A geode studded with green crystals. No family pictures or anything personal, just a select assortment of priceless oddities.

One of the cases held an American flag folded into a triangle, the kind handed out at veterans’ funerals. Sullivan’s father? Grandfather? Interesting. The shelf next to it held books, and Nate quickly scanned the titles. King Tut’s Tomb, The Lost Fabergé Eggs, The Amber Room. Sullivan also had a copy of El Dorado: The Lost City of Gold, a book Nate had read countless times over the years. One of his brother’s favorites. All of the books were about ancient treasures, lost or buried…

Whoa. A stand-alone map case was angled against the back wall, tied into its glassed frame. The world map inside had the squished, swooping continental shapes and lettering of an era long past. It was a very good print of a Battista Agnese map of the world, sixteenth century, and a long, serpentine line led from Spain down to the southernmost tip of South America, then back up and off the left side of the flattened globe. The line came back in on the right through the Indies and returned to Spain after rounding Africa’s Cape of Good Hope. Nate stepped closer, fascinated. If it was a print, it was a very old one—

“I see patience ain’t your virtue.”

Nate turned, saw Victor Sullivan step into the room from the door on the west wall. He was still in tux pants but had stripped down to his undershirt. He was smiling a little, hands in his pockets.

“Surprised to see me?” Nate asked.

“Not even slightly,” Sullivan said, and nodded toward the glass on the table. He’d made a drink for him? Nate noticed that the ice hadn’t even melted.

“So, it was all a test,” Nate said, unable to hide his irritation. “To see if I’m the guy for your next big ‘score.’ Me coming here, it was part two. Your money on the bar was round one. Stop me if I’m wrong.”

Sullivan’s half smile didn’t falter. “I will.”

“And the bracelet?”

The older man nodded toward his desk. “In the first drawer there if you want it… But I think you’re here because you’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

Nate walked to the desk and opened the top drawer. There was the deb’s diamond bracelet, tossed carelessly atop a small pile of valuables—rare coins, an enameled pocket watch, ancient jewelry. Nate opened his backpack and dropped the bracelet inside… and helped himself to a few extras: an ivory cameo locket, a white gold wedding band, a handful of the coins. He deserved recompense for his trouble and Victor Sullivan could obviously spare it.

“You done?” Sullivan asked. He’d moved across the room to stand by the map.

“Yep,” Nate said, but then his gaze settled on the large jade statuette atop the desk. A Chinese lion, magnificently carved. High quality Burmese jade, clean lines. He grabbed it and shoved it into his pack. It didn’t quite fit, the nylon fabric bulging over its mass, but whatever. A smarmy asshole like Sullivan didn’t deserve such a quality piece.

Nate hefted his heavy bag and walked to the table. He picked up his drink and took a tiny sip.

Sugar and bubbles and just a hint of cherry flooded his mouth.

“Shirley Temple,” he said. “Very funny. Needs more grenadine.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Sullivan said. “Why the map? Of everything in here, this stopped you.”

Nate looked at the map, gaze catching again on the carefully drawn lines, the cherubic faces on the globe’s outer edges. “Because it looks like it might be authentic. Sixteenth century.”

“Not might be,” Sullivan said. “Is.”

Really? In spite of himself, Nate stepped back to the map, studying the paper more closely—it was vellum, actually, finely stretched calf skin—and marveling at the bright colors. The map was definitely by Agnese, a cartographer from Genoa who had died over four centuries ago. The style was unmistakable.

“This line shows the path Ferdinand Magellan took to sail around the world,” Nate said, unaware that his voice had taken on a slightly breathless quality. The map was from the 1540s, drawn almost twenty years after the historic voyage. And it was real? Nate’s gaze ate it up, a familiar, nostalgic excitement setting off butterflies in his guts.

“First guy to do it,” Sully said. “You know your history.”

“Yeah, only no,” Nate said. “Magellan wasn’t the first guy to do it.”

He pointed at a cluster of dots in the western Pacific. “He died here, on a random beach in the Philippines.”

Nate traced the line from the islands back toward Spain. “It was his captain, Juan Sebastian Elcano, who finished the trip with seventeen others, out of a crew of two hundred and seventy. The Infamous Eighteen.”

Sully shook his head, grinning.

When did I start thinking of him as Sully?

“Bartender by night, super-nerd by day.”

“Google it,” Nate said, still studying the map.

“I did,” Sully said. “Know what I found? That random beach where Magellan died? Not so random. Know what’s special about the Philippines?”

“Second largest gold deposits on the planet,” Nate said. “I know the legend. How Magellan’s voyage wasn’t about exploration, it was about finding that gold. But it’s just a story.”

“I beg to differ,” Sully said, and he was standing by Nate now, pushing an open book into his hands.

Nate set his bag down and took it, saw that it was a book on the voyage, opened to color illustrations of Magellan’s ships. Nate knew them by heart: the Trinidad, the San Antonio, the Victoria, the Concepción, and the Santiago. The Santiago was a caravel, a smaller ship, the others were carracks—big, hulking, multi-masted beasts.

“These trips were hugely expensive back then,” Sully continued. “The King of Spain couldn’t afford it. There wasn’t even gonna be a trip, until a private financier stepped in.”

“The House of Moncada,” Nate said.

Sully was already handing him another thick book—800-Year Dynasty: The House of Moncada. Dozens of Post-it notes stuck out from the pages.

Nate took the book and flipped through it, already familiar with the Moncada name and much of their history. There were a lot of pictures, mostly grainy and ancient. Combat, trials, executions, the Spanish Civil War…

“Bankrolled the Crusades, the Inquisition, Franco’s fascists in the thirties, and every other bad thing you can think of,” Nate said, turning the pages. He stopped on a more recent photo, the current patriarch of the Moncada clan. Armando Moncada, silver hair slicked back, face set in harsh, cruel lines. The guy had to be in his eighties by now.

“Real humanitarians,” Sully agreed. “They offered Magellan his ‘grand voyage of exploration,’ so long as he came back with that gold. How much gold? In today’s dollars, five billion, easy.”

The nice, round number clanged through Nate’s head. How many times had he read Sam’s book about Magellan’s gold, how many times had he laid in his orphan’s bunk back at St. Francis’, dreaming about finding it? It wasn’t just the money, it was the idea—discovering a lost fortune, yes, but also being the kind of man who embraced adventure, who had agency and smarts and knew things that nobody else knew.

“The biggest treasure that’s never been found,” Nate said, and then cleared his throat. Enough.

He closed the book, fixed Sully with a skeptical eye.

“I’ve been dreaming about this since I was a kid… but somehow you knew that already. What’s your deal? And no more bullshit.”

Sully chuckled. “When Sam said he had a little brother who was just as into this Magellan stuff, I thought there was no way. But here you are.”

Nate blinked. “You know Sam? My brother?”

Sully pulled his phone out of his pants’ pocket. “We were practically friends, and that’s saying something, considering the company I keep.”

He tapped his phone and handed it to Nate. Onscreen was a picture of Sam next to Sully, both men grinning. Sully had a cigar hanging out of his mouth. They looked drunk. Sam’s hair seemed darker, and longer, and he had a beard, but there was no mistaking the lean lines of his face, his bright, snapping eyes.

“Holy shit, he has a beard,” Nate breathed. “Where is he? When was this taken? Where were you?”

“Almost two years ago,” Sully said. “San Sebastian, Spain. We were getting close to Captain Elcano’s tomb, where Sam was sure we’d find his journal, and in it the location of the gold. Then he disappears. Doesn’t call, doesn’t answer my texts, nothing. He ghosted me.”

Nate scoffed. “Yeah, well, that sounds like my brother.”

Sully’s gaze was fixed on his, watching him carefully. “So, he hasn’t been in touch?”

“Sam? No.”

“Not even a postcard?”

Jesus, is that what all this is about?

“Nope,” Nate said, firmly. “No email, Snapchat, or TikTok either. That cover it?”

Sully looked taken aback, like he’d expected a different answer. Deep, vertical frown lines popped up between his eyebrows. “Look, I don’t know what happened between you two, but I think if we find that gold there’s a real good chance we find him, too. What do you say?”

Nate stared down at the phone, at Sam’s handsome, grinning face, so familiar… But he was a stranger, too.

“Sam took off when I was ten,” Nate said, bitterness leaking into his voice. “Used to call every once in a while, swore he’d come back. Never did.”

He handed the phone back to Sully. “The Sam I knew disappeared a long time ago.”

Nate picked up his bulging backpack and started for the door, ready to be done. Sully had thought Nate would be all hot to go looking for Sam, or that Sam gave enough of a shit to stay in touch with his little brother, and he was wrong on both counts.

“Seriously?” Sully asked, as Nate opened the penthouse door. “You’re just gonna—”

Nate let the door swing shut behind him, effectively ending the conversation. He hoped Sully choked on his next cigar. Fuck that guy, and fuck Sam. He was going home.

*   *   *

Nate caught the L back to Bushwick and walked the three blocks to his apartment building, thoughts running full speed the whole way. The sun was coming up, the sound of city traffic rising into the cool morning. He should be tired, exhausted really, but he was wide awake, thinking about that map, about gold, about Sam. The elevator creaked him up to his floor, visions of sailing ships and sandy beaches floating in front of his mind’s eye, layered with feelings he didn’t want to think about.

He walked through his narrow front hall and was greeted by the chaos of his slovenly ways, clothes and books pushed to the walls here and there, the kitchenette’s sink full of dishes. It was a spacious studio that had pretensions of lofthood, the space dominated by a radius window that took up most of the far wall. He had a decent view, if you ignored the billboard and the water tower. The bed was on a built-in shelf suspended over the living area. Not a ton of square footage, but Nate loved the high ceiling, the ladders leaning here and there to reach the wall cabinets, loved the brick and pillars. Not too shabby for an orphan.

He walked to the northeast corner by the window, where his chest of drawers awaited. A bookshelf above it sagged with the weight of a garish three-foot Madonna-and-child statue he’d picked up at a funeral sale and couldn’t bear to part with; it was just too stylish to sell.

He sat his bag on the all-purpose table in front of the window, dawn’s light glowing across the scuffed wood floors, and opened the top dresser drawer. He slid the false back out of it, glancing into the opening at the back of the dresser before setting the wooden piece aside. There was already two weeks’ worth of labor in there: rings, watches, a fine gold cigarette case. He took the bulky jade lion out of his pack, astounded by the weight of it, the deep, glossy depth in the fine stone cool in his hand, and sat it on the dresser. Then he shifted the tennis bracelet and the other items he’d taken from Sully into the respectably growing pile in the back. He’d have to hit the shops soon, give his fence a call, see how hip they were to rare coins…

He couldn’t help looking at the sagging bookshelf, gaze automatically drawn to the dull red spine of Magellan’s Voyage: The Secret Quest, by Amy Hennig. He’d read it a dozen times. He replaced the false back in the drawer and closed it, thinking. It would be ridiculous to even think of Sully or his pitch at all, ever again…

Five billion, easy. Nate had started a fund to buy an old sailboat, step one to his dreams of independent travel. At the rate he’d been going, he figured he’d have enough in a couple of years, assuming he stayed out of jail. Boats were expensive. For even a fraction of a percent of the money Sully was talking about, Nate could stop digging through used boat ads.

That kind of money, you could buy a nuclear-powered yacht.

Nate pulled the book off the shelf and flipped it open, the soft, dry smell of the pages evoking the squeak of a bottom bunk, long, wishful daydreams, the sound of Sam’s voice. He stopped on the picture of Captain Elcano. Sam had gone looking for the explorer’s tomb, with Sully.

And then he disappeared.

Nate put the book on the table, then walked to the kitchenette that ran along the western wall. Past the rolling garment rack and the peeling green ladder, directly in front of the bathroom, was the shelf system he used for his folding clothes: bins on brackets. Tucked underneath, next to a couple of file boxes—and a pair of fragrant running shoes—was the battered metal footlocker he’d taken with him from St. Francis’.

He pushed a couple of magazines off the top and carried it back into the living room, setting it down on the bare boards in front of the window. The dull metal was plastered with old stickers and a thin layer of dust.

He sat down in front of the locker, legs crossed, and flipped the latches. The lid opened with a thin screech of its metal arms, and then he was staring down into his childhood. More stickers on the inside of the lid: PlayStation, a few faded photos tacked up. Inside was a pile of random crap that had held meaning for him, at some point. He picked up the old jersey on top, fingered the thin white cotton; a hand-me-down from Sam that Nate had worn to tatters. Sam’s old army flashlight, and a baseball that he’d given to Nate for his ninth birthday. A nappy teddy bear that one of the kids at the orphanage had left behind, and Nate had saved from getting tossed for no reason he could remember, except that it had needed saving.

The pale morning light and the smell of the old locker made the memories seem like dreams. It didn’t hurt as much as he’d feared, to look through the sparse collection, until he opened the shoebox and saw the postcards.

He sighed, picking them up, then took off the rubber band holding the thick pack together and started to shuffle through. Bright commercial shots, beaches, tropical greenery, a church, Egyptian art, a bullfight. He read some of the messages, trying to just see the words and not feel the feelings. From Mexico: Doing pretty good, got all kinds of stuff to tell you. I’ll see you for your next birthday! S. From Brazil, six months later: Sorry I couldn’t make it back but life got crazy! You won’t believe all that’s happened, but I’ll tell you when I see you. Soon! S.

There were more—Thailand, China, Portugal—the cycle repeated again and again, promises then apologies, all signed with just his initial.

Nate got to the final card he’d received, a vacation shot of La Concha beach from San Sebastian, Spain, where Sully had last seen his brother. There was a generic promise on the back about showing Nate the world, but nothing else. No hints or coordinates, no way to reach him; there never was.

He set the cards down, picked up an old polaroid of him and Sam from when they were kids. Sister B had taken the picture on Nate’s eighth birthday. Sam was in the forefront of the picture, his expression too serious for a sixteen-year-old, his eyes haunted. Young Nate’s chin rested on Sam’s shoulder, his own expression open and innocent and a little bit sad.

Nate put the photo down and dug through the random bits in the locker, past a deck of cards, a broken compass. He touched the familiar thin leather cord of Sam’s necklace and fished it out, holding it up, turning the ring in his fingers. He’d worn it for years after Sam left. He couldn’t remember exactly when he’d stopped; sometime in his mid-teens, when it finally sunk in that Sam wasn’t going to come back for him. Promise broken. He’d been mad for a long time, but he understood it a little better now, at the ripe old age of twenty-one. What would he have done, if he’d been saddled with a baby brother and on the run? Nate could see how Sam might have figured that Nate was at least safe and fed with the nuns, getting an education. He’d taught Nate how to fend for himself, given him the ideology that the rich could afford to help the industrious poor, showed him how little most people paid attention. He’d instilled dreams of adventure and discovery and the big payoff.

He still could have tried, though. I would have tried.

At the heel of the usual ache, a new thought: If he was about to hit it big with Sully, why’d he take off?

Nate contemplated the ring for a moment longer, then decided. He ducked his head and slipped the cord on, the heavy ring settling against his breastbone. Sam had also taught him to always be looking for the opportunity, and not to overthink when it came along.

He dug into his coat for his phone, and Sully’s card.

*   *   *

Sully hadn’t expected the kid to walk. He’d thought for sure he’d hooked him; the way his eyes lit up, looking at the map, the shit he’d already known about the Moncadas… Nate was even nerdier about Magellan than Sam had been. Sully didn’t need the details himself, his job was to make moves, and finding Nate had seemed like a leap forward. Plus, the leverage was top-notch: finding his long-lost brother, fulfilling whatever Magellan fantasy he had going on, getting paid—what more could the kid want? Sam always said that Nate was the brains, but how smart was it to choose ripping off trust-fund douchebags over what Sully was offering? Maybe he was losing his touch. Or maybe Sam had been talking out of his ass when he’d told stories about his genius brother.

Sully smoked a cigar, waiting to see if Nate would come to his senses and turn around, then reluctantly reset his sights. He’d have to hire somebody if the kid didn’t bite, the auction was a week out.

Sighing, he poured a whiskey and took a few items out of his locked drawer, setting them on his desk next to the books. He grabbed the pictures he’d printed, spreading them across the blotter. The Augustine auction house, in all her ultramodern finery—entrances, exits, the security walkthrough, some good shots of the art handlers and some of the guards. The maintenance crew was union, but maybe one of them had a gambling problem or a kid on the way…

Sully scowled. He didn’t like bribes. Approach the wrong kind of guy and suddenly security tripled. The alternative was hired help, though, and he didn’t like that any better. Ninety-nine percent of criminals were dumb as shit, and the smart ones knew better than to trust a guy like him.

That had been the nice thing about Sam Drake. The guy had been sharp, but more importantly, invested. Sully respected the history but didn’t care about it the way Sam had, the way Nate obviously did. Those were the best people to work with, the smart idealists who had a stake in the game beyond the money. They were the ones who cared enough to go the extra goddamn mile and had the brains to figure out how. It had a nice symmetry, too. They did the puzzle-solving and Sully made the moves, eyes always on the prize.

He sipped his whiskey, gazing at a picture of one of the handlers opening the door behind the auction block. Of course, that kind of idealism always got smacked down, in the end. Youthful optimism wasn’t a state of mind that was meant to last. His own had been long gone by the time he’d hit the kid’s age… and he’d stamped out a few hopes himself along the way. Price of business. Dreams were great, but for him it was all about the gold, or the priceless statue, or the priceless vase. He procured valuable items for himself and others, often at great personal expense and risk, and he took pride in his work, but he never blinked—the prize at the end was the only thing that really mattered.

His phone rang. Sully registered the sound and his face lit up. He closed his eyes and just enjoyed the second ring. Who could that be?

Sully answered on the third ring, making himself sound half asleep. “Yeah?”

The kid didn’t mess around with small talk. “Was it there?”

Ha! Sully knew exactly what Nate was asking, but there was no point in ceding any ground.

“Huh? Who is this? What time is it?”

Nate wasn’t buying. “The captain’s journal. When Sam didn’t show up, you still went into the tomb, didn’t you?”

Sully chuckled and picked up the gently disintegrating book he’d taken out of his desk. He kept it wrapped in polyethylene, open at one end to breathe.

“Got it right here,” he said, and enjoyed Nate’s brief, stunned silence almost as much as he’d liked hearing the phone ring.

The kid tried so hard to sound casual. “So…”

God, was I ever this young?

“…where do we start?”

Sully grinned. One big step closer to that glittering, beautiful reward at the end. He arranged a meet for the next day, a few blocks from the scene of the impending crime, and was still grinning when he hung up.

The meeting was at the corner of 23rd and 5th Avenue, at the Flatiron Plaza. Nate gave himself an hour to get there, just in case, but still had a full twenty minutes to kill when he arrived. Hungry, he walked up to Madison Square Eats, got himself a couple of cheese slices, then carried his afternoon breakfast back to the rendezvous, trying to keep his expectations to a minimum. He didn’t know Sully. Just because he’d hung out with Sam, that didn’t automatically make him trustworthy. Nate promised himself that he wouldn’t agree to anything until he’d thought it through.

He has Captain Elcano’s journal, though! The thought made Nate’s heart beat faster. That journal was probably worth a million bucks, and that more than anything had convinced him that Sully thought the treasure was real—the guy could have sold the journal and made bank, but he hadn’t.

Sully was waiting when Nate got back with his pizza, wearing expensive casual. He cocked an eyebrow at Nate’s breakfast, then just tilted his head—this way—and started to walk south.

Nate followed him across 23rd and down 5th, past the Flatiron and then around the corner, heading east on 22nd. Sully hadn’t said a word, yet. He walked like any businessman, head up, steps brisk and efficient.

No small talk. Okay. Nate stacked his pizza and ate, following the older man through the shadows of bank and insurance buildings, apartments and nail salons. Giant wealth management buildings mixed with coffee shops and restaurants, hotels and boutiques and doctors’ offices. Nate focused on his pizza, figuring Sully would get around to saying something eventually. It was his show.

Sully finally slowed down in front of a securities exchange, leaned on a mailbox out front. He pulled a thin, glossy catalogue out of his jacket, opening it to a marked page.

“There’s an auction coming up,” he said, turning to Nate. “Biggest collection of Spanish Renaissance art and artifacts anywhere this century. One of the items is La Cruz de la Hermandad.”

The Cross of the Brothers? Brotherhood? Nate had gotten a C in Spanish.

He handed the auction catalogue to Nate, who wiped his hands on his jeans to take it. The second item on the first page had been circled, a photo of a shining gold Patriarchal cross, the kind with two crossbars, stacked, a shorter bar just over the main one. The endpoints flared and were tipped with rounded, cut red stones that didn’t look quite like rubies… garnets, maybe. The body and bars of the cross were delicately engraved and dotted with smaller stones, looked like turquoise or spinel, and more garnet. The gold was solid and chunky. Suggested starting bid was $200K.

“Only it’s not a cross, it’s a key,” Sully said. “A key that unlocks the chamber where the Infamous Eighteen hid the gold.”

Nate’s excitement level dive-bombed.

“Yeah, and it’s totally useless to us,” he said, handing the catalogue back to Sully. “The legend says there were two keys. One for the captain, one for the crew, so no one person could take the gold on his own. One key doesn’t do us any good.”

Smirking, Sully shook his head. “Ever get outside when you were a kid? How do you remember all this shit?”

Nate was about to officially get irritated—yes, he’d got outside, and history wasn’t shit—when Sully breezily added, “I already have the captain’s key.”

Nate’s eyes went wide. “Really? You do?” God, that was huge! Why hadn’t he just said so in the first place? “You could have told me.”

“I’m telling you now,” Sully said. “Second one’s in there. The Augustine.”

He gestured at the impressively modern building ahead on the southwest corner of the intersection, five floors of glass and textured stone. Sure enough, Augustine was lettered right by the expensive, shimmering doors. The walls were mostly glass, revealing high ceilings and outrageously expensive décor. A fashionably dressed woman walked through the pristine lobby on stiletto heels, tapping at a tablet.

“I got us on the list,” Sully said. “Very exclusive. All I need you to do is kill the power during the auction. That’ll trigger the main alarm, then I can do my thing.”

That sounded easy enough. “K. How do I kill the power?”

“Well shit, that’s up to you,” Sully said. “I’m not cutting you in for fun.”

“Speaking of which, we haven’t talked about my share,” Nate said. “I assume we’re fifty-fifty.”

Sully’s brow wrinkled like a Shar Pei puppy, eyes narrowing. “On what? The gold? Are you high? This has been years of my life. You get ten percent. And that’s me being generous.”

Off the alleged five billion, that’s… five hundred million.

Nate took a deep breath, let it out. He’d promised himself to think it through. Except… More money than he could ever spend, plus a chance to find a treasure that had been hidden and then lost for four and a half centuries. He could run a wellness check on his brother along the way, make sure Sam was safely off dodging all responsibility, as per the norm.

And I can quit my job. Today. Call Carlos and tell him that I got a better gig, effective immediately, and that his breath mints don’t work.

On the con side… well, it was illegal, and it would suck to get arrested. Morally, he was okay. The rich mostly had too much stuff, and wealth redistribution was a thing. In this particular case, though, the cross that was coming to the auction house was necessary to the discovery of real, tangible history. It seemed like a moral imperative, almost, if this second key could finally unlock the truth about Magellan’s voyage.

Also: FIVE. HUNDRED. MILLION.

So… just don’t get caught, and you’re all good.

He’d thought it through. When he looked at the Augustine again, the way he saw it had changed. Now he scanned the rooms behind the glass. Noted the security cameras through the lobby, and the single guard at the entrance. There’d be a lot more on duty for an auction.

But how many at the side door, or the fire exit, or a basement window? And who’s going to guard a maintenance room?

Nate started walking, to see more of the building, ignoring the smug look on Sully’s face.

*   *   *

The next five days blurred together for Nate, all just one big, sprawling repeat. First, wake up and work out. In addition to his free weights and bench stuff, he’d hung a heavy gym rope from his kitchenette’s ceiling and tackled it at random hours, trying not to have to kick off of the fridge. He didn’t expect to have to do anything strenuous, if all went well… but the risk of some sudden, unexpected physical activity was high, and he didn’t want to underperform in the clinch. He exercised until he was limp and dripping, then hit the shower.

Next, cereal and something caffeinated for breakfast, while he looked up information on his laptop, jotted notes as he tapped his way to relevant data. He studied schematics of electrical grids until his eyes crossed. He’d hung up parts of the floor blueprint for the Augustine on his window, printed out across six pieces of paper, the better to visualize. Daily, he added to the decoration—Post-its, pictures that Sully had given him, a detailed diagram of an auxiliary power box. He penciled routes onto the map, erased them. If he got hungry, he ate; antsy, he climbed the rope. When his brain stopped firing clearly, it was off to bed. He’d sack out reading random wikis about Spanish ships or various South Pacific island groups, and dream in the colors of faraway seas.

Next day, same. And the next. He’d taken two field trips to wander innocently past the Augustine in addition to the first walk-by, just to get a feel for its dimensions, discreetly taking photos of the doors he was considering as best exits. The power main was a no-go, it was bundled through the basement wall, but there was a breaker box on the top floor, routed into a maintenance station over some of the back offices. He’d told Sully to give him time to work out all the contingencies, and the man mostly left him alone, though he’d sent some helpful photo files of the Augustine… along with a few tantalizing shots of Captain Elcado’s journal.

The day before the auction, Nate woke up and realized he had internalized all the information he had available. He knew where to go, and how to get to it from every angle. He could visualize all the possible routes out of the building and had evaluated each carefully. There were a lot of variables he wouldn’t know until he was dealing with them—guards, staff, random rich people wandering around—but he had backups on backups. There wasn’t anything else for him to learn about the heist through research.

He didn’t head for the weights, instead grabbing a soda and his devices, flopping on the foldout couch in his little living area and opening his laptop on the coffee table. He looked up Victor Sullivan, filtering down until he found his new partner.

There were a couple of arrest charges from twenty years ago. Smuggling. Not a big shock there, but Sully had still been in his thirties, a decade-plus back. He dug deeper.

His phone dinged a text alert. Speak of the devil.

Sully didn’t waste words.

Figure it out?

Nate glanced toward his window, at the printouts and routes drawn in ink. He sent a thumbs-up, then tapped out a response.

I’ll need a nice suit, handheld sheet metal cutters.

He smiled a little, added, And a cat.

For a minute there was nothing, and then the busy-texting ellipsis scrolled out for an impossibly long time. Sully had to be writing a novel.

Finally, just a single letter appeared.

K.

Nate grinned, and set the phone down. Today he would rest, go out for breakfast, spend the afternoon watching a game and practicing his sleight-of-hand. Tomorrow, he and Sully were going to successfully liberate La Cruz de la Hermandad.

*   *   *

Sully walked in on the kid in his dressing room, trying to knot his tie and checking himself out in the three-way. Nathan Drake cleaned up pretty well; put him in a good black suit, and at a glance you’d think he was born rich. He’d slicked his hair back with some of Sully’s expensive pomade, and he had good posture. But if you looked at him a minute longer, you’d see he clearly wasn’t at home in a suit, craning against the dress shirt’s snug collar and helpless with a tie.

“Alright, we’re almost a go here,” Sully said. “Car’s downstairs.”

Nate pulled his sloppy single knot up and it was short, the tie’s tail extending below the front by a good two inches.

Sully sighed and walked over, unknotting Nate’s crappy attempt. He pulled the ends out, adjusted the distance between them. “I can’t watch you do this again.”

He quickly manipulated the dark silk into a half-Windsor, straightened the knot, and stepped back.

Nate looked down at the tie, then at the mirror. “Wow. How’d you—”

“Dad was a Navy man,” Sully said. “I could do this one-handed with my eyes shut.”

“You served too, didn’t you?” Nate asked, looking at him directly. “Dishonorable discharge.”

“You did some homework,” Sully said, not surprised. The look in the kid’s eyes wasn’t challenging, only curious.

“I flew helicopters,” he allowed. “I was preserving some artifacts from a museum in Baghdad, but I was over the max load weight. Crashed hard.”

“‘Preserving,’” Nate echoed. “You mean looting.”

Sully shrugged, and shared with the kid a keystone of his own personal philosophy. “If I didn’t take them, someone else would’ve.”

Nate chewed that over. Sully handed him the metal-cutters, a nifty little black gadget about the size of a banana. The mechanics were all in the handle, the top a rectangular casing with a thick blade that dropped down like a fish’s lower jaw. Ate right through sheet metal, sending a curling strip out of the casing’s top. Nate clicked it on and off, satisfied himself that it was charged, and slipped it into his jacket’s inner pocket.

Sully turned and looked at the white longhair cat sitting on his nice couch, watching them lazily from her chocolate-point face, darker at the muzzle and ears. He’d had to buy a litterbox and cat food for the thing, just to keep it for a couple of days. Every other time he sat down, she climbed into his lap and purred at him. He figured Nate was thinking of using it as a distraction somehow, but he hadn’t been able to guess the specifics.

“And what’s the plan with the cat?”

Nate was already walking for the door. “Oh, yeah. She’s just for you. Your life here seemed so sad.”

“Are you kidding me? I’m not going to keep—”

Nate was out in the hall and headed for the elevator.

Ha-fucking-ha! What the hell am I going to do with a cat?

Sully looked at the nameless cat. She gazed back at him with contented eyes, white fluffy tail twitching.

Sighing deeply, Sully straightened his jacket and stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind him.

They drove to the Augustine in a hired luxury sedan with leather seats and a polite, professional driver named Dan. Dan and Sully had clearly known each other for a while, and they chatted sports on the way. Well, when Sully wasn’t grumbling about the cat.

Nate felt a little weird being chauffeured but set it aside, determined to get into character. He wasn’t used to wearing suits or going to art auctions, and he had to pass as someone who did… Though he thought he’d do okay. He was an even-featured white guy in a good suit, so more than half the battle was already won. And god knew he’d spent enough time observing wealthy privilege in action.

When the Augustine’s glowing windows came into view, Sully added his own reminder: “These people can tell a fake when they see one. You have to believe the lie you’re selling—you belong here, you’re one of them.”

Nate was busy unwrapping the Bubble Yum he’d pulled out of his pants’ pocket. He popped two cubes of the pink, sweet gum into his mouth and started chewing.

“Or you can go with the Bubblicious,” Sully said, disbelief and disgust warring across his face. “Jesus.”

“Bubble Yum,” Nate corrected. “And I’m cool.”

Sully didn’t look reassured, but let it drop. He pulled a slim case out of his jacket and opened it.

“Here,” he said, handing Nate what looked like tiny, pale kidney bean. “Put this in your ear.”

An earpiece walkie talkie! How very James Bond-y.

“Use it sparingly,” Sully added.

Nate fitted it into his right ear. “You saying I talk too much?”

Sully pulled a face but didn’t answer. He took out his money clip, unfolding a couple of large bills to hand up to the driver. They had arrived across the street from the Augustine, where well-dressed men and women were piling out of their own expensive cars and filing through the front doors, all the men in suits and ties, the women in fashionable eveningwear and heels. Valets buzzed back and forth, opening car doors and handing out tickets.

“Keep it parked on 21st, Dan. Across from the south entrance,” Sully said, and Dan nodded, sliding the bills into his breast pocket.

They got out of the car and started for the front as the sedan pulled away, ducking past a speeding taxi. When they reached the walk, the excited chatter of the arriving bidders filled Nate’s ears. Nate carried his head high and tried to keep himself nice and focused on what was ahead.

“Wow. There’s a real work of art.”

Nate turned, saw Sully watching a cherry-red coupe pulling to a stop at the curb. Nate had never been a big car guy, but he knew the classics. The priceless ones, anyway.

1955, ’56 Mercedes Gullwing, 300SL. Standard Gullwings went for more than a million dollars. If it was a ’55 alloy, one had recently been auctioned for four and a half.

The sporty, gleaming roadster could have rolled off the assembly line the day before, it looked that good. The driver’s door opened, the shining metal rising out and up like a bird’s wing, and a tall, middle-aged man climbed out. He had aging-Spanish-model good looks, bronze skin, short black hair going silver, and the set jaw of someone used to getting his way.

Sully gritted his teeth. “Shit, Santiago Moncada.”

“As in the House of Moncada?” Nate stared at the guy, who was charming the valet that had stepped up to take his keys. Armando Moncada’s son and heir was one of those men who was aging incredibly well. He could have been forty or sixty, and he was all smiles and expansive gestures. He asked the valet to take care of “mi cariña”, stroking the Benz’s hood with a light hand, and handed off a fat tip. The valet made promises, nodding eagerly.

“He thinks the cross is his by birthright,” Sully said. “If he buys it before we can grab it, kiss the gold goodbye.”

Oh. Not encouraging news. The cross was second up on the bidding schedule. As soon as any item was sold, the art handlers would pack it off to a secure room for pickup by the buyer. But barring unforeseen circumstances, Nate figured he needed ten minutes, tops, to do his part.

Without another word, he and Sully headed for the doors again. As they moved into the gathered elite, Nate repeated to himself that he was superior to all other beings, that he was the richest, the best-looking, the smartest. By the time they stepped into the Augustine’s palatial lobby, he had damn near convinced himself.

*   *   *

The Augustine’s bidding floor was just off the lobby, and it was a beaut—a grand, ballroom-sized atrium dominated by its chandelier, a giant cascading waterfall of lights and chains suspended from the ceiling that swooped down to just over the first floor. Beneath it, a hundred velvet-backed chairs faced the raised platform at the room’s far end, a giant video screen above and to the left running slides of the items to be sold—Spanish paintings, jewelry, and artwork primarily from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. There were two buffet tables decorated with artfully arranged platters of expensive hors d’oeuvres, and a full open bar. Display cases along the walls—or tucked into one of the room’s multiple alcoves—showcased some of the items up for sale, and were being inspected by small groups of sharp-eyed bidders. A few staff, art handlers in red jackets, moved around with purpose. New York cocktail conversation in multiple languages filled the airy space, echoing up to the balcony railings that overlooked the bidding floor.

Sully checked his watch—still plenty of time before the start—and headed for the bar, Nate at his heels. The kid was checking out details—the guards’ positions, the security door next to one of the buffet tables—but he was doing it discreetly, and with the perfectly bland face of the terminally unimpressed. Not too bad, considering his jaw was packed with bubblegum.

Sully ordered a Manhattan to sip—he had a one-drink rule when he was working, clear head and all that—and dropped a fifty on the bar, then turned to look around the room, Nate at his side casually assessing the environment. Sully recognized a few faces—a rich widow with an art fetish, a fat hedge fund manager who moved in collectors’ circles, a prominent socialite who liked jewelry and her dumb-as-rocks husband. As expected, there were a fair number of people with some claim to Spanish ancestry, so it took him a minute to locate Moncada amid the sea of dark-haired men.

There you are. Moncada was near one of the front windows, talking to someone, a slender woman in a backless black dress who turned her head slightly and—

Oh, hell.

He’d recognize that profile anywhere. She looked good… great, in fact. She was growing out a platinum bleach job, and her dark roots set off her exotic features perfectly—wide, almond eyes and golden brown skin, high cheekbones and pouting lips. Her body was Olympic athlete quality, lean with muscle, and her dress was tight and flattering, a lot of leg showing. She wore spike heels.

She turned a bit more and spotted him. Those lying lips curved into a smile, and she blew him a kiss.

“You see that?” Nate asked, wonderingly. “The woman with Moncada, she’s flirting with me.”

“Not flirting, and not with you,” Sully said. “That’s Jo Braddock. You ever see her coming, run the other way.”

“She’s coming my way now,” Nate said, and sure enough, Braddock was gracefully striding toward them, eyes glittering, a smirky look on her perfect face.

“Then you know what to do,” Sully said, watching her, and Nate took the cue, wandering off toward the display cases. Sully kept his gaze on the incoming threat. She’d nearly killed him, last time he saw her. She wasn’t holding a weapon, so that was something.

“Victor,” Braddock purred as she closed in, her lightly accented voice warm and friendly. “Long time without the pleasure.”

“Never long enough, Jo, never long enough.”

She smiled, signaled for a drink. That smile looked playful from a distance, but up close it was razor sharp. “What’s the matter? Feelings still hurt after San Sebastian?”

“My feelings?” Sully scoffed. “You’re something else.”

“What ridiculous scheme have you cooked up this time? We both know you can’t afford the thing you’re after.”

He kept his tone light. “If I tell you, it’ll ruin the surprise.”

“You do tend to ruin everything,” she said, just as breezily, accepting a martini from the bartender, taking a small sip.

“I’m not the one working for Moncada,” he said. “That’s low, even for you.”

Braddock shrugged with a tilt of her head. “Whatever gets me to the gold.”

A practical philosophy in a highly attractive package. There’d been chemistry once upon a time, a brief, intense fling with feelings on both sides… but mistakes had been made all around. And then there was the whole attempted murder thing. The woman had no heart.

“Doesn’t matter who you hurt along the way,” he said.

She leaned in, fixing him with her startling, clear gaze. She smelled like sweet oranges, her breath a memory of taste.

“You taught me that,” she said, looking into his eyes. “And I’ll always be grateful.”

Before he could think of anything to say to that, she was walking away, moving like the trained killer she was beneath her trappings of beauty. He watched her casually join a couple of big guys by the door—a white fifty-something man built like a truck, and an even broader, taller Black man who was twenty years younger, both in fine suits, both wearing the hard, narrowed expression of paid professional muscle.

Terrific. Sully took a healthy swallow of his drink and looked around for Nate. The kid was standing by a tall, narrow display case in one of the alcoves off the main floor, undoubtedly the case with the cross… and walking up to join him was Santiago Moncada.

This was just shaping up to be a truly lovely evening. A number of people were already taking their seats, smoothing out their catalogues. Sully drained his glass, and seriously reconsidered his one-drink rule.

*   *   *

The cross was exquisite, the pictures didn’t do it justice—or maybe it was just seeing it up close and personal that made the difference, but Nate found he couldn’t look away. It was just over seven inches tall, the engravings in and around the tiny precious stones super fine and clear: a four-pointed star at the junction of the cross’s body and the lower bar, lines in a geometric pattern at the top extension. The six larger garnets at the cross’s tips seemed to glow in their setting of heavy yellow gold.

Nate realized he had company and looked up. Santiago Moncada was standing right next to him, staring at the cross with a hungry look in his eyes.

Walk away or engage? Nate hesitated a second too long, and realized he might as well dive in. Fake it ’til you make it.

“Pretty cool, huh?” he offered, because that’s what entitled Nate might say.

Moncada spared a glance at him, then went back to admiring the work of art.

“That’s a one-of-a-kind, solid gold altar crucifix, hand-crafted in Barcelona in the early sixteenth century, so yes,” Moncada said, drily. His accent was pronounced, but in a smooth, aristocratic way, and his English was perfect. “Pretty cool.”

“You know your crosses,” Nate said, letting himself fully inhabit his superiority. Just a couple of extra-rich guys, hanging out. He chewed his gum, owning it.

“My family has been looking for this one for a very long time,” Moncada said.

“That’s funny, so have I,” Nate said, and earned a longer look from the older man. A more discerning one. Nate let him look, uninterested in any lesser man’s opinion.

“You’re a collector?”

“I dabble,” Nate said. “Abstract expressionism is more my thing. But I also like crosses.”

Moncada’s expression changed, a subtle tightening here and there—and his charming aristocrat face slipped for a split second. The look he gave Nate was haughty, entitled, and deadly serious.

“I don’t dabble,” Moncada said, maintaining Alpha eye contact for a long second before continuing, his words cold and deliberate. “This cross has a tragic history. Eighteen men died trying to hold onto it. So much blood, so needlessly spilled.”

Holy shit. Nate hung on to his poker face, but barely. Behind Moncada’s eyes was the absolute imperiousness of a sociopath, protected and coddled by generations of immense wealth and power. He looked at Nate like he was an insect, not even worthy of being stepped on by his overpriced shoe.

“Ladies and gentlemen…” A cultured voice came out of the hidden, quality speakers at just the right volume, interrupting their interaction. “If you will please take your seats.”

Moncada abruptly broke eye contact and turned toward the chairs.

“Good luck to you,” he called as he walked away, the friendly charmer once more.

Shaken, Nate looked for Sully. His partner was still by the bar, watching Nate with a stony expression. His lips moved, and he spoke directly into Nate’s ear.

“Done chatting up our arch-nemesis?”

Nate automatically reached for his ear to blot out the excited rustle and chatter of the bidders. “Pretty sure he just threatened to kill me.”

“Don’t touch your ear like that,” Sully snapped, walking toward the assembled chairs. “You look like an idiot. Get a move on.”

Nate dropped his hand. He saw one of the guards start for the door he meant to go through and got ready, fresh adrenaline dumping into his veins.

Showtime.

*   *   *

Victor fucking Sullivan.

Jo Braddock kept an eye on him while she waited for the auction to start, Scotty and Hugo flanking her. They had eyes on him too, but they were also watching the crowd, checking for anyone who didn’t belong. Moncada had requested a seat near the front, and had reserved one for her, but Sully was a back-row kind of guy and she didn’t like the idea of him sitting behind her, especially not while she was wearing heels. He was a bumbler, reckless, but he had a few talents. Mostly for getting himself into trouble, and then back-stabbing whomever was closest… but that level of persistent self-interest could complicate things. She’d learned that the hard way.

She watched Moncada talking to some trust-fund baby over by the display case with the cross. Sully was right, Santiago was not one of the good guys, but he had the resources and was willing to pay for top-of-the-line everything to get what he wanted. He was ruthless, too, which she admired in a man. No point in playing if you didn’t come to win.

The auctioneer, a narrow man in a Brioni suit, stepped onto the auction platform at the front of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you will please take your seats.”

Braddock looked at Sully automatically, saw him staring toward Moncada, who had finished with the pretty boy and was heading for the chairs. Sully’s lips were moving.

Who’s he talking to? She immediately started scanning the room. There was no way Sully didn’t have some cockeyed, ill-advised plan—

There. The kid Moncada had been chatting with dropped his hand from his ear, and looked around. Was he chewing gum? She saw him focus on one of the entrance guards, who was moving toward the southern security door by one of the buffet tables.

She shot a glance at Sully, who was casually walking to the seats, then turned her full attention to the young man. Twenty-ish, Midwestern good looks, well-built. He looked vaguely familiar, something about the set of his eyes… She couldn’t place him. He fell into step behind the guard at a distance, but not overtly.

“Watch the doors,” she said.

“Aye,” Scotty said, softly. Hugo shifted his massive bulk very slightly, exhaling through his nose.

The security guard had reached the door’s keypad and was tapping in the code. The kid ambled toward him, hands in his pockets, not a care in the world. The guard opened the door and stepped through. The kid scratched his nose and tapped the closing door as he walked past it, a little pat done quickly and neatly, right by the handle.

He kept moving. The door closed, and the young man stopped at the buffet table, drawing nobody’s attention. He selected a square of something and popped it in his mouth, then grabbed two more.

Gee, where’d the gum go?

Braddock looked at her team. Scotty nodded. He was ex-special ops, retired to the lucrative end of the private sector, a hulking silver-haired tank with a neat goatee and a thick burr. Hugo had seen it too, his sharp gaze fixed on the kid. Hugo was a former boxer turned bodyguard, dark skinned with fashionable stubble. He rarely spoke but he was whip-smart, fiercely loyal, and even bigger than Scotty. She’d once watched Hugo beat a man to death with his fists. It hadn’t taken very long.

She didn’t have to say a word. Scotty wandered toward the kid, and Hugo headed for the service stairs, past the lobby. The kid was still eating, but he was undoubtedly about to head through the door he’d gummed open. She’d have liked to watch—Sully’s new baby was talented—but the boys would take care of him, and Moncada was already seated, looking around impatiently.

Braddock headed for the front, through the settling bidders, the last of the small crowd finding their chairs. Moncada was going to buy this cross, and she had some leads on the second. With his money to throw around, somebody would give up the right information… And there was no way she was going to let Victor Sullivan fuck it up, not any part of it. He’d disappointed her more than enough for one lifetime.

*   *   *

Nate ate one more of the delicate, puffy squares of cheesy goodness as he stepped away from the buffet table—just a last bite before joining his seated comrades—and then stepped to the door, opened it, lifted the gum and was through. Nothing sneaky or furtive, nice and easy.

The door was still swinging closed when he started walking down the empty hallway in front of him. He slung the chewed gum to the floor and wiped his hand on his jacket. There were staff offices to either side, a couple of closets of cleaning supplies. He figured the guard had taken the branching west corridor, that one led to a camera monitoring station. He hurried past it, ready to act the fool if anyone saw him—belligerent, embarrassed, where’s the bathroom in this place?

The stairs were to the right at the end of the hall. There was an elevator, but the guards would get an alert if it went into use. Nate stepped into the stairwell, listened—nobody going up or down—and started up, taking the steps at a jog. There were three sets of stairs in the Augustine, including the fancy ones that curled up and around the atrium, but these were the least traveled, inconveniently located at the back corner of the building.

His workouts made the long climb a breeze, though he popped a thin sweat. At the top floor he eased the door open into another corridor, this one industrial, and stopped to listen before stepping through. It was quiet up here, only a few open spaces connected by hallways lined with vents and cables, machines humming quietly.

This was going to be the tricky part. There was no good excuse for him to be up here. He’d bluff if he got caught, he had a bullshit explanation about wanting to watch the auction from the top of the atrium—there was a balconied overlook off one of the twisting halls—but it wasn’t much of an alibi, and the fake names that Sully had given to the event planners wouldn’t hold up under any real scrutiny. On the other hand, the only reason anyone would be on the top floor would be to adjust the building’s thermostat or fuss with the breakers, neither of which was necessary during an auction. There was a very good chance that he wouldn’t be bothered at all.

Nate thought he heard something in the stairwell below him, a slight echo like a single footstep. He froze for a second—Where did that come from? Someone behind me?—then solved the problem by stepping into the hall and gently closing the door. He turned left and walked quickly through the quiet corridor, which was packed with ventilation pipes and thrumming metal boxes. The atrium went all the way up through the middle of the Augustine, which meant lots of equipment was routed around the giant, open space. He hopped over a massive ventilation pipe, then another. The room he wanted was west and a little north of him. He hurried but made as little noise as humanly possible.

He passed the small offshoot that would take him to the maintenance room’s eastern entrance, off the balcony—in full view of anyone below, if they happened to look up—and hit the building’s northwest corner, turning south. Ahead on the left was the door he wanted, an unassuming slab of metal that would put him where he needed to be.

Nate arrived in front of the maintenance room door, took a deep breath, and tried the handle, ready with his picks if there was a problem. There wasn’t. The door opened into a surprisingly spacious room, walls lined with vents and pipes. Giant climate control units studded the open floor, along with a few tables and desks. Nate counted three computers up and running, including a laptop open on a wheeled table, but no one was manning them.

The auxiliary power for the Augustine was routed through a locked metal box midway along the room’s western wall, about the size of a refrigerator, the industrial gray of painted steel framing a plexi window that revealed cords and fuses. If he needed further confirmation, there were a couple of high voltage warnings slapped across the thing.

Sully’s quiet voice crackled in his ear. “Cross is up next. How we doing?”

Nate reached into his jacket, pulled out the steel-cutters. “We’re doing.”

Kicking ass and taking names, he added, but only to himself, turning the device on. He set it just over the lock on the steel panel, the cutters slicing through the thin sheet easily with a sewing machine sound, a narrow strip of metal curling from the casing. It wouldn’t take a minute to cut around the lock; he’d yank the fuse, and while chaos reigned he’d head downstairs and pop out the south exit. Assuming Sully could get his part done, they’d be riding away from here with the key before anyone even knew what had happened.

Nate tamped down his satisfaction, focusing on the task at hand. He’d congratulate himself when the cross was in their hands.

*   *   *

The first piece was a fine painting, oil on copper, by Bartolome Perez. The bidding on Our Lady of Good Counsel opened at $400K, the auctioneer gently coaxing the price up between three interested parties, then two. Santiago Moncada shifted in his seat, impatient for the second lot. Next to him, Ms. Braddock sat stiffly. She’d sent her employees to chase down a potential problem, but had assured him that all was in hand, nothing to concern himself with.

As if I might be concerned. He’d waited too long for this cross to surface. La Cruz de la Hermandad belonged to him. The rest of the world was unaware of the fact, it had been lost so long ago, but no matter; tonight, he would have it in his hands, and it would lead him to the treasure that had been stolen from his House. He’d tried to get his father interested, but the old man was losing touch with reality, talking about atonement for his life of sin. Sad, really. Armando Moncada had been a great man in his day, proud and strong, merciless to his enemies, but that time had passed. Now he was just an old man afraid to die. Santiago was the last of the Moncada line… Although once he’d secured their rightful fortune, he’d take a young wife and create a new heir.

The painting was at 580K and still going up. Moncada shifted in his seat again, annoyed, half tempted to buy it just to get to the next lot… But, of course, that would draw unnecessary attention. He could be patient when it was necessary, no matter what his father believed.

At 600K, one of the two bidders dropped out. The auctioneer called the final bid, looking for a raise, but it was done. The auctioneer clutched his small gavel and tapped it on the dais.

“Sold, for six hundred thousand,” he declared, and the slide of the painting disappeared from the big screen left of the low stage. A brilliant, glowing shot of La Cruz de la Hermandad appeared in its place, and Moncada felt a flush of excitement. Finally.

“Next up, a gorgeous piece,” the auctioneer said. “La Cruz de la Hermandad. Can we start at two hundred thousand?”

Moncada raised his hand, not bothering with the paddle in Braddock’s lap. Billionaires were always recognized at auctions.

“I have an opening bid of two hundred from Mr. Moncada,” the man said smoothly, gaze darting around the assembled bidders as someone else raised a paddle. “Make that three hundred thousand, do I have four? Now it’s four hundred thousand, five is next. Do I have five?”

Moncada put his hand up again, unconcerned with the other bidders. Whatever the cost, he would have it. He would find the hidden gold and prove to his father, once and for all, that his long-held interest in their history was more than some silly game.

*   *   *

The thin spiral of sheet metal dropped to the floor.

There! Nate swung the door to the power box open, finding the fuse he wanted at a glance—third row from the top and over two. He didn’t need to cut it, only pull the small box out of the grid.

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered, reaching for the fuse—

—and the door to the box crashed open wide. Behind it was a tall, gray-haired man in a fancy plaid three-piece suit with murder in his beady eyes. Nate backed up a step.

“Shoont a come oot to pleh wi’ ta big boyes, wee’n, cuz yer aboo tuh git a propre Sco’ish walcom.”

Nate stared at the mean-faced stranger. “I literally have no idea what you just said.”

“I said: yae shouldn’t a come oot to plee witta big boys, wee’un, cuz yer aboot tuh git a propre Scottish walcome.”

“I’m getting two or three words of this, max,” Nate said, stalling, and the Scotsman snarled, grabbed his suit jacket, and threw him across the room.

*   *   *

“… five hundred is the bid from Mr. Moncada,” the auctioneer said. “Looking for six…”

A slender, plastic-faced older woman in Dior two rows in front of Sully raised her paddle.

“There we are,” the auctioneer said. “Six hundred thousand. I have six.”

Jiminy shitmas, where’s the kid? When the gavel came down, one of the handlers would take the key out of its display case and carry it back to a locked and heavily guarded vault. There’d be no way to lift it.

“Kid?” Sully asked, unable to keep the note of desperation out of his low-pitched voice. “What’s the hold-up? You there?”

Nothing. It was the sound of weeks of preparation going down the drain.

“That’s seven hundred thousand, from Mr. Moncada,” the auctioneer said. “Do we have eight?”

Sully’s jaw clenched. Come on!

“No takers?” The auctioneer was professionally slightly disappointed. “Seven hundred it is? Seven hundred going once, going twice…”

Sully put his paddle in the air.

“There we are! Eight hundred thousand from the gentleman in back. Do I have nine?”

Santiago Moncada looked over his shoulder at Sully, his expression tightly furious. Sully gazed innocently back at him.

Moncada turned front and raised his hand again.

“Nine hundred—”

Sully’s paddle shot up, as the auctioneer’s practiced eye took in the bidders.

“—no, make that one million dollars,” the caller said happily.

Now Braddock turned in her seat, shooting a death glare at him. Sully couldn’t help a smirk. He could bid, it was a free country, and she couldn’t do a goddamn thing about it.

The auctioneer’s gaze flipped back and forth between Sully and Moncada as they raised the bid in turn, the others falling out as they got into the upper six digits.

“One point one from Mr. Moncada… Now one point two… Make it one point three… What a contest! One point four million dollars, says the other gentleman…”

Sully helplessly raised the bid, praying the kid would make his move, and soon.

*   *   *

Nate shoulder-rolled across the boxy air conditioning unit the Scotsman had tossed him over, dropping the sheet metal cutters, landing almost on his feet, but not quite. He stumbled, tie flying in his face, and the big Scot was after him in two long strides. The man’s burly arms shot out, knocking Nate to the floor in front of the laptop desk.

The Scot glowered down at him from the other side, meaty fists curled, and started to reach into his jacket.

Nate raised his leg and kicked the wheeled desk with all he had, driving it into the Scotsman’s not inconsiderable gut.

With an oof, the Scot doubled over, stuff flying off the desk. Nate was on his feet in a second, but the guy was already straightening up.

Nate ran at the gap between the Scot and a tall metal vent on the wall, pushing off the big man’s rounded shoulder with his left hand, feet going up on the vent as he flew past. The Scot stumbled forward.

Nate didn’t look back, running for the door, vaulting over the air conditioner in his way. He was reaching for a GUN, get OUT!

Sully was talking in his ear, but Nate couldn’t hear him, too fixated on surviving and the pounding of blood in his head. He could hear the Scot lumbering after him, and Sully was just going to have to figure something out. Nate would rather survive than pull this off.

He hit the door and was through it in a flash, turning right, back the way I came, around the corner and over a vent pipe, Sully’s silk tie flapping into his eyes—

—and a giant stepped out of the balcony hall, blocking his path, a man with muscles on muscles. Nate didn’t slow down, he’d run the guy down or maybe edge past—

The giant plucked him out of the air and tossed him.

The world spun and Nate’s back hit the ceiling, hard. He hit the floor hard, too, just an instant later, a few steps into the balcony hall. Half his air whooshed out of his lungs. Stunned into brain lock, his body instinctively tried to crawl away.

*   *   *

“Mr. Moncada makes it an even two million dollars!” the auctioneer crowed. The bidders were rustling happily, pleased by the competition.

“I don’t have all night, kid,” Sully whispered urgently, and raised his paddle.

“Now it’s two point one million…”

Braddock leaned in to Moncada, whispering something. Moncada nodded, and Braddock stood and slipped off to the side. Moncada put his hand up again.

“Now two point two million…”

Sully’s hand went up, his guts in a knot.

“Two point three million! Mr. Moncada, will you counter?”

Moncada glared at Sully again, studying him… and then crossed his arms.

Oh, shit! Sully’s mouth went dry. He’s not supposed to fold!

“Nothing more? Mr. Moncada, you’re willing to let it go? Two point three it is, then. Two point three going once. Two point three going twice…”

“He’s calling my bluff, kid, you’re killing me,” Sully breathed, the full horror of his situation crashing over him as the auctioneer raised his gavel.

Moncada’s arm went up, three fingers out.

“Hold on—Mr. Moncada goes right to three!” The caller couldn’t hide his delight. “Three million dollars! What says the other gentleman? Will anyone challenge?”

Moncada looked back at Sully, mouth a tight line. Sully didn’t dare twitch, trying to hide the screaming frustration he felt. Moncada saw it in his eyes, though, and his lips curled into a small, victorious smile.

*   *   *

Nate scrabbled farther into the hall, the sound of the auctioneer’s voice growing louder. He managed a deep breath and his thoughts rebooted. Back into the maintenance room through the east side, both guys would be behind him and he could circle through, head to the stairs at the front.

He crawled to his feet and stumbled ahead, risking a look back. The MMA fighter behind him was following but not in any hurry, radiating waves of macho, beat-down competence.

The hallway opened out to the left, a waist-high wooden railing spanning the length of the long balcony that overlooked the bidding floor. The top of the giant light sculpture cast strange shadows across the railing, the giant metal supports too far away to reach, but the east door to the power room wasn’t twenty feet ahead, he would—

The door he wanted swung open, and out stepped Scotty McScotterson, straightening his ugly suit. Blocking Nate’s exit strategy with his big barrel-chested body.

Mr. MMA was right on his heels, the Scot was dead ahead. Nate was, in a word, completely fucked.

*   *   *

“Three million going once… three going twice…”

Sully realized that Braddock was walking down the line of chairs over on the right, headed his way, a killing smile on her own cruel mouth. No doubt she’d offered to kill him for Moncada. She’d do it, too, slide the creepy little Indonesian blade she always carried right across his throat.

“Cut the power, kid! You gotta do something now!”

*   *   *

The big men closing in, Sully hissing in his ear, Nate jumped onto the railing and launched himself at the massive light fixture hanging over the atrium.

His desperately clutching arms missed the support he was aiming for. He was flying high—and then he was dropping, falling fast into the hanging mass of lights.

Nate snatched at the bars of light, fingers sliding over burning tubes, and managed to catch the end of one. He grabbed it with both hands, swinging into a dozen hanging chains.

The light burned but he didn’t dare let go as the dozens of suspended lights clanged together like wind chimes. Metal shrieked, glass shattered, and Nate’s sweaty hands started to slide.

*   *   *

Sully looked up along with everyone else, his mouth falling open. The kid was hanging off the chandelier, three stories up. Chains and light bars swung wildly.

“That was definitely something,” Sully said, voice lost amid the gasps and shrieks of the bidders. Glass bars from the sculpture were dropping like bombs, shattering on the pristine floor. Everyone was out of their seats in a second, stepping on each other, knocking over chairs to get out from under the catastrophe about to happen.

The Augustine’s main alarms went off, sirens blaring, safety lights flashing along the walls. Amid the sudden mass exodus for the front door, the red-coated staff and a handful of guards had moved toward the display cases, following standard lockdown procedure.

“And whoomp, there it is,” Sully muttered, on his feet and heading for the alcove where the cross was waiting. He used the crush of fleeing bidders to take off his jacket, reverse it, and slip it back on. He’d paid a good and discreet tailor to make the jacket, but he’d pinned the Augustine staff name tag on himself. In the time it took him to cross the room, he’d become an employee.

More glass shattered, a metallic groaning from the giant fixture adding to the chaos. Sully caught a glimpse of Braddock scanning the stumbling rich people, looking for him, but then it was work-time, and he put her out of his mind.

An old guy was taking La Cruz de la Hermandad out of its display case, a guard standing close by, watching the mob freak out.

“Hey, Seth,” Sully said, glancing at the man’s name tag to confirm. He’d done his homework. “Addison told me to get that to the vault, pronto.”

Seth had just finished putting the cross into the velvet-wrapped foam of its silver transport case. He looked up, barely glancing at Sully’s face, his gaze finding the name tag—and he handed the case to Sully, just like that.

Sully nodded a thanks and walked away, following another handler toward the security door. The handler tapped a code and went through… and Sully kept right on walking, heading for the service corridor past the lobby.

*   *   *

Nate let go of the burning light as he slid down, sweeping his arms through the spaced chains, grabbing three of them together a few feet down. The bars of light they supported smashed below. Rich people pointed and gasped and ran for cover. Nate’s dress shoes scrabbled for purchase, but the chained lights swung out from under him—and he could hear more metal bending and tearing overhead, the sculpture wasn’t made to bear so much extra weight—

The chains he held gave way in a group, dropping him, crashing him into more burning, swinging lights.

No no no—!

He clutched urgently at the collapsing chains, tried to dig into them, wrap himself around something, but it was no good. He headed down in fits and starts, every chain breaking free, nothing but exploding lights under his feet. It was an ugly, destructive slide, the atrium dimming as bulbs burst, as the fantastic waterfall of light disintegrated into a swinging mass of crumpling metal.

Suddenly, there was nothing under his feet, his fancy shoes kicking air. A woman shrieked. He managed to grab on to one of the lower bars, and that broke free, too, and then he was falling. Oh shit, I’m—

Before he could even think dead, he hit the floor in a graceless heap, surrounded by broken glass and hot chain. A small crowd immediately gathered around him, reaching for him, random cultured voices asking if he was okay, asking what had happened. He sat up, adrenaline pounding, looking for Sully.

There he was, wearing one of the art handlers’ jackets, walking for the security door past the lobby. He carried one of the Augustine’s stainless transport cases and hadn’t even slowed down to watch Nate’s wild descent to the first floor.

“Hey, where are you going?” Nate whispered.

Sully stopped and turned, met Nate’s gaze for just a second from across the room.

“Only one rule in this game, kid,” Sully said, his voice cool. “Don’t get caught.”

Sully turned and disappeared through the security door. Leaving Nate surrounded, and utterly alone.

*   *   *

It was too bad about the kid, but Sully had the key and the exit was in sight—an employee entrance at the building’s northwest corner. A couple of staff hurried past, but no one was watching him; the vault was ahead and to the right, down a hall, the exit to the left. Fifty feet to go, he was free and—

Jo Braddock stepped in front of him, and in a single, graceful move had her curved knife pressed to his throat, his back to one of the pillars in the empty hall.

Karambit, he remembered randomly. The creepy little talon of metal, cold and sharp against his neck, was a karambit.

“What a plan,” she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Even more ridiculous than I could have imagined.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s going pretty well so far,” Sully said.

“I think that belongs to me,” she said, the pressure from the knife increasing just the tiniest bit.

Sully held out the case, their hands touching briefly as she took it from him, her greedy eyes shining… and that was when the guard appeared ahead, coming from the vault area, two more guards right behind him.

Thank god.

“Took you guys long enough!” Sully shouted. “She’s trying to steal the cross!”

Braddock’s jaw clenched. She lowered the knife and turned to face the trio, all of whom had their hands on their sidearms.

“Drop the case and step back,” the first guy said.

Braddock bent her knees, set the case on the floor gently. She raised her free hand, still holding her knife in the other, letting it dangle from its retention ring off one slender finger. The guards edged forward, bristling with authority.

“I’ll get this where it belongs,” Sully said, stepping past her, scooping up the case. “Good luck,” he added, and then he was walking away from her and past the guards. The trio were still moving in, convinced they could handle a lone woman without resorting to violence.

Poor dumb bastards.

He heard the first guy go down, heard the shocked, strangled cry and the thud of a falling body. Sully reached the T at the end of the corridor and glanced back, saw Braddock dancing silently between the two standing guards, knife flashing, blood flying. The men grunted and wheezed and blocked, but they didn’t stand a chance, not against her.

The exit to his left was unmanned. Sully walked through it, the sound of the deadly melee falling away behind him. The brisk night air felt like victory.

*   *   *

Some of the nice rich people helped Nate to his feet, brushing glass off him, exclaiming over his surprise drop-in. The one-of-a-kind light sculpture was ruined, but relieved of his weight, it had finally stopped groaning and crashing. Nate saw a pair of security guards moving in and got back into character, fast, looking up at the heavily damaged fixture with a scowl.

One of the guards fixed him with a hard look. “We’re going to have to ask you a few questions.”

“You want to question me?” Nate spluttered, deeply offended. “Are you serious? I want to question you. Better yet, I’m going to let my lawyers ask the questions, starting with who installed those railings?!”

He gestured toward the ceiling expansively. “Are they designed to make you fall? Seriously, look at them!”

Both of the guards and most of the remaining bidders looked up, stepping away from him for a better view—and Nate took the opportunity to stalk away toward the main exit, the very embodiment of angry self-righteous litigiousness, mumbling furiously under his breath. How dare they, he could have been seriously injured, his lawyers were going to dance on the Augustine’s grave…

Nobody stopped him as he fumed his way right out the door.

*   *   *

Sully put the case down just long enough to lose the jacket, dropping it on the sidewalk at the corner of the auction house. His gaze darted around, watching for anyone in a uniform, but all he could see was a scattering of bidders milling around by the front door.

He picked up the case and walked quickly to the corner, not running, not doing anything that would draw attention. He turned onto 21st and picked up the pace a bit, spotting the sedan idling at the curb. He hurried to the car, shot another look around—nobody—and opened the back door, sliding into his seat with the priceless case on his lap. As soon as the door latched, Dan was pulling away into light traffic.

Sully turned his head—and there was Nate in the seat next to his, glaring, his cheeks flushed, his hair disheveled.

How?

“Surprised to see me?” Nate asked, bitterly.

Actually, yeah, but no point in making this awkward. The kid had shaken off his fall and gotten out ahead of Sully. Good for him.

“Proved yourself again, kid,” he said. “That was some swan dive you took.”

“Another one of your tests?” Nate asked, shaking his head. “I don’t think so. You were just going to leave me there. Unbelievable.”

Sully bushed off the kid’s anger; everything had worked out and the job was done. He opened the case and took out the heavy cross, marveling at the weight of it in his hand. “Wouldn’t do any good having us both locked up. I had the cross.”

“How about I hold onto it,” Nate said, and held out his hand.

Sully was reluctant to give it up, but the kid just glared at him, waiting. Sighing, Sully handed it over.

“What, you don’t trust me?”

“That’s a joke, right?” Nate snorted, taking the jeweled artifact, but he settled a little once he was holding it.

“Take us to Teterboro, Dan,” Sully called up. The one decent pilot he still knew slept on his plane since his wife had kicked him out last year, at Teterboro. They could charter a flight out for tomorrow. They’d want to pack up some stuff, and he was going to have to do something about the stupid cat…

He looked at Nate, who was studying the cross. “Unless you want to get dropped somewhere else?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” The kid glared at him again, and Sully saw the newborn suspicion in his youthful gaze, the reassessment of Sully as a guy who shouldn’t be trusted.

Better late than never.

“Sorry, Sully,” Nate said. “I’m all in.”

The twin-engine buzzed over the open ocean in the dark, fighting a headwind in mostly gentle dips and bobs, though Nate was glad he hadn’t eaten big before the flight. Nate was crammed into his seat surrounded by zipped, locked duffel bags, the entire back of the plane crammed with them. He had the translation for Elcano’s journal propped on the bag in the seat next to his, the journal itself in his lap, and he started through the pages for a second time, absently touching Sam’s ring while he read.

Sully finally stepped out of the cockpit. He’d been up front with the grizzled pilot since they’d filled up at St. John’s. There’d be another refueling in the Azores, then they’d be on their way to Spain.

“When you said we were flying private, I had something different in mind,” Nate said.

“Yeah, well, you spend too much time on Instagram,” Sully said. “We’re smuggling a stolen artifact out of the country. You take what you can get.”

“Do I even want to know what’s in these bags?”

Sully gestured toward the front. “Taglin doesn’t ask how I make my living, and I don’t ask him. It’s why we made it in the Navy as long as we did.”

“Real comforting,” Nate said.

Sully opened a mini fridge by the front seat and took out a handful of tiny bottles. Nate went back to the translation, instantly back into Elcano’s story.

Sully plopped down across from him. “Some crazy shit in there, right?”

“This totally confirms the legend,” Nate said. “Magellan found tons of gold in the Philippines. The warrior-chief Lapu-Lapu branded him a thief… Well, that and Magellan was trying to convert them all into Catholics. There was a huge battle. Magellan was killed on the beach.”

There was a drawing of the fight in the journal itself, beside a sketch of Lapu-Lapu. Standard history books told that part of the story, about Magellan’s death. When he landed in the Philippines, Magellan converted a number of the island peoples to Christianity, but the Mactan had resisted. Magellan took fifty armed men to their island to force the issue, where over a thousand unhappy Mactans were waiting. Game over.

That’s where it gets interesting, though. “The captain says from that moment on, they were cursed,” Nate continued. “Out of five ships, one made it back. They hid the gold in Barcelona and told the Moncadas the trip was a bust. Then, one by one, the eighteen survivors started dying.”

“Tortured and murdered by Santiago Moncada’s ancestors,” Sully said.

“But none of them gave up the gold,” Nate said. Which was pretty amazing, in and of itself. Magellan had set out with five ships and a crew of two hundred and seventy, give or take. A single ship, the Victoria, had returned with only a handful of survivors. After all they’d been through, beating the odds to be the last guys standing, some Moncada or other had taken them out, one at a time. Elcano had gone back out to sea before they could get to him, finally dying of malnutrition in the mid-Pacific… still believing that he’d make it back to Spain, to retrieve the gold that so many had died to protect.”

“Any bright ideas on how we use those keys?” Sully asked.

Nate shuffled the transcript pages, finding the one he’d already dog-eared. “The captain wrote, ‘The path begins in Barcelona, where the keys turn into pine.’ And there’s a sketch of a pine tree…”

He picked up the journal carefully, opened it, held it up. The stylized drawing didn’t look like a pine tree, too round across the top, but it was labeled as such.

“So, I guess we’re looking for a tree,” he said.

Sully drained the small bottle he was holding, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “That’s your expert analysis? I got that far on my own.”

Oh, whatever. Nate had just read the damned thing for the first time, Sully could give him a minute or two. They had the keys and were on the trail, that was what mattered. Nate went back to reading as the plane gave a sickening swoop forward, and Sully twisted the cap off another bottle.

*   *   *

After they had refueled, Sully had napped his way to Spain, the plane landing at just after nine in the morning, local time. He woke up with a nasty headache and a big hit to his wallet, after a couple of El Prat workers decided they wanted more look-the-other-way money. Taglin took care of it, but Sully had to reimburse him. Sully texted back and forth with Chloe Frazer during the landing and the subsequent worker negotiations, finally getting her to agree to a meeting an hour out. Lucky for them she was still in Barcelona; she hopped around a lot. She’d ignored the first couple of texts but got interested when he let her know he had his hands on the second cross.

Chloe picked an open, public space for the meet, on the terrace atop the MNAC, Barcelona’s national art museum. At least it was only about twenty minutes from the airport. He and the kid got a cab and headed northeast, Nate rubbernecking at the architecture along the way, a heady mix of Gothic and Gaudí, Sully wishing the cab had a decent air conditioner. Barcelona, as always, was murderously hot.

The cab let them out by the big fountain that fronted the Meseu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya. The MNAC was a giant, sprawling castle with spires and domes, real artsy, surrounded by pillars and statues and fountains. They climbed the endless stone steps leading to the entrance, bought tickets, and headed for the roof. Scores of tourists snapped pictures of the view and wandered the maze of pathways that overlooked the city.

The view on the way up was nice, Barcelona laid out in all her shimmering, sunbaked glory, but Sully’s headache wasn’t responding well to the brutal heat. He looked at the kid, expecting to see him awestruck by the grand vista, but Nate had his head buried in his phone.

“How long do pine trees even live?” Nate asked, hitching his backpack up on his shoulder.

“Longer than you’d think,” Sully said. He’d looked it up after he’d had the journal translated. “Up to a thousand years.”

“If it hasn’t been bulldozed, struck by lightning, or turned into toothpicks,” the kid said, still squinting at his phone. “Bad shit happens to trees.”

“You have a point there,” Sully said, and pointed at the terrace bar’s courtyard. “Chloe said to meet her down there.”

They walked down to the terrace that overlooked long slopes of rounded, red-clay tiles, and leaned against a railing. They’d only been there a minute before Sully saw Ms. Chloe Frazer striding toward them. “Okay, there she is.”

Nate was already staring. Even if Chloe hadn’t been attractive—and she was, she was tall for a girl, with a slender, athletic build, and the rich golden skin and nearly-black hair of indigenous India, plus big eyes and a pretty face—it was the confidence she radiated that made people look twice. Australia was her adopted home, and she had fully embraced the adventurous Aussie stereotype, a top artifact procurer and dealer in her own right and not even thirty. Plus, Chloe didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of her, ever, and what was more attractive than that?

On the other hand, she looks kinda pissed. Her expression was grim as she marched toward them, a sultry breeze ruffling her shoulder-length hair. She wore a short dark-red cotton dress, a thin black leather jacket, and boots. A casual, colorful cross-body bag was slung across one hip. Not a high heels kind of gal, Chloe.

“Anything you need in Barcelona, Chloe Frazer can get it,” Sully said. “I didn’t tell her about you yet, but she’ll be cool. Hey, Chloe—”

She stopped in front of Nate. “Who the fuck are you?”

Nate blinked, startled from whatever dumb daydream he’d been entertaining, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. “Nate. My name’s Nate. I’m… um, a friend of Sully’s.”

“Sully doesn’t have friends,” she said, assertively. “I should know, I’m one of them.”

Sully raised his hands. “That’s not true, people love me. Now what’s with the spy games? Why couldn’t we meet at the house?” Chloe kept a handful of “safe” houses that spanned the globe, including a nice upstairs apartment in the Gothic Quarter. She did a lot of business in Spain.

Chloe had finally turned her fierce gaze on him. “I was making sure you weren’t followed.”

“Don’t think I can spot a tail?” Sully was offended.

“I’ve been on you since the airport,” Chloe said.

“Shit, really?” It was Sully’s turn to blink. “All the way from the airport?”

“Look, whatever,” Chloe said. “You’re here. Question is, why is he here?”

Nate was getting annoyed. “Why are you here?”

“Chloe has the other key,” Sully offered, before Chloe decided to take offense.

“What?” Now Nate was glaring at Sully, too.

“Did I not mention that?” Sully asked.

“No,” Nate said. “You said you had it.”

“I have access to it,” Sully said, and then hit them with the good news. “We’re all gonna be partners on this thing.”

Chloe had shifted around to stand next to Nate, and they both stared at him like he was crazy. They’d warm to the idea, though. Chloe surely still had her key, and they had the second one, it was a no-brainer—

“No,” Chloe said, firmly. “We’re not.” She glanced at Nate. “Word to the unwise—everything out of this one’s mouth is an exaggeration, a half-truth, or an outright lie.”

Chloe looked back at him. “See ya, Sully.”

Without another word she walked away, headed for where the terrace curved around one of the museum’s towering spires.

“C’mon, Clo!” Sully called. “She’ll come back. She has to.”

“She’s right,” Nate said. “It’s like you’re allergic to telling the truth.”

Sully didn’t answer, watching Chloe get smaller, a spring in her nimble step. “I don’t think she’s coming back.”

That doesn’t make sense. One key was useless, she knew that, and without them she couldn’t—

She was rounding the corner, stepping out of sight behind a pitch of red tile, when it hit him like a gut-punch.

“Where’s the cross?”

“In my bag,” Nate said.

“Check your bag,” Sully said, fear lending his voice an edge. “Do it.”

Nate unslung his pack and stuck his hand inside, then looked up in horror.

“It’s gone,” he said, then shoved the bag into Sully’s hands and took off running after her. Sully started for the closest set of stairs heading down, blaming his headache for forgetting that, above all else, Chloe Frazer was a thief—and a damned good one.

*   *   *

Chloe made it out of their sight and broke into a run, cutting east and then north through the labyrinth of rooftop walkways. Late morning was prime tourist time, and there were plenty of strolling bodies on the paths. All the better to lose herself in.

Both keys! She allowed herself a grin and hopped a railing, cut across another walkway, vaulting a short brick wall that dropped to a lower terrace. Sully was a fool. Nothing new there, but the boy he’d brought along hadn’t even noticed the lift. How embarrassing for both of them—

She heard running footsteps above and behind her, and picked up her pace. She’d parked illegally next to the grand Montjuic fountain at the base of the MNAC’s brick stairs; all she had to do was get to her SUV and back to the house, lock the door, and report to the policia that two deranged stalkers had threatened her life.

Gotta get there first, though. Focus!

A vendor pushed his cart into the pathway she was running, near the up escalator that was spitting tourists out on the roof. Chloe zigged around the cart and leapt onto the escalator, feet barely touching the moving steps. She hurtled across and over another railing, risking a look back.

Shit! The kid, Nate, was right on her tail. He charged over the escalator, tourists shouting at him.

Chloe had reached one of the complex’s waterfall fountains and she dropped down to its brick railing, the thickness of a balance beam. Water burbled over the long, low step under her feet, emptying into a shining blue pool a few meters below. She started across, automatically dropping her center of gravity, her steps quick and light.

Behind, Nate landed on the fountain’s lip and started after her, wheeling his arms for balance. When she heard the resounding splash a beat later, she grinned again, and kept going, headed for the descending granite blocks that would take her to ground level. With Nate out of the picture she only had Sully to worry about, and she’d surely left him in the dust. He was in above-average shape, but he had to be pushing fifty and liked his cigars too much to be an immediate threat.

Both keys! Her heart sang.

She dropped down the blocks with ease, saw her souped-up Hyundai still parked off to the left of the Montjuic, windows down, not even a ticket on the dash. She hurtled past the four Ionic columns that marked the lower steps to the ex-palace and down the stairs, gaze fixed on her car, keychain already in her hand.

She unlocked the door, threw herself in and hit the starter, out of breath and sweating, giddy at just how easy it had been—

“You don’t know where you’re going!”

Chloe looked up, saw Nate standing at her window, dripping wet. His thick hair was plastered to his forehead, his expression urgent. He was gulping for air, splattering her windshield with fountain water.

“With the keys,” he gasped. “You’re looking for a tree, aren’t you?”

“Piss off,” Chloe said, and revved the engine. He was blocking her, but would almost certainly move if she hit the gas. Or not, but whatever.

“The Eighteen were willing to wait for years to go back for the gold,” Nate said, talking fast. “They’d never pick a tree as a marker, they would’ve picked something more permanent.”

“You’re full of shit,” Chloe said, just as Sully came huffing and puffing into the scene carrying Nate’s bag, face alarmingly red.

“Okay then, go,” Sully panted. “If you know where to use the keys, you don’t need us.”

He nodded at the younger man, who hesitated, then stepped back from her window.

Go, just go, you’ve got the keys, you’ll figure it out! Chloe shifted into drive, but much as she wanted to, she didn’t step on the gas pedal. Of course it was a tree …

Except. A tree as a marker never made sense to her, either. Sully’s new friend had voiced her own misgivings.

“If it’s not a tree, what is it?” she asked.

Nate had already caught his breath, mostly, though Sully still wheezed like a fish out of water. Knowing Sully, he was hungover.

“At the auction, Moncada called it an ‘altar crucifix,’” Nate said. “I didn’t think about it then, but it means the cross was originally made to stand on an altar. In a church.”

“Which church?” Chloe and Sully both asked at the same time. Apparently, this was news to Sully, too… It seemed that Nate knew enough about Sully to keep some of his theories to himself.

Nate held out his hand to Chloe. “If you want to get the gold, we’re gonna have to trust each other.”

Chloe didn’t trust anybody but herself… But Sully was a known quantity, if fundamentally dishonest, and Nate knew where to go. Getting full access to Elcano’s journal wasn’t anything to joke about, either. A temporary alliance could move her to the head of the pack, and it wasn’t like she wouldn’t have options, farther along.

Sighing, she reached into her bag for the cross and handed it over.

*   *   *

Nate told Chloe to head for the Gothic Quarter—the Barri Gotic, according to his phone, which he wasn’t even going to try to pronounce—and she took them roughly northwest, past streets of massive, ancient medieval structures mixed with colorful Modernist buildings, shops and houses scattered between. Beautiful… but after he changed his shirt, Nate mostly just scrolled on his phone, learning what he could about their destination. Sully rode shotgun and tried to chat with Chloe on the way, acting like they were old friends, but she treated him more like an annoying little brother, her responses short and sarcastic, delivered in her charming Australian accent. Other than to ask for clarifications on directions, she didn’t talk to Nate at all.

Nate told her to take a turn and Chloe finally snapped at him. “I know the area, so why don’t you just tell me where we’re going?”

“Uh, the… Placa del Pi,” Nate stuttered.

Chloe turned to look at him, her gaze lighting up. “Of course! God, I didn’t even think of it!”

“Think of what?” Sully asked.

Chloe shook her head and stepped on the gas.

“What are you talking about?” Sully looked back at Nate, brow furrowed, but Nate just shook his head too, stifling a smile. They’d be there in a few minutes, and he had to admit, it felt good to know something that Sully didn’t.

Nate saw the church’s bell tower from a few blocks away, a tall octagon of weathered brick rising from a handsome Gothic cathedral. The solid block of ornately decorated church and the few buildings near it were surrounded by gardens and open space. Chloe pulled into a small lot and they all got out, gazing up at the cathedral. A huge stained-glass rose window was set high over the massive arched doorway. Tourists walked around on the dusty brick placa in front of the entrance, snapping pictures in the midday heat. The church had been built in the late 1400s, had been damaged and rebuilt many times over the centuries, but had always been Santa Maria del Pi.

“Saint Mary of the Pine,” Nate said, for Sully’s benefit, although there was a sign right outside the church with the English translation. And the symbol on the bricks behind it was confirmation. Nate saw it and his heart skipped a beat.

“This has to be it,” Sully said. “Kid, you’re a genius.”

“Genius is a stretch,” Chloe said.

Sully pulled Elcano’s journal out of his bag, gently opening it to one of the acid-free bookmarks.

“Look at this,” he said, holding up the journal. The tree that the long-dead captain had drawn was exactly the same as the one on the sign.

Chloe looked convinced, but not necessarily happy about it. Maybe because she hadn’t thought of it herself. Nate had figured it out while they’d been waiting to meet her, though he hadn’t been a hundred percent until he’d seen the stylized little tree.

“I’ll go see when we might have a private look inside,” she said, and started across the wide expanse of cobbled gray brick toward the open doors. A couple of wizened nuns were standing outside, chatting with tourists. Nate shuddered inwardly, focusing on Chloe. She walked like a badass, long strides, head up, reddish highlights from the bright sun cropping up in her dark hair. She had to be in her twenties still, not much older than him. She was pretty—beautiful, even—but it was the way she carried herself that had caught his eye.

“Don’t even think about it,” Sully said. “Chloe Frazer is not to be trusted.”

Nate felt caught out but didn’t look away. She was talking to one of the nuns now, smiling, nodding her head, tucking her hair behind one delicate ear…

Sully’s words sank in, and Nate frowned. “You’re going to cut her out.”

“Didn’t want to cut her in,” Sully said. “She had the other cross, so I had no choice.”

Chloe started back toward them, and Sully clammed up. Nate managed to lose the frown as she approached, but wasn’t sure he liked Sully’s plan. If they found the gold, and that was a big if, there’d be more than enough for all of them. And as far as trust went… yeah, she’d lifted the cross off them, but Sully had ditched him at the auction.

“There’s a midnight Mass tonight,” Chloe said. “Tomorrow’s the earliest we can poke around. After closing, of course.”

They turned back to the SUV, Sully already talking about supplies they needed to pick up, Chloe cracking a joke about having a sleepover. Nate found himself thinking about trust, and it occupied his thoughts for quite a while.

The headline in El Periódico told the story by itself: Billionaire Moncada Apologizes, Joins ‘Giving Pledge’, Commits to Give Fortune Away. Below the headline was a picture of Armando Moncada, his chin up, his thinning silver hair slicked back. He looked old and defiant and somehow brave, too, which was entirely untrue. Santiago Moncada saw the story at breakfast and had immediately cleared his schedule for the day, driving his Gullwing to their building and cursing all the while. On the way, he called Jo Braddock and told her to meet him there.

The Moncada excavation was in full swing, the soaring glass-and-iron building that Armando had built three decades prior now just an expensive topper to his current passion: excavating the Roman ruins beneath. Barcelona had once been Barcino, a Roman outpost. Vestiges were all around them: crumbling border walls, the columns at Temple Roma D’August, even the grid layout of the Barri Gotic… But so much more lay under their modern city. Barcelona had the most extensive subterranean Roman ruins that had ever been found, tunnels and homes and even factories. Armando had already spent a fortune on the excavation beneath their business headquarters, winning acclaim from the media and local politicians; a gift to their heritage, he called it, and Santiago had been proud of the work. But all he saw today was his father pouring money into a dusty hole.

Santiago carried the damning newspaper into the building, through the once pristine lobby where family portraits still hung on the walls in gilded frames. Now they were covered with grit from the excavation. The cleaners couldn’t keep up. He walked through the open gate at the east edge of the dig, where the floor fell away, revealing a crumbling town below that spread out from their building and west, into the neighboring lot. He ignored the worker who tentatively held out a hardhat, ignored the uniformed diggers armed with brushes and hammers who scurried out of his path, as was appropriate. Wasn’t it his name on the building?

Santiago found his father on one of the main catwalks that ran over the north end of the open dig, talking to his advisors, gesturing at the stone walls that rose from the dry soil below. A dozen-plus workers picked and clanged around the rocks in the vast, sprawling pit, ran small, noisy suction hoses over the sour dirt.

When he stepped onto the walk, Armando shot him a look while still talking, his eternally sharp gaze commanding his son to wait.

Fuming, Santiago leaned against the railing and reread the story of his father’s madness. When the advisors walked away a minute later, Armando raised a hand and beckoned him over.

Santiago gritted his teeth at the imperious gesture and marched toward him, struggling to keep his voice down.

“You said we were going to discuss this,” he said, holding up the paper.

Father looked out over the dig. “I changed my mind. I’m allowed.”

“‘Our family has sinned’?” Santiago’s hand shook, the paper trembling. “What gives you the right to shame us like this?”

“Our family has participated in the most shameful chapters in our history,” Armando said. “What is that, if not sin?”

Father waved at the dusty portraits watching over them from the lobby’s eastern wall. “They’re not heroes, they’re villains. Our fortune is dipped in blood.”

“And giving it all away will erase the stain?”

His father’s jaw stuck out. “It’s a start.”

He’d meant to stay calm, but the arrogance on Armando’s face was too much.

“It’s not yours to give, you built none of it,” Santiago hissed, pointing at the same paintings his father had so casually dismissed. “They did. But you enjoyed all of it, didn’t you?”

Armando Santiago had worked hard managing their empire but had easily spent what he’d earned, many times over. A long, full life of indulging every whim, servants at his beck and call, traveling, expensive things, beautiful women—using the Moncada fortune for whatever he liked. And now that he was dying, he wanted to wash his hands of the money, pass through the needle’s eye. Leaving his own son, his future grandchildren, and their progeny penniless.

His father looked at him with open disdain. “I should have cut you off years ago. Forced you to make something of yourself. Instead, you spend your life chasing after gold that never belonged to us. Gold our family stole.”

Armando drew himself up and walked away, head high.

Always the last word, eh Papa? That sanctimonious, hypocritical bastard. Santiago watched him step off the catwalk at the excavation’s far end and disappear into the south hall that led back outside. He wanted to scream, wanted to break something, but he’d been dismissed. His own father would throw him away as easily as he gave away their fortune, their name. His name.

He turned back for the front door, thinking furiously of what he could say or do to stop his father, a press release isn’t a contract, he can recant—

—and he saw Jo Braddock standing in their lobby, flanked by her men. As always, she looked cool and dangerous, although he’d been singularly unimpressed by her performance so far.

He took a breath and forced his father out of his mind, controlling his anger via iron will. When he was ready, he raised his hand and beckoned her to join him. She stepped out onto the platform, her men hanging back. He would handle family business later; for now, he needed to ensure that his own business was well in hand.

*   *   *

Moncada had told them to meet at his building, of course, a not-so-subtle reminder of who was in charge. With his name plastered across the structure in letters a meter high, that was hard to miss. Braddock didn’t mind, she understood men like him, the kind of men created by immense wealth: straight narcissists with strangely delicate egos, always seeking to impress even as they declared their superior worth at every opportunity.

She and her team walked into the busy and extensive excavation that the Moncadas had financed, just in time to witness an exchange between the patriarch and his heir, standing on one of the catwalks over the dig. Armando Moncada walked away from the terse discussion, a look of disgust on his face… and Santiago was obviously furious, face red, shoulders up, fists clenched. Something to do with Moncada Senior announcing that he was going to give away their inheritance, presumably; she’d seen it on her newsfeed just after they’d landed. Tough luck for Santiago, although getting to the hidden gold would certainly mitigate the loss.

Santiago turned, snarling, and saw her waiting, Scotty and Hugo at her side. He took a breath, face working like he was trying not to vomit, then mastered himself. In the space of a few seconds he’d regained his haughty demeanor, and he gestured her over.

“Ms. Braddock,” he called, warmly, as she joined him on the catwalk. “Welcome to Barcelona as my ancestors knew it. Quite something, isn’t it?”

She’d half-expected another tantrum like the one he’d thrown after the auction—which, to be fair, she’d deserved, having underestimated Sully’s capacity for stupid tricks—but it seemed that today he wanted to play benevolent philanthropist. Fine by her. She scanned the excavation, the sturdy stone walls, the uncovered remnants of rooms and doorways, part of a cobbled street.

“An impressive restoration,” she said. She wasn’t the fawning type but did her best to seem interested.

Moncada pointed out an ancient portrait hanging on the lobby wall, a lean-faced man with piercing eyes. “Fulgencio Moncada, my great-great, great-great, great-grandfather.”

He smiled. “Give or take a few greats. He funded Magellan’s circumnavigation. Come, walk with me.”

They moved off the catwalk and he led her to steps cut into the dirt at the excavation’s northwest corner. Together they walked down into the dig, keeping to one of the marked paths that ran between two of the unearthed buildings, headed back toward her team.

“That voyage changed the way we understand the globe, changed all the maps,” Moncada said. “‘We gave the world to the world,’ is the family motto.”

They moved past three men working on an archway, picking packed dirt out of the stones.

“But great accomplishments come at a great price,” he continued. “Magellan’s gold is ours by contract. I will collect it. This will be my chapter in the family histories.”

Braddock nodded. “We’ll make history together, Mr. Moncada.”

She thought she’d struck the right tone, supportive and confident, but saw immediately that Moncada had taken offense. He stopped walking, turned to look at her with a dangerous gaze.

“When those eighteen starving men finally returned from their journey around the world, they were celebrated for their achievement. Fulgencio threw the party. But when it was over, he reminded those men that they hadn’t delivered what was promised. And they were punished.”

So, still angry about the auction, then. Goddamn Sully.

She didn’t cower, aware that revealing any weakness would set her up for further abuse. He was spoiled, yes, but also fully capable of crushing anyone he deemed a threat.

“There are no books written about my family, Mr. Moncada,” she said, carefully, reminding him that he was special, that she was but a lowly employee. “But I assure you, I want to succeed every bit as much as you do.”

He seemed mollified, and started walking again, leading them to another set of dirt stairs on the east wall, back out of the dig. He wasn’t quite done with smacking her down, though, waiting until they’d rejoined her team. He spoke in a light, musing tone. “This competitor of yours, the one who got away—Victor Sullivan? Maybe he’s the one I should have hired.”

She only barely managed to hang on to her professional demeanor. “Victor Sullivan is a pathological liar and a fraud. Any deal you make with him is worthless.”

“Perhaps,” Moncada allowed. “But I’ve been told Mr. Sullivan was seen in the Gothic Quarter. Maybe you should look into it.”

Without another word, he left her standing with Scotty and Hugo, inwardly seething. Sully was in Barcelona? He’d made a fool of her, and not for the first time… But if she had anything to say about it, it would be the last.

*   *   *

They spent the afternoon shopping, loading Chloe’s SUV with supplies. Besides some standard burgling-slash-spelunking equipment, torches and rope, rock hammers and chalk for marking trails, they’d hit the markets and splurged on the makings of a celebratory feast. They were all in a good mood, knowing that tomorrow night they might find whatever it was that Magellan’s keys unlocked. Chloe drove them back to her flat as the sun started to drop over Barcelona, down the narrow street and into her “garage,” a portico on the east side of the apartment building. Home safe. Sully and Nate started carrying boxes upstairs, Sully commenting that she’d done “pretty well” for herself.

The apartment was beautiful, the upper corner of an ancient building turned into flats. The result was an expensive mix of old world and new, rough brick framed by clean, modern lines; there were two bedrooms and a small balcony with a view of the cobbled street. It wasn’t home, but it was probably her favorite base of operations; the place in London was a dive, and the one in Mexico had roaches. The kitchen here was open plan, bold green and yellow tiles behind the stove, a wide counter overlooking a sunlit living room. She’d paid for the apartment with what was left from a piece she’d acquired a few years prior, a 1948 Yixing Zisha teapot that she’d happened across while traveling; never mind that the owner hadn’t known its value, and let it go for a pittance. Selling it had meant enough money for her to finally set up shop in a city she loved… with enough left over to keep her in the acquisition business, at least until her next big break. Most of what she did wasn’t strictly legal, and she’d been in a few jams, but she did, in fact, do “pretty well.”

Chloe changed into jeans, and Nate gave her the translated pages from Elcano’s journal. While he and Sully made another trip to the car, she tucked into the couch and started to read. She was instantly lost in the pages, each sentence a touchstone to events that had happened before the first Queen Elizabeth had ascended to the throne, when the world was just discovering itself and spice drove the economy. It was exciting, heady stuff… but she forced herself to skip ahead, to find the part about the keys. She could read it all again later, when she had the leisure to savor the history.

She looked up when Nate sat a box of bottled wine on the table. She pointed to the kitchen island—the corkscrew was in the top drawer—and went back to reading, but looked up again a moment later. Sully was digging through their bags from the outdoor shop, pawing through flashlights and packs of batteries.

“You got your key at the auction in New York, yeah?” she asked, curious what they had to say for themselves.

Nate answered, using her corkscrew to break the foil on a La Rioja Alta they’d picked up. “Yep. We liberated it, in the interest of historical discovery.”

She smiled. Nate was a charmer, in an innocent, good-natured way. He was funny… and he reminded her of someone, although she couldn’t say who. It would come to her eventually. A boy she’d known back home, maybe.

Not too smart, though, if he’s in this with Sully.

“I found my cross in a crypt in Genoa,” she said. “Didn’t even know what I had, that it was a key to a much bigger fortune. But Sully knew.”

“Let me guess, he tried to lowball you.”

Sully was digging through another bag and looked up with a fake hurt expression. “I offered you a fair price.”

Nate opened the wine handily and carried it into the kitchen to snag glasses, opening the correct cabinet on the first try.

“He offered me fifty lousy K, when it could lead to five billion,” she said, ignoring Sully.

“How did you figure it out?” Nate asked, pouring the wine like a pro.

“I told him I had another offer, and he jacked up the price without blinking. That’s when I knew I had him.”

And hadn’t Sully gone berko, when he’d realized she was onto him? Good times. Chloe gratefully accepted the wine glass that Nate held out to her, taking a large sip. Yum.

“Did you?” Nate asked. “Have another offer?”

She smiled cryptically, turned back to the translation. A girl had to keep a few secrets.

“Doesn’t say much about what happens after we turn the keys,” she said, frowning, and then read from the translation: “‘Trust in your fellow man, for one will go to heaven, the other to hell.’”

“Ironic, since the whole point of having two keys was that the Eighteen didn’t trust each other,” Nate said, handing a drink to Sully.

“Good thing they didn’t, or we wouldn’t be here,” Sully said, and raised his glass. “Arriba, abajo, al centro y pa dentro!”

Always the pragmatist, Sully. They all raised their glasses and drank to their new partnership, yet another relationship in Chloe’s life that couldn’t be trusted as far as she could chuck it.

*   *   *

The jamón Ibérico Sully had insisted on was worth every penny, and even Chloe had admitted it was fan-fucking-tastic. They feasted from a whole slew of delicacies: brined olives and creamy cheeses, the jamón and talo, a flat corn flour bread, plus some peppers that Chloe had sliced up with basil and olive oil. They dusted off their best stories, Chloe telling a howler about finding a worthless painting with a priceless frame, Sully rolling out the one about the Egyptian mummy. Nate did some sleight-of-hand, lifting Sully’s watch, and told some funny anecdotes about working in a bar. They also killed three bottles of wine.

Or four? Sully started to count the bottles on the table, but lost interest when Nate got up to fetch another one. Sully picked up the bottle that still had wine in it and took a swig. The kid was a lightweight, but Chloe could knock ’em back almost as good as Sully. It was maybe her best quality, he decided.

As soon as Nate was busy in the kitchen, Chloe leaned over the remains on her plate, fixing him with a steady, critical look.

“I’m on to you, you know,” she said.

Sully put on his innocent face, not sure what she knew. He had plenty of excuses and alibis standing by at all times, and could apply them as needed.

“Nate,” she said. “He’s Sam’s brother. Isn’t he?”

Oh. Rather than confirm, he drank more wine. He’d kind of hoped she wouldn’t notice, but that had been wishful thinking. The Drake brothers both had the same careless sense of humor, harder to miss than just a similar facial structure or the set of their eyes.

Her voice dropped lower. “Does he know that—”

“Not yet,” Sully said. “I’m gonna tell him.”

“When,” Chloe said, not really a question.

“At a moment of my choosing.”

“Jesus, Sully,” she said, leaning back, and just then the kid walked back to the table, holding two more opened bottles. He was flushed from all the wine, moving with the careful steps of a man who’d had just a bit too much.

Chloe played it cool, her expression of distaste melting away before Nate got to them, but Sully was ready for the party to go on without him. He took his bottle and wandered toward the couch.

Nate held up the new wine. “I’ve got red, and… red.”

“I’ll take maroon, please,” Chloe said, and held up her glass. Nate handed her one of the open bottles, both of them grinning like idiots.

Sully flopped on the couch, cradling his wine bottle against his chest.

“You think she’s okay?” he asked, slurring a little.

“What? Who?” Nate asked.

“That damn cat,” Sully said.

“You have a cat?” Chloe asked.

“The man from the app said he’d feed her, but he didn’t text back yet…” Sully trailed off, closing his eyes.

“I don’t know what’s cuter, your concern, or that you just said, ‘the man from the app,’” Nate quipped, but Sully didn’t respond, already drooling on Chloe’s nice couch.

*   *   *

Nate prodded Sully with his foot, but the guy was out cold. He looked almost sweet, all drunk and dead to the world, with a faintly worried expression on his face. He’d passed out thinking about his cat.

Should put that on a Hallmark card, he thought, and then thought, maybe slow down on the wine a little. He wasn’t drunk, but it was in shouting distance. He had reached the apex of drinking, though: his body felt loose, his thoughts were stupidly hilarious, and he was chock-full of bravery. Why didn’t he do this more often?

Chloe walked to the balcony, looking back at Nate with a little smile, and he immediately followed her, thinking brave thoughts. They stepped through the open door, leaving Sully to his coma.

*   *   *

As soon as they were outside, Sully raised his head. If they turned around, they would see him through the window, but they were looking out over the street like a couple of dopes.

He started for the room Chloe had assigned to Nate, stumbling a little just in case they looked in, thinking he’d better work fast… but a last quick glance at the balcony, and he hesitated before stepping into the hall. They were standing way too close together.

Bad idea, kid. Chloe was only a few years older than Nate, but she had been around for long enough to know what she was doing, and would utilize every tool she had to get what she wanted. She was a nice enough person, but a self-actualized thief was a dangerous thing.

Sully set it aside for later, but he’d pull Nate to one side in the morning, say something about it. The kid couldn’t just go around trusting people. He slipped into the kid’s room, scooped Nate’s backpack off the floor by the bed, and unzipped it.

*   *   *

Nate and Chloe leaned on the railing and looked out at the ancient bricks, the narrow streets of the Gothic Quarter mostly quiet; scattered, muted voices of passing locals rose up from below, but they seemed far away. Cicadas sang their relentless song from every tree. The night was balmy, sweet with the smell of salt and warm stone. Sully was missing out.

“He’s an alright guy, when he’s passed out drunk,” Nate said.

“Don’t be fooled,” Chloe said. “He’s still dreaming of ways to cut us out.”

Nate raised his eyebrows. “Didn’t you steal the key to a priceless fortune from us this morning?”

Chloe shrugged and smiled a little, her expression almost shy. “I borrowed it. To prove a point.”

She looked at him for a moment, studying his face, her gaze dropping to his mouth for just a tiny split second before coming back up. Happy butterflies swarmed in Nate’s guts. That was definitely a look-look. It wasn’t like he was hideous, and she was supremely cool, and beautiful. He didn’t lean in, though, for a number of good reasons that were suddenly hard to remember.

She’s a thief and out of your league and you’re both drunk. How ’bout those?

Chloe made the move, stepping in to reach for Sam’s ring, her fingers brushing his chest. Nate watched her peer at the engraving, skin tingling where she’d touched. She wore three thin, colorful necklaces, resting at the hollow of her slender throat. She had a tiny scar hidden in her finely arched left eyebrow, and her eyes glowed amber, and her breath was warm and sweet. They were close enough for him to smell the faint perfume of her body, like soap and clean sweat. He wasn’t about to lunge at her like some teenager, but he realized he had zero intention of fighting her off. They lingered in the moment.

*   *   *

Sully went through the postcards quickly, reading Sam’s little notes, turning each one over to look for some pattern. Geography, maybe? No, they were a pretty random collection. And Sam didn’t say anything about any of his work, not a single word. There were no numbers except for the dates, and no obvious pattern to those, either.

Sully was careful to keep them in the order he’d found them. He finished the small stack, frustrated. He wanted to go over them again, but at a glance, the kid had been telling him the truth.

And, you don’t have time. The happy couple would come in soon, hopefully to separate bedrooms, and he was supposed to be passed out on the couch. He was working to rebuild trust with Nate after the auction thing, and he didn’t want to fuck that up.

He slipped the cards back into the plastic freezer bag Nate had packed them in, zipped the seal, and slid it back into the pack. Less than a minute later he was back on the couch, deliberately not looking toward the balcony as he resituated himself into his drunken sprawl.

Sully was wiped out, he’d slept for shit on Taglin’s plane, and he’d had more than enough wine. He tipped his head into position and closed his eyes, hoping to god that Nate had more sense than to fuck around with Chloe Frazer, but he wouldn’t have bet a nickel on it. When Sully had been twenty-one, he’d been a walking hormone.

Now you’re just an old cat lady.

Though he’d meant to hang on until the kids came in, the last few days caught up with him all at once. Sully fell deeply asleep, thinking about that stupid cat.

*   *   *

At some point over dinner, Chloe had realized exactly how lovely Nate was, funny and clever… and the vibe now was definitely more than drink-fueled lust. He had a passion for history that matched her own, an appreciation for the past that most in her line of work didn’t bother with; for all of Sully’s faults, he was competent at recruiting talent, and Nate’s fundamental goodness shone from his deep brown eyes. He wore it like a second skin. He was handsome and interested and right in front of her, and he took care of his body, as she did hers; it was impossible not to think about what they could do with each other. Whatever Sully thought about her, she didn’t use sex to get her way, she wouldn’t demean the pleasurable act or herself like that… and Nate was so close, and he smelled like sweetness and man, with just a touch of fountain bleach, and the chemistry between them was almost too much to bear.

She reached for the silver band he wore on a strip of leather around his neck, using the pretense to move in a little closer. His chest was solid as a tree trunk.

There were words engraved on the ring, dark against the shining silver.

“What’s it say?”

“Sic Parvis Magna,” Nate said, his voice a bit hoarse.

Chloe had picked up some Latin here and there. “Greatness from… small things?”

“Close,” Nate said. “Small beginnings.”

Chloe smiled. “Who gave it to you? Some crazy ex?”

“No. My brother Sam gave it to me.”

Chloe froze for a beat, and the mood she’d been enjoying was suddenly gone, like water down a drain. She’d been dreamy for a bit of fun, entranced by his openness and optimism—not to mention his very fine body—and the reminder that he was a nice boy with feelings, with a past at least as shitty as hers, slapped her back to Earth. She let go of the ring and pulled back, though it was almost a physical ache to shift away from him.

“Hey, big day tomorrow,” she said, and put on a friendly smile. “Reckon we better get some sleep.”

Nate took it on the chin, the flash of confusion in his gaze there and gone before she could blink.

“Yeah, I was thinking the same,” he said, convincingly, and smiled back, turned for the door.

She followed him inside, disappointed but relieved too. Nathan Drake was a good guy but he was also Victor Sullivan’s partner; he was headed for heartbreak regardless of what she did or didn’t do, and sex was a complication neither of them could afford.

Damn it, though… They parted at the door to his room, Chloe continuing to her own, her whole self aware of his warm presence behind her in the hall. Just damn it all.

The dawn broke in the rich light of a beautiful new day, the sun a golden eye looking over its beloved Barcelona. Armando Santiago praised God for His many blessings and then had his driver take him to La Sagrada Familia, where he could meditate in peace.

Armando had the driver park the limo near the edge of the grounds across from the grand structure—an unfinished Roman Catholic minor basilica that combined the best of Gothic design and Antoni Gaudí’s Art Nouveau aesthetic. Clusters of pointed, honeycomb spires rose from the castle-like building, ornately decorated with powerful scenes and symbols of God’s glory. Gaudi had died in 1926, when the structure had been only a quarter finished, and many of his plans had been destroyed during the war… but the dream had never died, the work starting and stuttering to a halt again and again in the decades since. The structure would be finished, the engineers now said, by 2026, and fully ornamented by 2032.

And I may yet live to see it completed, Armando thought, walking the trail toward his favorite spot, which offered a fine view of the Nativity façade. The east-facing façade was the basilica’s oldest, constructed between 1894 and 1930 and dedicated to the birth of Jesus. The sun’s steady morning light would illuminate its three porticos—Hope, Faith, Charity—wonderfully, and Armando loved its choir of angel children. His own father had lived to his mid-nineties; if God saw fit to grace him the same, he had another decade of life to witness His works.

There was someone already sitting on the small bench he liked, dappled in shade from one of the park’s many carefully maintained trees. A man, gazing at the church. As Armando walked closer, he recognized his son, and felt his fine mood evaporate.

He arrived at the bench and looked down at Santiago, annoyed. “Are you here to ruin the one place I come to find peace?”

“You won’t take my calls,” Santiago said. “How much peace does one man need?”

Armando sighed, recognizing the stubborn look in Santiago’s eyes—didn’t he see it himself, when he looked in the mirror? He steeled himself for the conversation and sat, joined his son in gazing at La Sagrada Familia.

“I understand why you walk here,” Santiago said. “A tribute to Barcelona, to Spain, to the world and to God.”

“But it was never finished,” Armando said. “Do you know why?”

“The war broke out.”

“And we sold the weapons Franco used to kill thousands of our own people,” Armando said. The military coup that had ignited the Spanish Civil War, that had erupted over religion, class, rights and resources, had ended with a fascist in power. A fascist that had found support from his own father, Maceo Moncada, Santiago’s grandfather.

“We did what was necessary to save our House,” Santiago said. “Besides, you were a child. I wasn’t even born.”

Armando sniffed. “Convenient, how you ignore the history when it doesn’t serve you.”

“You want to erase our history,” Santiago said. “But we’ve done great things, too. Built hospitals, museums, universities… You can’t give it away. Tell me it’s not too late.”

How I’ve failed him. Armando had indulged his son, spoiled him with expensive gifts bought to assuage his own guilt at not spending more time with him. Was it any surprise that Santiago had never learned to control his impulses? When Armando had finally embraced his faith, he’d tried to help his son, to lift him into the light, but Santiago had already been set into his ways, ever hungry to chase fever dreams of stolen gold and vain glory. He’d already spent millions searching for Magellan’s treasure, wasting his precious, God-given life to enrich himself alone. But no more.

“I’m making the arrangements,” Armando said, firmly. “You can’t change my mind. This scavenger hunt of yours is over.”

He stood up and started walking back toward the limo, regretful, and frustrated that his morning ritual had been interrupted. Santiago walked after him, a silent, unhappy escort. His son would be forced to make something of himself, finally. Perhaps he, too, would let God’s grace into his heart, once he saw the good that their blood money could do, the suffering that could be eased.

They had almost reached the limo—his son’s Gullwing was parked right behind it—when Santiago finally spoke. “Father.”

Armando turned.

“Do you really have no faith that I can stand on my own?”

His son looked sorrowful, even chastened. Like a child, always starving for validation.

“Faith is being certain of something we cannot see,” Armando said, and looked up, into the bright sky. “Him I have faith in.”

The driver hadn’t got out, so Armando opened the door himself, seeing a flash of his son’s despondent face reflected in the dark-tinted window. There would be more calls, more attempts to make him change his mind, but his firm was already drawing up papers and he would sign them as soon as they were ready.

He got into the car, pulling the door closed behind him—

—and there was a woman in the back, sitting behind the empty driver’s seat. She was young, attractive, but with a feral look in her eyes.

“Who the hell are you? Get out of my car!”

The driver’s door opened, and Santiago slipped inside, pulling the door closed.

“Santiago, what are you doing?”

His son looked into the rearview mirror, his dark, unhappy gaze meeting Armando’s.

“Forgive me, Father,” Santiago said, quietly.

The woman leaned in, holding a curved knife. She moved quickly, lightly drawing the blade across his wrinkled throat. Wet heat poured out of him before the pain set in, and it was terrible.

The last thing Armando saw was his son looking away.

*   *   *

Nate woke up late, and remembered why he didn’t drink all that often. Red wine was deadly; his head ached, and his mouth tasted like alleys smelled. Thankfully, Chloe’s safe house was stocked with good coffee and ibuprofen, and after a shower he felt almost normal. Sully didn’t look any worse than usual, though he was quiet. Chloe was positively cheerful. If she felt any after-effects of their binge, they didn’t show. And while she was friendly, she seemed ready to forget that they’d both totally leaned in the night before. Nate mentally crossed his fingers that another opportunity would come up under better circumstances, and just enjoyed her company.

They all looked over some church photos Chloe had dug up online, and Nate learned for the first time what a flying buttress was—basically a support beam, not nearly as interesting as it sounded. Chloe had fed the nuns a line that she and her Catholic friends wanted a private moment to study and sketch the architecture, and had promised a hefty donation for the opportunity.

In the late afternoon they packed their kits, Sully handing out flashlights and earpieces, everyone changing their clothes—dark colors all around. Nate and Sully loaded their own stuff into Chloe’s SUV, along with an equipment duffel. Chloe ran back inside to use the bathroom, leaving the two of them alone.

“You two were getting pretty friendly last night,” Sully said.

“It’s fun plotting your demise,” Nate said, refusing to be needled.

Not even a smile; Sully had his furrowed brow thing going on. “I told you to watch it with her.”

“I get it, you’re jealous,” Nate said.

Sully still wasn’t smiling. “I’m not jealous, I’m greedy. So is she, so is everyone. Never forget that.”

Well, aren’t we feeling paternal today?

“I can handle myself,” Nate said. “Have my whole life.”

Sully wheeled on him, a serious look in his eyes. “This is different. The kind of money we’re talking about makes it different. First, it’s just the thrill of the hunt. Then you get your first taste. Some trinket you dig up that looks worthless, but you get a hundred grand for it. Suddenly, all you can think about is more, how do I find more? Your brain rewires itself. Friends, family? Out. Everyone else? A threat.”

He closed the Hyundai’s back hatch, firmly. “Everyone thinks they’re different, that it won’t happen to them. No one’s different. Not me, not you, not your brother, no one.”

“What about Sam?” Nate asked, sharply. “What are you trying to say?”

Sully shook his head, finally breaking eye contact. “Why do you think he drifted away? Stopped calling? All I’m saying is, that’s what gold does.”

Chloe came out and hopped lightly down the stairs, wearing a snug black jumpsuit kind of thing with a burgundy light jacket, and a big grin. She looked amazing.

“Let’s go get it, mates,” she said, and Nate’s pulse picked up. All personal stuff aside, they were going to find the missing lock for their keys, maybe see something that no one had seen for centuries… and they could very well walk away stinking rich. He decided that if they found the gold, he’d work on Sully, make sure Chloe got a share. Not because he liked her, but because it was only fair; without her key they had nothing.

Feeling good about pretty much everything, Nate got into the SUV, and Chloe started for the church, through the lengthening shadows as dusk gathered around the ancient city.

*   *   *

It was dark by the time they got to the cathedral, the last tourists headed off to dinner and drinks or whatever. The soft glow of multiple candles and dim lights glowed behind the high, stained-glass windows that lined the apse and ran down both sides of the imposing structure. Chloe parked in the nearby lot and they walked over, across the empty plaza; she led them to a small door on the connected side church, reminding them to let her do the talking if any was necessary. Not a problem for Sully, his Spanish was rusty—and besides, people were more likely to trust a pretty face than his ugly mug.

The door was unlocked, and they walked in through a short entryway, stepping out into the main cathedral just past the narthex at the front. In traditional Gothic style, the nave was one tall, giant room, lined with pillared aisles that had been gated off, displays of statuary and candles and art in the alcoves behind the scrolling black metal fencing. Dozens of wooden pews faced the curved apse at the east end, where the main altar stood. The vaulted, arched ceiling had to be fifty feet high at its peak.

They walked slowly toward the apse, Chloe and Nate both wearing awed expressions as they studied the ornate brickwork, the soaring aisle arches. Their footsteps, soft though they were, echoed in the massive space.

A tiny, elderly nun stepped out of the transept, up by the choir, and eyed them suspiciously before disappearing.

“Nuns,” Nate whispered. “It had to be nuns.”

“Let’s split up,” Sully said. “Act natural, find where the keys go.”

They fanned out, Nate turning back toward the narthex, Chloe moving to one of the alcoves. Sully pulled Elcano’s journal out of his bag, flipping to the pages he’d marked that had drawings on them. Besides the tree, there were some faint sketches of what looked like a pinecone, though it was hard to tell. A couple of the stained-glass windows had trees or greenery represented, maybe there was some kind of clue there. Except Nate had said that none of the glass was original, the place had been bombed a bunch of times…

They wandered through the opulent room, rustling echoes of their movements whispering back at them. There was a lot to see, and Sully reined in his natural impatience, determined to be thorough. He could feel that they were in the right place, had known it since the kid had said the name. If he had to search every goddamn inch of the cathedral to get a step closer to the gold, he’d do it with a smile.

*   *   *

Nate headed back for the narthex—basically, the front entrance area—studying the arcade of the south wall, tables and stands of religious artifacts surrounded by flickering candles. The alcoves were gated and locked, but there were bolt cutters in the equipment bag. Nate hoped they wouldn’t have to use them, that they’d find what they needed without damaging any part of the amazing cathedral. Well, that and the idea of being beset by angry nuns freaked him out a little.

There were a few souvenirs available for purchase by the front entry, crosses and keychain Mary statues, a stand of postcards. Nate started to walk past, but one of the postcards stopped him.

Whoa. The card was a sunny shot of a familiar beach, with Benvinguts a Barcelona! written across the top. Benvinguts meant welcome, he remembered; he’d looked it up years ago, when he’d gotten the exact same postcard from Sam.

Nate opened his bag, pulled out the plastic baggie of postcards. He found his own copy, read the brief inscription on the back: Wish you were here, bro. S.

His hands shook a little as he put the card back with the others. There were probably a thousand shops that sold the same shot, but Nate was somehow sure that Sam had been here, probably right where Nate was standing now—in front of the spindly postcard stand, surrounded by walls that had first been laid out before the Spanish Renaissance. The thought shook him, although he wasn’t sure why. Maybe because he felt a connection to his brother, a shared experience separated only by time. Sam had breathed the same cool, silent air, his feet had been pressed to the same bricks; he’d probably been unhappy about the nuns, too. That idea of connection was what Nate had always dug about history—the realization that others had walked before him, lived and experienced and died, leaving clues to their lives and who they were, stories and hints and evidence of their achievements. Valuable evidence.

Sam’s not dead, though. Not dead, and if he’d been here, he’d figured out the pine tree. Sully hadn’t known about the cathedral, though… Had Sam taken off on his own, to track the gold? Maybe… Or maybe Nate just wanted it to be true.

“Hey, I got something,” Sully said, voice carrying easily through the stillness. He was up in the choir area just in front of the sanctuary, where the main altar stood.

Nate shook himself and headed over, Chloe joining him from the north side of the church. Sully had crouched next to one of the pews, was staring down at the ancient stone floor.

They reached him just as Sully pushed one of the long wood benches out of the way, the wood scraping loudly over the bricks. Like an evil jack-in-the-box, the same tiny old nun popped her head out from a door off the transept, eyes narrowed.

“Sorry, Sister,” Nate said, automatically. “He dropped his rosary.”

The nun understood English, it seemed. She scowled at him but disappeared again, without Chloe needing to intervene. He heard her shuffling away, and shivered.

Sully was brushing his fingers over the stone. Chloe and Nate crouched down to either side. There were letters, etched into the rock—small, faint, but there. A list of them. Initials?

“JSE,” Chloe said softly, reading the top line. “Juan Sebastian Elcano.”

Beneath the captain’s initials were more letters, in sets of two or three. Seventeen more sets.

Sully sounded slightly awed. “The Eighteen were here, alright.”

There was a deliberate zigzag cut into the rock next to the initials, nearly disguised by a break in the surface. Nate ran his finger over it, noted its position, then looked up toward the sanctuary.

“Stairs,” he said, even as he spotted the railing, to the right of the altar. The crypts were off limits to tourists, but Sister No-Fun wasn’t currently at hand, probably off terrorizing children. If they were gone when she came back, maybe she’d assume they’d left.

Together, they hurried toward the stairs, all of them walking lightly, quietly, eagerly.

*   *   *

Sully led them into the crypt, the air getting cooler with each step down. By the time they’d reached the bottom of the steep, curving stairs, Chloe was glad she’d worn a jacket.

The crypt was a large, six-sided room, bigger than her living room and kitchen combined, with a higher ceiling than Chloe might have expected. There was a large, gated alcove on the east wall, a kind of chest inside with gold-painted shelves on top, flowers and religious paraphernalia placed all around; statues and carvings were inset along the other arched walls, another gate protecting a lavish embroidery and a figure of a priest and a child. Stands of candles burned in every corner. A handful of wooden prayer stools sat in front of the eastern gated alcove, where a shelf of votive candles flickered. Chloe had read that Saint Joseph Oriol was buried at Santa Maria del Pi—he’d been a priest here—and wondered if his bones lay nearby. If they were, in fact, inside that decorated chest… A reliquary? Or is it an altar?

Nate had taken his torch out, was shining it around the room. Hadn’t he and Sam been raised by nuns?

“Thoughts, altar boy?” Chloe asked.

“Caelum,” Nate said, and pointed at the ceiling. Chloe and Sully both looked up. The stone arch overhead had the word engraved along one rib.

“It’s Latin for heaven,” Nate continued. “The journal says, ‘Trust in your fellow man, for one will go to heaven, the other to hell.’ So, I’m thinking hell has to be around here somewhere.”

They spread out, Nate walking along the wall, Sully studying the floor. Chloe went to the tall Madonna-and-child statue to the left of the alcove, set behind a red velvet rope, and peered at its base. If Caelum was up, she reckoned they should be looking low for the corresponding clue.

Nate had stopped at one of the pillars, was muttering to himself. “A skeleton with angel wings… Somewhere between heaven and hell… Like purgatory…”

She glanced up in time to see him touch an old etching in the pillar, a small rectangle of stone about chest high—and something unseen clicked, off to Chloe’s right.

“You heard that, right?” Nate asked.

Sully, squatting in the middle of the room, pointed to what he’d dusted off—an arrow etched into the rock, beneath layers of packed dirt. He brushed his hands on his pants. “Just a wild guess, but this arrow points that way.”

They all stepped closer to the gated alcove on the east wall. Surrounded by flowers and candles, a painting of Mary set into the top of the gold shelves… But there was a slight gap between the picture and its setting, as though the blue-and-white-gowned Virgin had turned to look at the stairs.

“Does Mary look a little off to you?” Nate asked.

Sully had already pulled the bolt cutters out of the equipment bag. Grinning, he held them out to Nate.

“I’m not gonna do that,” Nate said, holding his hands up like Sully was offering him poison.

“Scared of a little old nun?” Chloe teased, taking the cutters and stepping to the gate. A padlock hung in the fence’s middle, and she snapped it on the first go, grabbing the broken lock to keep it from clanging. She and Sully pulled the doors open, and Nate stepped to the chest and its shifted painting.

He gently pushed at the painting—and the entire picture turned, run through with some kind of pivot device. The painting that swung around was of the devil, some Medieval depiction—a demonic, horned monster bent over a cauldron of flame. As the picture slid into place, there was another click—

—and on the front of the chest, a pair of thin wooden diamond-shaped panels dropped away, disappearing into the painted façade. Each revealed a narrow, notched hole. Chloe had to resist the urge to jump up and down, shouting in triumph.

“Holy shit, you found them,” Sully breathed, but Nate didn’t comment, only reaching into his backpack for the cross. Chloe had unshouldered her bag and had her own key out in a flash. They both crouched in front of the chest. The crosses weren’t identical, hers was set with blue stones rather than red, the design a bit sleeker—but both crosses slotted perfectly into the keyholes, the bars of each sticking out like handles. Chloe and Nate exchanged a look of pure delight.

“Wait,” Chloe said, remembering her trip into the Mayan temple a few years back, and the thing with the spear-pit in Tibet… plus every good treasure story she’d ever heard, and she’d heard quite a few. Booby traps abounded. It had often struck her that pirates of every age liked to dream up deadly obstacles for those who came looking to steal their treasure. Maybe it was a guy thing. “Left or right? Which way do we turn?”

Sully took the journal out of his bag, opened it to the translated pages tucked inside. He scanned them quickly.

“Here it is… both of you turn your keys clockwise, at the same time.”

Chloe nodded, looking at Nate. He leaned back from the chest, extending his arm.

“Just in case,” he said, and she nodded, doing the same. Behind them, Sully took a couple of big steps to the right.

“On three,” Nate said. “Two… One… Turn.”

Chloe turned her key, felt it go loose, like some pressure had been removed—

—and half a dozen metal arrows shot out of the chest with lethal force, flying in every direction. Chloe heard one whiz past her ear, and Sully let out a squawk.

Jesus! Wide-eyed, Nate looked at her, then back at Sully, who was pulling one of the rusted arrows out of his pack, his face suddenly pale… and a bit guilty looking, wasn’t it?

“You said clockwise,” Chloe hissed. “Very confidently.”

“It was fifty-fifty, so I made a guess,” Sully said.

“A guess?” Chloe glared at him. “That could have been our heads!”

“Clearly, you should turn the keys the other way,” he said, quite matter-of-factly.

“Clearly,” she said, scowling. She looked at Nate, saw the same dark thoughts in his gaze. She hoped he was paying attention to who he’d teamed up with.

Though I suppose I’m one to talk…

They repositioned themselves, grasping the keys again.

“Okay,” Nate said, and she nodded. “Turn.”

Chloe turned the key to the left, felt the shift of some mechanism thrum through the cool metal in her hand—

—and the entire chest slid forward, unhitching from the wall, and settling to the ground with a loud thunk. Behind it, Chloe could see the edge of a narrow open passageway, hidden behind the chest. Cold, stale air wafted into the crypt.

She grinned at Nate, who grinned back. They both stood, Nate nodding to the right. He pushed and she pulled, the heavy altar scraping over the floor as they wrangled it out of the way. Chloe barely felt the weight, adrenaline coursing through her.

The revealed passageway was a stone arch festooned with a thousand spiderwebs. Chloe could just see ancient, grimy steps that led down into the darkness. In the keystone of the arch, a horned devil beckoned them in.

*   *   *

“This is it, we’re getting close,” Sully said, and took a step toward the stairs, feeling like a kid at Christmas. But Chloe stepped into his path, blocking him.

“Hang on,” she said, and then to Nate, “what did the book say?”

“One of us goes up, the other goes down,” Nate said.

“Exactly,” Chloe said, giving Sully the stink-eye. “I’ll go down.”

“I’ll go with her,” Nate said.

What a surprise. Sully considered arguing the point, but decided it didn’t really matter.

“Fine, you can both go to hell,” he said, and then held out his hand to Nate. “Give me your cross.”

“Why would I do that?” Nate asked.

Well, duh. “’Cause I’m probably gonna need it up there. You have her cross.”

“Okay,” Nate said, holding out their key. “Give me your phone.”

Sully started to ask, but the kid just made a hand-it-over gesture. “Just trust me, will you?”

Sully took the cross, relieved to have it back in his hands, while Nate took his phone and started tapping at it. “Oh my god, you have so many apps open, do you never close them?”

Sully scowled. Chloe watched him, her expression not entirely friendly.

Nate pulled out his own phone, did some more tapping, then handed Sully’s phone back. “Here. Now we can track each other. Try to stay on top of us.”

Sully looked at his phone, where a green GPS dot glowed on a tiny grid. Nearly overlapping it was a purple dot that must have been his phone. Huh.

Nate and Chloe had pulled out their flashlights, Chloe scooping up the equipment bag. The cool blue LED beams pierced the dark of the stairwell, lighting up at least a few centuries’ worth of cobwebs. They both started forward.

“Have fun in the haunted tunnel,” Sully called, but neither of them answered. In a few steps they were out of view, reflections of blue light playing up the webby walls and into the crypt, throwing warped shadows.

Sully considered pushing the chest back into place, but already the little green dot on his phone was moving away, east. By the time the nuns came down to blow out candles, they’d all be elsewhere.

He went up the crypt stairs, imagining the look on the nuns’ faces when they saw that their priceless painting of Jesus’ mom had turned into Satan, or that a portal to hell had opened up beneath their feet. Chuckling to himself, he hurried through the empty nave to the nearest exit.

After an exciting morning killing and disposing of Armando Moncada, Braddock spent a long, dull afternoon watching a smuggler’s house by herself. The guy’d popped up on her radar a decade back when he was dealing stolen art, a real smarmy asshole called Dunningham; he’d settled in Barcelona just outside the Gothic Quarter, and had spent most of the day sleeping. Braddock figured him as their best bet to find Sully—birds of a feather—but to cover all the bases, she also had Scotty and Hugo staked out at a museum with a notoriously sticky-fingered curator, who kept a serious private collection. Sully had been ripping people off since he was a child, he knew plenty of criminals, but there weren’t that many artifact thieves working in Barcelona who’d have the time of day for someone like him.

Late in the day, she got a text from an account Moncada used. Just a few words—Sullivan, party of three—and an address. A church.

Braddock texted Scotty the info and got the rental moving, speeding through the dusky streets, headed north. She didn’t know where Santiago Moncada got his intel, but hoped it was solid. If Sully was around, she wanted very much to see what he was up to.

Braddock arrived a minute before her team, and they parked far away from each other. There was a new Hyundai in the corner of the lot, but nobody around. Braddock got out and stepped into the inky shadow of a knobby pine tree, next to the cathedral, where the boys joined her.

Scotty nodded toward a side door off a secondary building. “If we goo en, tru thair’s bist.”

Braddock glanced at her watch, nodded. They’d try to talk their way past a doorkeeper, but if necessary, all three of them were armed—9mm Sig P320s for her and Scotty, Hugo carried a Glock, and they all had knives. She hoped she’d get the chance to use her karambit on Sully, if circumstances allowed. Not that it really mattered—his death was the primary objective—but it would be deeply satisfying to end him with the blade she’d mastered, watch him bleed out of his stupid, squawking throat. She wasn’t a psychopath, she could feel things—like the pain he’d caused her, emotionally and professionally, or the joy it was going to bring her to know he would never again interfere with her plans.

Sully slipped out of the entrance Scotty had indicated, alone, staring at his phone. He promptly started east, away from them. He didn’t even look up, quickly disappearing into the cathedral’s shadow.

Braddock’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll stay on Sully. Find the other two.”

Scotty and Hugo started for the cathedral. Braddock slipped into the darkness that had grown in the cobbled streets, trading one set of shadows for the next as she followed him deeper into the quarter.

*   *   *

The stone steps were narrow and steep and thick with dust, and seemed to go on forever. Also, there were way too many spiderwebs. Chloe went down first, cautiously, shining her light on the stairs. Nate waved his arms and brushed at his hair all the way down, fighting the urge to say gah! about twenty times. He was not a fan of spiders.

The stairs widened out at the bottom, and they both stopped to take in the underground chamber, the bright LED beams painting the dust-thick air in shades of blue. The ceiling went all the way up to where the stairs began; overhead was a vast darkness. Ahead of them stood a single empty tunnel, shockingly tall for so deep underground. Broken Doric pillars leaned against the rough-hewn stone, wrapped in webs. There were some broken rocks in a heap to the right, and a long, thin white thing that was connected to—

“Gah!” Nate jumped when his light fell upon the grinning, desiccated skull leering up at him from the pile of rubble. He immediately cursed the dead guy and his mother for scaring him like that, while Chloe chuckled.

“I’ll add skeletons to your list of phobias,” she said. “Skeletons and nuns.”

She started ahead into the tunnel, swiping down a thick veil of web.

“Okay, Indiana Jones,” Nate said. “Whatever.”

“Indy? Try Marion. She did everything he did, only barefoot in a full-length dress.”

Not even trying to hide the grin in her voice—and she had a point, pretty much. She was certainly more at home in this black, ancient tunnel with dead guys and eight million spiders in it than he was.

They walked ahead, stepping over chunks of rock and piles of dirt. The tunnel was cold and silent except for their breathing and shuffling steps. They stuck close together, and Nate noticed how Chloe radiated warmth. She smelled nice, too.

They’d gone about fifty yards when the tunnel opened up, forking into two. They stopped and shined their lights around. Nate stepped to the wall between the two tunnels, brushed at the rock. There was an arrow symbol, pointing to the fork’s right path.

“The arrow points this way,” Nate said.

Chloe’s flashlight beam had settled onto a rock next to the opening of the tunnel on the left. The stone was carved with an eye, surrounded by rays of light.

“The Eye of Providence,” she said. “I say we go with God.”

She immediately started into the tunnel on the left. Nate hesitated, then walked a few steps into his tunnel, irritated that she hadn’t bothered to get his opinion. She could be going the wrong way, and—

—and YOU don’t actually know ANYTHING, and you just separated from the person down here who DOES.

Nate suddenly had a bad feeling, major goosebumps, and he reflexively jumped back a step just as he heard the grinding of stone—

—and a quartet of rust-tipped harpoons shot out of the walls ahead of him, stabbing across the tunnel exactly where he’d been standing. Two from each side, all of them angled toward the unwary victim’s guts. Powdered rock drifted down like dandruff.

He caught up to Chloe pretty fast, taking the last couple of steps all casual-like.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Nate said. “We should go this way.”

She was nice enough not to say anything as they kept moving forward. It was spooky, how dark it was. Their flashlights cut through the blackness easily, but underground the dark was like a presence, pressing in from all sides, eating the light, leaning over their shoulders.

The tunnel ended in a sagging iron gate, bannered in web. There was another chain and padlock, heavier than the one at the crypt.

“Great,” Chloe sighed. “Here we go again.”

She pulled out the bolt cutters and set to work, like she’d done it a thousand times.

“How’d you get into this stuff?” Nate asked.

Chloe stopped to test the chain, then set the device on a different link. “When I was a kid, I’d go exploring. One day I found a bronze statue covered in gems, buried under a bridge. I’ll never forget the feeling. It was a rush.”

She paused with the bolt cutters, shook the chain. “I showed it to my father, thinking he’d be proud of me, maybe put it in a museum… Instead he sold it, took all the money. We never saw him again.”

“Wow,” Nate said. “That sucks. I’m sorry.”

Chloe’s voice was deliberately light as she started in on the lock. “Why? I’m better for it. And I vowed if I ever found anything again, I wouldn’t share it with anyone.”

He felt bad for her, but he also understood, completely. They had more in common than he’d thought.

“Gotta find one person you can trust, or you end up a lonely old guy with a cat,” Nate said.

Sully snapped in his ear. “I can hear you, by the way.”

Chloe jerked at the lock. “I can’t get it.”

Nate looked at the rusty bars, saw the heavy corrosion around the frame. “Step aside.”

Chloe moved and Nate aimed a kick, pivoting to give it oomph. The gate clattered and screeched open.

“See that?” Nate stood tall.

“Sure, when the big bad nun’s not around,” Chloe said, and then they were both grinning.

They went through. The tunnel past the gate extended another ten yards, then turned right. As soon as they rounded the corner, something changed. The air was less dusty, not as stale, and the floor was clear of debris. They walked a little faster to where the tunnel turned again—

—and entered a new section of tunnel. Their lights played over what looked like a modern-day ventilation tubes running the length of the walls, built into the brick. There were a few cobwebs, but nothing like they’d seen earlier.

Nate stepped closer to the wall. Some of the stone was old, but the stuff higher up was brick, and it looked mass-produced.

“Does this look right to you?” Chloe asked.

“Not sure what the path to ancient treasure is supposed to look like,” Nate said.

“I don’t know… more ancient?”

They followed the pipes, searching the walls and the floor. Nate thought he heard something, like a vibration, the sound getting a little louder with each step they took. It was like the heavy thrum of a big machine in operation, a deep, inhuman roar, but was too muffled to decipher.

“Do you hear that?” Chloe asked.

Nate nodded. “Sully, see anything weird up there?”

There was a long pause. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

Nate and Chloe kept walking, the sound rising into an ominous thunder. Chloe mouthed words at him, pointing ahead, but he couldn’t hear her over the persistent scream of whatever they were headed for. Nate figured maybe a cattle-blender, or some kind of industrial bone-chopping machine.

The tunnel dead-ended at a thick metal grate, wedged between the tunnel walls. There was some kind of fabric on the other side; they couldn’t see past it, but there was nowhere else to go. The roar was too loud for them to discuss the next step. He and Chloe exchanged a look—what now?—and then he shrugged, and backed up a step, and threw his shoulder into a full-frontal assault.

The padded mesh popped open way too easily and Nate stumbled into a shimmering, shrieking hell, Chloe right on his heels.

*   *   *

Sully followed the green dot on his phone, moving east and then south. He had to duck through an alley once, and wind his way through a crammed parking lot. There were plenty of tourists out and about, wandering the shops and stalls of the Las Ramblas district, a popular destination in the Gothic Quarter. Street performers in elaborate costumes pranced around, interacting with the scattered crowd, who shopped and ate and took pictures. Sully kept his eyes on his phone.

“Sully, see anything weird up there?” Nate asked.

Sully looked up and around. Buildings, a massive fountain with lions in front of it… His gaze settled on a guy dressed up like a giant gold demon with colossal bat wings and glittering horns and foot-long finger extensions.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific,” Sully said, and waited, but the kid didn’t say anything else. Or maybe he did, and the pricey earpieces just sucked. In any case, Nate’s green dot started to move. It looked like he was headed south again.

Sully looked up at the unbroken block of buildings south of him, frowning. Hopefully, the kid would stop short, or end up on the other side.

Sully got an itchy feeling, like someone was watching him. He started to walk forward and then whirled around suddenly, taking in the passing tourists, the fountain, the gold demon guy…

Nothing. If someone was watching him, they weren’t watching now. He didn’t want to get paranoid, but Barcelona was Moncada’s home turf. And if Jo Braddock hadn’t been fired or executed for fucking up the auction, if she was still on the payroll…

Forget it, nobody even knows you’re here. How could they? His passport hadn’t been stamped, they’d literally flown in under the radar. It paid to be careful and he’d keep his eyes open, but they had the keys, and Nate was the one who’d figured out where to use them. And they were so close to the gold, Sully could feel the draw of it like a magnet, the glorious prize at the end of an arduous fucking journey.

The green dot on his phone moved, and Sully followed it.

*   *   *

Chloe stumbled after Nate, squinting at the sudden violence of flashing lights and electronic bass. They were in a large underground nightclub, packed with sweaty dancers who were waving laser pointers and gyrating to the relentless, deafening beat.

Nate straightened up and stared around at them, wearing the same astonishment she felt. Perhaps a hundred twentysomethings were packed into the semi-modern space, dancing with abandon under flashing pink and purple lights. A long wooden bar ran along most of the back of the wide room, staffed by multiple bartenders dashing around, pouring drinks. Candles flickered on the bar, and in red sconces on the walls. It smelled like sweat and booze and body spray.

“This can’t be right! Can it?” Nate shouted, but Chloe heard him through the earpiece rather than out loud. The music was blasting at damaging levels.

There. She saw the crumbling Doric pillar for a flash between dancers, and started toward it. Now that she was looking, she spotted two more, mixed in among the more modern supports, and—

“Look at that,” she said, pointing toward the end of the bar. Where it opened up at the club’s northeast corner, the brick was much older—and there was part of an ancient Roman mosaic just behind the end of the bar, a pair of toga-clad figures, the tiles plastered with band stickers on every side. The word Infernum was carved in the stone overhead. “Infernum! Isn’t that Latin for hell?”

She started toward it, figuring on logistics. The mosaic was behind the bar, but near the end. If they could just distract the servers, they could—

“Wait.” Nate put out his arm to block her, tilted his head back the way they’d come. A couple of big men had appeared on the scene, sticking out like sore thumbs amid the ravers. They were standing stiffly back at the grate she and Nate had stumbled through, looking around with hard eyes.

“Braddock’s backup,” Nate said.

Chloe had no interest in running afoul of Jo Braddock and was charmed that he was trying to protect her, but there was no way she was leaving without getting a closer look at that mural.

“Come on, follow me,” she said. She lost the jacket, took his hand, and pulled him into the throng of happy youth, raising her bare arms and letting her body fall into the beat.

Nate was immediately on board, dropping his center of gravity and dancing with her, swiveling his hips like he knew how to use them. She chanced a look at Braddock’s team, but they were busy glaring at everyone who wasn’t dancing.

They worked their way across the room to the northeast, moving well together… so well that she had serious regrets about shutting things down the night before. They danced to the end of the bar and held there, the mosaic less than two meters away. Up close, Chloe could see a number of larger tiles next to the tiny bits of painted stone that made up the artwork, covered with faded symbols and letters. There were old stickers plastered over some of the pieces, a flyer for a club night covering part of the top section.

Unfortunately, a bartender stepped in front of the new clue to chip ice, blocking her view. Chloe looked at Nate, thinking furiously. How to get behind the bar without getting kicked out?

Nate’s eyes lit up. He took a few steps right, leaned into the bar, and tipped over a mostly full bottle of Absolut. The clear alcohol chugged out of the metal-tipped spout, streamed down the polished bar in a spreading tide.

Nate whipped a Zippo out of his pocket and flicked it—then again, and again. There were a few sparks, but the wick wouldn’t catch. Nate kept thumbing the wheel, an increasingly desperate look on his face.

“For god’s sake, here,” Chloe said, and knocked over one of the decorative candles.

Fire rippled down the bar, rising into a towering sheet of flame. The dancers cheered and put their hands in the air as the bartenders grabbed towels and started shouting, moving away from that end of the bar.

She and Nate were over the counter in a flash and in front of the mosaic, peeling off bits of sticker. There were more than a dozen of the small tiles next to the piece, all of them different—an eye, a sun, an E, a cross; random, simple pictures that didn’t seem to connect in any meaningful way—but some of the pieces were obviously missing, and there was no visible keyhole.

“What do you think?” Chloe asked. “Another puzzle?”

“Think you better figure it out fast,” Nate said, looking back at the crowd. “I’m gonna buy us some time.”

He stood and turned away, but Chloe’s full attention stayed on the faded pieces of the Eighteen’s clue. If he was buying time, she wasn’t going to waste it. She ran her fingers over the etched and painted lines, the pressure to solve the buggering thing quickly making her heart pound. Shit, there were more stickers in the way! She clawed at them, the thin plastic and glue packing under her short nails. She could feel the bad guys closing in, and the bartenders wouldn’t need more than a few minutes to regroup. Eye, sun… Was that a dog? Were the tiles supposed to be moved, or was there some pattern that had to be followed…?

Think, Chloe, think!

*   *   *

The Scot and the MMA fighter were prowling through the tireless dancers, closing in on the bar; any second, they’d spot Nate, or one of the staff would notice two customers trespassing into their territory and start yelling. Nate considered and rejected a hundred dumb ideas in a few seconds, waiting for something brilliant to crop up, but inspiration actually came from a sweaty, pretty woman who stepped into his line of sight and waved at Nate for service. Nate urged Chloe to figure it out and stood, grabbing a bar towel off the heap next to an ice well and slapping it over his shoulder.

Smiling his best tip-getting smile, he leaned over the smoky bar. The woman was blocking him from Braddock’s goons. “Hola! What’ll it be?”

“Un gin tonic, por favorcito,” she said.

Great, except there was no standard for how bars organized their shelves… and whoever’s station he was commandeering, they’d be back pretty soon. Thankfully, there was a filled silver shaker already set out on the bar and Nate grabbed it, clapping the lid down. He shook vigorously and reached for a highball glass.

“You know the gin and tonic was invented by the British Army, to cure malaria?” Nate said, and the woman smiled. He poured theatrically, from a height. Whatever he was serving, it was kind of green.

“That’s not a gin and tonic,” he said, working the charm as he pushed the glass forward. “But whatever it is, it’s on the house.”

She picked up the glass and sipped, raising her eyebrows appreciatively—and then she was shoved to the side, and the Scotsman was glowering down at him, his mouth a pinched line.

“Let me guess,” Nate said. “Piña colada, am I right?”

The Scot slapped one meaty hand down and started to vault over the bar top. Nate grabbed the first bottle at hand and clonked him with it, then punched his arm out from under him. The Scot crashed to the smoking wood, candles and cocktails flying.

The MMA fighter lunged past his Scottish buddy and Nate hit him, too, the bottle shattering in a splash of rum and broken glass on the side of his skull. The fighter reeled back but the Scot had come up on their side of the bar, and he threw himself at Nate. His ham fists dealt out punishing blows, hard, fast jabs to Nate’s ribs and gut.

The Scot threw Nate onto the bar and grabbed his throat, pinning him while he reached into his jacket.

“Ya think yir a come’dyen,” he snarled, choking Nate.

“Okay, okay, hold on,” Nate wheezed. “Sex on the Beach?”

He kicked the shelves behind the Scot and half a dozen bottles flew his way. Nate managed to snatch one of them and smash it over the furious Scot’s head. The villain let go of him and Nate stood up, grabbing another bottle, daring a glance at Chloe, hoping she’d found something—

“Ugh, I hate puzzles!” she snarled and grabbed an icepick off the bar. She started hammering at the tiles.

Guess not, Nate thought, and threw a sealed bottle of Hennessy at the Scot’s red, angry face. The guy was staggering but still upright, which needed to change. The MMA fighter was recovering from his knock to the head, climbing onto the bar, and while most of the dancers seemed oblivious to the brawl, still grooving to the beat, the employees were headed their way, shouting.

“Here it is!” Chloe said, and then she was plunging her cross into a hole beneath the shattered titles, turning it—

Nate threw more bottles, grabbing backups after each launch. The Scot stepped on one of them and fell against the bar, blocking the MMA fighter.

The entire Infernum mosaic disappeared, sliding up or down, Nate didn’t see. The opening was small, only a few feet across, but tall enough to crawl into.

Nate realized he was holding the nearly empty Absolut bottle he’d used to start the fire, and took a big mouthful.

“What the hell, Nate? Shots later!” Chloe shouted, and crawled into the opening. Nate shouldered his pack and went after her, fishing his Zippo out of his pocket before turning to the opening, leaning in—

A heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder, jerking him backward, but he was ready. He spun into a crouch, flicking the Zippo open, facing the MMA fighter about to pound his face in—

—and his trusty lighter failed to light, again, the wheel spinning uselessly.

What the fuck?!

There was a candle guttering near the cash register. Nate grabbed it as MMA pulled him into punching range, held it between them, and spewed out his mouthful of vodka.

MMA recoiled from the blast of flame, letting go of Nate’s shirt. Nate turned and dove for the opening, remembering at the last second to grab Chloe’s key still sticking out of the tiles. As soon as he pulled it out, he could hear grinding stone—

—and the panel to the club slid shut after them, locking them in the dark.

Nate exhaled heavily. The music was still audible but he could hear himself think again, and no one was actively trying to murder him. On the other hand…

They were in a tight, dark space, surrounded by cold rock, and there wasn’t even enough room to sit. Also, he kind of felt like throwing up, thanks to McFuckface’s beating.

“You really like to cut it close,” Chloe commented.

“Yeah, well, otherwise it wouldn’t be as exciting,” Nate said.

“Where the hell are we?” Chloe asked. They both fumbled their flashlights out and clicked them on, checking out the new environment.

A small, flat crawlspace, with nothing to see but gray rock on all sides. Without a word, they each took a side and crawled along the dusty stones, pushing at the rock walls. It didn’t take long to investigate, the space was maybe six feet across and twice as long, with no openings but the one they’d come through.

“There has to be a way out,” Chloe said, sounding a little freaked. Nate wasn’t too happy, either. He’d never experienced claustrophobia, but this was like being in a coffin. They were trapped, and deep underground.

His light happened over an old metal grate set into the middle of the floor, that had been covered by their bodies. He and Chloe both crawled to it, Nate shining his flashlight down. More rock. Another tunnel, maybe, and only a few feet below theirs. “Well, well, well, what do you think’s down there?”

“Anything’s better than up here,” Chloe said, and yanked at the metal grid.

It didn’t budge. Nate tapped one of the bars with his flashlight, frowning. Solid crucible steel, old but way too thick for bolt cutters, and it was embedded in the rock. They weren’t getting out that way, unless it was some new puzzle to solve…

Nate rolled over onto his back, aiming his flashlight at the low ceiling—and there it was, directly overhead.

“I think I found it,” he said. A wooden door in the rock, painted and etched with stars and anchors—and a thick, knobby keyhole, dead center.

Chloe rolled over and let out a deep breath, obviously relieved. Nate still had her cross, and he slid the long bar into the keyhole, then turned it left.

There was a soft click sound, but nothing happened. As one, he and Chloe reached up and pushed at the wood, but the door didn’t move… and there was a new sound, a low rumble, and the cold rock beneath them suddenly seemed colder.

Nate turned on his side and looked down. The passage beneath them was filling with water, quickly. Even as he watched, the level rose swiftly toward the steel gate, bubbling water swirling with dust, climbing fast.

“Water,” Chloe said.

“A lot of water,” Nate agreed. “Shit.”

Chloe pushed against the door again. “Nate, we have to get out of here.”

“Sully, you there?” Nate called. “We’re trapped down here! You have to get us out!”

“Almost caught up, kid!”

Nate felt a beat of relief—but then cool water kissed his butt and started to spread, soaking into his clothes. This puzzle was on a timer.

“It has to be a test,” Nate said. “The Eighteen must have built an escape, right?”

“That’s your department,” Chloe said. “Think!”

“The journal says, ‘trust in your fellow man, for one will go to heaven, the other to hell.’ Trust in your fellow man…”

They both got it at the same time, yelling in one voice, “Sully!”

“Sully, there has to be another keyhole up there, to open this door!” Nate added, urgently.

The cold water was inching higher, spreading across the floor of their narrow, soon-to-be tomb.

Sully was definitely getting the feeling that someone was on him. The kid and Chloe went silent for a few minutes, the green dot on his phone barely moving, and he took the time to circle the block he was on, jogging down an alleyway to come back around and catch his tail. There was nobody, though, not a single suspicious looking stranger or, worse, a dreaded familiar face.

He decided he was just antsy from waiting on Nate and Chloe, and hurried toward where the green dot had landed. They were apparently somewhere under a row of modern shops in an old stone building.

“Sully, you there? We’re trapped down here, you have to get us out!”

The kid sounded stressed. “Almost caught up, kid,” Sully said, and hurried to the corner of the building, a closed gift shop… But no, the dot wasn’t quite so far, it was the second store, a pizzeria. A neon abierto sign glowed in the clean glass window.

Nate was more than stressed, a note of panic in his voice as he yelled to look for a keyhole. Sully pushed open the glass doors of the pizza place, taking in the clean, sterile environment of a large franchise restaurant, all black and white and red. Wooden chairs sat around turquoise-blue Formica tables, neatly set throughout of the restaurant and against the walls. The architect had gone with a fun, gothic style, tan brick arches and fake Roman columns throughout.

“I’m in a Papa John’s,” Sully said, blinking. A sole bored teen leaned on the counter at the front, scrolling on his phone. There were a handful of customers at a few of the tables, eating slices and drinking out of paper cups.

“We’re in a Roman death well!” Chloe shrieked.

Sully grabbed the key out of his bag and scanned the walls, almost missing the mosaic on the east side because there was a mirror hanging in front of it, and two guys chatting at the table underneath. Part of a medieval wall there had been left bare, framed by the similarly colored, newer brick of the restaurant. And there was an old, eroded mosaic peeking out from behind the mirror.

He strode to the wall and pushed the table out of the way, ignoring the two guys who sat there. They stumbled out of their chairs and backed away, chattering angrily while he took down the mirror and tossed it aside.

“Found it!” he called. The mosaic was of some god-figure spitting water into a fountain, with Roman-looking figures gathered around in front. At the god’s forehead was a bronze keyhole, the word Caelum engraved over it, and—

Oh. Shit. The remnants of the ancient wall had been thoughtfully preserved by the architect behind thick plated glass. The whole goddamn wall.

“You get a gold star,” Chloe said, sounding desperate. “Turn the key!”

“Gonna need a minute,” Sully said.

“We don’t have a minute!” Nate shouted.

Sully shoved the cross into his pocket, picked up one of the chairs, and swung it at the wall. The chair bounced back, the shield quivering but not even scratched.

Shit! He hit it again, harder, and again, using the bounce to swing the chair around. On the fourth try he heard the chair crack, but the plastic-coated glass was unphased. He was vaguely aware that the diners were fleeing, the door chime sounding again and again, but he didn’t bother with damage control.

There was no time.

The table might be stronger, got a metal base—

“Hand it over, Victor,” Braddock’s smooth voice purred from behind him. “Or I’ll hurt more than just your feelings.”

Bad fucking timing, Jo. Sully dropped the chair and turned, automatically pulling the gold cross out of his pocket. Jo Braddock wore tight black tactical pants and a black nylon jacket over some kind of orange, midriff-baring top. She looked great, and she had a 9mm pointed at his skull.

He raised his hands, making sure she noticed the cross.

“You didn’t say please,” he said, and she pulled back the hammer on the semi.

“Give me the cross. Now.”

Dumb move. She should shoot him and take it off his corpse, but Braddock was so in love with beating him that she wasn’t thinking straight.

Sully put on a defeated look and shifted forward, holding out the heavy cross. Braddock stepped in to take it, watching him all the while.

She had to look down to grab the cross. When she did, he dropped it.

Braddock’s attention stayed on the falling gold for only a split second, but it was enough. He grabbed her left shoulder and swung himself around her, pressed to her back. His reach was longer than hers, and he had her beat in upper body strength. He plucked the Sig out of her hand and flung her toward the plexiglass wall, stepped back and pointed her own gun at her.

“You should have said ‘please,’” he said, and fired, three times.

*   *   *

The water wasn’t icy but it was cold enough, and up to Chloe’s hips now. She rolled back and got her feet on the locked wooden door overhead, pushed as hard as she could, but there was no give at all. Nate tried to ram it with his shoulder but ended up splashing back into the rising water.

“Sully, we’re going to drown down here!” Nate shouted. “Just turn the damn key!”

“I’m working on it, kid! Shut up!”

“I’ll shut up when you get us the hell out of here!” Nate screamed.

Jesus, what is Sully DOING? Chloe couldn’t imagine, and didn’t give a shit. She did not want to die and they had two minutes before the water covered their faces, tops. Her panic rose with the water that crept up their kicking, straining bodies, filling the stone chamber.

*   *   *

Stupid, stupid girl! Braddock stood against the glass wall where Sully had thrown her, seething, cursing herself. She should have shot him and taken the key off his dead body, but she’d had some idea of humiliating him a bit before she put an end to him. He’d taken advantage of her misstep and now she would die, shot by Victor-fucking-Sullivan in a Barcelona pizza parlor, and it was her own fucking fault.

“You should have said ‘please,’” Sully said, and she closed her eyes, hoped it was over quickly.

He fired three times, the blast of the gun sending the remaining staff out the front door—

—and not a hit? How did I hear all three?

Braddock opened her eyes. Behind her, the wall had spider-webbed, white lines radiating out from the three holes he’d put in it, half a meter from her head. The wall held, but barely.

Sully kept the gun on her but dropped a glance to the floor, to the key. He started edging toward it, watching Braddock all the while.

And I thought I was stupid. Not killing her was a serious mistake.

There was a bleach rag on the table to her right, next to an empty pizza tray. With Sully moving toward the key, Braddock eased herself around toward the table, watching his every move, taking in the restaurant’s layout. He wanted the key and he was distracted…

“I’m working on it, kid! Shut up!” Sully snapped.

The boy, or the third of his crew. Scotty and Hugo hadn’t been successful, then. Braddock shifted closer to the table, and Sully glanced at the floor again.

Braddock snatched the rag, lunged forward, and whipped it against his gun hand. The wet cloth wrapped around the weapon and his fingers, and she jerked him forward, leaning back and letting her weight pull him in. Once he was off balance, she directed him toward the nearest faux-Roman support pillar, spun and shoved him into the painted metal. He crashed hard, the Sig clattering to the floor. He immediately kicked the firearm out of reach for either of them and came up wearing a pained expression, but she was already behind the pole, reaching around it to hook her right arm across his throat. She grabbed her wrist and pulled back, locking him to the pillar.

“Kid, this might take a little longer than I thought,” Sully rasped.

*   *   *

Longer than you thought?! What the shit?!

The water was over Nate’s junk and his lower belly now, creeping steadily upward. He rolled in the water and pulled at the grate beneath them, but it didn’t move.

When he came up Chloe was shivering next to him, still pushing at the locked door, turning the key back and forth.

“It won’t budge, I need your help,” he said, and she nodded, and they both plunged back under.

Both of them both strained and yanked at the heavy metal, to no avail. They came up gasping.

Nate banged his elbow painfully into the stubborn wood overhead, fully aware that Sully was their only way out but trying it again anyway, inspired by rapidly approaching death.

*   *   *

Braddock had him in a lock and was leaning her full weight on it. Sully pried at her arms, gasping, but she didn’t give an inch. He changed tactics, done with playing nice. He reached behind the pillar and pounded the side of her head, then clenched his abs and folded forward.

Her hold broke, and before she could regroup, he swung around the pillar and picked her up, shoulder and hip. He spun and threw her across the front counter.

She slid its polished length, slamming into an old-fashioned cash register at the end that let out a cheerful ding at the impact. The money drawer popped open.

Sully turned back to where the gold cross lay on the floor. He’d mostly broken the plexiglass, one good kick should—

Braddock gathered herself up and launched off the counter like a flying monkey. She landed on his shoulders, driving both of them toward the key, and punched him in the ear.

He tried to buck her off, but she stuck to him like glue, whipping out her creepy knife.

“I missed you, Victor,” she hissed in his ear. “I missed us.”

She slashed for his throat and he blocked it, the karambit slicing through the leather of his jacket sleeve. She slashed again but he threw himself backward and her cut went high, feathering through his hair, and then they were both crashing into a napkin-condiment counter, bottles of parmesan and pepper flakes crashing to the floor.

Sully jerked forward and sent her sailing over his head, both of them hitting the ground. Her knife hit the fake-stone linoleum and spun away, but she’d landed near the cross and maybe remembered why she was after him in the first place. She scuttled for it on her belly, reaching for the shining gold—

No you don’t. Sully grabbed her ankle and jerked.

Braddock flipped over and tried to kick him, but he was already on top of her feet, reaching up to grab her lethal arms. He pinned her down with his body, crawling up until they were face to face. He had to fight for every inch of it, too; she squirmed and strained with everything she had, but he let his full weight settle on her. They were both panting with exertion by the time they were eye to eye, reminding him of much better times.

“Did you really miss me?” he asked, shooting a look at the key.

In answer, Braddock leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek—and then pulled some professional-level move, bucking him upward and then wrapping her powerful thighs around his throat.

She squeezed, looking up at him with feral eyes. “Not even a little.”

*   *   *

Only their faces were still above water, less than a hand’s width of air left before the chamber would be filled to the top. The LED beams of the flashlights rippled across the ceiling.

“Sully, it’s now or never buddy, we’re running out of options here!” Nate called.

Nothing from Sully, and the water crawled up over Chloe’s chin. She lifted it, wondering how long she’d be able to hold her breath. She wished she could just inhale water, skip the struggle, but knew she couldn’t do it. She’d fight all the way to the end.

“Nate, we can get out of here, we can do this,” Chloe said. They’d have to hammer through the mosaic at their feet. “Three short breaths, one long one, and hold it.”

“We can do this,” Nate affirmed, and then they were both snatching their final breaths, the water rolling up over their faces.

*   *   *

The kid’s desperate cry cut through the pulsing dark of Sully’s encroaching choke-out, Braddock’s thighs like a vise around his throat.

Sully punched Braddock in the ribs, hard, and pulled up one knee. As soon as he had a foot under him, he charged forward, still wearing his hazardous ex-lover like a scarf, driving her toward the cracked safety glass. He scooped up the key on the way and stumbled to the wall, Braddock suddenly trying to get loose, stunned by the charge.

He grabbed one of Braddock’s well-muscled thighs and a grasping arm and chucked her into the damaged wall, headfirst.

The coated glass shattered, raining down on Braddock’s abruptly unconscious body. Sully stepped over her and jammed the cross into the lock, turning it.

They were completely submerged when the wooden door in front of them cracked inward.

Nate slammed his arms up, cracking the door further, but there was something blocking the other side, some heavy weight.

He looked at Chloe, whose eyes had gone wide. Her arms came up too, and they both pushed. The wood moved a little further but settled back down the instant they weren’t straining at it.

They locked gazes. Nate saw his own panic reflecting back at him, the realization that they were going to drown. She turned and went after the mosaic again. Nate counted himself down.

Three-two-one—PUSH—

Nate screamed as he shoved at the door, the last of his air trailing out in a stream of bubbles as he gave it everything he had, muscles straining—

—and whatever had been blocking the escape hatch shifted away suddenly. The wooden door banged open. Nate followed it out, coughing water, taking in a giant, wheezing gasp—and he realized Chloe wasn’t next to him.

“Chloe?!”

He dropped back into the water, grabbed her limp form, and dragged her into the air, curled over his arm. He thumped her back, hard, and then laid her down, patted her slack face.

“Chloe! Chloe, come on!”

Chloe turned her head and spewed water, choking as her eyes fluttered open.

Nate collapsed against the cold rocks and they both lay there, spitting out water, gasping the cold, stale air of some new environment. For a full minute they didn’t move, just lay there breathing, filling their starved lungs.

*   *   *

“Nate? Clo? You still with me?”

No answer, but something had clicked when Sully turned the key, he’d felt it.

At his feet, Braddock groaned and rolled her head.

No thanks on round two. He’d regroup outside, away from Ms. Deadly. Sully pulled the cross out of the keyhole and stepped back over Braddock, stumbling a bit. He felt light-headed and bruised and out of breath… and he was scared that he’d been too late with the key.

They’re fine, their earpieces got wet, that’s all.

He glanced at Braddock, still out cold, and staggered for the exit, crunching through chips of wall.

By the time he made it to the front door, he had his equilibrium back and was ready to act like an escaped hostage if the policia shown up; but there was only a small group of curious gawkers out front, and nobody tried to stop him. He pulled his phone out as he stepped around the corner of the building, out of sight in case Braddock woke up. Nate’s green dot hadn’t moved.

Sully’s heart sank.

*   *   *

“You okay?” Nate gasped. Chloe was finally taking in air without water coming out on the exhale.

“I think so,” she managed, barely. I actually drowned.

“The Infamous Eighteen,” he coughed, “are such assholes.”

They both chuckled, and Nate rolled his head to look at her. She looked back at him, not sure how to express her appreciation. She’d swallowed water and blacked out. If he hadn’t been here…

“Hey, we made it,” Nate said, and she exhaled heavily, and nodded.

“Guys?” Sully’s fearful voice warbled through a burst of static. “Say something. Just tell me you’re alive.”

Nate and Chloe both sat up. There was a pile of dusty broken stones heaped against the wall next to the hatch, accounting for the blockage Nate had somehow pushed through.

“Yeah, we’re good,” Nate said, tapping at his ear. “We’re alive.”

Sully’s tone instantly switched from worried to annoyed. “Then what are you waiting for? Get moving!”

Nate retrieved their flashlights and their dripping bags out of the well while Chloe caught her breath. They were at the dead end of another arched medieval tunnel, littered with fallen stones and webs. Water lapped at the opening in the floor, making mud where it spilled over.

They got to their feet slowly, wringing out their sopping clothes, pushing their wet hair back. The air was cold, flat and sour, but it was good to be breathing.

Chloe cleared her throat, waited for Nate to look at her. “Thank you.”

Nate smiled. “You don’t have to thank me, you had it.”

They both knew better. He saved my life.

He motioned at the tunnel in front of them. “I’m pretty sure it’s this way.”

Chloe shined her flashlight over the rocks as Nate pulled her key out of the hatch, handed it to her.

“Is that because it’s the only way?” she asked.

“Probably,” Nate said. “Come on, let’s go.”

Nate smiled at her again, and Chloe smiled back—but when he turned to start walking their new path, her smile faded quickly. She really liked Nate, and now she owed him… but if Sully had been a second later, both of them would be dead, her and sweet, clueless Nate. And Sully would only care because it would mean his trail to the gold was blocked.

Chloe sighed inwardly and followed Nate into the cold dark.

*   *   *

The kid answered, and Sully grinned, felt a weight come off his shoulders. The green dot on his phone started moving, and Sully hurried around the block of buildings that held the Papa John’s—then his grin fell away. The dot was crossing open traffic, and there were a lot of cars, Barcelona’s nightlife in full swing.

Sully waited for a break and then dashed into the street, narrowly avoiding a taxi and raising a chorus of honks and some angry Spanish curses. He made it to the other side without dying, just in time to see the green dot slide right through a locked bank building.

Crap. Sully could go left or right—either was a half block—and pick them up on the other side. He hesitated, waiting to see if the green dot would veer in one direction, but it seemed to be going straight… and the distance between the dots kept growing while he dicked around thinking about it.

Just go!

Sully turned east and broke into a jog, nearly mowing down an abuela with a loaded shopping trolley. She let out an indignant cry and told him to look where he was going, but Sully watched the phone, picking up speed as the green dot slid farther away.

*   *   *

Nate had shaken out his earpiece after their near-death experience but suspected it was done for. It kept crackling. When the seemingly endless, twisting tunnel finally opened into a large, open space, he gave it another try.

“Sully, you still up there?”

“Yeah, kid, I’m here. What do you got?”

Nate and Chloe shined their lights around the new chamber. Rocks and webs and shattered pillars. It was a big room, with part of a wide stone drainage pipe that led up from the back wall—and a small blur of what might have been night sky shining at the top. The air was definitely better, maybe a little warmer, although it smelled like mold. The tight blue beams illuminated arches packed with dirt and high rock walls, layers of ancient dust on the floor, but they really needed some kind of lantern…

“Not much, it’s dark down here,” Nate answered, just as his light picked up a sconce on the wall to his left, a torch resting in the metal holder. Nate lifted out the heavy, crusty iron stick, getting a whiff of the torch end—sulfur, yuck. It might still light, though.

“Always wanted to do this,” he said, and took out his Zippo, snapped it open, blew on the wick. Turned the wheel. The first few flicks were useless, but he got a spark on the fourth spin, and the fifth. And the next five.

“Give that thing up already,” Chloe said.

Nate ignored her and was finally rewarded for his efforts, the wick catching and sizzling a little as the water burned out of it. He touched the dancing flame to the metal well at the top of the torch—

—and the mixture fizzled to life, fire growing into a hissing, spitting column. Nate held the torch high, illuminating the room in waving shadows.

*   *   *

The dot stopped moving at the end of a small courtyard surrounded by buildings, empty except for an ancient stone well and a couple of park benches, a few big trees coming up through the bricks. Sully walked to the middle of the courtyard, noting the exit across the way. Backdoors to businesses, mostly, a few gothic-style streetlamps…

He stopped when the dots intersected, just as the kid spoke up.

“Yeah, kid, I’m here, what do you got?” Sully said.

Nate said it was too dark to see much. Sully looked around the empty square, and—

Aha! There was a square metal drainage grate set into the stone paving ten feet away, about two feet across. Sully squatted in front of it, hooked his fingers through the rusty bars. Screwed down at the corners, but the screwheads were rusty, too.

A kind of murky glow appeared somewhere below him. Sully could make out what looked like a waterslide made out of rock about ten feet below the grate, descending sharply away from him.

“I see a light, is that you?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Nate said. “We’re in some sort of ante-chamber…”

His voice drifted off, and the faint glow moved away from what Sully could see. Sully pulled at the grate helplessly, biting his tongue. The kid was looking, he’d speak up when he’d found the next clue. They had to be getting close.

*   *   *

Chloe thought Nate had it right, they were in an antechamber. A large room but narrow and not ornately decorated. The fire from the sputtering torch cast the long, open room in shifting shadows. Giant pillars stood at the room’s corners, disappearing into darkness overhead. All rough-cut rock, the walls were water-stained at the bottom but currently dry as a bone, the floor thick with dust. The shallow stone steps off to the right were heaped with it, and the low, wooden, metal-banded door to the left—

Nate saw it at the same time and they both hurried to the door, crouching in front of it. Flat black iron circles like wheel rims were set into the heavy wood in a pattern, the metal clotted with cobwebs. There was a thick keyhole in the center of the largest middle circle.

Yes!

She handed the key to Nate—the least she could offer—and Nate traded her the spitting torch. Chloe raised it high as he pushed the heavy gold into the oblong slot—but the hole was too big. The cross turned uselessly, clanging softly in the rusty lock.

“Something’s not right,” Nate said. “The key doesn’t fit.”

“Sully, look around up there,” Chloe said, thinking about the water trap. “We’re missing something. See anything that might help?”

“I can’t get the grate up,” Sully said, sounding out of breath.

“Forget the grate and look!”

*   *   *

No need to get pissy, Sully thought, and stood up, looking around. The oldest thing in the courtyard was the well, a low, narrow ring of medieval stone behind him. A more modern fountain had been added to the top, but it was empty. He hurried to it and looked inside. Just rock and mortar.

He looked at the rim, then crouched next to the base, brushing at the rocks that faced the grate. Was that an etched line?

Excited, Sully wiped away the sooty, dirty buildup. “There’s something here, it looks like a ladder or something…”

A few more brushes, and the symbol was exposed. Another tree? It was a circle with a straight, vertical line through the middle and four horizontal slashes up high, the two on top shorter than the bottom two…

“Wait,” he said. He pulled out his cross, looked at the symbol again, then stepped back to the drainage grate, pleased with himself. “I think I get it, I think it’s the two keys put together!”

“I need your key,” Nate said. “Can you throw it down?”

Sully stopped grinning. Seriously?

He grabbed the grate with both hands and heaved. He could feel the front screws ready to give, and repositioned himself behind it. Maybe from a different angle—

“What’s the holdup?” Chloe asked.

As if you don’t know. “I’m coming down there for this,” he said, and gave the stubborn grate another yank. He realized he was sweating. All the screws were getting looser, though.

“You want a stupid key, or do you want the gold?” Nate asked. “Just throw it down!”

“I’m telling you,” Chloe said. “He’d rather lose the gold than risk trusting either of us, even for a second.”

Oh, really? Sneering, Sully threw the cross through the metal bars and watched it bounce away down the open pipe, to prove her wrong… And besides, he’d have the grate up in another minute. No way she’d have time to steal much before he got there.

*   *   *

Nate heard the key clatter down the rocky ditch leading out of the chamber, echoing off the impossibly high ceiling. Chloe went to pick it up, looking irritated beneath the glow of the flickering torch.

“Thank you!” Nate called.

Chloe handed him the second key, and Nate fitted them together. They were like puzzle pieces, the hammered edges fitting together exactly with a soft, dull clink.

He put the heavy pair to the keyhole and the crosses slid in like they’d been made for it, which of course they had. He looked at Chloe, who met his gaze with a delighted grin, her eyes shining. She looked as excited as he felt.

“Here we go,” he said, and turned the key, and there was a satisfying click, the feel of a mechanism changing position.

He pushed at the door, but it didn’t budge. Something blocking the other side? Maybe the wood was swollen, after so many years of drainage water running past. Could do a lot of damage—

Chloe stood up and kicked the door. With a rending creak, the door fell inward, landing with a thud in a soft billow of dust, the sound echoing into the huge treasure chamber they’d just unlocked.

Wow.

Chloe ducked through the opening and walked into the cavernous room with Nate right behind her, stepping over the flattened door, the keys sticking up like a gold flower. The torchlight didn’t carry very far, but Chloe saw more iron sconces set into massive, fluted columns on either side of the room. She lit the one on the left then walked around the room lighting more of them, four in all, though there were many more pillars, as big as redwoods. The chamber was gradually revealed by the spitting torches, a Roman storehouse with a ceiling at least ten meters up. The patterned stone floor was covered with sandy dust, drifted in piles, the walls lined with small vases and rotting boxes.

All very interesting, but Chloe was most impressed by the four giant urns that dominated the center of the room, identical, each nearly three meters tall and made of smooth, reddish clay. They were grouped in a rough diamond, spaced evenly a meter plus apart, and were decorated with tall Roman figures obscured with dust, decorative bands of circles and flourishes where the containers narrowed at the throat. Each was topped with a knob-handled lid as big as a manhole cover.

Sculpted and painted, perhaps, before Christ walked the earth. Chloe set her torch into a sconce and stepped back to admire them. That this chamber had survived, the urns undamaged for this long—

“Well? Did it work?” Sully panted, rudely breaking into Chloe’s respectful awe. “What’s happening? Is the gold there? Talk to me, I’m—”

Chloe pulled her earpiece out, saw Nate do the same as they both walked through the towering urns, touching them. Maybe he was feeling like she was, struck by the history and majesty of the ancient chamber, by the pulse-pounding triumph that attended finding a treasure hidden centuries before. The urns themselves were museum pieces, larger than any she’d ever seen and in pristine condition.

“Can you believe this?” Nate asked, touching one of the painted figures, a man in a toga with a crown of leaves. The figure was taller than he was.

“We found it,” Chloe breathed. “I can’t believe we found it.”

*   *   *

Chloe walked through the urns, touching them. Nate reluctantly slipped his earpiece back in, gaze eating up the incredible room. With the torches going, they were experiencing the chamber the way that the ancient Romans had, after they’d conquered the whole Iberian Peninsula and set up an outpost here, Barcino. Named by Caesar Augustus, 14 ad—he remembered it from the wiki he’d read. Not centuries ago, millennia. Just seeing it was almost worth getting beat up and half drowned. The gold in those urns would more than cover the balance.

Sully was nearly shrieking. “—be down there in five minutes and if you don’t answer, so help me God I’m gonna—”

“Sully, Sully,” Nate said. “It’s good. We’re in a Roman storehouse, at least two thousand years old, and there are these four giant urns, about eight feet tall…”

“Intact?” Sully broke in.

“Perfectly preserved.”

There was a long pause, and Nate imagined he could hear Sully’s envy in it. Chloe knocked on the urn, looking up at the lid as she put her earpiece back in.

“So what are you waiting for?” Sully asked, roughly. “Open them up and get that gold.”

Nate grinned. Poor guy, it had to be killing him not to be down here.

“They’re priceless in their own right,” Nate said. “Moving as fast as we can.”

“Give me a lift?” Chloe asked. She stood next to the urn in her sleeveless black jumpsuit thing, hair pushed away from her golden face. She looked beautiful, triumphant and strong.

Nate dropped his pack on the dusty floor and went to the urn, crouching in front of her, putting his hands together. He boosted her up and ducked under her, her feet landing on his shoulders. He managed to straighten up, back to the urn, pushing against it to maintain his balance. Chloe got a knee up onto the curve of the container and shoved at the lid. There was a heavy, grating scrape, but the lid only moved a few inches.

Nate leaned on the dusty clay and held her ankle, her boot planted on his right shoulder—and heard a soft creak next to his ear. He turned his head as Chloe pushed again—

—and saw that a small crack had snapped into existence where he’d leaned to counterbalance her weight. Just a small one, but even as he watched, a tiny line branched out from one side… and another tiny line branched off of that.

“Uh, Chloe?” Nate asked.

Chloe had managed to lever enough of the lid off to reach inside. She couldn’t see, the lid’s shadow covered the opening, but her fingertips touched something. Some kind of grain?

She pulled out a handful of the stuff and held it up. White crystals, nearly as fine as sand.

She smelled it, then touched her tongue to the crystals.

“Salt,” she said, frowning. Why would they hide gold in salt? Gold didn’t need preserving.

“Chloe, we have a problem,” Nate said.

“They used salt to store food,” she mused aloud, “but I don’t know why they’d put gold in—”

Nate jerked under her feet and the urn suddenly collapsed into a hundred pieces, spilling both of them to the ground. A tidal wave of salt hit the floor and slammed into the other standing urns. The one closest cracked with a dull sound and burst, the added avalanche exploding the next urn, which brought the last one down. Body-sized shards of clay clattered to the ground and drifted in the cascading avalanche of salt.

Chloe managed to keep from getting buried, but only just. She sat up on the settling white beach, looking around in disbelief.

“What’s happening?” Sully asked.

“It’s got to be here,” she said, crawling to her feet, staring around at the drifts of salt. The dust of it burned in her nose, the taste was thick in her mouth. It tasted like what-the-fuck. It has to be here!

“Or why all the tricks?” Nate agreed. He looked stunned.

“Answer me, guys, what do you got?”

Suddenly furious, Chloe kicked at the nearest mound, sent a storm of crystals flying through the cold air. “Salt! Nothing but salt!”

“It’s not here,” Nate said. “The gold’s not here.”

“And remember those urns? Slightly less priceless now,” Chloe added, because if she had to suffer, Sully should too. The loss was literally incalculable. She considered how she was freezing and exhausted and not five billion dollars richer, and kicked at the worthless salt again.

*   *   *

Chloe stamped around, fuming, but Nate just sat. He felt terrible about the urns—and if the gold wasn’t here, why all the puzzles and booby traps? The church, the arrows and spears, the water coffin…

Because there’s something valuable here. Something worth the trouble. Salt had been incredibly valuable once upon a time, but the Eighteen weren’t legendary for stealing salt, were they?

Nate looked around at the drifts of white, scanning them… and saw something sticking out of the salt near the edge of the spill, something darker than the shattered clay. He crawled toward it, salt gritting into his hands and knees, and felt his hopes rekindle as he got closer. Some kind of leather, mostly buried.

He reached for the object with both hands and fished out a heavily oiled satchel, a cylinder about three feet long and nearly black with age. He untied the oiled leather with shaking fingers, and unrolled the front flap.

Inside was a scroll, backed in more leather. Nate lifted it out, letting the satchel thump into the salt as he rose into a crouch and started to unroll the bundle, his heart in his throat. Fine, light parchment was revealed, thin black lines in a grid—

“A map,” he said, laying the find on the salt, marveling at the medieval work—a close-up of Europe and China, the Philippines, Indonesia. His eye was drawn to the only water that was colored in, a compass rose near the Java Sea, a flush of pale blue next to the islands.

The Malukus. The Spice Islands. South of the Philippines, it would have been a short trip…

“I’ve almost got this off,” Sully said, breathless. “I’ll be right down.”

Nate barely heard him, studying the map. “They never brought it back. The path to the gold begins in Barcelona, but it ends over here, in the East Indies…”

He turned to show Chloe… and she was standing on the other side of the salt beach, holding a gun pointed at him. She dropped her earpiece to the stone floor and stomped it, but the gun didn’t waver.

*   *   *

There was a nasty burst of static in Sully’s earpiece. Scowling, he clicked it a bunch of times, but he couldn’t hear anything. Had he turned it off?

“Kid? You there?”

Nothing. Shit. He went back to the task at hand with even greater urgency. Three of the screws were loose, there was just one holdout. He jerked at the stubborn grate, cursing under his breath.

“Give it to me,” Chloe said.

“You’re serious?” Nate rolled up the map and rose to his feet, a half-smile already forming—but Chloe wasn’t smiling, and the barrel of her semi stayed steady.

“I’m not getting screwed on this one,” she said.

“Chloe, come on,” Nate said. He started walking toward her, sure that she would come to her senses. She had to know he wasn’t planning to steal from her. “This is nuts.”

The smiling, flirting woman he’d gotten drunk with the night before chambered a round when he was ten feet away.

“Don’t,” she said, a thread of steel in her voice, and aimed at his guts.

Nate froze. She didn’t look like she wanted to shoot him, but she was clearly prepared to follow through. “You don’t have to do this, you can trust us.”

She shook her head, stepping closer. “You have no idea who you’re partnered with, do you? I mean, you don’t even know what really went down.”

“Went down with what?” Nate asked. What did I miss?

“Sam, who do you think?”

Nate felt a hollow open up inside. “What are you talking about?”

Chloe shook her head again. She was close enough that he could see she regretted saying anything, the fine lines around her mouth tight, brow furrowed. There was something like pity in her gaze.

“Ask Sully,” she said.

“No, tell me,” Nate said. “What went down with Sam?”

Chloe lowered the gun slightly, stepping closer.

“You’re a good guy, Nate,” she said, looking into his eyes, and—

WHAM! The lights went out.

*   *   *

She caught him across his cheek and temple with her trusty Walther and he dropped like a weight, out cold before he crashed into the salt. She picked up the bulky roll of map, tucking it under her arm.

“Too good,” she added more gently, and turned for the door, refusing to let herself feel guilty. She’d told him who she was, it was on him if he hadn’t listened. And really, it was a favor, pushing him and Sully out of this hunt. Nate had talent, but his naivete would get him killed before he had a chance to wise up. Sully was a dishonorable crook with more balls than brains, but he didn’t deserve to die for it. Given what was at stake, they were lucky they’d run afoul of her and not one of Moncada’s hired killers.

They’ll sulk home empty-handed, and Sully will pop up in a few years with some new venture. Victor Sullivan would never let a little betrayal ruin an opportunity; he’d have a new partner, someone he hadn’t yet fucked over, and would declare that bygones were bygones. She hoped that Nate would…

Nothing, you don’t hope anything. Get moving.

On the way back into the antechamber, she pulled the gold keys from their lock, tucking them into her bag. They’d passed three small offshoot tunnels after the well trap, and she’d seen a sewer grating at the end of one of them. She hadn’t pointed it out to Nate—which was about when she’d realized that she meant to go through with all of it, even after Nate had saved her life. Chloe didn’t always stick to the outlines of things, she was willing to pivot mid-stride if her instincts said so, regardless of the incentive. But drowning had reminded her of how sloppy Sully was, and Nate’s faith in him was a serious liability.

The cold antechamber rang with the thin sound of metal screeching, echoing from the impossibly high ceiling. Sully would find his way down, soon, and she needed to be gone.

Chloe flicked on her flashlight and hurried under the arch that she and Nate had come in through, shivering in her damp clothes. She knew better than to go back to the apartment—best if she and the boys didn’t see each other for a while—but she had a go bag in the car. Wherever she landed for the night, a long, hot bath was top priority.

The weight of the crosses felt good against her shoulder, the leather-backed scroll like silk in her hand. She picked her way through the tunnel debris, affirming to herself at every step that she’d made the right choice, the only choice.

*   *   *

With a final squeal, the last rusty screw stripped free of the masonry. Sully pulled up the grate and tossed it aside.

“Nate,” he said. “Did she take the map? Tell me we got something. Anything!”

Nada. Sully clicked the earpiece a few times, then gave up, staring into the opening. It was a drop to the sharply slanting ditch below, but if he could swing in near the top of the incline, maybe he could—

Footsteps behind him. Sully turned, and saw Braddock striding across the square, eyes blazing. She’d retrieved her gun, it seemed.

Sully stood, flicked a glance toward the plaza’s west exit, and saw the silhouettes of two big men standing in the arch there.

“Great,” Sully said. “You’re just in time for the bad news. There’s no gold, Jo.”

Braddock didn’t stop until she was next to the well, too far away for him to charge her, close enough to block an escape.

Jeez she looks mad. Her expression was icy calm, but her gaze burned.

“I’m telling you the truth,” he said. “There’s nothing down there, not anymore. Chloe Frazer screwed us both.”

“For once I believe you,” she said, and raised the semi.

Sully put his hands up, fixing her with a pleading look. He was cornered in an alcove, nowhere to run. Scotty had spotted him when they’d fanned out from the restaurant, dodging across traffic

“Come on, Jo, we can talk this out.”

Braddock felt a fierce glee unfurl inside. How delicious, to see him beg! But she wouldn’t drag it out this time, she wanted him dead and had him in her sights, at a safe distance.

“No more talking,” she said, closing her left eye as Sully shifted back a step. She aimed at his black heart—

—and he disappeared.

Braddock ran forward, saw the hole he’d dropped into and fired into the square of darkness, losing count of her rounds in the red-hot rage that swept through her.

Scotty and Hugo were suddenly at her side, Scotty shining a small light into the open drain.

Nothing but rocks. Sully was gone.

Braddock took in some air and holstered her Sig, exhaling heavily, releasing the madness and banking her resolve. Someone would come at the sound of shots fired, and she refused to let her hate for that lucky fuck overwhelm her common sense. Without a word, she led the boys toward the square’s west exit. Sully was a pest, quick to run and hard to kill, but their paths would cross again. If he hid, she’d find him. And next time, she’d shoot first.

*   *   *

Sully dropped hard and cartwheeled down the rock chute, smashing an elbow and then a knee trying to arrest his fall. He heard shots but then he whacked his skull and only heard ringing, crashing down into the cold blackness.

He tucked into a half-assed shoulder ball just in time for the chute to end abruptly. He flew through the icy dark—

—then his shoulder slammed onto hard rock. He didn’t pull off a roll, more of a crappy somersault, and he lay flat on his back for a minute, counting a dozen minor agonies and listening for anything more from Braddock. He didn’t think she’d follow him down, but as pissed as she was, he wouldn’t put it past her. He sat up tentatively, surprised nothing was broken… and realized he could see some of the tall, clammy room he was in, the soft glow of firelight coming through a low door ahead on his left.

Sully crawled to his feet and limped toward the light, doing his best to shake off the pain—no easy task, once forty was in the rearview. He ducked down and through the door, coming up in a bigger room with about a ton of salt spilled across the middle, broken pottery everywhere. Sputtering torches hissed along the massive stone walls—

—and there was the kid, sprawled out on the salt beach next to a big chunk of red clay. No sign of Chloe, surprise surprise.

Sully hurried to Nate, took a knee next to him. He was breathing, that was good. The kid had a red mark on his left cheekbone that was already purpling up nicely, and a swelling bump over his ear. Pistol-whipped.

“Kid,” Sully said, and patted his unbruised cheek. “Wake up.”

Nate groaned, tried to turn away from the increasingly firm pats.

“Nate, wake up,” Sully persisted, tapping the other side, and Nate’s eyes rolled open. After a scary few seconds, they actually focused.

“Good, you’re alright,” Sully said, sitting back on his heels. “She got you pretty good.”

Nate sat up, wincing, and then looked at him, making eye contact and holding it. Sully was expecting an apology for letting Chloe get the drop on him, or maybe he’d seen enough of the map to point to their next move… But the kid went in a different direction entirely.

“What happened to my brother?”

*   *   *

Sully’s gaze shifted down and away, then up. Even with his brain rattled, Nate could see him looking for a way not to answer.

“No, stop thinking about the next lie you’re gonna tell,” Nate said, staggering to his feet. “Where’s Sam? The truth.”

Sully stood up with him, but stared at his own shoes for a long minute. “I should’ve told you before, but… your brother… he’s gone, kid.”

“Lost, not gone,” Nate said automatically, but Sully was finally making eye contact—and he looked sincerely sorry, and he wasn’t lying.

“You said he bailed, you said he ghosted you,” Nate said. His own voice sounded far away to him, numbness spreading out from the hollow pit in his stomach, enveloping him. Sam’s dead?

“He didn’t ghost me,” Sully admitted. “We went down into the captain’s tomb together, to find the journal. It was there, right where Sam said it would be.”

Sully jammed his hands in his pockets, looked away. “We were on our way out, but Braddock and her guys—they cut us off. Opened fire. Sam got shot…”

No, no, no—

“And me, I saw a way out, so…”

The numbness fell away like a switch had been flipped. “So, you just left him there to die?”

“There was nothing I could do,” Sully said, but then he sighed and shook his head. “Or maybe there was. I don’t know.”

And the hits just keep coming. Nate ached all over, but the physical pain paled next to his hurt and growing fury. He’d known not to trust Sully after the auction, but this was some next-level bullshit. Sam had been shot; Sully had run away and then lied his ass off about it.

“How could you do that? How could you not tell me?”

Sully scowled. “I knew if I told you, you never would’ve come with me.”

“And why was that so important?” Nate erupted. “What the hell am I doing here? Me, and not anybody else?”

Sully chewed his lower lip for a second, studying Nate’s face. Nate could see him decide to come clean, and his anger spiked higher. Who the fuck is he, to decide what I have a right to know?

“Your brother believed there was a final piece,” Sully said. “A last trick the Eighteen played, so if they were ever forced to give up the location of the gold, the Moncadas still wouldn’t get it. As usual, he was right.”

Sully bent and scooped up a handful of salt, let it sift through his fingers. “Sam knew what that trick was, but he wouldn’t tell me. I thought maybe he said something to you, or sent you something. He talked about you a lot.”

“That’s what this was about? You dragged me over here, let me believe I’d see Sam again, because you think I know something?”

Sully looked up, his expression a weird mix of apology, worry, and… hope?

“Do you?”

“Wow,” Nate said. “You really just asked that.”

Sully looked a tiny bit ashamed, but his sharp gaze was still studying Nate’s response, searching for the truth.

As if I haven’t been straight with him from the get-go. As if he hasn’t been LYING to me since the day we met. About everything that matters.

“You said it’s money that changes you, makes you greedy and selfish, but you know what I think?” Nate asked, with no intention of letting him answer. “I think that’s just who you are. There was never some better version of you. You’re a shitty human being, Sully. And whatever this was, it’s over.”

Nate walked, scooping up his backpack on the way out, leaving Sully standing alone in the heaps of worthless salt.

Santiago Moncada stood on the catwalk that stretched over the empty excavation, absorbing the night’s silence. He’d had a dizzying day of ups and downs—sorrow, anger, incredible loss… and incredible gain. The peace of the unmanned dig site was just what he needed to cool his fevered thoughts, to remind him that empires could fall, but they could also be restored.

If I’d waited only a few hours longer… But no. Father had practically cut his own throat, and it was done, a thing of the past. The press had reported by lunchtime that Armando Moncada and his driver had been robbed and murdered while visiting La Sagrada Familia. Santiago had released a statement in the afternoon, asking for privacy during their family’s difficult time. A tragedy, that was how he would remember it… And it was. His father had died the very day that Santiago’s dreams were finally within reach.

He heard a car pull up outside, the second in an hour. A moment later, Jo Braddock walked into the site. She had to work to keep her expression blank, he saw. She had bad news.

She stopped at the edge of the platform beneath the catwalk, looked up at him. She took a deep breath before she started talking.

“Mr. Moncada, we’ve run into some difficulties. The gold was never here, beneath the city.”

He stared out at the ruins, then up at the portraits of his ancestors, his gaze settling on Magellan’s patron.

“Yes, I know,” he said. “It’s quite embarrassing. Carajo, if Fulgencio only knew…”

“We can still find it,” Braddock said, quickly. “I think there was a clue down there, and we know who has it. A Miss Chloe Frazer. My people are out looking for her.”

The young Aussie chose her moment well. She stepped out from behind the draped scaffolding in the hall, a crooked smile on her face as she joined Braddock on the platform.

“You mean the big guy who doesn’t talk, and his sidekick, the Highlander?” Chloe Frazer said. “Yeah, they didn’t find me.”

Braddock’s mouth fell open, and stayed that way. She stared at the younger woman, a flash of murder in her eyes.

“Diversified investment,” Moncada said. “I hired Miss Frazer when I hired you. No hard feelings, I hope. Of course, she’ll lead the operation from here on out.”

A bitter pill, he saw, with some amusement. Braddock’s jaw worked, her hands clenching and unclenching. When she finally spoke, she managed a cool, professional tone.

“As long as we get the gold, I’m good,” she said.

Of course, she would acquiesce; there was no other choice. It had been Chloe Frazer who’d brought him what he needed; she’d earned her percentage point and the right to plot the expedition. Braddock had proved to be a decent assassin but little else. He could fire her, erase her… Except now she had a real ticket to the treasure of her simple, greedy dreams, and would do whatever he asked to stay in. A lethal asset, to be sure.

Moncada smiled, rapping the catwalk’s metal railing with both hands. “Then it’s settled.”

So much to do now: a plane to ready, equipment to be packed, extra workers to hire… But that was for his employees to manage. He could just enjoy the moment, revel in it. For five centuries the Moncada investment had been denied, their House cheated of its due by a handful of spiteful, illiterate sailors… but he was going to reclaim it, and ensure that the Moncada legacy lived on. His own portrait would be looked upon by future generations with respect and veneration, he’d be remembered as a great man.

If only his father could have been here, the moment would have been perfect.

*   *   *

Nate slept badly and woke up aching in every way. Sam was dead and Chloe had ditched out and he had a thousand scrapes and bruises. And all of it was thanks to Victor Sullivan.

Nate had found his own way back to Chloe’s apartment and crawled in through an open window, shutting himself into the guest room. When Sully had clattered in an hour later, he hadn’t come to Nate’s door, which was a wise move on his part. Nate was so done with him. Chloe had been right about Sully, it was no wonder she’d bailed, and Nate had slept crappy because it had been a struggle not to charge into Sully’s room and start punching. Of course, his restlessness could also have been from the light concussion Chloe had dealt out. Really, they could both go to hell.

Nate got up and got dressed, khakis and a soft white Henley, his gentlest clothes. When he dropped Sam’s ring around his neck, he saw his brother’s determined face for just a second, how he’d looked when Nate had last seen him. Sam had figured out that Elcano’s journal had been buried with him. He’d been hot on the trail of the hidden gold before Braddock had killed him, before Sully had run out on him. Sam had been living their shared dream: of discovering some incredible treasure, even dodging thieves and killers to get to it… Only Sam hadn’t dodged, in the end. Nate understood a little better why Sam hadn’t come back for him, remembering how he’d felt when he’d first seen those urns. He’d never felt more alive, or happier.

Nate emptied out the still damp bag from the trip through the tunnels and shifted what he could into his backpack, rearranging his few items for the trip back to New York. He had enough in his account to buy a ride, and stuff to hock or sell once he got home, to hold him over until he got another bartending job.

Even the thought was exhausting, like a weighted vest. Nate lifted the baggie of Sam’s postcards and pulled them out, flipping through the colorful pictures. Sam had touched each one, picked it out, written on it. He’d walked foreign streets to find a mailbox or a post office so he could keep in touch with his little brother, he’d been young and alive and happy.

And I’ll never get another postcard. Nate was holding the last of the series.

Sully dropped something in the living room, pulling Nate out of his head. He put the cards back in his pack, took a last look around, then headed out, straight for the front door.

When he hit the living room, he took in Sully standing by the coffee table, packing his own bag, but didn’t look at him directly.

“I know where she took the map,” Sully said.

Nate clenched his jaw, kept walking.

“Moncada,” Sully said. “Think about it. Who else has the resources she’s gonna need? And Braddock and her goon squad finding us at the church? He had to have someone on the inside.”

Nate had reached the door but he paused, struck by the idea. He hadn’t really thought about it, but if she’d been working for Moncada all along, she’d planned to cut them out before they’d even met.

She planned to cut Sully out. I was collateral damage.

“You hate me, I get it,” Sully said, talking fast, walking toward him. “I’d hate me, too… But Braddock? After what she did to your brother? You gotta hate her even more. We can’t let her win, kid. All I’m asking is—”

Nate whirled around. “Stop trying to play me. For like five seconds. Just stop.”

Sully stood still and shut up. In the blessed peace, Nate sorted through what was a good idea versus what he wanted. Cutting ties with Sully was a good idea, Sully wasn’t his friend or a decent person… but he was finally a known quantity. Sam had died looking for the fabled lost gold, and Nate wanted to find it. For Sam, and because of him. Most of all, he wanted more of what it had been like, turning the crosses in that final lock. Feeling the history, pulling back the veil, knowing that even better was ahead.

In the end, it wasn’t even a close call.

*   *   *

Sully waited, watching the kid think about it. He felt pretty shitty about how the Sam news had gone down, but there was no way Nate would turn his back on following that gold.

Except maybe he will, because you should have told him sooner. Which was true, but when would have been the right time to come out with it? The kid was sharp, Sully had wanted him on board, he’d needed the hook. Maybe on the plane ride over, that could’ve worked…

Nate finally looked at him. “For years, I told myself that Sam would come back. That he wasn’t gone, he was just… lost. We always said we were going to go out there and find the things nobody could find, together. Me and him. It’s how we took our minds off the shitty hand we were dealt. Instead, I’m stuck with you.”

Sully felt a sliver of hope.

“So, here’s how it’s going to go,” Nate continued. “From now on, it’s fifty-fifty. We’re not buddies or pals, it’s business. I’m going to finish what my brother started. We find the gold, then we go our separate ways.”

Sully was surprised at his relief. He liked the kid, who’d turned out to be useful. He needed Nate’s quick brain to guide him to the prize. And, he didn’t want Nate to hate him. The kid reminded him a little of himself at that age—optimistic, daring, crooked as hell. The bravado of youth and all that. They could always renegotiate shares somewhere down the line.

Plus, he gave me a cat.

“Okay, kid,” Sully said. “It’s a deal.”

Chloe looked over the inventory list as Moncada’s mercs lugged crates on board his cargo plane, lashing them into the hold, fitting them with nets and chutes. They had food and water, tents and climbing gear, rafts and motors, lights, demolition and excavation equipment, a portable ground penetrating radar unit, chemical toilets… She’d even thought of sunblock and bug spray. The gold was likely buried, it could take days to unearth it. Someone else was handling weapon stuff, a big guy named Juan with split ends and some bullshit tribal tats, which was fine by her. She didn’t look into the heavy crates he was loading—presumably materiel for the half dozen mercs loading boxes, all of them swaggering around like characters from an old Western, bristling with black nylon instead of leather. Testosterone gone wild, and complete overkill in Chloe’s opinion: they were headed to a bare speck of rock in the middle of the ocean, who did they think they were going to have to fend off?

Not even my business to ask. She was an independent contractor, nothing more, brought in to find the gold and oversee the excavation, if one was necessary. Moncada was paying the bills, he could invite a circus if he wanted… And really, hadn’t he? Cirque de Psycho. Braddock and her two henchmen had shown half an hour ago and boarded without even looking at Chloe. She’d want to watch her back with that one; Moncada had made them enemies when he’d handed the op to her, and Jo Braddock definitely struck her as the grudge-holding type.

Once she’d verified that everything had been unloaded from the latest truck, Chloe stopped for a drink of water, pushing her hair off her sweaty forehead. It was late in the day, heat waves shimmering off the tarmac of Moncada’s private airstrip. The plane was huge, a C-17 Globemaster III, fifty meters long with a wingspan just as wide, made for militaries the world over to transport troops and outsized cargo. The cargo plane’s ancient loadmaster walked back and forth in front of the ramp, telling the grim-faced mercs where to put what, and how to secure the boxes to the rails that ran the length of the hold. The old man had left a wide path right down the middle to load in Moncada’s Mercedes Gullwing, of all things. The gleaming red coupe was parked in the lengthening shadow of a pyramid of crates.

A shining Hyundai GV80 rolled up to the plane, parked behind the loading workers. Moncada got out of the back and walked to the foot of the ramp, looking cool and surprisingly at ease for someone whose father had been murdered the day before. He wore sunglasses and a tan leather coat, white slacks. No black for mourning, then, unless you counted the shades. Santiago Moncada was a villain under his smooth surface charm, which Chloe had always known, but now she knew knew. His dad had found God in his dotage and wanted to give away the family fortune; conveniently for the heir, Armando had been murdered before any actual giving could occur. Even more conveniently, a pair of dead criminals had turned up just this morning with Moncada Senior’s money clip and the driver’s wallet. Chloe had heard about the crime on the radio over breakfast. The narrative was that the two crooks had fought over the loot and knifed each other to death. Crazy, how well that had worked out for the polished, handsome man who was now smiling at her, waving her over.

Chloe touched the strap of the scroll’s waterproof case on her shoulder—she’d worn it all day, along with the gold keys in her smallest leather pack—and headed to the ramp, wishing she was more excited for the trip. Finding the gold was the thing. As long as she hung on to that, she wouldn’t have to reckon with herself for who was sponsoring the expedition. It had just sort of happened, falling in with Moncada. She’d let it get around a few months back that she had a line on one of the Brotherhood crosses, and when the billionaire had approached her to offer her a stake in his venture, she’d meant to turn him down… But he’d presented a lucrative sum just to let him know if she heard anything, and, after all, it was her business to find things… And when Sully had announced his arrival to Barcelona with the second key, dropping Moncada a text hadn’t seemed such a crime, because… well, because Sully…

Stop it. You made the decision, it’s happening. Head down, watch your back, do the job.

Chloe stopped in front of him, but he was talking to one of the mercs, waving at his shining red Gullwing.

“Load her near the front,” Moncada said. “I don’t want her getting scratched.”

He smiled at Chloe, gesturing at the coupe. “Mi cariña. My father, may he rest with the saints, gave me this car when I turned eighteen. I’d never seen him so proud. To see his son become a man.”

A cold chill snaked up Chloe’s spine, at the beatific expression on Moncada’s face. Crikey.

“It’s been my good luck charm ever since,” he finished.

Chloe had a sudden reckless urge to respond like Nate might—so, have you picked out a casket? She bit her tongue, hard, to keep from smiling at the thought. She had no right to pretend her and Nate were friends, and now was not the time to play. Moncada was a patricide and a creep.

“Sorry he’s not here to see this,” Chloe said, in full neutral, and handed over the black waterproof tube. “The map.”

Moncada took off his shades and looked at her, studying her. She worked harder on neutral.

“It’s natural to feel some conflict,” he said, apparently reading remorse in her discomfort. “You made a difficult decision, but the right one.”

To rip off Sully and Nate? Or to work for you?

She met his gaze evenly. She wasn’t going to be intimidated by him, or engage with him on his terms. Pretty much the whole point of the independent contractor deal. “I don’t really do regret.”

He smiled, locking eyes with her, and she could see how much he liked the line.

“Yo tampoco,” he said. Neither do I. “In fact, I feel… liberated. Shall we?”

There were still a number of crates to load up, but the organizing was done. Chloe put up all her shields, nothing but the gold, I’ll find the gold, and let him walk her to the front of the plane. She didn’t even flinch when he touched her shoulder to guide her up the steps.

*   *   *

“There she is,” Nate said, watching Moncada and Chloe walk toward the air stairs, Moncada carrying the map tucked under one arm. Chloe was easy enough to pick out—she was wearing a utilitarian light gray jumpsuit thing with black trail boots.

“When you’re right, you’re right,” Sully said, super modestly. He was stretched out next to Nate, both of them peering through the thin white railing atop an industrial cargo loader. There were several at the end of the strip, parked in front of a row of giant mobile cranes.

Nate lowered the binoculars. She hadn’t been smiling. Obviously she was working for Moncada, it wasn’t like a hostage situation, but she didn’t like him—Nate could tell. She’d been stiff and blank-faced.

“She only cut us out ’cause she knew you were going to cut her out,” Nate said.

Sully reached for the binoculars. “Still harboring feelings for the girl who knocked you on your ass?”

Nate didn’t answer, while Sully looked around. He wasn’t wrong: Nate was still attracted to Chloe, like a dumb stupid idiot. She could have been playing him all along—okay, so technically she had been—but when they’d cozied up on her balcony, there’d been chemistry, a real moment of mutual appreciation. And she hadn’t faked her personality: being comfortable in her own skin, funny, smart, an avowed non-sharer. On the other hand, his face still hurt. Like, a lot.

Sully handed Nate the binoculars and picked up his pack. “C’mon, looks like they’re getting ready to go.”

Nate nodded, heart rate spiking. He didn’t know what Sully had in mind to get them onboard, but he was up for it. He didn’t want to die—and if they got caught, their chances of survival were pretty crappy—but he couldn’t walk away, he didn’t want to. He was going to put his bravest self forward and live in the moment.

Anyway, death can’t be any worse than going home to fill out job applications.

Sully stuck to the shadows, leading them to the shrubby field that ran along the east side of the strip. Nate kept low and followed him.

*   *   *

Braddock and her team had already been waiting for the better part of an hour in the Globemaster’s command center, a big cabin behind the cockpit fitted out like a military operations room—consoles and plush chairs overlooked by a platform with a black “command” table, the shining surface littered with controls. The walls were dark gray padded foam, screens affixed to the walls. Some of Moncada’s men had wandered in and out from the passenger cabin behind theirs, and Braddock nodded at the few she recognized. Guns for hire, most of them, though she’d also met an auto mechanic who was there to fuss with Moncada’s Gullwing. Apparently, there was some process required to prevent whatever the pressure changes did to the fuel, or something. Stupid and vain, flying a car around because it was his rabbit’s foot, but it set her thinking. Once they’d found the gold, what would she do that was outrageously wasteful? Quit this fucking line, obviously, settle a few scores, but after that… The sky was the limit, wasn’t it? With unlimited resources you could do whatever you liked, and the world would adjust to your whims.

Moncada ushered Chloe Frazer into the room, and Braddock felt her expression set into a professional mask as she stood up from her lean against the rail of the upper platform. Two of the mercs had settled at one of the consoles below, Juan Alvaro and a bearded man she didn’t know. Juan was a bruiser, but smart enough to run a team; she assumed the six she’d counted were his. Moncada carried a long plastic tube, and while the Aussie girl flipped on monitors, Moncada slid its contents onto the table, rolling out a map.

Braddock stepped to the table. Sixteenth-century, painted parchment tacked to waxed leather. The map was mostly uncolored except for a blue compass rose around the Malukas, west of New Guinea, and some orange along northern Australia. Everything else was outlined in dull green.

“Animo!” Moncada said, smiling. “Invigorating, isn’t it? To be part of something greater than ourselves. Who’s ready to make a little history?”

He waved at Chloe Frazer, who was fussing with a laptop, a confident look on her pretty little face. What was she so smug about? She’d ripped off Sully, that didn’t mean she knew what she was doing, and the way she’d pranced around all day… Braddock had already decided that if she could get the girl somewhere private once they were at the site, she’d put an end to her. Just on principle.

“This map was drawn in the sixteenth century, with limited knowledge of the twenty-five thousand islands that make up the East Indies,” Chloe said, in her annoying twang. “So I overlaid the map with modern satellite imagery.”

They all looked to the monitor that had lit up suspended over the table, a split screen—the blown-up map on the left side of the screen, a satellite shot of the same area on the right. Braddock studied the two images.

“Demar is the closest fit,” Chloe continued, and tapped at the laptop’s keys. The two images converged, the modern shot overlaying the drawn. “A volcanic island on the southern side of the Banda Sea. It’s uninhabited. No access roads, no electricity, no nothing.”

Braddock had to admit, the borders and location looked a match, the pattern of smaller islands around Demar fit perfectly.

“We’ll drop our supplies from the air, land in New Guinea, and come in by boat,” Chloe continued.

We should come in from Timor, actually, it’s closer. The girl was winging it, she’d glanced at a map and guessed.

Chloe stepped to the table and turned the medieval map over. Etched into the cracked leather were deliberate lines, the roughly embryonic shape of Demar. A tiny, red-stained X was drawn at an indent just inside the southern shore.

“The captain drew the island itself in more detail on the back,” Chloe said.

“Wow, never would have thought to flip it over,” Braddock sneered.

Chloe ignored her, pointing to the X. “We should find the pot at the end of the rainbow here, in Cala de Oro.”

Cala de Oro.

Golden Cove, she thought, tasting the words. Magellan’s pirates had buried the treasure in Golden Cove, and they were going to go dig it up. They could be there in ten, twelve hours, give or take.

She looked up, saw the same feverish excitement on the faces of the others.

“Bueno!” Moncada said, grinning. “Vamanos!”

*   *   *

The plane lifted off, rocking Nate and Sully even closer together in the pitch black of their impossibly cramped hiding place. Moncada had taken out a panel between the tiny trunk and the back seat of his Gullwing at some point or they never would have pulled it off, but it had been extremely fucking tight regardless. They’d left the spare tire and portable gas tank back in Barcelona, along with their bags. Nate had slid Sam’s postcards into his back pocket and ditched the rest, all in the interest of an extra few inches.

Lot of good it did. He and Sully were packed in like sardines, and Nate couldn’t stop thinking about Jo Braddock. The woman who’d killed Sam was on the plane. “Was it actually Braddock?” he whispered. “Who pulled the trigger?”

Sully’s breath was going right into his neck. “Don’t go there, kid. Nothing good’ll come of it. You want revenge? Beat her to the gold.”

Sully shifted, and something hard jabbed into Nate’s back. “Ow! What the hell is that?”

“My arm.”

“Well, can you move it, please?”

Sully shifted again and whatever part of him was jabbing dug in deeper.

“You’re just making it worse.”

“Whose fault is that? We had a perfectly good thing going.”

They both shifted, grunting, sweating, barely able to move their limbs. Nate’s legs were crunched to his chest, and Sully smoked too many cigars, the smell was sunk in his clothes. Sully’s arm finally came up and snaked over Nate’s shoulders.

“Now you’re holding me,” Nate said.

“It’s always something with you,” Sully gasped. “Oh, god. I’m claustrophobic, and—” He sucked in air. “—I think we’re running out of oxygen.”

“Dude, you’re killing me here,” Nate said, and scrunched tighter, gritting his teeth. He was going to beat her to the gold, alright, whatever it took. Whether or not that would satisfy him remained to be seen.

Santiago Moncada was sure that he was too wound up to rest, but it was a long flight and after a few hours of satisfied anticipation he turned to more practical matters. He wrote emails—directions to his lawyers, mostly, but he also sent personal notes to some of Armando’s more powerful contacts, acting the dutiful, horrified son. He worked on the eulogy he planned to deliver next week, surprised at how easily the words came—praise for the man his father had been, sorrow that his life had been taken, a firm commitment to continue Armando’s philanthropy work… which would require keeping the Moncada fortune intact, of course, not that he’d include that sentiment. He’d make a big donation to the Church in his father’s name, an amount that would silence the scolds. Not that any of it really mattered. Now that his birthright was at hand, he could afford to lose a few million here or there.

The long night, the drone of the engines, and a double whiskey finally slipped him into a light doze, his dreams painted gold. The plane carried them east and south through the empty hours, dawn breaking early and light filling the cabin, easing him into the day of his triumph. They were just south of Indonesia’s mainland and headed into the Banda Sea, where the pirates had hidden his gold. Moncada stared out at the deep, beautiful blue water, the sun reflecting from its surface. The pilot announced they’d be starting the descent soon, to offload their cargo.

Moncada let his full heart swell in his chest, breathing deeply, looking around his command center. Through the open door to the cabin behind theirs, the men of Alvaro’s team were scattered here and there, sleeping, scrolling on various devices. Ms. Braddock and her men were awake, Braddock watching one of the console screens.

Just as he marked her absence, Chloe Frazer came in from the corridor to the cockpit, leaning against the door frame. She looked tired, dark smudges under her eyes. “Sir, we’re five minutes out.”

Moncada felt his pleasure rise impossibly higher. He reached into the bag next to his seat and took out a very old bottle, rounded with a narrow throat, and a single glass. The Moncada seal was stamped on a red wax medallion across the label of the bottle. He carried them to the conference table.

“Al vencedor, los despojos!” he called, and poured himself a finger of the vermut, made with grapes from a Moncada vineyard. What could be more appropriate, than for him to toast a new golden age for their House with the rewards of the past?

“To the victor, the spoils,” he added in English, just so he could say it again.

He sat on the step to the lower part of the cabin and sipped the clear caramel-colored alcohol, relishing the sharp flavor. “My grandfather used to make this vermut every winter. Who wants a taste?”

The handful of hired soldiers who’d come in looked nervous to be asked, not one of them stepping forward.

“Don’t be shy,” Moncada encouraged, holding out the bottle. “We’re a crew, are we not? All in this together!”

Always good to remind men with weapons that they’d be very well compensated for their efforts on his behalf. He wanted them firmly on his side.

Chloe reached up, accepted the bottle, and took a healthy swig. She passed it to one of the mercenaries, who followed suit, and then they were all on crowding forward, eager to toast his victory.

*   *   *

Braddock had hardly slept, coming up with ideas about her next steps and then discarding them. The closer they got to Indonesia, to Demar, the more she thought of how ridiculous Moncada’s claim to the gold was. The mercs were along to protect him from whoever got greedy, once the treasure was in view… but now they all knew where it was, didn’t they?

Moncada could see the men warming to him, nodding their heads at the taste of fine alcohol, and he started his dogged birthright refrain in a musing, expansive tone, like he was giving a sermon.

“Five hundred years ago, my family was betrayed. A small band of explorers found the world’s biggest fortune, and they hid it. Kept it all for themselves.”

There were a few shaking heads, scowls of disapproval; the mercs were eating it up. The bottle landed in front of Braddock, who wasn’t a big drinker.

If I have to listen to one second more of his bullshit, I’m entitled. She took a huge swallow, the brandy-spiked wine burning a trail down her throat. She felt slapped awake.

“For centuries, people searched for it,” Moncada went on, “all in vain. It was left to me to recover my family’s gold. And I’ll let you in on another secret… Nobody thought I could do it. Certainly not my father.”

He finished his drink and saw that Braddock was holding the bottle. He motioned at her with his empty glass, like she was a barmaid, and really, that was when she decided her next step. After all she’d done for him, to be summoned like a dog. He’d never seen her as anything else.

She carried the vermouth to the raised platform where Moncada sat, poured him a drink, then continued up the steps. She walked around the table, switching the bottle to her left hand so she could palm her karambit. She walked back toward the steps, gaze fixed on Moncada’s broad back, leaning forward to carry on with his story, drink in hand.

“Today is the day I restore the Moncada fortune, bring honor back to my House, and earn my place in—”

Braddock hooked the polished blade to his throat and slid it across, deep enough to slice his larynx—effectively, finally shutting him up. Blood sheeted from Moncada’s throat, down his expensive shirt.

He looked up at her, confused, before the pain hit. He grabbed his gushing throat, hands shaking. He crumpled to the floor, confusion turning to rage in his shocked, wide eyes.

Braddock stared down at the dying man. “Daddy was right. You don’t have what it takes. The House of Moncada dies with you.”

She took the room’s temperature in a glance as she crouched down. The mercs were stunned, watching the scene play out like a movie, but not one of them moved. Scotty and Hugo had tabs on them, giving her an extra moment to enjoy Moncada’s impotent fury, his wild, rolling eyes, the diminishing spurts from his cleanly cut throat. A pool of blood widened and spread across the thrumming floor, framing his upper body in glistening red.

“I wanted you to understand that before you left us,” she added, and though she wanted to savor it longer, she needed to take command. Power abhorred a vacuum. She slashed again, low on the jugular. It was over before she stood up, his mouth falling open, the light fading from his sightless eyes.

Santiago Moncada was dead.

Braddock raised the vermouth over his corpse and drank deeply. She faced the mercs. All hard men, displaying varied degrees of dismay and dawning comprehension. A couple of them were working themselves up to do something dumb, her old buddy Juan Alvaro chief among them. Moncada was his paycheck.

“If any of you want to cry over him, go ahead,” she said, firmly. “The rest of you can split the gold with me. Even shares for everyone.”

That calmed them down, fast. Juan’s shoulders relaxed, and Braddock knew she had them. She meant it, too. She couldn’t transport that kind of bulk without help… and if a few of them died along the way, more for the rest of them.

“On boord wi’ ’at,” Scotty said. “Alwees bin a bit ay a union man, m’self.”

Didn’t matter if the mercs understood his thick brogue, they caught the tone—affirmative, agreeable, pleased. A man had backed her up. She saw furtive nods exchanged.

“Where’s Chloe?” Braddock asked, ready to claim the gold keys—they might still be necessary—but the girl had slipped out of the cabin. Hiding, maybe, trying to digest that her golden ticket had been punched.

She motioned to the eager mercs who promptly headed out, unslinging their rifles. Braddock wiped her knife and snapped it back into the sheath on her thigh, casting one last, disdainful look at Santiago Moncada before following. She heard and felt the change in the cabin’s pressure as the cargo hold dropped open below and aft, a low roar vibrating the airframe. They were still too high to start unloading—it seemed that one of the mercs had jumped the gun—but the plane’s descent remained steady enough. There were only two men down there prepping the cargo, they’d need more hands before they reached the drop zone… but retrieving those keys was her first order of business. Killing Chloe Frazer to get them would be her pleasure.

*   *   *

As soon as she saw Jo Braddock walk behind the table, Chloe’s instincts kicked in, adrenaline dumping into her bloodstream.

She’s not left-handed, why is she carrying the bottle with her left hand?

Chloe backed out of the group in a series of casual poses, lifting her small, heavy shoulder bag as she passed her seat, easing toward the open passenger cabin.

Braddock’s attack was so graceful it looked like a dance move, her muscular arm moving smoothly in front of Moncada’s throat. The second Chloe saw red, she turned and got out. The cargo hold was big and packed with boxes, plenty of places to hide.

She hit the door to the back and was through, into the roaring hold.

The ramp was open at the end of the long space, a brilliant rectangle of blue sky and rushing air. A couple of mercs were up by the opening, unhooking lines of crates from the netted walls, but they wouldn’t see her if she kept low and didn’t call attention to herself. They prepped pallets of water and boxes of tools, everything they needed to find Elcano’s stash. The whole operation had just been taken over by a murderous bitch who hated her.

Good times, Chloe thought, running through her options as she worked her way past Moncada’s car, parked facing the open ramp, strapped down with nylon belts. Too bad driving away wasn’t on the list. It would be nice to be armed, but her Walther was usefully packed into a waterproof duffel with her clothes, strapped to one of the crates by the ramp. She hadn’t expected to need it on the way, and she’d have to stand up like a target to get to it, so that was a last resort. She could try for one of the mercs’ weapons, lord knew they were strapped, but there was about to be a bunch of them roaming the hold, looking for her. Even if she caught one alone, she didn’t like her one-on-one chances against any of these bogans. And dead set, even if she had a gun, she’d have to kill at least Braddock and her team, or they’d keep trying to kill her. She was a very good shot, but so were they and there were more of them.

So, no weapon yet, what else? She moved to the south wall, where the bulldozer was strapped down. She could hide, hope Braddock didn’t investigate every corner. She could try to negotiate for her life, haha; with what? Easiest to kill her and take the gold crosses. Braddock would prefer that, anyway.

I could take a parachute and jump. The safest choice at the moment, but then she’d be sitting in the ocean, hoping she could find an island to swim to before she died of thirst or exposure.

And even if you get away, what then? She’ll have the gold, you’ll never even see it.

None of the options struck her right, but the situation was fluid, and looking for a hiding place gave her time to think it over. The hold was essentially a single huge room, but there were stacks of pallets and boxes throughout hooked to rails, draped netting creating shadowy aisles of cargo to either side. Many of the individual crates themselves were chuted, if she could just wriggle into one of them, get dropped to Demar—

Behind her, multiple heavy bootsteps clattered across the deck.

*   *   *

Nate nearly cried with relief when they heard the plane’s ramp open. He’d gone past uncomfortable and into numb misery hours ago.

“Okay,” Sully said, and Nate’s tingling fingers fumbled for the release.

The narrow lid cracked open, filling the tiny trunk with sweet, cool air that didn’t smell like Sully. Nate pressed his eye to the crack, but couldn’t see—

Oops. A handful of mercs marched past the car, holding rifles. Nate waited until they were gone and gently pushed the trunk open. He grabbed the frame and unfolded himself out into a crouch, limbs howling from having been locked in place for so long. Ahead of them, between the Gullwing and the open ramp, guys with guns were spreading out through the dim hold. Getting the crates ready, presumably; that’s why Sully had said they had to wait for the ramp to open, so they’d have a cleaner run at the map.

So why do they have their weapons out?

“That was the longest ten hours of my life,” he whispered, as Sully crawled out. “You really have no concept of personal space, do you?”

“You want to get caught?” Sully whispered, shaking blood into his limbs. “Keep talking. C’mon, time to move.”

He pointed up at a door leading to the cabins ahead, closer to the cockpit. Sully’s plan, such as it was, was to steal the map back and then hide until they landed. They’d sneak off and hire a speed boat to take them to the gold. Sully knew a guy who knew a guy in Papua New Guinea. Without having to pack up soldiers and equipment, they could get to the hiding place before Moncada’s team, assuming there was some further clue about the exact location on the map—Nate hadn’t had time to study it before Chloe had clocked him.

Chloe. He and Sully hadn’t talked about her—they’d kept talking to a minimum, in the sweaty, stifling trunk—but Nate was half-hoping they might run across her, talk her into reconsidering. Or at the very least that she wouldn’t shoot them… yeah, maybe it was better to avoid a meeting.

Nate followed Sully through the door and they came out at the back of a row of seats. An empty cabin of belted seats with some kind of overbuilt room ahead of it, like a villain’s command center in a movie, full of consoles and screens.

They hurried ahead. There was a raised platform at the front of the new room, and on the table that overlooked all the computer stuff was the map, half curled back into the shape it had held for centuries.

Talk about luck—

Nate saw the body sprawled in front of the table and stopped walking. Sully hurried on, up the steps to the platform, and grabbed the map. He rolled it up, tucking it into its carrier, a rigid black plastic tube with a carrying strap. Nate just stared at the corpse. Santiago Moncada, megalomaniacal billionaire, his throat cut deep in a couple of places. The smooth-talking aristocrat lay in a thick puddle of his own blood and stared at the ceiling with filmed, blind eyes. His luck had run out.

“Hard to find a good partner in this game,” Nate said.

Sully was already walking back through the cabin. “Maybe now you’ll start to appreciate me more.”

The steady roar of the plane’s engines changed, deepening, and Nate’s ears popped.

“We’re descending. Must be getting close to the drop zone,” Sully said. “We should find some parachutes.”

“Parachutes?” Nate’s voice cracked. What happened to hiding until we land?

“You know a better way to jump off a plane?” Sully asked, clearly rhetorically as he crouched back into the hold.

I don’t want to go skydiving! They didn’t know how close they were to anything, they could splash down mid-ocean or end up stranded on one of a thousand bare rocks—

—and what about Chloe? If she’d been in on Moncada’s death, that was one thing, but…

But then who were those guys looking for, with their guns out?

Sully was already out of earshot, and a last look at Moncada’s dead, staring face reset Nate’s priorities. He hated the new plan, hated not knowing Chloe’s situation, but he didn’t want to end up dead. From that viewpoint, picking seaweed off a rock with Sully was miles better than hanging out up here.

Braddock stood near the end of the ramp, looking down. Scotty and Hugo flanked her. The slipstream roared off the back of the plane, cold air tugging at their clothes, but the pilots were keeping the descent steady and even, barely a tilt to the floor. She watched for an open parachute, but there was only the glittering sea, dark blots of rock here and there. A cursory look through the hold and the mercs had come up empty, but there were lots of places to hide.

“She main hae jumpt it,” Scotty said.

Braddock glanced at him, frowning. Possibly, Chloe could have bailed even as they’d been watching Moncada bleed out… But if the girl had already jumped, she’d be klicks from Demar, paddling around by herself. Chloe still had the keys, but she wouldn’t have time to equip a retrieval before Braddock’s team arrived at the site. If she were Chloe, she’d wait to jump until they were closer.

Does it even matter? The keys likely weren’t even necessary at this point; they could blow up whatever lock or puzzle they found. Braddock hated loose ends, though, especially when they sometimes popped up again to cause trouble.

We’ll keep looking. Braddock turned away from the wide open space and started back toward the front, the boys falling in behind her. She nodded at Juan Alvaro, who signaled to some of his team to get going on the crates and pallets. The chute-extraction system meant they just had to get things unhooked, and clear the rails in order. The biggest pieces would have their own chutes, but much of the equipment was grouped together in daisy chains—a pull on the first crate’s drogue chute would rip the item out into the sky, pulling the line of boxes down its rail after it as the main chute unfurled. An automatic extractor popped the chute on the final crate, and the whole chain would drift down to the island. The pilots would swing as low as possible to keep the groups tight and they’d need every hand to shift the cargo quickly… but surely the mercs were smart enough to shove things off a plane. She’d keep Scotty and Hugo with her, they’d perform a more thorough search. Things were moving smoothly, there was nothing to get bent out of shape over. If Chloe had jumped, no great loss. If she was still on board, Braddock wanted a word.

*   *   *

They found a row of parachutes hanging off the east wall and took two. Sully hoped to God that whoever had packed them was certified. He hadn’t jumped in quite a few years, but as long as everything was folded right, it was as easy as falling. Nate was pulling a face, not happy about the plan, but they had the map, the plane was descending, and—

And there’s the third reason. Braddock and her goons were walking away from the ramp, up the middle of the plane, looking around with narrow, suspicious eyes. Sully kept his head down until she’d gone past. The knifework on Moncada had been a dead giveaway that his ex was on board; no better reason to bail. He didn’t hate Jo, he’d been kind of an asshole to her a while back and had always regretted it, but the feeling was not mutual, and he was at the top of her shitlist. She could have the plane, he and the kid would—

Shit. The kid had stopped in his tracks, was staring after Braddock’s retreating figure with his jaw clenched. Sully knew that look from the inside, knew that Nate was all up in his feels about Sam and not thinking straight. The perfect storm for dumb ideas.

“Don’t even think about it.” Sully had to lean in to say it, the blast of the engines and the open door nearly burying his voice. The mercs were unhooking chains of boxes from their netting, cutting zip-ties off stuff, clearing rails. They had one guy standing guard, facing the wrong way. They had to go, now.

“And she just gets away with it?” The kid wouldn’t even look at him, too busy shooting daggers at Braddock.

Sully stepped into his line of vision. “Listen to me. This is not the place to pick a fight, okay? I’m trying to protect you, kid. Put one of these on and let’s go.”

Nate finally looked at the parachute and Sully nodded: good enough. He edged forward behind a drape of empty netting, Nate right behind. Sully used the long shadow’s cover to put on his parachute, over the strap for the map carrier. He pulled the buckles tight, and patted the ripcord’s handle. He was golden. If the chute was packed wrong there was always the reserve, but god only knew how long it had been since these things had been assembled, reserves could get stiff…

He turned to see how the kid was making out—and there was Nate, not wearing his chute, stepping out into the middle of the hold, and putting his hand on a big crate at the front of a long line of ’em. He grabbed the crate’s ripcord handle, turned his back to the open ramp.

And like she had eyes in the back of her head, like she could sense a challenge, Braddock froze at the other end of the hold.

“Hey! Did you kill my brother?” Nate shouted, over the scream of the wind.

No! They’d made it, they had the map, they were literally seconds from escape. The sight of Braddock had knocked the sense out of him.

Braddock’s thugs both raised their pieces, and so did a couple of the mercs, but Braddock only stared at Nate.

‘I said, did you kill my brother?!” Nate screamed. “Sam Drake!”

Sully swallowed. If the kid pulled the cord, that whole line of boxes was going to get sucked out, and half of them were still locked onto their rails.

Sully ran out from the safety of the shadows, made a last pitch for the kid to snap out of his suicidal posturing. “Nate! Come on!”

As soon as she saw Sully, Braddock signaled her mercs and they opened fire, rounds blasting through the shuddering hold. Nate dove for cover, yanking the ripcord on the heavy crate.

“Goddamn it!” Sully pulled the handle on his own chute. No choice! The drogue popped—

—and then he was off his feet and flying into the wide blue sky, leaving Nate to whatever he could manage for himself.

*   *   *

He’d meant to put on the chute, but seeing Jo Braddock walk through the plane, Nate’s mind went to static… and then he was overcome by a burning, righteous indignation that doubled with every heartbeat and packed his brain like sealant foam. There was Jo Braddock, walking tall, clad in video game merc gear, on the hunt for gold that she’d killed to find. She had murdered Sam. How could it be that his brother was gone and she was still breathing, free to do what she wanted? The question loomed so large that it pushed out every other thought—Sully, Chloe, the map, the gold.

Maybe she didn’t do it. Sully lied to get what he wanted, fact. Nate thought he’d been telling the truth about what happened to Sam, but he really was a dope if he still took Sully at his word.

They’d gotten close to the ramp, behind a line of crates and bags still attached to each other by some complicated system of straps and carabiners. The big box closest to the ramp had its red ripcord handle sticking up, ready for launch. When Nate saw it, he didn’t think too much about what he was doing. He was still focused on Braddock, on whether or not she was Sam’s killer. The handle wasn’t a weapon, but it was a threat, and Nate had to know the truth and he had to know it now.

Nate stepped from the safety of the shadows and grabbed the red handle, just as Jo Braddock stopped walking. Like she’d felt him there.

“Hey! Did you kill my brother?” He had to scream to be heard over the chaos of the slipstream and the shrieking whine of the engines. Cold air whipped his hair around, icy fingers dragging at his clothes.

A bunch of guys pointed guns at him, but Nate only watched Braddock. She studied him, her eyes glittering like a spider’s.

“I said, did you kill my brother?! Sam Drake!”

Braddock’s eyes widened, she was going to answer—and then Sully ran out of the shadows, yelling his name, and everyone with a gun opened fire.

Sully popped his chute and Nate dove for the nearest crate, jerking the handle on the box, his only play.

A small nylon circle popped out of the packed chute bag and unfurled into the crashing turbulence outside, instantly catching the air and stringing out a cord of nylon webbing—

—and the crate was jerked off the ramp, and then half the daisy chain of boxes behind it leapt off their rail, dragging the net off the wall and straining the ties of the crates still strapped down. The main chute caught the turbulence and blew up. A thousand pounds of equipment was suddenly half airborne, whipping through the hold like a giant clumsy snake, still anchored by half its length.

Chaos, as loose crates tumbled through the suddenly tilting hold, the plane’s engines stuttering then roaring. Nate dove under a heavy plastic box coming for his face, rolled on the tipped floor into a stretch of hanging net, now yanked wide and tearing off rivets along the north wall. A merc with bushy eyebrows got hit with a rolling box and was crashed out of the plane, screaming as he fell away.

Nate came up and shots thundered through the roaring wind, clanging into the metal wall behind his head. One, two guys were trying to get a bead on him, arms hooked through hanging straps on the south wall. Nate ducked and the chain of boxes hit the floor as the pilots fought the shifting weight, then bounced up again.

Nate jumped and ducked as everything not strapped down flew through the hold, and more rounds were fired in his general direction. The heavy tail kept lengthening as boxes were ripped from their straps by the increasing weight. The connecting lines stretched between the crates, knocking down mercs and unsecured cargo. Nate caught a glimpse of the Scotsman between boxes, grim-faced and waving his gun, but a heavy pallet headed his way and he had to duck. There’s one less guy shooting…

Except Braddock’s MMA guy was still on his feet over to the left, and he had his semi trained on Nate.

Nate darted nimbly between the flopping death crates—and then he was slamming face down into the metal floor, his foot tangled in the thick nylon straps wrapped around a heavy wooden box.

He raised his head, saw the fighter still aiming at him, finger over the semi’s trigger, goodbye—

—and then he was jerked backward by his foot, whipped out of the roaring hold and into the air. Something heavy whacked the back of his head and that was all he knew.

Chloe had found a nice shady spot inside a box of musty canvas tent material about mid-hold. She dumped a bolt of it onto the floor and kicked it behind another box, then wedged herself into the industrial plastic coffin, pulling the lid mostly shut behind her. She didn’t close it completely. If one of the mercs got close enough alone, she might still try for a gun. The large tent box had its own parachute; if they weren’t searching the individual crates, she’d go for a little ride, hopefully landing on the island hours ahead of Braddock. With Moncada dead there was no percentage coming, but she could fill her pockets and walk away happy enough, knowing that she’d found the treasure. If the mercs were searching the crates… Well, another reason why she hadn’t latched the door yet. She might need to relocate in a hurry.

Chloe waited, the ratty smell of canvas tickling her nose—and then she heard Nathan Drake’s voice, shouting over the thunder of the plane and the open hold.

Nate? Chloe cracked the door. There was no one in front of the crate, the mercs all closer to the ramp, and she slipped out, crouching her way around to see what was happening.

Braddock and her boys were just in front of Chloe, facing Nate at the mouth of the ramp, Nate’s hand on a crate—on its chute handle, actually. Sully ran out of shadows toward Nate, shouting; he had the map tucked against his chest and a chute on his back. As soon as he was in sight, the mercs opened fire. In a blink Sully was gone, flying out of the hold like a thrown dart, and Nate yanked the ripcord on the big crate.

Chloe jammed her arm through the wall net, and a beat later the plane’s tail dropped violently and all hell broke loose. Chloe’s cover was jerked away. Mercs were flying and firing, and Nate was diving between boxes as the plane’s engines roared, the pilots fighting a stall. Crates broke their straps and pitched into others as the jet dipped and yawed, the chain of heavy boxes caught in the slipstream. Even as she watched, another crate was torn up by the weight, zip-ties and straps flying.

Yeah, bugger this. Chloe kept to the wall and headed for the nose of the plane, hanging onto the net and getting tossed off her feet a few times, ducking to avoid being crushed by flying boxes. A loose crate flew past her and into somebody who screamed on his way out. Gotta be a spare gun somewhere. I lock in with the pilots and just shoot anyone who—

The plane pitched left and Chloe was whipped to the side. She caught a glimpse of Nate doing a pushup on the floor, looking up at Braddock’s big guy, Hugo, who had his Glock lined up for a head shot—

—and then the box at Nate’s feet flew out of the hold, taking him with it. She caught a glimpse of his shocked expression, thick hair whipping around his face, and then he was gone.

The smaller crate next in line popped its straps with a twang and snapped down the rail, plunging after him—and then the one after that came up, too. The thrashing line got longer, heavier, snapping more plastic ties. The Scot just missed getting slammed into when one of the boxes caught on the stretched wall net, and something bashed into the exit door mid-cabin across from her and down, the metal squealing as the door crashed open.

BAD!

The deck pitched again as jet-speed winds tore through the back half of the hold and the pilots compensated. Chloe was away from the worst of it but was still swept off her feet, hip slamming into the wall. She planted her boots and clawed her way forward, toward Moncada’s car; the door to the cabins was behind it.

She glanced back and saw that Braddock and her team were still standing, Scotty on the port wall, Hugo and Braddock braced against a storage locker across from him. One wrong move and they’d get sucked to their doom.

Good! Chloe set her sights on the Gullwing and pulled against the violent wind, easier with each step. There were some packed chutes in the passenger cabin, she’d—

“Oye! Aquí!”

Chloe turned and was looking down the barrel of an assault rifle, backed by a sneering ratbag named Paolo. She only knew his name because he’d tried to chat her up the day before with a joke about his penis. He was a foul, smelly pig. Unfortunately, one of his buddies was with him, a thick-necked fella who also had his rifle up. They both had to lean toward her over the suck of the roaring wind, gun barrels bobbing, but they were too close to miss if they got trigger-happy.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, coming after me when we’re crashing?” Chloe snapped, backing up. The survival instincts on these brutes was low to nil. Behind them, she could see Braddock and her guys working their way around the roaring tunnel of wind, clutching at nets, edging behind the crates that were still tacked down. The equipment tail was hanging over the end of the ramp, too heavy to fly. The parachute must have tangled. The pilots steadied the plane’s wild pitches into swooping waves, but she couldn’t tell if they were headed up or down.

Chloe backed up another step but then Paolo and his steroid-taking friend were on either side of her, grabbing her shoulders. Paolo was grinning like the dumbo he was, fingers digging into her flesh; he had a .40 semi on his hip, a worn Velcro tab keeping it in its nylon holster. She didn’t recognize the make but guessed it was fully loaded with one in the chamber. Eleven rounds? Thirteen? His buddy had a .45 Glock on his hip, a heavy snap over the grip on a brand-new leather holster. So, Paolo then. They stood to either side of her, assuming they had control of her with her hands and legs free.

Idiots.

She let them drag her forward, closer to the sucking wind, to where Jo Braddock and her boys had arrived ahead of the shifting daisy chain. The smell of petrol was whirling through the hold, something broken leaking somewhere. Why weren’t they trying to block the open door? Or cutting the heavy box-chain loose? Maybe searching for the source of the gasoline smell, a serious risk considering the crates of flares and explosives they had packed? No, instead they were fucking with her, because they were greedy and stupid. Psychopaths weren’t forward thinkers.

Braddock saw them coming, saw the small pack on Chloe’s shoulder, and managed to look both haughty and pleased, as if she hadn’t fucked everything up when she’d killed Moncada.

I’m going to kill you, Chloe thought, as the mercs dragged her forward. Braddock had shot Sam Drake, and what were the chances that Nate was still alive? The woman was a ruthless asshole.

Chloe turned her right foot sideways and then dropped like her knee had given out, letting out a pitiful “ow” as she slid out of Paolo and friends’ grubby hands. She planted her boots, shifted her weight.

“Get up,” Paolo sneered. They bent to scoop her up, and when she was halfway to her feet she snapped a kick into the side of Mr. Steroid’s kneecap, and punched Paolo in the jewels, so hard she would swear her knuckles tapped bone.

The weightlifter went sideways but Paolo doubled over, face going white beneath his crappy beard scruff. Chloe came up under him and used his weight to pitch him over her shoulder. She grabbed his heavy semi’s grip as he flew overhead and yanked, the overworked tab ripping open, the weight of the weapon abruptly solid in her hand. She had the safety punched before he finished landing.

Chloe pivoted and double-tapped the big guy in the chest, bam-bam, driving him backward, the recoil lifting the .40’s muzzle in tight arcs. He tripped over his own feet and fell against the blasting current of air between the side door and the ramp. His big body ricocheted off the wind tunnel, mashed into the fuselage, and bounced back into the whipping hurricane, which easily swept him out the back.

Paolo had come up on his feet, but he was too close to mid-cabin, fighting against the sucking wind and the pain of his punched sac. She helped him along with another double-tap to the upper chest, bam-bam!

He wheeled back into the blasting wind, tripped over the flailing crate-line, and skipped out the back like a stone across pond water.

Scotty already had his Sig out and Hugo was reaching for his Glock. Chloe turned and dove, came up running for Moncada’s car. She ducked behind a heavy plastic box next to the driver’s side as rounds clanged across the deck, smashed into the wall behind her.

What the fuck now?! She leaned her head back next to a bag of flares hanging off the side of her cover. At least two guns were trained on her by now, and she had two-thirds of a single mag. Clearly, she should have stayed in the tent box.

*   *   *

Braddock was furious that Sully had gotten away, that the Drake boy had risked the entire operation in some doomed stand for his brother—and when she saw Alvaro’s men dragging Chloe toward her, she found a focus for her rage, and smiled. The girl had probably snuck Sully aboard, she must have her own plan for stealing the gold… but she was unarmed now, alone, and looked appropriately beaten down. When she pretended to collapse, Braddock stopped smiling.

Chloe danced between the pair of unsuspecting mercs, disabling them handily, one-two, a kick and a blow. She tumbled with one of them and came up armed, then sent both men into the screaming wind behind them, no hesitation. Braddock ducked behind a crate with Hugo while Scotty got his back to a thin partition sticking out of the wall. Both men took aim and fired, ringing crashes above the howling wind.

A half dozen rounds smashed into the Gullwing and the back wall, but the girl had disappeared behind a block of industrial gray plastic. She popped up to fire twice, disappearing as Hugo fired a last round, chipping the corner off the container. There was a brief pause.

Braddock made eye contact with Scotty, flicked her gaze to the crate, and he nodded.

“We can patch this up, Frazer!” Braddock called. “Drop the gun! Let’s talk!”

This pause was different. Chloe only had what was left in the merc’s .40, and no way out. Braddock leaned out to look—

—and saw Chloe take aim at her from down low behind her container, her dark eyes narrowed.

Braddock fell back and the shot nicked the very edge of her cover, centimeters from where she’d peeked out. Scotty got a bead on Chloe and fired, but Chloe ducked back in time.

Fuck! Braddock drew her own piece as both men fired again, chipping away at Chloe’s scarce defense.

*   *   *

Braddock ducked back just as Chloe got her shot off. Too bad, she’d missed by a hair.

“Sure thing!” Chloe responded. “I love teaming up with murderous psychos!”

Sounded brave, but a new volley of shots lit up the roaring hold, and bits of her lifesaving crate went flying. She needed a new plan. The smell of gasoline was thicker at this end of the hold, something close by had been damaged. And there was a bag of flares tied to the plastic crate she’d ducked behind; the helpful fire hazard symbol had finally sunk in.

Fire plus hurricane equals fire hurricane. Bad, but in terms of a diversion…

Chloe aimed toward Hugo and fired over the top of the box, wasting the rounds so she could sneak a look at the hold’s flooring. She spotted the leak by its glistening, shuddering puddle, less than ten meters ahead, to the right. A lone can of petrol knocked from a case of them.

Oh, this is berko! It was a wonder the plane hadn’t crashed already, and she was about to make things a lot worse.

“Crazy to want all of us to have a share?” Braddock screamed, and then more of the plastic in front of Chloe chipped up, the crate jerking against its straps. They were reloading in turns, giving her no chance to line up another shot.

Chloe snatched a flare out of the hanging bag and broke the tip, looking away from the sputter of chemical reaction. She held the hissing stick up, made sure they got an eyeful of the blinding white burn, then stood and whipped it at the wet spot on the floor.

She dropped flat and felt the floor tremble as Braddock and her guys dove away from the sudden fire that swirled to life, shedding in burning droplets against the blasting wind. There was no explosion, but she’d take it.

Chloe leapt up and rolled over the hood of the Mercedes, landed behind a big wooden box on the other side with its own chute—loaded with boat motors, if she remembered correctly. She fired twice more and ducked down, pulling at the netting on the box. If I can get the chute off, maybe…

The chute was double strapped to the sturdy container. It wasn’t budging. Chloe ejected the nameless .40’s mag halfway and cursed. One single bloody round left.

“I gotta give it to you, Frazer!” Braddock crowed, advancing as her men opened fire again. “A fighter to the bitter end! But this is the end!”

Hugo and Scotty absolutely unloaded into her crate. Splinters flew, the crate rocking back on its rail. The release lever keeping it in place was barely holding.

Fuck me. Chloe looked at the useless parachute strapped to the top of the rocking crate. There had to be a couple dozen individual boxes still on board with chutes attached, set onto the rails in front of the Gullwing—

Oh. She saw how it might be done, and it was even more insane than the fire she’d started, that still flickered somewhere ahead of her and poured smoke into the blasting wind. It was a huge risk, barely a chance of survival, but that was more than she could count on where she was.

“Chloe, this is the stupidest idea you have ever had,” she breathed, then reached down and flipped the crate’s release lever.

She aimed Paolo’s piece at the passenger-side window of Moncada’s car and blasted it out with her last round, then dropped the empty weapon. She put her hands to the middle of the giant box and shoved.

The crate started forward. Chloe jammed her feet into the ribbing of the wall and used her whole weight to push it faster.

The box crashed forward. Chloe caught just a glimpse of Braddock and Hugo scrambling out of its way, and then dove through the Gullwing’s shattered window.

Her face landed on the driver’s seat, boots still sticking out into the hold. Chloe forced the shift into first and hit the starter. She jammed her hand onto the gas pedal, and the tiny car’s magnificent engine bellowed. The coupe surged against its straps, wheels squealing.

More shots were fired, screeching holes opening across the door above her head, the smell of hot metal filling the car’s small interior. Chloe pushed down with both hands, to the mat, and felt the nylon straps finally give, left then right, the car jumping to either side before setting between rails and hurtling forward.

The Gullwing smashed into boxes, pushing them into the cargo still waiting to be freed. The bumper crimped and the crates rolled forward, picking up speed as they headed for the ramp.

Chloe yanked one foot in, the move causing the coupe to hop its rails. It landed in a new set, veering around the charging cargo, aimed for the right side of the exit. She kept one hand on the gas and used the other to push herself up, to see over the jerking wheel—

“Nate?”

Nathan Drake stood at the lip of the ramp on her side, wind snapping his sweaty clothes. She registered the fact of him and took her hand off the accelerator, but it was way too late. Nate crashed across the bonnet and then they were soaring out into the wide blue sky.

Nate hugged the hood of the Gullwing as it flew into the open air and immediately tipped forward, aiming for the sea. Boxes were raining down above and below the falling car, the clamor of the plane’s engines fading to the whistle of air in Nate’s ringing ears.

For fuck’s sake, I just got back inside! I was inside!

Chloe kicked open the Gullwing’s door and climbed out, her dark hair streaming,

“What the hell are you doing?!” Nate shouted, even as she yelled back the same thing.

“You don’t have a parachute?!” they yelled in unison, and Chloe shook her head like she was irritated, scanning the sky as they plunged toward the sea, picking up speed in the frigid air.

Without another word she spread her arms, kicked off the dropping car, and dove toward a big, gray plastic crate spiraling down fifty feet away and in front of them, falling just a little faster than they were. The box was strapped with netting and a parachute, Nate saw the red handle as it spun around.

THAT was your plan, catch a ride on the way down? The fuck is that?

And you have what better idea right now, exactly?

The thought process was nearly instantaneous: freefall had a way of hurrying things along. Nate planted his feet on the Benz’s door and pushed off, following her, not looking down but unable to block out the growing blue-green sea below.

Chloe had angled herself in a straight line to the whirling box, arms out. As she neared it, she tucked her arms in and sped up, becoming an arrow.

Nate brought his arms in, too—

—and then he was shooting past Chloe, and the crate.

“Shit—” Nate spread his arms out, trying to slow down, to turn. He looked up, saw more crates way up in the sky, falling, saw Moncada’s Globemaster jetting away, already the size of a toy. Sun flashed off the plunging Gullwing’s side mirror. It was like looking at some weird optical art where the perspective was wrong.

Nate blinked his air-blasted eyes and saw Chloe grabbing the net on the falling crate, twenty feet in front of him. He dove like Superman, even pointing his toes—

—and somehow she was too far left, he was passing her again. Nate made a desperate grab and clipped the corner of the heavy box with his knee.

He spun away, lost track of everything for a second but the gradually warming air and the high whistle of his fall, a terrifying flash of the encroaching sea. How high up did a parachute still work? A thousand feet? Below that and you hit before it has time to—

“Nate!”

He turned to the sound of Chloe’s voice, saw the crate only a dozen feet behind him, Chloe clinging to the side. She had one arm shoved through the netting, the other reaching for him.

Nate kicked like he was swimming which didn’t help at all, but she leaned out and he focused on her strong, slender hand, made touching it his life’s work. His muscles tensed and shifted, body adapting to the air’s resistance as her hand got closer. Nate reached again—

—and touched her hand with his, their fingers locking. Chloe yanked him in and he grabbed the heavy box, digging his boots into the hanging net.

The ocean was coming up fast. Nate scrambled around the side of the tipping, rocketing box and saw the chute, a flat, army-green pack with a red handle. He grabbed the handle and pulled hard—

—and a tiny chute puffed out, followed by a billow of folded nylon. The main chute expanded with a whump, suddenly blowing up like a piece of popcorn, and the crate jerked violently out of its fall. Nate was slammed into the crate’s lid and Chloe let out a cry but they both hung on.

We did it, we—

The box hit the sea like a ton of bricks, saltwater splashing up in a plume.

*   *   *

The hold was a mess—more than half the equipment gone or smashed, burning crates of machine parts that had to be put out, the broken side door—but after Chloe drove off into space, Braddock closed the ramp and the pilots seemed to get things back under control. Braddock sent Scotty up to talk to them, while Hugo dragged Moncada’s body downstairs and stuffed it into a crate. Alvaro and two of his guys had survived, she put them to work on clean up. Fuck the air drop, they’d land and use Moncada’s ship to take them to Demar, to the Golden Cove. Once they found the gold, she could call in whatever she needed to take it out.

Braddock looked over the supplies they had left in the smoky, windy hold, considering the players left in the game. Drake’s brother had to be dead, she’d seem him knocked off the ramp by the Gullwing… Though it was possible that Frazer had survived, if she’d had a chute in the car. The pilots had been extremely off course by the time she’d deplaned, however, and they were now well southeast of the island.

Even if by some miracle she reaches it, she has nothing to dig with; she’ll pilfer a few crumbs and scurry away. Sully was the real issue. He had the map and that nasty, lucky survival habit… But he’d jumped so early, they’d still been out over open water, fifty klicks from anything.

If there’s a way to fuck me, he’ll find it.

Her hatred for Sully bubbled up, but she made herself look at the facts, reminded herself of her current position. Moncada was dead, and Sully and his friends had parachuted into the ocean, whereas she would land in Port Moresby soon and could have a fully re-equipped team ready to set out within twenty-four hours.

And once I’ve got my hands on the gold… Sully wouldn’t matter anymore. She’d find him and kill him just for amusement’s sake, though, of course, she’d make him pay for his stupid cartoon of a life and all the ways he’d undermined her. And she’d take her time…

Braddock didn’t realize that she’d started grinning, staring over the shattered supplies.

*   *   *

After they’d crashed violently into the sea, and the parachute had floated down over them like a wispy punchline, Chloe dragged her bruised, aching body to sit cross-legged on the lid of their new home—no point in tempting any sharks—and waited for Nate to say something. And kept waiting, as they drifted along through the shining water on their big square chunk of ridged gray plastic.

Nate unhooked the chute and pulled it in, rolled it into a dripping pillow that he dropped between them, then turned his back to her. They both just sat, staring in opposite directions at the misty sea, sun beating down, water lapping at the crate—which was packed with ready-to-eat meals, according to the stamp on top. Vacuum packed and double wrapped, lucky them, since the container had cracked in a couple of places. An entirely different story if the box had been filled with boat motors. And they wouldn’t starve to death… Except, of course, they’d die of thirst long before food became an issue.

Chloe turned her face up to the brilliant, open sky and closed her eyes, listened to the sea birds, the whisper of the wind. Time passed. They were headed vaguely southwest, she thought. And Nate still hadn’t said a goddamn thing.

She glanced back at him, sitting all stiff-backed and silent, gazing out at the endless span of water.

“I’m not going to apologize, if that’s what you’re waiting for,” she said.

Nate half-turned. “You know, I could probably forgive you for what you did in Barcelona, maybe even for knocking me out of a plane with a car… but Braddock? Really? That’s just—”

“I’m not working with her,” Chloe broke in. “Moncada hired us both.”

“I don’t really care about the intricate politics of your bad guy cabal,” Nate sniffed.

“You really think there’s any difference between them and you?” Chloe was gobsmacked. “You and Sully were just as eager to screw me over as they were!”

“Except for the part where we didn’t,” Nate said.

“But you would have,” Chloe said, firmly.

“I’m not Sully,” Nate responded, as if that had anything to do with anything.

“Hallelujah,” she said. “One’s bad enough.”

“So, what is your point?” Nate asked. “You want me to thank you for pistol-whipping me?”

“You know what? Suit yourself,” Chloe said, done with the conversation. Nate was too naïve to see past his own brief experience, a clever pickpocket among easy marks. Sully was a professional criminal; they were all criminals who’d been bit by the discovery bug for whatever reason. She had lines she wouldn’t cross, but there was no reward for taking the moral high ground among thieves.

Chloe glared across the gently bobbing sea, noticing faintly that there were more gulls on the wind—and she saw the dark blur of land, hidden by a soft mist only a few klicks southwest. The afternoon sun shimmered through the fine spray.

Is that a… beach?

She leaned forward, squinting. “Do you see that?”

Nate turned from his pout and looked—and stared. Tiny dots moved on the sandy shore, and there was some kind of structure…

“Yeah, unless I’m hallucinating,” Nate said.

Without another word, they both dropped into the water behind the crate, hooked their arms through the netting, and started kicking.

*   *   *

They ditched the crate when they got closer to the shore and swam the rest of the way in. About fifty feet from the sandy white beach, Nate’s feet touched bottom. They waded in, the warm water pushing at their backs. A few people watched them slog onto dry land and then went back to their drinks, or phones, or tans.

Colorfully uniformed servers carried drinks to the sprawl of rich tourists parked on the sand, littered with canvas lounge chairs. Behind them, lush greenery half-hid the luxury resort’s beach bar. A kid chased a beachball past them, kicking up sand and giggling.

I mean… Nate had spent ten-plus hours locked in a trunk with Sully, then fallen out of a plane. Twice. Doomed to die of thirst floating around in the Banda Sea, most likely, with a woman who didn’t seem to like him much… And they’d washed up at an elite vacation resort. A few of the tanning tourists put their noses in the air, clearly disapproving of the two human beings who’d just crawled out of the open sea.

A friendly-looking white guy in cargo shorts and a jersey was watching them from a lounge chair, and as they trudged out of the waves, he spoke up.

“Whoa, what happened to you?”

Nate was too tired to come up with anything. “We fell out of a car that fell out of a plane.”

Cargo Shorts didn’t blink. “Huh. Something like that happened to me once.”

“Really?” Nate took a closer look at him—dark-haired, aging handsomely, kind of reminded him of one of the Brady boys from the TV show, but his features were more finely chiseled. He didn’t appear to be lying, either.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” the guy said, and leaned back in his chair, his gaze taking on a faraway look.

Nate glanced at Chloe, who shrugged as they kept walking, aimed vaguely toward the bar.

“Good luck!” the guy called after them, and Nate raised a hand, but couldn’t muster the energy to turn back for a smile. Must be nice to be on vacation, reminiscing about past adventures, chatting with strangers. He was gonna be that guy someday, assuming he lived that long.

Behind the tropical, thatch-topped bar—they were doing big business with the rum, obviously—was a manicured stone path that led through the greenery, past a lush, sprawling outdoor infinity pool and to a lobby. The lobby was amazing, decked out in fountains and tropical fronds, the desk people dressed in linen, the passing tourists clad in designer swimwear and perfect tans.

Nate fished Sully’s money clip out of his front pants pocket, water dribbling off the wet bills. They’d been stuck in that trunk for a long time, long enough for Nate to get bored… and not a little resentful, when Sully started snoring.

They dripped their way to the front desk. Minutes later, they were led through the palatial compound to a private cabin tucked some distance from the main hotel, the uniformed bellman chatting about their Wi-Fi and where to put their laundry for cleaning and the number to dial for room service as he led them up the short front steps. Chloe asked about where she might print out some papers, having spun a story about the two of them falling off of their yacht, and the bellman said they’d deliver a portable printer, along with some toiletries from the gift shop.

Nate stepped onto the wooden-railed porch, taking in the luxury. The cabin was as big as a small house, topped with woven palm fronds, a wide veranda running its length. Canvas chairs and small tables were placed at intervals between the many sliding, wood-slatted doors that fronted the building. Rustic-looking lamps hung down from the cabin’s overhang, glowing against the mellow, unpainted wood floor. Stunning views in every direction, flowering shrubs and a fountain to the west, the light of the setting sun glimmering a blazing path across the sea to the east. It smelled like the ocean, and flowers, and was literally the nicest place Nate had ever been.

The bellman stopped at a pair of sliding doors, swiped a card, and then stepped back as he opened them, gesturing with one arm toward the palace inside. Intricately carved wooden partitions broke up the luxurious room, the GOAT in honeymoon suites—fresh flower petals trailed toward a raised king-sized four-poster on the right, draped with bunched curtains of fine white netting. A big heart had been formed in petals on the ivory bedspread. To the left, champagne was chilling in an ice bucket, next to comfortable, stylish chairs and a cushy buff-colored couch in front of a dynamic wall sculpture.

Chloe dropped her shoulder bag on one of the suite’s white-upholstered chairs and looked around, smiling a little. Nate got it. They’d done the rags-to-riches bit in under an hour, but he was too worn out to do a dance. More than that, he was still thinking about what Chloe had said, that he and Sully had planned to cheat her. Sully, maybe… okay, definitely, but Nate was just a dumb guy who’d been tricked into an adventure, and what made her any better than Sully, at this point? She’d lied, she’d stolen. Anything to get to the gold, that was everyone’s brilliant plan. Braddock had killed Moncada, who’d killed many. Sully had run out on Nate, multiple times, and Sam when it had counted most. Chloe had laid him out flat with a gun to the puss and didn’t think she needed to apologize.

What have I done? Stolen, killed… Those mercs had been people, he’d been defending himself but still…

Nate walked back to the veranda and leaned on the rail, looking out at the glowing sea. He took a deep breath, let it out slow. He needed to watch out for himself. Sam had trusted Sully, and it had been the end of him. Nate wanted to get to the gold, but it wasn’t about the money anymore, if it ever really had been. What would Sam have done? What was he going to do?

The sunset was amazing. Nate watched it, soothed by the sound of the ocean, the sweet, cool breeze. The suite was well placed; he couldn’t see any part of the hotel except for the stone path leading to the door, reality cleverly hidden behind well-placed greenery. It was like they were on their own private island. Technically, they’d ended up on the east end of Timor-Leste, according to the brochure in the lobby. Demar wasn’t far away, north and east, even a small boat could get there in a matter of hours…

Chloe slid open a wooden door to Nate’s left and stepped out onto the porch. She’d undone the top of her jumpsuit, the damp arms hanging off her waist, and was wearing a thin white camisole underneath. Her hair was still wet at the ends, sticking to the tops of her muscular shoulders. She looked sexy in a way he’d never really experienced—powerful, bedraggled, glowing with life.

She joined him at the railing, looking out at the bright, dying trail of the sun on the gentle waves. A soft wind swept rustled through the shadow-filled greenery.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

True that. He watched the sun set and didn’t say anything, waiting to see which way she wanted to go.

Chloe stepped closer. “I know you’re not Sully, okay?”

He straightened a bit, turned to look at her. She met his gaze and held it, reached out and put her hand on his shoulder.

“I’m not Sully, either,” she said. “I’m not.”

You idiot, look away! Too late. Her gaze was searching his, looking for forgiveness, for understanding, her hand was warm against his back… And the same spark that had kindled between them on her balcony in Barcelona snapped to new life, a hundred times stronger than before. They weren’t drunk, and he wasn’t as clueless as he had been then, about who she really was…

She fucking told you. Now you believe her, that’s the only difference.

Chloe’s warm hand crept to the side of his face. She touched his temple, then the purple lump under his eye, her fingers brushing ever-so-lightly over the injury. “How’s that eye?”

“Still works,” he said, fascinated at the surge of electricity that went through him, at the feel of her hand on his cheek. Until she pressed a little too hard.

“Ow,” he said.

“Sorry,” Chloe said, pulling her hand away. “I pack a punch, don’t I?”

Her hand drew back, but somehow, the rest of her was closer—and Nate thought he liked her an awful fucking lot, more than any woman he’d known, and she was beautiful, and they were both alive, here, together. Later, tomorrow they’d find the gold or get shot or be enemies. In the moment, he wanted to explore her body with his mouth, and make her have to catch her breath. He saw the same hungry, delicious look in her face.

“Are you—leaning in?” he asked, just to be a hundred percent.

“I think you are,” Chloe said, and then she kissed him, stepped into him, her hands winding up into his hair, her lips soft and eager.

Nate opened his mouth, and his knees went weak. His arms came up, pulling her in so he could get more of the taste of her. She pressed against him and he ran his hand down her lean arm—

“Ow!” she said.

They both looked down. She had a nasty cut across her forearm. Braddock? The wound had closed but there was heavy bruising cropping up around it.

“You got it pretty good, too,” he said, and then they were kissing again, fiercely, deeply.

Chloe wrapped her arms around him and jumped up, locked her legs behind his back, breathing into him. She caught the pain sound when her boot clunked into one of the Scotsman’s kidney blows.

Both of them wincing at bruises, grinning against each other’s mouths, Nate stumbled them inside toward the bed. He aimed for the petal-heart on the creamy silk duvet and managed a perfect landing, decorative pillows flying everywhere. He couldn’t get enough of her and the feeling was mutual, all of their skin needed to be touching. They yanked clothing out of the way, each new touch a revelation, discovering injuries everywhere, kissing them… And then, for a good long while, Nate didn’t think about anything, only felt the singing of nerves and delighted in the sounds Chloe made, on the bed of their private island.

*   *   *

After they’d done everything, twice, Nate called dibs on the shower. Chloe lay sprawled across the posh bed for a full minute, naked. Just. So. Relaxed.

ENTIRELY satisfying. She’d called it back at that nightclub: Nate could dance. And he’d checked in with her at every turn, seemingly aware of her with all his senses. Anything he might have lacked in technique, he more than made up for by his genuine curiosity about what she liked. He wasn’t performing sex with some self-image in mind, he was with her, and doing his utmost to satisfy both of them with the tools at his disposal. All a girl could hope for on a night out.

I wish we could stay here for a month, and not come up for air.

Chloe sighed, then forced her loose limbs into action. She donned a soft white courtesy robe, scooped up her clothes and tossed them into the hamper, then opened one of the sliding doors. Lush moonlight lay across the boards of the porch, the resort silent except for the endless soft crash of waves against sand. She pushed the hamper out, saw that someone had discreetly left supplies on their doorstep at some point.

Hugging the thick white robe to her desperately-needing-a-shower body, Chloe retrieved the heavy woven hotel basket and carried it inside, setting it on the fine, spindly writing desk by the door. A laptop, a flat printer, a cord bundle, a pack of paper and some assorted office supplies. There was also a sack of toiletries, and a pair of emergency rescue packs for cell phones, instructions printed across the bottom. Chemical desiccants in plastic bags, basically, and of course a fancy island resort would have something on hand for tourists who took their phones snorkeling. She tore one pack open on the way to her shoulder pack, tossed on one of the suite’s chairs. She still had the gold crosses, and Demar wasn’t all that far away, certainly closer to them than it was to New Guinea.

But Braddock’s got Moncada’s resources at her back, at least until someone figures out she murdered him. A ship, maybe helicopters, more mercs… and she’d guard the gold like a dragon.

So go home, then. Chloe’s lips curled. Not bloody likely. She took her phone out of the pack, extracted the memory card, then dropped the cell into the chemical kit, zipping it up. She’d tell Nate to do the same, if he ever got out of the shower. She was going to take a long one herself, maybe end with a soak in the oversized tub. Maybe she’d ask Nate to join her…

Business first, ya nympho. She wanted to look at the map again, figure out exactly how far they were from the island, see what Nate thought. Chloe plugged in the laptop and connected the printer, then slotted the card into the reader. She’d put all her homework on the cell’s memory card—high-res shots of the map, the satellite image, everything she’d needed to make the pre-flight presentation that Moncada had insisted on—bad idea, as it turned out, telling Braddock where the payoff was before they got to it, but useful considering Sully currently had the map. God only knew where he’d ended up.

Probably landed on top of the gold, the lucky bugger. Chloe grabbed an apple, munched it while she sized photos and stacked up jobs for the printer. As things stood, Braddock was likeliest to end up winning this one, but Chloe wouldn’t quit until she’d made every effort. She’d rent a boat after breakfast, she decided.

By the time Nate got out of the shower, the printer was humming away and Chloe had broken into the minibar for an overpriced import. She finished her beer and headed for the shower, dropping a megawatt smile on the diligent and talented Nathan Drake as they passed, all fresh-faced and clean in his matching robe. He smiled back, nearly blushing, and her jaded little heart went pitter-pat.

Oh my god, you’re ridiculous, she told herself, but smiled all the way to the shower.

*   *   *

Nate’s shirt needed a wash, bad, but the khakis were just damp. He pulled them on, unable to totally relax with everything just hanging out under the fluffy robe, especially after Chloe had smiled at him like that. He tossed everything else into the hamper sitting outside—shirt, boxers, two nasty balls of sock—and looked at the small printer humming through paper. Blowups of the map he and Chloe had found. God, that seemed like years ago, but it hadn’t been two full days.

Nate emptied his pockets, dropping their clammy contents on the long, low coffee table in front of the cushy couch to dry out. He had Sully’s clip, his own silver Zippo, a damp pack of Yum, a dead phone, and Sam’s postcards, crumpled but still dry.

The printer kept printing. Six full sheets of paper for each side of the map; it seemed there’d been a more detailed drawing of Demar etched into the leather on the back.

Nate carried the prints to the coffee table and laid out the leather side, noting the red X at Cala de Oro. Obviously, that’s where the gold was… Except, it absolutely wasn’t there, because it was too obvious.

All that trouble, the journal, the traps, the hidden map… and then he draws a big red X on the hiding place?

Nate stared at the X, trying to keep calm but more and more certain every second—no way the treasure map was the final word. Elcano and his crew had put in too many safeguards, the answer wouldn’t be so blatant; X-marks-the-spot was a misdirect. If Braddock was headed for Golden Cove, she was going to come up empty. Sully too, if he’d washed ashore somewhere and got to a boat. Victor Sullivan was as driven as Braddock, or Moncada, or Chloe.

Or me. Nate wanted to find it, to confirm the legend, more than he’d ever wanted anything. Go figure.

So where was it? What was the trick? How far had Sam got, figuring it out? He’d died before reading Elcano’s journal, but he’d learned about its existence somehow. Maybe he really had uncovered the secret, the last real clue.

Nate went to the laptop and opened the photos Chloe had taken. She had several maps of the various seas and islands around Indonesia, and he set the printer working again. He put his cell in the rescue bag thingie and followed Choe’s lead on cracking a cold one. It tasted fine. He was wired and exhausted, his sore muscles pleasantly limp after his time with Chloe…

Man. He didn’t know what to think about Chloe. They’d both had a very good time, the best time, but that didn’t mean they were suddenly a team or a couple. Not that he was averse to the idea of them finding the gold together; Sully had opted out of their partnership once he had the map in his hands. On the other hand, Chloe was still just as likely to opt out if she saw an advantage.

And Sully will turn up, once he realizes he jumped the gun. Maybe it’d be better if Nate’s phone stayed broken… Although strangely, his anger at Sully wasn’t as blazing as it had been. Sully was who he was. They all were. Maybe world-class sex just had a way of making everything look better.

He dumped Sam’s postcards out on the table, shuffling through to the most recent ones. A museum painting of King Felipe VI. The cathedral at St. Mary of the Pines. The vacation shot of San Sebastian.

Chloe walked out of the steamy bathroom, dark hair pushed back, her robe tied but sliding off one perfect, golden shoulder. She looked relaxed, happy. Sexier every time he saw her.

“What’s all this?” she asked, stopping at the printer to look through the new stuff.

Nate tapped on the map pages. “Are these the same dimensions as the real thing?”

“To the exact millimeter,” Chloe said, carrying the printouts over. “Why?”

To tell, or not to tell? The hesitation was brief. He wasn’t going to start lying to her now, and maybe she’d have some ideas.

“Braddock’s not going to find the gold, not where she’s looking.”

Chloe sat next to him on the couch. She looked over the scattered postcards, the pages of map, her gaze turning sharp.

“You mean we still have a chance?”

Nate nodded. “The map’s not enough on its own, the captain left a final clue. Sully said my brother knew what it was, thinks he may have tried to tell me what it was…”

He picked up one of the postcards, a map of Argentina. Sam had scrawled Edge of the world, bro across the back, and his initial. “These postcards are the only things I’ve gotten from Sam in ten years. If he tried to tell me something, it’s in these cards.”

Chloe nodded, and he realized she’d lost her lazy, careless air. She looked alert, focused. She started flipping the cards over to the photos. More than 20 of them in all, nothing in common but Sam’s initial, a line or two of banality…

Just nothing I’ve noticed. Yet. If Sam had known the trick, he really might have tried to send it to Nate… And he would have done it in code, because that was just a given.

Nate finished his beer and set to work.

They tried a visual montage first, arranging the postcards by subject, by color, by time period. Chloe thought Sam seemed to have just picked whatever caught his eye—art, statues, a bull fight, a waterfall. Colorful, interesting, but there was no pattern as far as she could tell.

“Maybe something in the words,” Nate said. “An anagram, or a cipher…”

They decided they should consider all the cards, since there was no telling when Sam had first gotten on Elcano’s trail. Nate called out the first word on every card and she wrote them down. The result was a meaningless jumble, so they tried the last word, and got the same outcome. Chloe thought it might be individual letters, maybe the first letter of each sentence, while Nate wanted to go through the dates. They traded the cards back and forth, following their own guesses, and ate most of the complimentary fruit basket.

Both of their phones came back up, and she learned about codes while he downloaded a book about them, then tried to match up letters. Chloe finally realized that she was just staring at her notepad, her thoughts stuck on repeat. She was well and truly in need of actual sleep. Nate thought he had something for a bit with the photo publishing dates, but it didn’t hold up.

Nate picked up one of the postcards and stared at it for a full minute.

“What is it?” Chloe asked, perking up. “Got something?”

Nate rubbed his thumb across the photo, a beach shot. “This is the last one he ever sent.”

His voice was low and very slightly strained. His expression stayed neutral, but his gaze was haunted.

Sam. He was missing his brother, and that kind of pain couldn’t be talked away, only endured. Witnessed. Chloe dropped her pencil and reached for his hand, held it, stayed silent. He squeezed her fingers, gave her a look of simple gratitude, and for a few minutes they just sat.

When he let go of her hand and started shifting through the cards again, Chloe realized she didn’t have it in her to think anymore. She needed a good kip or she’d be useless. And time wasn’t an issue, if Braddock and Sully were headed for the wrong spot. She and Nate were the only ones with a chance of actually figuring out where the gold was hidden.

Not in your current condition.

“I’m knackered,” she said. “Just going to lie down for a bit. Come with me?”

“In a minute, definitely…” Nate picked up another card, frowning.

Good onya, Chloe thought, vaguely, and stumbled to the bed. Her head settled into the feather pillow and she was asleep before she thought anything else.

*   *   *

Nate went through the cards again, trying to think of another code to try. He’d downloaded a copy of a code book they’d both read as kids, and scrolled through the pages. Nate remembered a lot of them—alphabet rotation ciphers, like the Caesar one, or the Vigenere—but Sam hadn’t written any nonsense words, and they couldn’t find a pattern in the letters or dates. There weren’t any corners with dots, like the Pigpen Cipher, nothing written in grids or blocks to work out… And the messages themselves were so banal—I’m coming to visit, sorry I couldn’t, you should see the beach, wish you were here.

Nate reached for his Bubble Yum, glad to note that it was finally dry. He cleared a cube of it from the stiff paper and popped it into his mouth, chewing, the sugar waking him up a little. Chloe was already snoring lightly, passed out on top of the bed. He should join her, get some sleep, but he felt like the answer was right in front of him, so obvious that he just couldn’t see it.

World you haven’t seen…

Nate picked up the final postcard, the beach from San Sebastian, read the message for the thousandth time: There’s a whole world you haven’t seen. But you will. Promise. -S.

“A whole world you haven’t seen,” Nate mumbled. Was that anything? “A whole world you haven’t seen…”

Unseen. Something unseen, codes…

Nate sat up straight, looking around. There were a number of candles in the suite, a few on the desk by the door, next to the plundered fruit basket. He scooped up his Zippo and took the card with him. It’ll probably be nothing, don’t get excited…

He was excited, though. Sam’s last letter to him when they were kids, the last postcard… and there was plenty of open space around and below Sam’s initial. He hadn’t thought of it because it was a kid’s trick, not the choice of grown-ups trying to impart important information. But it was so Sam, and only Nate might have guessed it.

Nate tried to light the candle, but the Zippo wasn’t in the mood, barely mustering a few sparks. Sighing, he dropped it into his pocket and went through the desk drawers. The top one held a box of matches.

Nate lit a thick white candle and carried it to one of the chairs facing the couch across the littered table, the postcard trembling in his hand. Outside, the night wind rustled through leaves, and waves broke gently on the sand. He sat down and held the candle steady, lowering the paper over the vanilla-scented flame, moving it gently back and forth.

For a second, there was nothing… and then the letters formed, orange and then brown, lines and curves popping up against the creamy white.

The sound of his heart in his ears blocked out every other noise as Sam’s true, final message surfaced.

The keys are your compass.

“The keys are your compass,” Nate said, softly. “The keys…”

Nate put the candle down and reached for Chloe’s bag, on the chair next to his. He shot a look back at Chloe, who was still snoring softly, and slid out the heavy keys. She wouldn’t mind, she needed sleep… And honestly, even after all the excellent sex, she still might clock him and take off. Probably, in fact.

He wiped scattered papers off the parchment-side print of the map—Chloe had taped it together—and laid the crosses down. Was the butt of the cross the compass point, or the longer of the two top bars? And where did they go, exactly?

He propped the crosses up and balanced them, the polished gemstones at the tips slipping on the paper. Maybe the cross tipped in blue went on the blue rose compass…?

Nate edged the cross toward the rose and the garnet cross thumped heavily to the table.

“Compass my ass…”

Nate studied the crosses. At the lower bars of each, where they crossed the main body, was kind of a compass shape etched into the gold. He picked up the one he and Sully had stolen, lightly pulling on the garnets at either end of the lower bar, peering at the tiny lines. There’s gotta be some indication—

One of the garnets shifted. Nate held the cross up and looked at the setting, saw that the tiny golden clasps hadn’t been tacked down as firmly as those on the other side. He jiggled the polished stone firmly, and it dropped into his hand. The gem had sheathed a tiny steel point, set deep into the gold.

Holy shit. Nate immediately picked up Chloe’s cross. A tug, a look at the setting, and he pulled the glowing blue spinel free from the lower crossbar, sat it next to the garnet. Another compass point.

If the blue goes on the compass rose… There was no obvious red on the map, some orange, lots of green—

Nate pulled over the other taped-up map, the larger drawing of Demar that had been etched into the leather. The red X. Chloe said she had printed them out exactly the correct size…

A few measurements with a ruler app, some paper-shifting in front of the candlelight, and Nate marked an X on the parchment map, south of the Greater Sunda islands between the Java Sea and the Indian Ocean. On the physical map, that was where Golden Cove was marked on the other side. It was a compass point, not the location of the treasure. Red and blue.

Nate placed the metal points where they were meant to go and swung the crosses until they met. He wrote the coordinates down, then double and triple-checked his work until he was satisfied. Still the island of Demar, but on the west side, well north of Golden Cove. Not a beach, a steep, rocky coast.

“That’s it,” he breathed, grinning. “It has to be.”

Flushed with triumph, he almost yelled Chloe awake—he’d figured it out, with Sam’s help he’d actually done it —but he thought twice, and that was enough to shut his mouth. He’d tell her the location when they arrived, when it was too late for her to run ahead. The Drake brothers had solved the puzzle, they should be the ones to find it.

Nate got busy on the laptop, reserving a boat, printing new pictures. The northwest corner of Demar was pocked with cenotes, openings in the ground that revealed strata below, chambers or tunnels perhaps. The coordinates put the gold just behind a sea cave opening, near one of the bigger cenotes.

If we can’t swim to it, we can drop in from above. They didn’t have climbing equipment, but surely they could scrounge up some rope. Didn’t boats have to carry rope? In the morning, he and Chloe would—

Chloe.

On impulse, Nate grabbed one of the satellite shots of the island and scribbled coordinates across it. He put the photo atop the stack on the coffee table, moved some of the other papers around. Braddock and the mercs would be on the south side of the island, too far away to cause trouble. Sully hadn’t tried to get in touch, but maybe his phone was broken. Nate hoped he was still alive, if only because someone had to take care of that cat.

Nate felt good. Tired but happy. He brushed a kiss on sleeping Chloe’s soft hair and flopped down next to her, tucking a pillow under his head. He doubted he’d sleep much, he was too—

Nate fell into a black, dreamless hole.

*   *   *

Chloe woke up with the dawn, Nate casually spooned against her back, breathing deeply and evenly. She rolled over and watched his face as the darkness purpled toward light, his features gradually revealed. He was starting to grow on her. He was more than just a pretty face, but it was oh so pretty, even sunburnt and bruised. He was impossibly sweet, too, amazing in the sack, and smart enough to carry a conversation. She’d done a lot worse.

The need to pee finally dragged her away. Chloe took care of business, then walked out onto the veranda, just in time to see the sun lift in the east. She turned and watched the resort beach pick up the glow, gold against the lapping waves. Warm sunlight fell across the shrubs and flowers, hibiscus, orchid, jasmine… tiny birds darted through the leaves. She felt like she was in a goddamn Disney movie, and she also felt pretty good about it. If they found the gold, maybe they could stay on a bit, after.

Or you could buy the resort and live here. Not gonna happen with you mooning around. Get back to work.

Their clothes had been returned, laundered, a neat parcel by the door. Chloe carried it inside, heading for the coffee table when she saw that Nate had printed out new photos. Closeups of Demar, and the gold keys were stacked next to the map—

She lifted a blowup of a narrow island chain east of Demar, rocky cliffs and tiny beaches. The coordinates were written boldly, right across the top.

He did it! He actually did it!

Chloe turned and looked at him, sleeping. He hadn’t shifted once since she’d been out of bed. How late had he stayed up, working it out? How long will he sleep? I can be on a boat within the hour.

Stop. Think about this. Nate had left the coordinates out, he’d trusted her… If she went after the gold by herself, he’d never trust her again.

And the con side is…? He shouldn’t trust her, they’d already established that, and if he hadn’t learned by now, his regard wasn’t worth much. She didn’t need a boyfriend, she needed to touch that gold. And she could haul quite a bit by herself.

Chloe tiptoed to her bag and started to pack, quietly.

Within hours of landing in New Guinea, Braddock was on the way to Demar, aboard a large cargo ship with a strong engine and a dozen burly freelance mercs, strong men ready to work. Moncada had reserved the mighty Victoria before they’d left Barcelona—Santiago’s idea of clever, choosing a vessel with the same name as Magellan’s only surviving ship—and as far as the boat’s crew was concerned, the billionaire was still calling the shots; he’d sent his faithful employee ahead to do some recon on the site. Braddock made some purchases, set the workers to loading, and slept for an hour. They were ready to go by early afternoon. The ride out had been uneventful, except for the rising glee in Braddock’s gut, spiraling into giddiness as the gold got closer. When she’d seen the rounded, smoking peak of Demar’s volcano, rising over a carpet of dense green, she’d actually laughed out loud.

They anchored off Golden Cove and broke out the Zodiacs. Braddock rode in with her team, smiling as she examined the pristine sand, deserted but for crabs and gulls. Sully hadn’t beaten her to the gold, nobody had. Alvaro and his men rode in with them, the new mercs following. The beach was wide but not deep, the sand a crescent against its curving shore, strewn with black rock and backed by a wall of lush jungle.

Braddock walked the length of the beach, looking for any features that might stand out—a curve of rock, a particular view of the volcano, one of the many clusters of rough boulders—but nothing struck her eye. Whatever—the beach wasn’t all that big, they’d dig the whole thing up. It would be somewhere well above the tide line, heavy digging, but they had machinery and explosives. They would find the treasure, it was just a matter of time.

They spent the day shuttling equipment and breaking ground along the line of sweaty jungle, birds shrieking in the trees, tiny, furred things crashing away from the growling backhoe and the screech of saws as the workers chopped through roots. When the sun set, they put up banks of lights and kept digging… but the men couldn’t continue indefinitely. Frustrated, Braddock sent them back to the ship for food and sleep, and camped out on the beach, Hugo and Scotty in a tent next to hers; they rotated a three-hour guard, so they all got some rest, but Braddock woke up cold, sore, and irritated. She’d fully expected to find the treasure within hours of their arrival. What if Chloe Frazer had been wrong? But no, Braddock had seen the map, the X had been on Golden Cove… The gold was here, somewhere. Braddock got up and spent an hour walking back and forth, deeper into the thick, buggy mass of vegetation that rioted between the stony hills to either side of the cove, looking for a symbol, a clue. Tiny flies swarmed her arms and face, and she waved them off, foul mood intensifying. The ugly noise of roaring motors dogged her every step.

Where the fuck is it? Braddock stepped out of the jungle, back to the increasingly pitted beach. Men shoveling, cutting down trees, sand fleas bouncing through rotting kelp, the smell of dead fish sharp in the morning sun. Hugo was helping lug rocks, but Scotty hung back in the shade, binoculars out. They’d been here long enough, Braddock wanted somebody watching for incoming full-time. Sully was top of the list, but Braddock didn’t know much about the Victoria’s crew, they were Moncada’s hire. A call to the cops and she’d be in hot water for tearing up the habitat of some endangered beetle or lemur or something. Since she was Moncada’s employee, the cops might try to find him, might even try to search his plane, still parked at Port Moresby… and the knife that had cut his throat was still strapped to her thigh.

Stop it. None of that matters. It’s here, you just have to be patient.

Not her strongest attribute, but she had no choice. She’d come too far, worked too hard for this. If anyone tried to stop her, she’d just have to kill them, too. Nobody was stealing her gold.

*   *   *

Nate dreamed that his whole life was different. His last name was Morgan, and he rode a motorcycle that Sam had given him when he took him out of St. Francis—Sam came back for him, after all. He dreamed they went on adventures together, and that he met Sully in Colombia, trying to lift his wallet… And then everything got weird, and Sister Catherine was bawling him out for fighting; and then he was in the Arctic, walking through an underground cavern… But Chloe was there, arching one fabulous eyebrow, and she was about to kiss him…

Nate woke up, blinking against the full morning light. He was alone on the bed.

“Chloe?”

No answer. Nate sat up, looked around. Her bag was gone, and her boots. He got up and stretched, walking to the coffee table—and the photo with the coordinates on it was gone, too, but she’d scribbled a note and left it in the print’s place.

Nate picked it up. I’m sorry, Nate. I told you I don’t share.

“Yes, you did,” he said, and smiled. That was why he’d put the coordinates on the photo. Not the correct coordinates, obviously. He’d sincerely hoped they’d wake up together, have sex, eat breakfast, more sex, set out for the gold, celebrate with sex, etc.… But on the off chance she decided on a head start, she’d end up on a secluded island beach out of everyone’s way, digging holes by herself.

It’s like I’m starting to get the hang of this or something.

Nate pulled another map out from under the table, where he’d tucked it the night before, and checked his watch. The boat he’d reserved would be prepped and waiting, at a pier less than a mile away. Not that there was any need to hurry, but he didn’t want to wait a minute longer.

Nate put in a call for a ride, threw all the other maps and papers away, and took a last look at the bed where he and Chloe had slept and played. She was an amazing woman, if criminally greedy. He figured they’d cross paths again—he hoped they would, but not today. Today it was just him and Sam.

The runabout sped across the calm wide sea toward Demar, the fiberglass hull slapping across the low waves. Nate kept an eye on his phone, the marine GPS app guiding him to the island. He looked up when he saw the volcano rising up out of the blue, north and east of him.

Nate slowed the boat, the stiff wind tousling his hair, white Henley flapping, Sam’s ring around his neck. The black, smoking mountain loomed closer, a towering hump of rock footed by jungle and small, stony beaches. High, rocky cliffs marked the west and north approaches. There was a good-sized cargo ship anchored south of the island, at Golden Cove, and Nate kept far enough out to avoid being seen without a scope.

He filled his lungs with the warm salt air. Here he was, speeding through foreign waters, ducking bad guys to get to the gold… and he was the only person alive who knew where the treasure was. That feeling, knowing, was incredible, it filled him up in a way he couldn’t describe.

Nate guided the boat along the west coast, slowing down once he couldn’t see Braddock’s ship anymore, and started looking for the break in the cliffs.

*   *   *

Braddock had felt a full minute of hope when one of the workers dug up an old board, but there was nothing around it, only dirt and rock and stinking sand. Braddock scowled, watching the men come up empty. They’d have to move farther in… but how far? Gold was heavy and the jungle was dense, how far would the “explorers” have dragged it to keep it safe?

Hugo waved her over. He’d taken over Scotty’s watch, out on the sand. Braddock slogged through the ragged mess they’d made, heaps of dirt and chopped plants dumped on the beach, saw the big man looking west with the binoculars.

“Still nothing,” she said, because they’d all been hoping. “What do you got?”

He handed her the binoculars, and she followed his line of sight.

There. Even with the binoculars, the boat was small. Looked like a tourist’s skiff. Pretty far out, headed north.

Braddock watched the speck disappear from sight, behind the towering western cliffs. Demar wasn’t central to anything, but they were in an island country; there were boats everywhere. On the other hand, she’d started to have serious fucking doubts about Golden Cove. Chloe Frazer had been certain; but then, Frazer was a feckless moron. Might be wise to make a little run north, just to see if anyone was around.

“Field trip,” she said. “Get Scotty. Alvaro, too. Have him pick a team and tell them to come loaded.”

Hugo nodded and strode away. Braddock headed for one of the equipment boxes, considering what to take along. It was probably just some fisherman, but if Sully was still sucking air, he’d try for the gold… and maybe he knew something she didn’t.

*   *   *

Chloe went out of her way to keep out of Braddock’s view, circling Demar and coming down the east side before striking out for the islands, a narrow chain that curved toward West Papua. She didn’t like losing the time—Nate would be hot on her heels and she’d had to buy a few supplies before setting out, but she’d had more than enough of Jo Braddock. Chloe would find the gold, fill her small cruiser with as much as it would carry, and head for land. She was tempted to just take the boat to Australia—she had friends in Queensland—but she wasn’t a fan of life on the water; safer to ship the gold where she wanted and hop a flight. Contrary to popular opinion, she wasn’t suicidal.

Chloe watched the GPS, slowing the skiff as the coordinates Nate had figured out edged closer. Her boat slid between bare spires of rock. A minute later she could see the tiny, unnamed beach at Nate’s coordinates from her position, sand perhaps a dozen meters across and twice as deep, scattered with boulders and backed by a small patch of vivid green.

She rode in as close as she dared, dropped the cruiser’s small anchor, and gathered up her supplies: a pick, a shovel, the gold crosses, a canteen, a flashlight. She hoped Elcano had marked the site somehow, but she might just have to start digging.

Fine by me. She was fed, well-rested, and more than ready to add to her reputation as a top procurer. Not to mention never having to think about money again, for the rest of her life.

Chloe jumped into the warm, shallow water, crystal blue and teeming with small, colorful fish, and waded to shore.

*   *   *

The coordinates were inland, through a break in the uneven limestone cliffs that made up much of Demar’s west coast. Nate turned the boat and buzzed through the strait, shadowed by rugged stone walls to either side. The air was cooler in the shade, the sound of the runabout’s motor suddenly loud as it echoed off the towering rock. The passage was nearly claustrophobic after the open sea, but it was at least eighty feet across, plenty wide enough to admit a carrack—the type of ship Magellan had sailed with. One of the five had been a caravel, Nate remembered, but those were smaller, under a hundred tons. All had been three-masted sailing ships, built up aft and stern with artillery to fend off pirates…

Nate imagined the exhausted Spanish sailors looking up at the same looming stone walls, wondering if they’d run aground as they searched for somewhere to put their stolen loot. Thanks to Google Earth, Nate knew the passage led to a small, deep cove, but Elcano’s crew might have been sailing in with their fingers crossed. He could practically hear the creak of the rigging, the whispered prayers.

The passage opened into a rocky cove, lined with more cliffs—except there were a number of tall, gaping sea caves ahead, topped with jungle, the tiny cove overshadowed by tropical flora on all sides. Deep water slopped at the rock, an igneous base thickly layered with limestone. Nate checked the coordinates and eased the boat toward one of the larger openings, maybe sixty feet high at its tallest and forty across.

The low-slung boat slid into the watery shadows of the cave, the motor echoing in warbles. The sun only reflected in for the first few seconds. Nate turned on the boat’s fog light, squinting as the wide yellow beam came on. The cave continued on past where he could see, narrowing slightly. Nate could only make out the dank, rough walls, the shimmer of water. Had Elcano dared to come in this far? Maybe it was just a few sailors now, paddling a heavily laden, leaky boat away from the safety of their ship and into the dark, holding up lanterns as they went.

And no one’s been here since. Truly, the cave felt ancient… Although, of course, the island’s volcano may have done some rearranging since Magellan’s day. It had erupted a dozen times just in the last century. The gold could well be buried under tons of rock.

The glowing GPS put the location dead ahead, he had to be nearly on top of it.

The cave dipped ahead of him, the ceiling dropping abruptly almost to the water’s surface—and then dipping into it. There were openings where the rock touched the sea, low, rough arches spanning the width of the dead end. The stone was volcanic, and rough.

Like doorways? Tunnels? The tide was high, he could wait a few hours… The water might go down enough for him to maneuver the narrow boat through.

Nate looked at the coordinates on his phone. The exact location Elcano had marked was a few hundred feet away, straight in front of him and two degrees right.

Fuck it. Nate put his phone in his pocket, dropped anchor, and turned off the fog light. He’d bought a waterproof flashlight at the bait shop, and was about to turn it on when he noticed the bluish glow staining the water. It seemed to be coming from beneath the rocky arches.

Phosphorescence? Daylight ahead? Both?

Maybe an unknown species of highly poisonous eel. Or some kind of anemone that hangs out in dead-end underwater tunnels, feeding off dumb guys who won’t wait for the tide to go down.

Nate turned on the light, took a deep breath, and dove in before he could think anything else.

He ducked under the rock overhang and kicked himself forward, expecting to come up on the other side of a wall—but the wall was thick. In fact it was more like a tunnel, and ran a good thirty, forty feet before opening up ahead.

Nate put his head down and swam. There was some kind of glowworm responsible for the blue light he’d seen, fat rubbery caterpillar-looking things stuck in clumps to the pitted rocks, and what if there was no other side? What if Demar’s volcano had rebuilt these caves a hundred years back, filled them in?

Well, then I’d be pretty fucked, Nate thought and kicked harder. There was definitely daylight somewhere ahead, he could see the greenish murk of the water now, getting brighter, but his lungs were starting to cry out for air, too late to turn back…

Nate pushed himself, a powerful, desperate crawl toward the light—

—and the rock opened up over his head.

Nate came up gasping into open air. There was a flat jut of slimy rock to his left and he grabbed for it, hanging on while he got his breath back—but the sight in front of him took it away again

Oh my god.

He’d surfaced in a cavernous chamber, a grotto lit from above by a giant, mature cenote, sunlight filtered by jungle spilling down into the shadowy room, painting everything a soft green. A hundred feet in front of him—and a little to the right—was a small incline of pale sand, where two full Spanish carracks had been drawn up from the water.

Nate pulled himself onto the jut of rock and stood on numb legs, gazing in awe at the massive ships. They’d been drydocked, strung up with moss-dripping ropes and chains by some unimaginable winch system, bellies resting on the sand well out of the water. The bows faced him, long bowsprits reflecting off the gently rippling pool, sails put away in mossy bundles all along the yardarms of the three towering masts on each ship. The ships’ figureheads—an eagle on the left, a majestic lion on the right—were carved with incredible skill, each as big as a full-grown man. Bigger. Carracks hadn’t been as giant as galleons, most well under a hundred feet tip to tail, but they’d been deep, built to carry a shit-ton of cargo in addition to keeping thirty-plus men alive for years at a time.

Heavy vines hung over the sides of the cenote above, a few plants sprouting on the mizzenmast of the slightly larger ship, on the right. Considering the exposure, centuries of tides and storms, and the acidic trickle of dissolving limestone—behind and around Nate were massive stalactites, spears of rock hanging down from the high ceiling—the ships were both in astoundingly good condition. Some of the rigging had rotted away on the larger boat, but the masts themselves still stood tall, lashed with mossy rope. The sails were probably in tatters but were still tightly rolled.

According to history, only the Victoria had made it back to Spain from the circumnavigation. One ship had turned back early on, the rest had been lost, burned or wrecked… Except the book about the real voyage had claimed that those stories were lies, that at least two others had survived.

Concepción and Trinidad. The Trinidad was the bigger of the two, Nate remembered. Was that really what he’d found?

One way to find out.

Nate dove into the pool and swam to the underground beach, boots finding the shallow shore after just a few strokes. He waded out of the rippling water, dripping onto the pale strip of rocky sand between the ships. Stunned at the size of them, he walked between the two, scanning the moss-covered sides, each a wall of curved boards going up and up. They were huge, the lowest part of either deck ten feet over his head. Fore and aft were double that. Wood braces hung along the sides, ladders off the sterns.

Nate saw letters carved into the side of the ship on his left, high up, and grinned, scanning the other ship’s hull. He could just make out the letters through a film of damp lichen. The Trinidad was bigger, slightly more weathered, but both ships seemed to be otherwise perfectly preserved.

Nate touched one of the heavy beams that ran the Concepción’s length—a framing board, the aged wood slippery but solid beneath his fingers. He gripped Sam’s ring with his other hand, closed his eyes. He could hear the call of birds high overhead, smell the ancient pitch in the weathered, mossy wood. The mist of centuries cleared at a touch.

“We did it,” Nate said, and had to swallow against the lump of feeling in his throat. It was such a fucking victory, that a couple of orphans had made it this far. Sam had been guiding his hand all along.

Nate looked up at the deck, then at a pile of sandy rocks close to the hull about midship. The framing boards stuck out a bit, closer together near the top…

Let’s do this, he told Sam, and backed up for a run. Time to go aboard and see what there was to see.

Nate jumped off the rock and climbed the Concepción’s sturdy framing boards. He had a scary second when his foot slipped on the slick wood near the top, but he managed to swing himself back to the curved hull, using openings in the gun deck to climb to the rail. He reached up and gave one of the carved posts a yank. Upright and solid, even with a few plants sprouting on the heavy upper rail. Nate boosted himself over, landing on the deck. The wood creaked under his feet but held strong.

Wow. The Trinidad’s deck was littered with junk plants and bird crap directly under the giant cenote, but most of the Concepción’s deck was clear, sheltered somewhat by the rim of the open roof. He’d come up midship, near the mainmast. At the bow was the built-up forecastle and foremast, plus the bowsprit, the long, angled mast that pointed off the front like a unicorn’s horn. There were four small cannons spaced along the main deck, propped up by rotting wheels, and some ancient roped and banded crates, fuzzy with mold. The stern-castle, the built-up part of the ship at the rear, was double tiered, a ladder leading up to the helm behind the mizzenmast, an arched cabin door behind it—and there was a second ladder from the helm to a small, bare poop deck. Nate couldn’t help a smile; easy to remember, Sam had taught him, the poop was at the rear. The ship’s rail between the main deck and the poop was curved like a banister, and wide enough to stand on. The masts all had actual crow’s nests, a couple still mostly intact. Everything was hand carved, oiled, simply made, kissed with mold.

A mound of rotting something-or-other was heaped just in front of the forecastle; rope or bedding, maybe. Nate stayed close to the side and edged toward the bow, ready to bail if the floor gave out. The rotten mound turned out to be a seriously disgusting waxed tarp, covered in generations of slime. He threw it off, revealing a crate of small, pitted cannonballs and sacks of blasting powder underneath. The disintegrated bags on top had protected a few at the bottom.

He fished one intact sack out, marveling at the ancient, treated cloth, made by hand on a loom. The black powder would be coarse and grossly inefficient by modern standards, smoky and uneven. Sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter in variable amounts, depending on who made it. Amazing.

Nate stood up, turned aft. He looked wistfully at the helm, up on the first tier of the raised stern, ancient spokes strung with moss—man, he’d love to give that thing a spin, but it would undoubtedly break something—then headed for the door opening off the main deck. The captain’s quarters should be at the back of the ship, practically over the rudder, behind and probably a little above the officers’ digs. Nice big rooms, overlooking the deck where the sailors toiled and often slept.

Nate stepped over a lattice deck hatch and pulled the ancient door open. Its hinges were gone, rotted or rusted away, and the door teetered toward him. Nate leapt back and the lashed wood thudded to the deck. Nate peered into the dark opening, pulling out his flashlight.

He stepped inside, shining the light at the ceiling, the walls. A few of the boards were cracked, moss trailing down them, and the air was stale and rank… but for five centuries in a wet cave, the Concepción was in great shape. The walls were straight, the floor barely warped.

There were openings left and right, and the flashlight’s beam showed him the narrow officers’ cells—built-in bunks with sagging boards, the frame of an upholstered chair here, a crumbling writing desk there. It was a mess everywhere he looked, but so much had survived: crosses on the walls, glassed paintings, utensils and tools and furniture. Murky light filtered in through slit windows, narrow openings at the sides of the passage now furred with moss. There was an opening to the decks below under those windows, but Nate saw the steps to the captain’s quarters and went up instead, reluctant to end the suspense. He and Sam had found a legend; he was on board the Concepción, burned in the Philippines for lack of resources, according to history books. He’d memorized that drawing as a kid, the one in Hennig’s book, of barrels being lugged up the gangplank of the Spanish ship with the lilting name, and he was on board. The gold itself was pretty much icing.

The inner door to the captain’s quarters was heavy oiled wood, a real bitch to pry open, but the lock had long since rusted away. The swollen boards thumped to the drooping stairs and Nate stepped inside, taking in the relative opulence of the messy room, the wide bunk, a table bolted to the floor, chairs lining one wall, most still upright. Boxes and barrels had been pushed to the corners, crowding the space. The window at the back by the outer door was still in its frame, cracked, thick blurry glass facing the rock wall behind it, some sunlight filtering through the layers of accumulated filth. Under the window was a sturdy desk littered with layers of—

Oh, man, really? Nate headed for the desk, stepping lightly over the creaking boards. There was a lot of muck that had likely once been paper, but there was also treated parchment, he could see edges of it through the debris. The idea of touching papers that might have been written by Elcano, while they were at sea…

Nate wiped off the top layer of slime and made a face at the clammy jelly feel. He flicked the gunk to the floor and found a few partially intact documents underneath—treated with wax, maybe. A ship’s log, an inventory? The faded Spanish was written in neat bullet points, but he couldn’t read it. He touched the brownish ink of the curling letters, awed by the find. The historians were going to go nuts.

Nate pulled open one of the desk’s thickset drawers. Inside was more muck, but also a thin letter opener, tarnished black, and a stamp—the kind used to seal letters with wax.

Nate held it up, squinting at the curly letters. F. M.

“Ferdinand Magellan,” he whispered. Holy shit. He was holding an incredibly valuable artifact, Magellan’s own personal stamp. The books said he’d captained the Trinidad, but the books were wrong about so much, he could have taken over the Concepción… Or maybe Elcano or one of the other guys had lifted the stamp after old Ferd had died on that beach, struck down by people who didn’t want to be tortured into accepting Christ.

Wish we’d thought of that when the Sisters were laying down the law, Nate thought, smiling, and then froze. He thought he’d heard something. A small splash? He waited, but the sound didn’t come again.

The cabin smelled sour, and Nate was ready to see what was in the hold. He’d probably have to drop down quite a bit, gold was too heavy to ship high. Right over the bilge, most likely, although they might have put some of it on the gun deck, it was fortified to carry heavier artillery.

He went back into the passage and down, stopping at the dark open square behind the officers’ quarters. There were wooden steps descending into the hold, but the next deck down was barely five feet below and he wasn’t sure he trusted the stairs. Nate lowered himself down, testing the floor before he dropped.

He had to stay hunched over to find the next passage down, the openings between decks staggered so that a misstep didn’t mean a fall into the bilge. The next set of steps looked more solid, drier. Nate took them down to the gun deck, where the bigger cannons were stored, muzzles pressed to openings in the hull.

Oh, wow. The ceiling was higher on this deck, enough for him to stand up straight and look around. Just like a medieval sailing ship should look—old crates and banded barrels, stacks of wood, coils of rope, a lot of grime. Curved cutlasses had been hung together on the bulkhead, the handles threaded through rusting pullies or maybe locks, the dull silver blades reflecting the green-tinted sunlight that filtered in through the gun ports. There was a carved statue of a soldier on a horse, dusty and mildewed. Stores ran down the center of the deck, dozens of upright barrels clustered around support beams. Half-rotted crates of cannon shot were scattered around.

Nate stepped to the closest group of barrels. The lids were nailed down, but there were a number of rusty iron tools sticking up between the rounded containers. Nate fished out a heavy auger, kind of a corkscrew-looking thing used for boring holes, and worked it against one of the barrel lids, prying around the rim. The aged wood splintered, the lid popping free. A smell that Nate associated with Christmas wafted out.

The barrel was full of dark dust. Nate dropped the brace and touched the powder, rubbing the damp grit between his fingers. Frowning, he sniffed it, a stronger whiff of holiday cheer.

“Cloves,” he muttered, gaze taking in the top of the container, how the barrel’s staves had been shaved—

“Back then, spices were worth nearly as much as gold,” Sully said, and stepped out of the shadows behind Nate, dripping wet and smiling.

*   *   *

Sully hadn’t gone out of his way to be especially quiet once he’d come up in the weird little lagoon, half-drowned, but apparently Nate hadn’t heard him board.

The kid brushed his hands off, shot a disdainful look at Sully. “Why am I not surprised?”

Sully held up his phone, still open to the screen he’d been watching since he’d jumped out of Moncada’s plane. He’d had the good fortune to be picked up by a fisherman and had spent the night in Jakarta, ordering room service and talking to his bank, waiting for Nate to move. He hiked his dripping backpack up on his shoulder. “I keep too many apps open, remember?”

Nate only stared at him. Not even a half smile.

“I knew you’d figure it out,” Sully added. “The puzzle, in Sam’s postcards.”

The kid shook his head, but Sully saw a glimmer of excitement under his show of exasperation. Nate wanted to tell him how he’d solved the puzzle, just like Sully had wanted to let him know about the app.

“It was right there,” Nate said, giving in to his pride. “In the last one he sent. A hidden message. I had to use the crosses to scratch out these intersecting arcs on the map, that showed where the gold was.”

“Like drawing compasses,” Sully encouraged.

“Yeah,” Nate said. “It was really cool.”

Sully nodded—credit where it was due—and looked around at the dozens of barrels. He hated to state the obvious, but the prize wasn’t in evidence. “I don’t see any gold.”

“Oh, it’s here,” Nate said, easily. He tapped the barrel. “It’s a false top, like me and Sam used to use to hide stuff.”

Nate reached into the barrel with both hands and lifted out a flat, thin wooden bowl full of clove dust, about six inches deep. He tossed it aside, reached deeper into the barrel, and pulled out a shining flat belt of shimmering gold.

“Well, look at that,” Sully breathed, and Nate handed him the belt. It was heavy. Hundreds of tiny gold links fitted together like chain mail, but so much finer. The buckles were thick, curved squares of delicately etched design, almost an embroidered look but glowing with the rich inner light of pure gold.

Nate had to use both hands to tip the barrel over—and out poured gold rings and pendants and sashes, hoops and dented bricks of all shapes and sizes. The sun coming in through the giant cenote outside was weak, but strong enough to sparkle over the priceless objects.

Sully dropped his bag and knocked over the barrel next to the first, shoving hard. The lid cracked open and more spice dust spilled out, followed by dozens, hundreds more glowing pieces. Gold, beautiful, heavy, luscious, perfect gold, coarse and fine, bejeweled and plain, in ingots and artwork. There were shields and plates, necklaces and figurines, bracelets and bowls.

Sully laughed and screamed, howling with joy. He knocked over another barrel, and another, each easier to topple than the last because more and more precious gold tumbled out, the rich clatter of heavy, soft metal filling the musty hold, and the sight made him strong. He’d kept his focus, always bet to win, and it had paid off in spades—more satisfying than he’d ever imagined in his wildest dreams.

*   *   *

Sully celebrated, tipping over the brittle containers, laughing as more gold spilled out. He was all wet from following Nate’s watery trail, making him look sweaty and feral as he capered through the glittering piles. The smell of faded spice perfumed the shadowy hold, motes dancing in the dim shafts of sunlight.

“There’s more than we even thought!” Sully turned in a half circle, arms spread out. “Plus the other ship, plus the value of the ships themselves, which you can’t even put a price on…”

His exuberance led him into another tipping spree, two more barrels vomiting out treasure. He was practically hyperventilating, he was so happy.

Of course he is. The entire meaning of his life, everything he cares about, is in his hands.

“We did it, kid!” Sully swung around to grin at Nate, grabbing him by the shoulders. “We did it!”

We? Nate had watched him lose his shit, the bad taste in his mouth growing, but Sully inserting himself back into a partnership couldn’t stand.

“No, Sully, we didn’t do anything,” Nate said, pulling away. “There is no we. There’s only you. Because there’s not a person in your life you wouldn’t betray for a piece of this shit. You’ve made that real clear.”

Sully’s grin fell away. He looked like he’d been slapped, and Nate was glad to see it. Sully had ducked out on him one time too many, and naked greed wasn’t much of an accomplishment.

“I thought that’s what we wanted,” Sully said.

“No, I wanted to do this with my brother, Sam. Not with you.”

Nate was ready for an argument, but Sully only studied him for a beat, his expression solemn. For once, he didn’t look like he was trying to sell anything.

“I know,” he said, finally. “And I’m sorry. But look around, kid. You did it. And it’s a hell of a thing.”

They both scanned the jumbled heaps of treasure, and without meaning to, Nate found himself smiling a little. They were standing in the middle of a legend. It really was a hell of a thing.

“He would be proud of you,” Sully added, like he meant it, and Nate thought he was probably right. Sam would have—

BOOM!

The Concepción wobbled beneath their feet, and they both heard rocks splashing outside, smaller pebbles pattering over the deck above.

They locked gazes. What the fuck was that?

Nate crouched to the nearest cannon port and looked out.

The wall left of the little ledge of rock Nate had stood on out in the underground pool was now just a billow of smoke, a few spears of millennia-old rock crashing into the water where it had been—and buzzing out of the smoke like a bad dream, one, two black rafts appeared.

Shit, three. Ten guys at least, packed into military-style industrial rafts. Nate recognized the murderous leader by her platinum dye job, slicked to her skull. She was all in black, tight and utilitarian, arms long and bare beneath her body-hugging vest.

“It’s Braddock,” he told Sully, who winced like he’d broken something.

Somebody wasn’t watching for a tail. Gee, thanks Sully.

“We’d better get small, kid,” Sully said. “Or in your case, smaller.”

“You’re like one inch taller than me, max,” Nate said, thinking furiously. Braddock would search the ships. Too late to deboard and nowhere to run anyway, we’ll have to swim out or hide until—

The answer was a lightbulb snapping on.

“Come on, I know where to go,” Nate said, and Sully didn’t argue. Nate headed back to the well that opened to the deck above, hoping they’d have enough time.

They would have missed the strait entirely if they hadn’t caught sight of Victor Sullivan cutting across the coast ahead of them, bold as brass. Braddock had been about to turn the rafts around—the runabout they’d spotted was long gone—when they all heard the high buzz of a speed boat, approaching quickly from the west. Braddock had them pull close to the shore, but she needn’t have bothered trying to hide. A look through the binoculars and there was Sully, blasting through the water north of them and staring at his phone. He disappeared into the cliffs.

“After him,” Braddock said. I knew it! Frazer had been wrong. Sully either had the real location or thought he did. Considering the time she’d wasted on Golden Cove, seeing him was a curious mix of fury and delight. In this instance, his incompetence was her good fortune.

They hurried to the break in the cliffs and went in after him, slowing through the narrow passage when they heard the speed boat’s motor cut out. They came out in a narrow cove lined with cliffs and caves. Braddock had the rafts fan out, investigating with searchlights. Scotty was the first to spot the hull of a boat, deep in one of the mammoth tunnels.

There were two boats, actually, Sully’s and the runabout Hugo had first tracked, both anchored at the tunnel’s end, both unmanned. Braddock shined her flashlight at the base of the wall, saw the ragged openings there and deduced the rest.

“We need this wall gone,” she said, pleased that she’d thought to bring the ANFO and blasting caps. There was diving gear on the Victoria, but time was of the essence. She had one of the mercs jump in to take a look at how big an explosion they needed, but he came up gasping a minute later, shaking his head. A second man dove in and disappeared, then popped up along the right-hand wall of the cave, a bit behind them, jabbering excitedly. A cavern, and the rock was thinnest where he swam.

Several minutes dragged by while Alvaro and a seedy ex-con got into an argument over how best to place the charge, a third man breaking in to explain the dynamics of a blast radius. Braddock listened until she realized they were enjoying themselves.

“Enough,” she snapped. “Scotty, take care of it.”

The older man set the charge and they rode back into the cove, the blast thundering out a minute later. Powdered rock billowed out on a surge of water. Braddock kept her raft at the front going back in, Scotty and Hugo armed and at her side.

Sully’s ride and the other were both sunk by the time they passed through, the air still thick with dust and acrid smoke. Braddock’s raft was first through the morass, the smoke parting as they arrived in a beautiful grotto, lit by an open cenote high overhead. And there, on a tiny stretch of sand against the western wall, were two ancient Spanish carracks, suspended over the rippling pool.

Braddock devoured them with her eyes as the rafts headed for the spit, marveling at the magnitude of them. It was all true, then, all of it, even the theory that one or more of Magellan’s ships had survived. She, like Moncada, had believed that the gold had been offloaded somewhere, the boats lost afterward.

Never happier to be wrong. Braddock got out of the raft, barely aware of her body as she drifted between the towering, mossy hulls. Sand had built up beneath them, the Trinidad’s sharp belly half buried. The carracks were built from oak, steamed and molded and treated with pitch, stacked into nearly a hundred tons each of seagoing storage space. She could see the hand-cut dovetails and dowels holding the heavy boards together, still solid after centuries of indirect weathering.

“Magellan’s ships,” she said, and touched the Concepción’s mossy side. She couldn’t begin to imagine how much they were worth. “They’re more beautiful than I ever imagined.”

“Sa meeracle tae behauld,” Scotty agreed, his voice hushed with awe.

Braddock dropped her hand, turned to address the cluster of wide-eyed mercs that had gathered on the sand. “Find the gold. If you see Sully, don’t let him open that mouth of his. Kill him on sight.”

Sully had followed somebody here, but he was the immediate threat. The men looked excited, pulling out Glocks and assorted artillery.

“Careful,” Braddock added. “These ships are worth a fortune on their own. Put a hole in my boats, I put a hole in you.”

Respectful nods all around, and the crew broke up. Scotty led half the men to the Concepción; Alvaro took the rest to board Trinidad, using the ANFO crate as a stepladder.

Braddock stayed put, running through what needed to happen next, Sully’s demise already in her rearview. A shot to the head was more than he deserved, delivered by some nameless merc who’d high-five over his corpse. She had more important things to consider.

Radio the Victoria, bring the rest of the workers around, we can unload the gold by raft… Except what to do about the ships? Better to take it all out at once, the gold and the carracks. Elcano had to have sailed them in, the sea caves reformed at some later point by Demar’s volcano; it was a wonder the ships hadn’t been destroyed, let alone that they were intact. They were in wondrous condition, considering, but couldn’t possibly be seaworthy; Braddock could see a few gaps where the boards had shrunk, low on the hull. Even if she blew a big enough hole in the caves to wedge them out, how to get them to transport?

She realized that Hugo had hung back with her. The big man was looking at the giant cenote overhead, shading his eyes, then back at the towering ships. The sinkhole was roughly circular and thirty meters across at its widest, edges ragged with roots and vines.

More than enough clearance, if we can position them right. There were helicopters strong enough to lift airplanes, and the Victoria could easily carry the ships, all the way back to Spain or wherever else she wanted. She’d thought Moncada had chosen the oversized Victoria for the name, but maybe he’d been betting on the slim chance that the wildest legends had been true, that they would find the carracks themselves.

Hugo arched an eyebrow at her, and she nodded.

“Good idea,” Braddock said. “We’re going to lift them out.”

*   *   *

The kid led him upward, the boards creaking under their weight. They kept low and moved quickly; Sully could hear Braddock’s crisp voice, floating through cracks in the hull. He hadn’t figured she’d peel herself away from Golden Cove… and, well, he’d been watching the GPS app, not paying much attention to Demar’s coastline when he came in. Nice of the kid not to point out his fuck-up, although nice was maybe too strong a word. Nate hadn’t taken any pains to hide that he thought Sully was a greedy asshole.

I mean, I could see how he might think so. Sully had tried to do right by Nate, at least most of the time. Except for the Sam thing. And the auction, and taking off when he saw Braddock… but Nate wouldn’t have found the treasure if Sully hadn’t brought him in when he did. The kid had been a bartender, for Chrissake, now he was standing on a five-hundred-year-old Spanish carrack. You’d think he’d be a little bit appreciative, at least enough to cancel out the other stuff.

Nate took the steps up to the captain’s quarters, the door sagging open, and Sully followed, hoping Nate was leading them to a hidden vault or a surprise stash of automatic weapons. His joy had been pretty much shot to shit, first by Nate’s attitude, then by Braddock and her team of muscle showing up. Braddock’s arrival was way worse. No chance Jo would leave the ships now, even for a minute, and she’d be watching for him. He and the kid would have to lay low, wait out the search, come up with a new plan. Sully still had his leather pack, strong enough to hold several millions’ worth of gold, if he chose well. But the idea of slinking away after dark with barely a fraction of what they’d found… no goddamn way. Braddock had gotten lucky, but that didn’t mean she got to keep all of it. He’d think of something.

Instead of leading Sully to anything useful, Nate started tapping on walls, his gaze skittering over every surface of the decaying cabin—desk, furniture, corners, flooring.

“There should be a secret compartment where Magellan stashed his rum,” Nate said. He dropped to his knees, running his hands over the floorboards. “My brother told me about it when I was a kid.”

Footsteps landed on the main deck, heavy boots creaking on the old wood.

“A secret compartment?” Sully whispered, heart skipping a beat. “You’re betting our lives on a bedtime story?”

More guys were piling onboard—and then one of the weathered planks Nate was pushing shifted, lifting up at the end. Sully and Nate exchanged a look and then Sully was on his knees next to the kid, helping him uncover the hidey-hole.

Goddamn. There was a decent-sized bunker down there, the size of a bathtub but deeper, way bigger than that Gullwing’s trunk. They’d have to sit, but there was no need to cuddle, thank God. There were several small kegs pushed against the walls, some clay pots, a couple of rotting books.

Sully jumped in first, pushing stuff out of the way. Nate dropped down next to him, and together they shifted the boards back into place. There were some rusting bits of chain hanging down to hurry the process along.

The very second that the last board settled, someone walked into the cabin. Heavy footsteps creaked inches over their heads, fine dust sifting down to stick to their wet clothes. The guy stood for a minute, then clomped back out.

Nate nudged Sully, who could just see by the thin cracks of light filtering down that Nate held out a stoppered bottle, half full with clear brown liquor. He could see the smirk on the kid’s face, too, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light.

Yeah, yeah, you were right, Sully thought, not actually irritated at all because it was going to take some time for Braddock’s thugs to look over the ships, and the kid was handing him the cure to boredom. Plus, he’d had some of his best ideas while drinking. He eased out the stopper, took a healthy swig of the ancient rum, careful not to be too loud about it, and wiped his mouth on his damp sleeve. A little syrupy, but he’d had worse.

He and the kid settled against the desiccated clutter and waited, listening to more guys climbing on board.

Braddock spent the best part of an hour radioing with the Victoria’s captain, explaining what she needed, and calling back to add to the list. He’d initially demanded to speak to Moncada, but when she told him what they’d found and offered him a cut, he’d changed his tune. Funny how things worked out, when there was a gold standard in play.

With the sky-cranes incoming, and the Victoria on its way and clearing deck space, Braddock was satisfied. She watched Scotty drop off of the Concepción to the sand and walk in her direction, holding a golden belt. She knew they’d found the treasure below decks, but this was the first time she was seeing any.

Scotty handed her the heavy belt. Braddock smiled at the weight of it, the chunky, ornate design. There were barrels of priceless objects to be sorted, catalogued, and appraised. Thousands of pieces.

“Wae canna fin’ ’em,” Scotty said, answering her only question before she could ask. “They’re nae a’board. Musta filt air pockits an’ gah it outa tare.”

Braddock hefted the glorious goblet. “Keep your eyes open. Sully’s a cockroach when it comes to gold.”

Scotty nodded, and turned back to the ship. Braddock could hear the thump of the approaching helicopters through the cenote, which would bring slings and cables and more men to fit them. The Victoria’s captain hadn’t been able to rustle up a decent engineer—there was nothing even slightly legal about what they were doing—but the copter crews were used to shifting cargo; they’d have some idea of how best to rig the operation. The carracks had supported their own weight for five centuries, they’d surely hold. Although, even if they fell apart on the Victoria’s deck, she’d still have the gold.

They’ll hold. You won, all of it. The hunt is over and you’re the winner. Braddock sighed with near-perfect happiness. The one thorn was not knowing where Sully had ended up, but whatever his plans, he was simply too late. She decided she’d ride to the cargo ship aboard Trinidad, Magellan’s flagship, the better to oversee its careful removal… and it would give her a chance to start her inventory.

Still holding the goblet, Braddock watched the cenote, smiling, waiting for the pilots to arrive.

*   *   *

Nate didn’t have much to say to Sully, who nipped at the ancient rum and kicked back like they were waiting for a game to start, occasionally frowning at his own thoughts. They could hear guys calling through the ship, and twice more boots stomped directly overhead. They heard the excited howls when the men made it to the gun deck and found the spilled barrels. Nate figured that might work to their advantage, if Braddock had followed Sully in. It might look like they’d already come and gone.

Which is what we need to do: get gone. Their hiding place would be found once someone competent took over the search. When night fell, they could climb down the stern. There were heavy ladders port and starboard, and it was close enough to the cave wall to block them from any mercs hanging around. Getting up to the cenote was gonna be the problem; it seemed hugely unlikely that Braddock would leave the exit unguarded. They might have to take a long swim in the dark, which would be absolutely awful. There were over a hundred species of shark in Indonesian waters.

Nate hated the idea that Braddock was going to end up with the gold, but she had the equipment—he heard helicopters coming in, and new voices echoing through the cavern—and it seemed horribly inevitable. Nate wanted her dead for what she’d done to Sam, but he realized that he didn’t want to be a killer, he wasn’t cold-blooded like that. In defense was one thing, but planning a revenge murder just didn’t feel good. Besides, he couldn’t see a way to get it done with the crowd of gun-bros outside. He’d have to retreat, regroup. Siccing the law on her held tremendous appeal. She could grow out her roots in prison and then rot there.

Nate felt like he’d gotten what he needed, mostly. For him, it had been that moment with Sam on the little beach, just the two of them and their miraculous discovery. Nate had boarded the Concepción with wonder and awe, his inner child’s mouth hanging open in delight as he’d investigated the magnificent ship. Sam had been with him.

Until Sully came along and ruined it. Nate shot a look at Sully, who was chewing at his lips, brow furrowed. Sully was a dick but not a villain, not like Moncada or Braddock. And considering their current circumstances, Sully’s pathological self-interest was an asset, kind of.

And it’s not that I’d mind a few priceless souvenirs. If Sully could figure out a way to get out with some of the gold, Nate was willing to listen. Although the helicopters were actually pretty loud. They wouldn’t be chatting until the noise died down. The whole ship seemed to vibrate with the sound, creaking and shifting. There were men on deck, stomping back and forth, dragging stuff across the boards.

The ship rolled under them suddenly, the bow lifting, smashing them together against the back wall. All around them, the ancient boards shuddered and groaned.

The fuck?

Nate looked at Sully, and they both reached for the loose boards overhead. They’d pushed out three when the ship rolled back, the hull settling to the ground once more.

They clambered out of the hole, Sully stepping to a rusted porthole. Nate stared out the back window, squinting through the bleary glass. Is that a rope? Too thick, it’s some kind of cable or—

The Concepción tipped forward, the stern rising. Nate held onto the desk, listened to the men outside shouting over the blast of the copter’s engines as debris rolled across the top deck.

“Jesus,” Sully said. “She’s flying them out, and us with ’em.”

Nate hurried to Sully’s porthole and looked out. For a second, he fell for the weird illusion that their ship was in motion… but it was the Trinidad rising next to them, four giant nylon slings under its battered hull. Eight massive cables strained around the protesting boards, drawing together somewhere over the cenote. Mercs stood on her deck armed with long oars and poles, pushing at the grotto walls to keep the carrack from bouncing off the rough stone.

Well, that changes things. They weren’t going to sneak away after dark, with or without any gold.

Weapons, we need weapons. There’d been cutlasses on the gun deck, boarding hooks, shit like that. No machine guns, but better than nothing. Nate didn’t have a plan yet, but survival seemed prudent. At least if they could take out some of the mercs on deck, there’d be fewer guns aimed their way, and fewer guns sounded like a win.

And then what? You’ll still be in Braddock’s hands. They’ll just shoot you from the helicopter or surround the ship when they finally set it down.

Nate shook off the annoying reality, remembering what had gotten him this far. Fake it ‘til you make it.

Nate headed for the hold, Sully behind him, both of them lurching as the Concepción rocked again, as slings were run beneath the hull. Sully fell against the wall, cursing. They could hear boards popping, splintering. Braddock was crazy, thinking she’d get the carracks out without extensive damage. Why would she risk it?

Because even in pieces, they’re worth hundreds of millions. Fucking with artifacts was super illegal, Braddock needed to get out before any authorities got wind of the find. Safely away, she’d be able to buy her way out of trouble with literal barrels of gold. She could bribe or destroy anyone who objected. That was her motivation, he thought, not the treasure but the power it would give her. Braddock was just the fucking worst.

He and Sully half fell into the hold as the Concepción tipped again, the spills of gold rattling in shifting piles. Nate looked through the tools and scattered weapons, most of them rusted. There was a long, dull knife, some wicked hooks, a couple of loose cutlasses… Nate picked up one of them, the handle sturdy in his grip. The curving edge was pitted but still mostly sharp. He saw a solid gold club, and set the blade aside.

“This’ll work,” Nate said, hefting the club. “Let’s go see what’s what.”

He turned to see what Sully had come up with, but Sully was busy shoveling treasure into his damp pack.

“Seriously? The whole ship’s full of the stuff,” Nate said.

“Just in case,” Sully said, throwing another handful of shining gold into the bag before hefting it over his shoulder.

He finally looked up, saw Nate’s club, and grabbed it, nodding appreciatively at the weight of the weapon. Nate was about to take it back when the Concepción trembled around them… and then separated from the shaded beach where she had rested for five hundred years. The carrack creaked and cracked and swayed upward, shifting in the slings, steadying as she rose. On the deck overhead, men shouted at one another.

No time to argue. Nate reached for the cutlass, ready to deal out tetanus to any man dared to cross him. Yar!

He nodded at Sully, who nodded back, and they headed for the stairs.

*   *   *

Sully followed the kid back up, gripping the club Nate had handed him. His pack was pretty heavy, but he didn’t mind. There was no telling what the next play was gonna be, they could end up diving into a tree or something; he needed to come away with at least a taste, or what was the point?

Nate led him to one of the deck hatches on the cramped level over the gun deck and they both looked up, blinking at the brightness through the lattice of mossy boards. Nate cracked it and they peered out. There were mercs spaced along the scuppers, using long oars to fend off the rock as the ship rose out of the cenote, drawn up by a massive Mil Mi-26 Halo, probably the strongest copter on the market. The slings around the boat were connected to cables hooked to giant chains, each link bigger than his head, that were clipped to a steel plate on the belly of the helicopter, high enough overhead not to blast them with the heavy wash.

Sully focused on the immediate issue. He counted four mercs but his view was limited by the angle—say six, if the spacing stayed consistent. All the men had slung their weapons to participate in the game of keep-away. He and the kid could climb out and be mostly blocked from view by some newer crates stacked on deck, and the way the bulkhead was angled. Plus the masts were huge, there was plenty of cover.

If we can knock a few mercs off, talk the pilot into switching sides… Nothing was set in stone, they might still find a way to turn things around.

The Concepción drew up past the rocks and into full sunlight, quickly rising over the tops of the rotor-whipped trees once it was clear. The glittering sea unrolled in front of the swaying carrack in a shining expanse of aqua blue, rocky cliffs falling away beneath them.

“Magellan never had a view like this,” Nate said, appreciatively.

That’s more like it. “Told you I’d take you places, kid.”

Nate held up his cutlass. “You up for a mutiny?”

Sully found himself grinning. Pirates from Boston, these guys didn’t stand a chance. “Let’s take this ship.”

The Trinidad hovered high over the jungle as the Concepción slowly emerged below, rising from the ragged cenote. Braddock leaned on the rail of the Trinidad’s swaying deck, Hugo next to her, watching the smaller ship rise into the sunny jungle. As soon as it was safely clear of the ground, Braddock told their pilot to head for the Victoria.

The helicopter started west, out over the bright blue sea, the carrack creaking and swaying in the massive slings that cradled her. The men on the deck laughed and shouted, and Braddock found herself grinning, too. The ships were holding together beautifully, the sun was hot and bright, and she could already see the Victoria, anchored off Demar’s southwest corner.

She should be anchored by now. Braddock spoke into her radio. “Victoria, this is Trinidad, are you ready to receive, over?”

Instead of a verbal response, a flare shot up off the deck of the cargo ship, etching a brilliant line through the blue sky.

“This is it, Hugo,” Braddock said. Scotty had elected to ride in the helicopter overhead, but she knew he was grinning, too. Now that it was final, she could embrace the accomplishment. “It’s ours. All of it.”

*   *   *

Nate threw the hatch open and they climbed out, ready to start slashing, but the mercs were still at the railings, gazing out at the passing trees, wearing dumb, wondering grins. There was a tall, thin guy just in front of them, past a trio of loose cannonballs, maybe six-pounders…

I don’t wanna start out stabbing, Nate thought, already stepping in. He scooped up one of the heavy shots, swinging it at tall guy’s head just as he turned to see what was coming.

Wham, and over the railing the man toppled, shouting and cursing as he hit the ground, now farther away as the copter lifted into the canopy.

Nate turned and there was another guy right behind him, stocky, fist drawn back to hammer him—

—and Sully blindsided the would-be puncher with the full weight of his backpack behind his rush, seams straining against the heavy load. The big guy sailed over the railing.

Two down, but the other mercs were looking now, dropping their oars and scrambling to defense.

“You were in the Navy, any pointers?” Nate asked.

“Yeah, don’t die,” Sully answered, dropping his bag, and they both charged out, slashing and stabbing.

Nate kicked over a barrel, aiming for one of the mercs’ legs, and knocked a rifle out of a redhead’s hands with his sword, the ship high over the sea now, creaking westward. Nate grabbed the mainmast’s rigging, an ancient drape of thick net hanging to the deck, and swung past the shocked redhead, the half-rotten ropes slimy in his hands. He dropkicked into Barrel Guy, who slammed into the rail and then through it, screaming all the way down.

The wind whistled past, the heavy thunder of the helicopter blasting down at them. Nate stumbled into Red’s charge at Sully, who’d bloodied somebody and was reaching for a dropped gun—

Nate lowered his weight and kicked, knocking Red sideways. The guy bounced into the rail but didn’t go over.

Sully’s bag was a few feet in front of him. Nate grabbed the padded straps, swung it up and around—

—and Sully grabbed the pack, long enough for Red to tackle Nate, throwing him against the creaking, splintering rail.

*   *   *

Sully smashed into the shoulder of a guy with a watch cap and then rushed a sneering mountain of a man with a Glock, getting in close enough to whack at his arm. The thug dropped his semi and swung wildly at Sully, cracking him a good one on the bicep, hard enough to make his arm go numb.

Sully whipped the club back and forth, backing the guy up—and Guy stepped on a free-rolling cannonball and fell into the rail. Sully let go of the gold bat and bum-rushed him. Drop your weight and lift—

The big man went up and out, as intended, the splash of his landing lost to the copter’s roar.

Sully went for the discarded Glock, looking up just in time to see Nate kick a charging merc off course. Another second and Sully would have been run down. The kid stumbled forward and picked up Sully’s backpack—

MY GOLD! Sully didn’t think, only grabbed for the pack mid-swing, and then Nate was knocked off his feet by the merc, cracking into the top rail.

Oh hell, he realized, and swung the bag at the merc’s sunburnt neck, not liking the way the leather stretched at all. Nate saw it coming and dropped, the merc bowled right over the rail and into the air, dropping like a rock.

Sully looked around the empty deck, long boards glowing under the strong light of day. A lot of knocked-over crates, a little blood… One of the ties on the mizzenmast had popped loose; its topsail hung in stained tatters over the helm, flapping in the pulse of air.

Nate stood up, breathing heavily. “You gotta hijack that helicopter.”

Sully looked up at the Halo. The giant chains up top weren’t actually that far from the mainmast’s upper platform. If he could tip the mast just a little…

Forget it, there’s no parachute this time.

“I haven’t flown in years,” Sully said.

“How bad do you want the gold?” Nate asked.

Oh, so bad. Sully couldn’t even begin to express it. He could see the Trinidad off in the distance ahead of them, sailing through the cloudless blue. Braddock had her ship, why shouldn’t he have his?

Our ship, he corrected himself. The kid had set the terms, fifty-fifty, and Sully had accepted. Except then Nate had figured everything out on his own. Sully’d just followed him to the prize. And the kid couldn’t fly a helicopter.

Nobody said you weren’t gonna have to work for it. And you’d better get going.

Sully popped the flap on his pack’s outer pocket, pulled out the earpieces in their little flat case. Third time’s a charm. He handed one to Nate, slipped the other into his ear after checking to make sure the light was on. He’d re-read the instructions in Jakarta.

“You know the drill,” he said, and centered the pack across his back. He was strong, still lifted when he got to the gym, but it was gonna be a drag trying to make it to the Halo. And the mainmast looked so impossibly tall…

Go already, Braddock’ll land before you make it halfway!

Sully grabbed the ropes and started up, reaching for hand and footholds that had been sitting in a cave for five goddamn centuries—

“Hey, Sully,” Nate called, and Sully looked back. The kid’s expression was somber, sincere.

“Don’t crash,” Nate said.

“Thanks for the positive reinforcement,” Sully muttered, and started climbing again.

*   *   *

Sully headed up the mainmast, strong but gasping after ten feet with that pack on his back. Nate would have dropped it, but Sully was nuts.

We all go a little mad sometimes, he thought, and turned around on the sailing ship, gently gliding south now, high over the sea where it had once labored. Helicopter air pulsed over the creaking deck. He picked up the cutlass and headed for the sterncastle, climbing a sturdy oak ladder to the helm.

The mizzenmast came up through the deck, the massive, ancient wheel just between it and the poop. There was an actual capstan in front of the cabin door, a thick vertical log with wooden spokes coming off the sides. The sailors would turn it to bring up the anchor.

Nate put down the sword and stepped to the helm, resting his hands on the rounded handles, ten and two. One of the lower sails had dropped and it whistled in the wind, tatters flapping overhead. He looked out across the trembling ship, the volcano portside of her, the endless water starboard.

Eastward there was a chain of rocky islands, the ones he’d sent Chloe to plunder. Nate squinted past the volcano. He saw some distant dark shapes against the crystal blue. It was hard to tell, the sun off the water was blinding.

“Sully, I think we can lose them if we head left, into those islands.”

Nate looked up, saw that Sully was maybe seventy feet over the deck. Pretty fast, for an old guy. The rickety-looking crow’s nest was another twenty past that, but it was framed by the giant chains hooked to the helicopter. The pair on the left ran right past the top of the mast and clipped to the copter high above—another twenty feet? Thirty? Nate couldn’t tell from the deck.

“Port side,” Sully gasped. “Islands. Got it.”

“All hands on deck!” Nate cried, and turned the wheel. It groaned but obeyed. “Raise anchor and hoist the mainsail! Prepare to come about, we’re underway!”

“Hey, king of the world,” Sully gasped. “Stay sharp!”

“Oh, come on man, I’m just having a little fun,” Nate said, and turned the wheel again. He could feel tension from unseen connections, probably brittle with age. Was the rudder shifting? How cool is this? He wracked his brain for more sailing terms, but could only remember orlop, which wasn’t awesome to yell. Man the yardarms?

Sully had reached the crow’s nest. He climbed into it, gasping, stretching one hand toward the nearest chain. The gap was maybe ten feet. If he could get up to the very top of the mast, the gap was half that—

An injured merc stumbled out onto the deck below, holding a cutlass. He wore a cap—in this weather?—and snarled when he saw Nate at the helm.

Nate grabbed his own cutlass and jumped down, wishing they’d counted mercs before declaring victory.

*   *   *

The climb was a nightmare. Sully had to stand on the rickety, rotten rail of the uppermost platform and leap for the nearest chain, which he almost fucking missed because his backpack was so heavy. Sully wrapped himself around the cold metal, took a deep breath, and started climbing. The links made good rungs and there were a lot of them, plenty to grip.

Overhead, the chains were hooked to a wide, round white plate four feet across, and past that was the drop ladder on the Halo, half-shielded by curves of rigid steel. Straight up into the cabin-slash-cockpit.

Sully dug deep to push himself over the plate, the wind and the roar of the helicopter blasting his ears, pulling at his clothes. He crawled to his knees on the white-painted steel, touched the bottom rungs of the ladder and stood, panting. He pulled himself up into the copter on numb fingers.

The pilots were the only people he saw, climbing on deck. Sully immediately tackled the co-pilot, pushing him out of his chair and against the door. He reached around and popped the door release.

Out went the co-pilot. The pilot was bringing up a gun—

Sully blocked the move, hammering the pilot’s wrist. The weapon clattered to the floor, and the copter took a dive.

*   *   *

The merc was putting up a fight but he was wearing out fast, his swipes getting clumsier. He had blood on his shoulder, and dribbling out from under his hat. Nate leaped back, thrilling at the clash of the blades—

—and then they were both pitched flat, and falling.

“Sully? Sully!” Nate looked up in horror at the rapidly descending helicopter above, chains and cables bunching—and saw a guy falling out of one side, and then the massive machine swooped upward.

Nate and the behatted merc were both tossed like jacks. The cables strained, there was a mighty shrieking sound, and then the deck slammed up from below, a thousand boards protesting at the sudden loss in momentum. The Concepción surged forward, the copter swinging them back over Demar, headed east.

*   *   *

Sully threw the shouting, beer-bellied pilot out and jumped into the seat, grabbing the stick.

“Alright Victor, you got this,” he said, and did his best to turn their fall into a swoop.

“Shit! When did they add all of these buttons?” he muttered. The cyclic was the same but the pitch was different, the handle all wrong. He tapped his feet on the pedals that controlled the back rotor. A few bobbles, but then he got the fat bird turned in the right direction, more or less. He started forward, staying just ahead of the carrack’s bulk. Faster than was probably recommended for the old wood below, but he was kind of in a hurry. They needed to be far from Jo Braddock, as soon as possible.

Sully sat the captain’s pistol on the co-pilot’s seat, next to his gold-stuffed backpack, and put on the pilot’s headset. The controls were starting to feel familiar. The console was way more complicated, though, and there seemed to be an extra pedal…

You’ll get the hang of it. Sully grinned. The Concepción was officially theirs.

The Trinidad hovered closer to the Victoria, the deck open, crewmen waving them in.

Braddock looked back—and saw the second helicopter tumble and then straighten out, turning due east.

She punched the radio’s transmit button in shock, watching half her treasure swing over the jungle and away. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m taking off with your gold,” Victor Sullivan answered, on the pilots’ channel. “What the hell are you doing?”

Braddock snatched up her binoculars, found the sky-crane’s cockpit.

Sully blew a kiss in her general direction, as if he knew she was watching.

You. Bastard. If he could steal it, she could steal it back.

She looked up at the helicopter carrying the Trinidad, tapped the channel on the radio. “Follow that ship.”

Scotty answered, “Weh six hunner maeters frae th’ Victoryuh, wae kin land noh!”

She usually knew to listen to Scotty, he kept a cool head, but Sully was flying away with her money, and laughing about it. She couldn’t live with that.

“Victor Sullivan doesn’t get away with one ounce of my gold,” Braddock said, and her tone must have relayed her expectations. Their Halo turned in a wide circle and headed after him.

Next to her, Hugo put one hand on the rail, wind picking up as the Trinidad swept over the jungle.

*   *   *

Nate staggered to his feet at the same time the bleeding merc did.

“Hang on, kid,” Sully said, and then the deck swung like a funhouse as Sully directed them past a cliff that had come out of nowhere, sending Nate over a pile of rigging. The merc stumbled toward Nate, grabbing a small keg and holding it over his head—

—and the ship swung again, hard, throwing both of them against the starboard rail, next to one of the cannons. When the ship swung back, moving like a pendulum now, the merc slid away. Nate hung on to the rail and dug at the ropes tethering the cannon between the posts. The fraying fibers tore under his nails.

The heavy metal tube was set free, and Nate gave it an encouraging push. It crashed across the deck and into Bleeding Hat Guy, pushing him through the rail with a crunch and following him over.

The ship kept tipping, and suddenly Nate was sliding across the boards, skittering toward the nice new hole the cannon had made. He turned to claw at the deck, felt his boots hit air, saw the deck shrinking away, and jammed his arms straight out.

He grabbed the rail to either side, and heaved himself back onto the deck as Sully got control of the swings. The deck’s wild creaking lessened. Nate took a breath, swallowed, looked south—

Uh oh.

Charging toward them was the Trinidad, its swaying deck dotted with men. The larger ship was suddenly coming in fast, swooping forward, the pilots handling their copter much better than Sully was doing. Nate swore he could see Braddock on board, a flash of platinum blond and shiny black clothes.

“Sully, I think they want their boat back,” Nate said.

“I’m aware,” Sully said, and the Concepción surged forward. Nate grabbed a solid piece of rail, edging sternward to where the wood was more securely anchored. Nate heard branches break against the bottom of the hull and then the deck swooped upward again, closer to the larger ship. That was definitely Braddock, coming in starboard, and her mercs were aiming guns at him.

At me!

Nate dove for the mainmast, rolling up behind it as rounds sprayed across the deck, clanging off cannons, splintering through the soft wood.

“Sully, have you considered flying away from them?!”

“What do you think I’m trying to do, kid?”

The Trinidad had shifted parallel to their position, a little above them, but was close enough for Nate to hear Jo Braddock screaming, “Cease fire!” The sound of her voice swung in and out as Sully flew them over Demar and toward the ragged islands eastward, the larger carrack right at their side. She was furious. He could still hear her shouting.

“…use grappling hooks! Take out the Drake kid and Victor Sullivan by any…”

Means necessary, Nate finished for her as the roaring copters drowned her out, talk about cliché—and when he risked a glance, he saw nylon ropes suddenly shooting down off the Trinidad, the sound of the fired hooks following a split second later. There were some misses, but three black lines wrapped around the brittle rail, and there were guys waiting to jump down. If the rail held, the Concepción would be outmanned.

A loose cannonball rolled past his feet. If only the cannons worked, I could—

Nate blinked—and the Concepción suddenly dropped five feet. Nate hit the back of his head on the mainmast, distracted before he could find a flaw in his ridiculous, wonderful idea.

The flaw is that there’s gonna be a bunch of armed mercenaries in your face in about two seconds.

“I’m about to be boarded!” Nate whispered, rising into a crouch behind the mast. Sully didn’t answer. There’d been a couple of loose guns around, but they’d flown off board at some point. Nate grabbed one of the long oars off the deck and gripped it, hoping Sully was about to pull off some expert flying. Otherwise, they’d be sunk.

*   *   *

The Trinidad’s harness was bigger and longer than the Concepción’s, so all Braddock’s pilot had to do was sit on top of him. Sully didn’t dare go up and there were some cliffs to navigate ahead. He couldn’t break away without losing his cargo.

Sully looked up, saw the beady-eyed, bearded face of Braddock’s Scot glaring down at him, and gave him the finger. Eat shit, pal.

Looking down, Sully saw a half dozen mercs sliding down the Trinidad’s hull, turning to leap across the open air on thin ropes to the Concepción’s railing. Below them, air-blasted jungle gave way to the random cliffs and beaches of Demar’s east coast. Nate jumped out on deck and swung a long oar, knocking two guys into the rail. One fell through a splintered opening in the port side and plunged out of sight.

“You don’t see that every day,” Sully said, and aimed for a narrow slot through the cliffs ahead, hoping the kid had his sea legs.

*   *   *

The helicopters swept through an opening in the cliffs, forced together by the tight passage. When they swept back into the light, Nate saw that a guy was climbing one of the giant harness chains, not far below Sully’s copter.

“You got a stage-five clinger, Sully!” Nate called, and within ten seconds, he heard a single shot. The climbing merc dropped off the chain, fell to the shallows far below. Sully might suck at flying, but he was an excellent shot.

Over the open water, the carracks swung apart—and then came crashing back toward each other, the Trinidad’s pilot overcompensating for the split while Sully kept flying due east.

Shit!

Nate reached for something solid but the ships collided in a juddering, cracking smash, the Trinidad’s hull smashing long-side into theirs. Nate was rudely dumped into the air, and rolled across the top deck along with the handful of mercs who’d made it aboard, bodies flying everywhere, cannonballs jumping on deck. There was a new hole in the side of the ship, and a ragged split had opened up around the hatch to the hold. Nate fell into the crack, splintered boards slapping him on the way down. Another guy crashed down with him, a skinny merc wearing a bandana around his head.

Nate and the merc landed on the gun deck; both came up at the same time, shaking off broken pieces of timber. The merc wore a leather shoulder holster, his gun under his left arm, mag pouches on the right. He snatched for his weapon and Nate tackled him, both of them smashing into a teetering stack of barrels. The merc kicked free and Nate came up on his knees on top of a shifting pile of gold.

Bandana Boy had his gun out. Nate grabbed a heavy round shield, brought it up in front of him just as the merc fired. Three rounds smashed into the gold and most of the way through, thick gold bubbles popping up next to Nate’s face.

Nate frisbeed the shield at the guy, knocking him back against the stairs with a heavy clunk. He leapt after his throw, ready to do some punching, but the merc was out cold, having whacked his skull against the support post.

That’s a nice rig. Nate looked down at the drooling merc, admiring the shoulder holster—nothing to bind at the waist, no ugly modern webbing—and then slipped it off the comatose merc. It was too cool for a guy wearing a bandana. Nate put it on, picking up the dropped weapon, a PM 9-mil according to the stamp on the grip. He didn’t know guns well, but it felt good in his hand and he liked the finish.

Overhead, he heard his brother’s killer screaming orders, and the Concepción swung under his feet. Heavy boots landed on the deck above his head and thundered aft. Nate holstered the semi and hung on to the stairs, prepared to go down with the ship if it meant Braddock lost her precious gold—

—and he saw the cracked barrel under the steps, spilling out sacks of gunpowder tied with twine. Like the ones on deck, those in the middle had stayed dry.

It’s a sign. Nate grabbed a small, heavy sack, tucked it into his waistband, and staggered up the stairs.

*   *   *

Two of the remaining mercs jumped for the Concepción when the ships crashed together, but one of them fell short—the rail he’d hooked broke off in a hand-sized chunk. He disappeared into the water below.

Goddamnit! Braddock was seething. Couldn’t they do anything right? The shifting, battered carracks were about to come apart again, there was now a gaping hole in the upper decks of the smaller ship, and Sully was headed for a rocky pinnacle off one of the scattered islands east of Demar. Scotty was shouting at the pilots.

Braddock looked at Hugo, met his steady gaze. He’d been with her since the beginning, he and Scotty both. They were the only men she could trust not to fuck things up.

“Get over there and get me my boat back,” she said.

Hugo didn’t hesitate. He looked down at the Concepción and then jumped, even as the Trinidad swung away from the smaller boat.

Hugo cleared the landing and rolled across the cracked main deck, then disappeared into the aft cabin—

—and the helicopters were too far apart now, splitting around the rocky cliff at the head of the island chain. Braddock lost sight of Hugo, the Concepción swinging behind the steep tower.

The Trinidad shuddered against her slings, fighting to turn with the wind. Braddock stumbled, grabbed the creaking rail.

“Hold steady,” Braddock ordered. “Do not let him get away!”

She could hear Scotty take it up with the pilot. “Gonnae-no ’at ship!” he shouted, and she could hear his frustration a beat later. “Stop them!”

The Trinidad came around the cliff and picked up speed, cutting north to head off Sully as the Concepción surged into view—and Braddock saw, with horror, that the debris spilling from the hole in the carrack’s deck sparkled as it rained down over the sand and sea.

Chloe heard the distinctive chop of helicopters incoming from the west. She leaned back in the sandy pit she’d been working on and swigged from her canteen, tucking sweaty hair behind her sweaty ears.

They’re coming this way. Tourists, or was Braddock sending out search parties? Chloe looked around at the lonely beach, at the five great pits she’d dug. She had blisters on her hands. If anyone came in for a close look, they might wonder what she was up to… Although as she’d stripped down to a bikini top and a sarong—after sweating through her clothes—she might be mistaken for a bored sunbather.

She climbed out of her latest pit, damp sand clumping on her legs and feet, and shaded her eyes as the sound of the engines grew—

—and then she saw them, one to either side of the towering spire west of her, a hundred meters up—helos lugging huge Spanish ships through the sky, black against the sun. The ancient boats swung beneath the roaring copters high overhead, the carracks thundering over Chloe, their huge shadows sweeping across the heaps of rocky sand and sea all around her.

Sand crunched in a patter across the beach, water splashing in front of her as though a hailstorm were passing through, and the ships flew east and away. Chloe saw something spilling from the smaller vessel, like glitter, before they disappeared around a chalky cliff… And were there people on board?

Magellan’s ships.

Chloe’s heart was pounding. She looked down at the sand, where something had crunched down a meter away. She bent and picked up the heavy gold stick, running her fingers over the item. Sort of a pitted cigar shape, gleaming and perfect.

She looked around her, saw a dozen more pieces, shining against the sand where they’d fallen from the flying ship.

Lucky not to get brained, she thought vaguely, but then she thought about how many splashes she’d seen in the shallow water, all around her little boat. There was a snorkel set on that boat.

Nate had never turned up. And Sully used to fly, a million years ago.

Her irritation—Nate had definitely tricked her—was promptly drowned out by the weight of the gold in her hand. And turnabout was fair play, so they said. Chloe started picking up the shining pieces—a ring, a bowl, a bracelet—holding up her tiny skirt to carry the growing, heavy collection.

Oh, to get a look at Braddock’s face right now… Chloe had enjoyed a thrilling adventure, a proper affair, a day at the beach scooping up gold that rained from the sky, and she knew that Jo Braddock was pitching a hissy, right this very second? Her life was on track, she decided.

Chloe gathered the priceless objects, sincerely hoping that wherever Nate was, he was having as good a day as her.

*   *   *

The Concepción was in bad shape: a chunk was missing from her starboard midship and the deck was swinging again, masts creaking. The Trinidad was pulling away and surging ahead. Nate could see the ladder off her stern, the huge, rotting rudder. She wasn’t in the best shape, either. The whole boat looked like it was compressing, the boards too old to be bounced and dangled.

Nate boosted himself through the top hatch, back into the bright, roaring deck—

—and he was lifted off the last steps of the ladder, and held up over the deck by his arms.

Oh no. It was Braddock’s MMA fighter. Nate just caught a glimpse of his humorless face, a whiff of manly aftershave, before he was tossed across the rocking deck, landing on a broken oar that tried to snap his spine.

Nate reached for his new gun but MMA came in fast, a fist the size of a small ham whaling into the side of his head, knocking him back. His brain slapped the inside of his skull.

Nate instinctively scrambled backward before the next hit came, saved by a swing of the ship that sent MMA staggering sideways. Nate jumped up and ran past him, leaping over the crack in the deck to get to the sterncastle. MMA wanted to use his fists? Fine. Nate just had to keep away ’til he could get a clear shot.

He scaled the ladder, the top rung cracking as he threw himself past the mizzen. Get to the high ground and shoot before he—

A giant hand grabbed his running boot and yanked him backward, dropping him to the deck. MMA snapped a kick and Nate’s right thigh went dead, nerves exploding in panic.

The giant kicked him again, his gaze bright with murderous glee—and then they were both flying.

*   *   *

Sully didn’t like that the Trinidad was ahead of them, didn’t know what Braddock’s plan was. There were more islands ahead, but getting lost wasn’t really an option, swinging masted sailing ships under a Halo. One or both of the ships was gonna crumble, it was a wonder they’d held together this long, and—

Sully looked down, saw Nate on one of the upper decks, Braddock’s goon kicking the shit out of him.

Sully reflexively acted to help out, dropping ten feet and then urging the carrack upward through its swing, veering north where there were more cliffs. He could hear metal squealing on the bird’s belly, and started to question how long the harnesses would hold under the repeated, multi-ton stresses. He hadn’t really given it any thought.

Add it to the list. The Trinidad was ahead of them and Braddock was vindictive enough to try blocking him, even if it meant both ships could be destroyed.

He worked the controls, trying to go with the ship’s momentum from the sudden change, but the boat was leaning hard against the slings. Sully looked down and saw Nate and the merc both rolling across the deck toward the bashed open rail—and then they both disappeared over the side.

Shit shit shit! The Trinidad was slowing down in front of them. He could see Jo Braddock on the main deck, gripping the rail.

Sully shot another look down. The kid had held on, he could see the top of Nate’s head down by the broken rail. Looked like Braddock’s guy was still onboard, too, clinging to the hull… Nate was inching toward the stern, the muscly goon after him.

“I’m not losing this one, Jo,” Sully said, into his headset. “So, what do you say I keep my ship, you keep yours, and we call it a day?”

Braddock turned on the Trinidad’s deck, looked up at him. Her hands were in fists.

“The only thing I want more than that gold, Victor, is for you to not have it,” she said, enunciating every syllable.

Have it your way. Sully aimed toward the cliffs. The Trinidad fell back and then followed. He couldn’t lose them, but he could sure as hell drag this out until fate stepped in. Maybe he could make her think twice about her decision.

*   *   *

The world was a painful somersault of sky and wood, and Nate was suddenly clawing at free air—and then the rigging off the side of the Concepción smacked him in the teeth, and he grabbed it. The rotting fibers sagged. Nate got a boot onto the top framing board just as the web of ropes tumbled off the mainmast, disappearing against the glimmering water below.

The MMA fighter had landed ten feet closer to the bow, had his boot wedged in one of the gun ports. Instead of climbing to safety, the big man started edging toward Nate, his expression grim.

Oh, bad. Nate couldn’t let go of the hull to shoot and he wouldn’t make it over the rail before MMA reached him. He slid right, the main deck out of reach now, the moldy boards of the stern rising overhead.

Ladder on the back. The wash of the copter pried at Nate but he hugged the boards, trying to hurry. MMA took bold steps, stink-eye fixed on Nate’s every move. Sully was carrying them toward a cliff, a wall of limestone coming up on the port side.

Nate reached the back and ran his arm around the corner, finding the heavy rungs with his outstretched hand.

Jesus, Sully! They were coming right up on the cliff. Nate swung around the back of the stern just as MMA was in arm’s reach of the corner, his black clothes whipping in the wind.

“What’s that?” Nate asked, looking behind the fighter, at the humps of rock Sully was about to bash up against.

MMA just narrowed his eyes.

“Okay, don’t believe me,” Nate said, and leaned away, praying that the wooden rungs would hold.

The fighter turned his head.

“Ah fuck,” he said, clearly, in a musical bass, and then was wiped off the hull by one of the outcroppings—there and then gone in a final, sickening whump.

The Concepción drew away from the cliff, swinging back over the water.

“Kid, you still with me?”

Nate opened his mouth to answer—and saw the helicopter carrying the Trinidad flying straight at him, dragging the ship just over the water. He could see the Scotsman in the co-pilot’s chair, mouth working as he shouted, getting too close—

“We got incoming!” Nate shrieked. They’re gonna ram us!

He charged up the ladder and threw himself across the empty top deck as the copter’s powerful rotor thwacked into the boards, splinters flying behind him.

The copter’s engines whined, the pilot veering away.

The Concepción rocked into another swing, and Nate half crawled, half fell toward the main deck. He could hear boards popping and splintering all around, but the frame held strong, even as more wood crashed away and gold trickled over the side.

Nate landed on the main deck on his butt. There were still half a dozen cannonballs rolling around, and he narrowly missed having his own balls crushed by one of them. Reflexes for the win!

He scooped up the heavy shot and crawled to the last cannon standing along the starboard side, about four feet long and propped on thick wooden wheels, the barrel jammed between two of the remaining rail posts. His knowledge of cannons pretty much began and ended with cartoons, but the basics were just logic. Powder, ball, fire.

The Scotsman’s helicopter rose up alongside the ship as Nate fumbled the bag of black powder out, dumping it into the heavy barrel. Scotty leaned out and fired a handgun, rounds splintering across the deck.

Crap! Nate dropped the cannonball into the barrel, heard it roll to the back as the Scotsman fired again—

Ow! A hot line of pain sketched across the top of his left shoulder. Nate ducked and the next rounds missed. Sully was trying to get away, but Scotty’s pilot matched every maneuver, keeping close.

Nate rolled over, grabbing his Zippo. He could see the Scot reloading, shouting, his cheeks flushed with fury and intent.

The wick. There was what looked like black straw sticking out of an inset in the cannon’s base. Nate flipped the wheel, nudging the heavy barrel to aim at the hovering copter.

The Zippo lit on the first try, and immediately blew out. Nate held it closer to the wick and spun the wheel again. Fwit-fwit. Fwit. Fwit.

“C’mon, c’mon, I need this,” Nate said, and another flame popped up, fluttering in the violent wind.

Nate touched the fire to the wick, which caught and hissed, spitting out flaming sparks. The fuse crackled away, disappearing into the metal plug on a wisp of smoke.

The Scotsman was waving his copter in closer. Nate could see his grin through the shining windshield, as he aimed his semi—

BOOM!

The cannon rocketed backward, its heavy ball slamming into the tail rotor. White, acrid smoke billowed across the ship’s deck.

The Scot’s grin disappeared as the helicopter leapt up and out of sight, the Trinidad rising almost next to them—and then his copter plummeted back down a roaring plume of black smoke, spiraling toward the sea.

“Oh my god!” Nate screamed, and leapt to his feet. “Shit! Yes!”

*   *   *

Braddock saw the shot that rammed their Halo. She didn’t wait for the outcome as the Trinidad rose suddenly, the damaged copter out of control, the deck swooping under her. For a beat, the ships were almost parallel, and there were ropes and rigging dangling off the Concepción’s deck.

Braddock ran and jumped for the closest line, a nylon grappling rope, wrapping it around her hand—

—and the Trinidad fell out from under her, Scotty’s helicopter spiraling past it, cables snapping, the frantic blast of the engines whining. The carrack bashed into the rocky coast of a bare, deserted isle below, exploding into a thousand boards, splinters flying. Braddock saw a flash of raining gold as the copter smashed into the shallows next to it, still swinging bits of cable. The Halo flattened and sank like a stone.

Hugo gone. Scotty gone. Half my gold, lost at sea.

Braddock only had to climb a few meters to get to the hull of the surviving ship. Gritting her teeth against the burn in her palms, she pulled herself toward the creaking bulk.

You. Won’t. Win. The mantra burned through her thoughts, beat at her like a drum, carrying her upward through the blasting air. When she reached the hull, she grabbed onto the heavy boards and kicked her way up the stern, winding the nylon rope around her bleeding hands.

*   *   *

Sully watched the Trinidad break open on the rocks, the helicopter with Braddock’s guy crashing into the drink, and felt like a giant weight had been lifted off his shoulders. No more Braddock. The Concepción wasn’t going to be hijacked back, she was still mostly in one piece and carrying more than enough gold to count as a win.

“We’re home free, kid!” he called, grinning. “You did it!”

Now that they were clear they could continue east, carefully, no more diving or swooping. They could set down gently on one of the larger islands off Papua’s coast, a deserted beach somewhere, and hire a crew to help them unload the treasure. They didn’t want to hassle with any authorities, the government of Indonesia or Papua or whoever could keep the ship; the gold was good enough for him.

A fucking CANNON. The kid was a pirate, to his core.

Chuckling, Sully carried them away from the island chain and out over the open water.

The ship had finally stopped swinging. Nate stood next to the mainmast, listening to the traumatized carrack creaking and moaning, settling back together. Ahead of him, the empty sea stretched for miles.

Nate felt pretty awesome, all things considered. He’d sunk a helicopter and the blood on his shoulder was already drying in the wind, just another ache to add to the list. He and Sully had fought for their treasure and won it, fair and square.

There was a sound behind him. Nate turned, looked up—

—and there was Braddock, standing at the capstan on the mizzen deck, her bloody hand resting on one of the spokes.

The capstan that holds the anchor in place.

Nate’s heart clutched up. The anchor was probably sunk into the hull, the mechanism wouldn’t work, the chain was broken. He hoped all of the above, fervently.

“Sully,” Nate breathed, looking up into Braddock’s evil, angry face. “You better hang on.”

Braddock grabbed the radio clipped to her vest, keyed it.

“If I lose, so do you,” she said, and dropped the radio. She released the catch on the standing wheel, leaping back as the capstan spun, spokes cracking and flying off.

Nate turned and ran for the forecastle, faster than he’d ever run, shattered boards flying under his boots as the three-ton anchor dropped from the back of the Concepción.

*   *   *

Sully heard Braddock’s spiteful voice, and for a second, nothing happened—

—and then the Halo was fighting to stay up, jerked down and back as the weight was violently redistributed. Outside he heard metal tearing, a high, vicious squeal, and the copter jerked again. The chains of the back harness were bending the wheel plate. One of them snapped free.

“C’mon, not now, we’re so close!”

Sully fought the controls as his bag of gold slid off the co-pilot’s seat and tumbled toward the open deck. Sully snatched for the leather but it was out of reach, and the Concepción’s bow was tipping up, up, the bowsprit rising to point at the belly of the Halo. Behind the groaning ship, a swinging chain had ripped through part of the hull, the mammoth rusting anchor swinging just over the water.

He saw Nate, running for the forecastle up the sharply angled deck, Braddock dashing after him; Sully’s bag was out of reach, inching toward the roaring, open cabin behind him. He was losing their priceless ship, and all he could do was try to keep the bird in the air.

*   *   *

Nate took off for the bowsprit, heard Braddock gasping after him as the Concepción’s stern dropped, the deck rising to near vertical.

He crawled for the forecastle’s ladder, kicking off what was left of the starboard side’s rail. One of the back chains on the harness let go with a shriek, the heavy links slamming to the tilted deck, knocking another hole through it. The ship dropped and Nate lost his hold and slid sternward, barely managing to grab a rail as the deck came up again, the bowsprit now aimed right at the struggling copter. Loose ropes from the foremast slapped down across the nearly vertical deck.

Out of nowhere, Braddock was suddenly slashing at him with a curved knife, leaning out from a piece of railing just over his head. Nate put his arm up and she sliced into it, then snapped a kick into his gut, driving him backwards.

Nate clawed wildly at the air, caught one of the moss-slick ropes and stumble-fell away, swinging across the tilted boards. He hit the deck by the opposite rail like a ton of bricks. Braddock was on him before he could fully register the pain, grinning like a psycho, knife raised. She propped her foot up on a railing spindle, the better to slaughter him.

“Say hi to your brother for me,” she snarled.

“You’ll see him before I do,” he said, and jammed his heel into the spindle. It splintered away, dropping her a few feet before she caught herself. She was coming for him in a heartbeat, but it was enough time for Nate to get his legs up, trusting his weight to the creaking rope. He kicked her square in the chest and she flew through the rail, disappearing overboard.

Good riddance, murderer. Nate turned and threw himself at the bow, not sorry that Sam’s killer had forced the issue. He would celebrate later. The boards were popping, cracking under his hands and feet as he scrambled past the foremast, aiming for the narrow, jutting bowsprit.

A heavy crunching sound made him look over his shoulder—one of the supports had snapped off the mainmast—and he saw Braddock crawl back onto the shuddering deck, her knife in her teeth, her bloody hands studded with fresh splinters. She immediately started after him again, scaling the shuddering deck like a spider.

Jesus, she’s a robot!

Nate threw himself forward, focused on the bowsprit’s wavering tip right under the hovering copter. He hugged the ancient wood, wind on all sides of him and the sea glittering below. He threw a look back as he edged higher. Braddock had reached the foremast, her eyes glittering with malice and rage.

Another cable snapped and shot past him, tearing a long, thundering groove across the main deck. The Concepción had lost more than half her support, it was going to be a race to make it to Sully before the last chain broke. Not if Braddock catches me first.

Wrapped around the creaking mast, Nate climbed the circles of petrified rope that led up to the helicopter, Braddock not far behind.

*   *   *

The Concepción was soon to be toast, and Sully’s backpack trembled on the deck of the chopper, tipped closer and closer to the pitching, open door as the shipping disaster unfolded.

Fuck this. Sully engaged the auto and dove for the bag, even as it slid closer to the cabin door, straps quivering just out of reach.

Sully came up on his hands, shot a look at the dangling ship just to his right, where Nate clung to the bowsprit, impossibly near. He’d climbed to the very tip of the splintering wood, was hanging on to the rolled sail at the top of the small mast. Behind him, Braddock had reached the base of the bowsprit, karambit jammed in her clenched teeth. She started speed-climbing after the kid.

To Sully’s left, the leather backpack—right at the lip of the metal flooring, straps flapping into the wind.

“Hey, Sully!” Nate screamed, and Sully turned his head again. Nate was reaching toward the deck, his gaze full of wild hope.

Sully looked at the pack again, stuffed to the seams with artifacts worth millions.

“Sully!” Nate’s shriek was louder, almost as loud as the screech of another ginormous chain busting free, the copter surging, Braddock right at Nate’s heels. The whole ship was suspended by just a few cables now, a single sling.

Well, fuck. Disgusted with himself, Sully crawled forward and reached for the kid’s outstretched hand.

Nate gathered himself and jumped, just as the second-to-last cable snapped.

Nate’s grip was strong, almost as strong as his. At the touch of the kid’s hand, Sully felt a tiny bit better about his decision.

“I got you!” Sully called. He flattened himself to the deck and hung on, as the Concepción’s weight battled the final chain.

Braddock saw Sully reach for the Drake boy’s hand and pushed herself, grabbing for his leg as the carrack shuddered all around her—

—and she missed.

She fell, crashing across the hanging deck like a skipped stone, and plummeted through open air, under the shadow of the hanging, swinging carrack.

Braddock tucked herself into a ball, covering her head, spitting out the knife—

—and she hit the water hard, went deep into the cool sea.

She uncurled and stroked upward, shocked limbs tearing at the murky blue. I’m alive! I’m alive!

Braddock’s head broke the surface and she took a big breath, looking up, and—

Fuck—

It was all she had time to think before the Concepción landed on top of her.

*   *   *

Sully pulled Nate up and they both lay on the deck, gasping. Nate rolled over when the last chain broke with a tremendous, rending shriek.

The Spanish carrack hit the water stern first, the bow smashing down seconds later, sending out white-capped waves. Boards flew off the sides and more than half the sails popped loose, rolling down the masts, catching the trade winds and puffing out in streaming tatters. For just a second, Nate could see how she must have looked five centuries before, a majestic sight charging across the rolling deep…

And then, of course, she sank. The stern went first, churning bubbles rising out of the water. Shedding boards, the Concepción slid under the waves, the bowsprit the last thing Nate saw as she followed her anchor down.

“Look at her,” Nate said. “You can’t put a price on that.”

“You can, actually,” Sully said. “Four to six billion.”

They both watched the water bubble, foaming bursts of white against the blue sea.

“We can get a diving rig,” Nate said.

“Not before those guys,” Sully said, nodding south. Nate followed his gaze, saw a big military-looking boat off in the distance, turned their way.

“Property of the Philippines now,” Sully added.

Nate realized he wasn’t particularly disappointed. “The gold belongs to them anyway, if you think about it.”

“I don’t want to think about it,” Sully grumbled, standing. He went forward and dropped into the pilot’s seat.

Nate sat for another moment, taking stock of himself. Nothing was currently bleeding. He felt tired, beaten up, but also deeply satisfied. Sic Parvis Magna, Sam.

He stood up and stumbled for the co-pilot’s chair, holding his ribs.

“Let’s get out of here,” Nate said, but his voice was lost to the thunder of the engine.

“What?” Sully shouted. He had a headset on. He handed another set to Nate, who put it on as he sat down, his body grateful for the cushy seat. Nate was grateful for his life. He’d seen Sully hesitate, and he didn’t see the stuffed backpack on board. For Sully, it must have been Sophie’s choice.

Nate put the headset on. “I said, let’s get out of here.”

“You got it.” Sully looked down, then pointed. “Is that who I think it is?”

Nate saw a speed boat skipping across the sparkling sea, a lone, dark-haired figure at the wheel. Sully swooped lower, but even before they got in close, Nate knew it was Chloe. She had her phone in one hand and was headed for Demar. She looked up at the sound of the helo, shading her eyes, and when Sully banked east, putting the sun at their backs, they passed low enough for Nate to manage a second of eye contact.

Chloe smiled ruefully at Nate and shook her head, her eyes as bright as the shimmering waves. Well-played, Nate, she mouthed, and Nate grinned, and then they were past her and away. He sincerely hoped that they would meet again.

“I might have let her steal the wrong coordinates,” Nate said, still smiling.

“Now you’re getting the hang of it,” Sully said.

“You got a heart of gold, Sully.”

“Real funny, wiseass.”

“Too soon?”

“Forever is too soon,” Sully grumbled.

“Maybe this’ll help,” Nate said, and dug into his front pocket, grabbing the small, heavy ingot he’d held onto. He handed it to Sully, enjoying the look of shock on the older man’s face.

“You kidding me? For real?”

Nate pulled out a gold link bracelet from his other pocket and passed it to Sully. The man was positively delighted, his face lit up and glowing with greed. “Keep it coming, kid!”

Last one. A hammered coin, heavy and shining. Sully took it with an open, goofy grin. He looked like he wanted to jump up and dance.

“You got any more?”

Nate made a show of digging into his pocket again, then pulled out his last piece of Bubble Yum. The same pack he’d opened on the night of the auction, now that he thought about it.

He handed it to Sully, who promptly chucked it out the window.

“Hang on!” Sully cried, and banked hard to the north.

“Hey, that was my last piece!”

Sully cackled, patting the gold in his lap.

Whatever. Fifty percent of just the three pieces Nate had swiped would buy a lot of gum. Nate sat back in the chair, looking out at the sea. Islands sparkled like jewels across the glittering water, and the warm, blasting air was sweet with salt. He touched Sam’s ring, their ring, and watched the world go by, breathing deeply.

PANAMA CITY, PANAMA, SOME TIME LATER

Nate showed up early for the swap, walking past the entrance to the small courtyard watering hole a couple of times to scope the place out. The place was run-down, half the bright aqua paint chipped off the bricks, a handful of mismatched tables with mismatched chairs in a ragged patch of sun. A few silent locals were parked at the bar set under one of the yard’s arches, hunched over their drinks. A tiny old woman swept the rough stones with a straw broom.

Nate sat on the splintered stairs of an apartment building across the street and read the paper, watching the entrance. A pair of beefy-looking men went in together about ten minutes before the scheduled appointment and took one of the tables near the back. They ordered beer and played casual, but they were not-so-subtly watching the entrance.

A big guy with a ton of swagger and a black eyepatch showed up next, and sat alone at a table at the back wall, facing forward. Gage, presumably; that was the name Nate had been given. He had a gun on his belt and looked hard, mean… but his eyepatch glittered, like it had been bedazzled. Nate smirked and took his time reading an article about stolen antiquities. The writer, one Elena Fisher, really knew her stuff.

Nate waited until he was fashionably late and then folded the paper, sticking it into his bag. Time to see what Eyepatch and his buddies had to say for themselves.

He walked into the courtyard and headed straight to Gage’s table. He looked low-rent but there was a good cigar sticking out of his breast pocket and his clothes were quality. The guy glared at him with his good eye, and Nate saw that his black patch was studded with tiny diamonds, in the shape of a skull.

“You’re late,” Gage rumbled.

Nate dropped his bag on the ground and sat. “The patch is a little much, don’t you think? I mean, we get it, you’re a pirate.”

The man lifted the patch, revealing a badly injured, closed eye.

“Ouch,” Nate said, wincing. “Sorry, pal.”

“Let’s see it.” Gage’s voice was a violent growl. No small talk, then.

“You first,” Nate said.

Gage set a folded old map on the table in front of him. Nate could see the writing on the back, in spidery German, noted the condition of the paper, and felt his heartrate pick up. Yeah, that was the one.

Nate reached into his pants pocket and came up with what Gage’s boss had asked for in exchange, holding it tightly. He didn’t want to put it down… but the map was important, bigger than Elcano’s journal, even.

I’ll get it back. Nate opened his fist, let Sam’s ring on its cord settle to the table.

“Why do you want the map, Drake?” Gage asked. “It leads nowhere.”

“Why does your boss want my ring?”

Gage sneered. “Because he knows it means something to you.”

The thug took Sam’s ring and immediately put it on, grinning, chin up and chest out. Nate resisted the urge to snap it off his ugly thick neck, and reached for the map instead.

Gage stood up, and his buddies at the other table did the same. The duo had guns out, menacing black semis trained on Nate.

“Now, you’re gonna tell me what’s so important about an old Nazi map,” Gage commanded, and Nate heard a round being chambered somewhere behind him, and a familiar, extremely welcome voice.

“Put ’em down, boys,” Sully said. “Nice and slow.”

About damned time. Nate turned to welcome his last-minute savior—and burst out laughing. Sully stood coolly in the bright sunlight, a sleek pistol in one hand, a heavy pack on his shoulder, and—

“What is that thing on your face?”

Sully frowned, keeping his gaze on the pair of goons, who hadn’t lowered their weapons. Since the last time they’d met, Sully had opted to grow himself a thick, bristling mustache.

“How about we focus on the task at hand?” Sully’s voice was extra dry.

“Kinda hard to focus with that creature on your lip, watching.”

Gage went for the gun on his belt, a sudden burst of motion, and Nate moved just as fast. He slammed the table into the big man’s gut and gun hand, hard. Even as Gage dropped his weapon, Nate was out of his chair and scooping it up.

He whirled around to stand behind Gage, putting the muzzle to his temple.

“Let’s call it even,” Nate said. “You got what you want, I got what I want.”

Gage nodded at the twins, who lowered their guns and sat down again. Nate reached into his hostage’s breast pocket, very precisely, and extracted the cigar. He tossed it to Sully.

Sully flexed his ’stache over it and nodded. “Montecristo. I’m impressed.”

“You’ll be dead before you can smoke it,” said the man with the gun to his head.

“No I won’t,” Sully said. “I’m firing this sucker up the second I walk out that door.”

Nate picked up his bag and grabbed the map, backing toward Sully. “This was fun, we should do it again.”

Gage reached for the ring around his neck, and came up empty. He looked down, confused.

Nate let the ring dangle from his fingers on its cord, unable to help a wide grin. The lift had been smooth as glass. “Oh, look at that.”

Gage’s good eye was murderous. “I got people everywhere, Drake.”

Nate and Sully slowly backed for the exit, Sully covering the duo while Nate kept his new semi aimed on its previous owner.

“You were supposed to be here yesterday,” Nate said.

“Did you know you need special papers to bring an animal on a plane?” Sully asked. “I did not know that.”

Sully’s big shoulder pack took the occasion to meow softly. Nate risked a glance, saw silky fur and glowing eyes through the netting on the back.

“So I almost bought it because of your cat?”

“What are you talking about? He did great. Didn’t you, Mr. Whiskers? Now, let’s see that map.”

Nate handed it to him, swinging his semi to cover the gunmen as Sully took a look.

“Goddamn, kid, this is the big one,” Sully breathed, but Nate didn’t bother to confirm. They were at the exit, and Gage and his goons were looking more and more pissed off. Time to turn and run for it.

Nate grinned, ready for whatever came next.

EPILOGUE

Inmate 47 sat at his splintery desk, writing. His hands shook. Weak morning light filtered in through the thick bars overhead, not strong enough yet to warm his cold cell. He didn’t really feel the sun anymore, he was cold all the time, even in the afternoons. He’d lost so much weight, it was hard to get warm, ever.

He brushed long, dirty hair out of his face and finished the postcard, signing it with his initial, the curving S trembling just a little. He added the card to the stack of them on the rough edge of the desk and looked up at the pale rays of light playing across his cell.

THE END…?

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This novelization was based on a script by Rafe Lee Judkins, with revisions by Art Marcum, Matt Holloway, Jon Hanley Rosenberg, and Mark D. Walker. Bravo for the adventure, and obviously, massive shoutout to the creators of the Uncharted series, Amy Hennig, and Naughty Dog. They’ve created characters compelling enough to inspire new creative visions, and I feel lucky to have spent time working in the expanding Uncharted universe.

My editor at Titan, Craig Leyenaar, deserves major props for a clear, thoughtful edit; it’s excellent to work with someone who cares about weird details as much as I do. Davi Lancett stepped in where Craig left off and has been fabulous as well, patient and discerning; thank you, Davi! Dan Coxon, Kevin Eddy, and Adrian McLaughlin helped them craft the work, and did a bang up job. Also, big thanks to the folks at Sony—Elise Iglesias and Alex Gartner, Griffin Chin, Andrew Krensky, Stacey Kerr, and Virginia King. And shoutout to my agent, Jennifer Weltz, and to everyone at JVNLA.

On a personal note, I’d like to thank my family and friends, who are cool with me dropping out of sight for weeks at a time to go on writing adventures. I’m grateful to have such good people in my life.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

S.D. PERRY has been writing novelizations and tie-ins for most of her adult life. Best known for her work in the shared multiverses of Resident Evil, Star Trek, and Aliens, S.D. is a horror nerd and an introvert. Her father is acclaimed science fiction author Steve Perry. S.D. lives with her family in Portland, Oregon. S.D. tweets @sdp668.

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