Caribbean Gold

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

Jensen may well have viewed the world through rum-tinted glasses for the best part of the last decade, but certain skills he’d been taught in his youth never faded away. Getting caught was a momentary lapse. Breaking free was a well-honed skill. The pirate leader doubled over and almost stabbed himself with the bloody cleaver; Jensen kicked him into another man. The nearest found his arm broken, his gun taken and then heard shots being fired. Pirates quickly sobered and jumped away, taking cover as Jensen knew they would.

Not a warrior among them.

He backed away fast, surveying the territory behind and the potential threats. A sniper could never be dismissed but Jensen had no time for that. He sprayed the area in front of him and backed up some more. His men had seen him now, Labadee and Levy sprinting hard and keeping the pirates low with well-placed shots. They were outmanned, but their sudden assault, Jensen’s escape and the pirates’ general malaise evened the score. The leader was shouting at the top of his voice, thick curses, but at nobody in particular and nobody was listening. The cleaver beat ineffectually at the ground.

Jensen sprayed again and thought he saw a glimpse of figures way across the clearing, bodies moving through the trees. Not pirates. Then…

Could be. It could be them.

The race was going to be a tough one. All his life he’d prepared for something like this. Well, not really, but for the last ten years he’d wished to fall lucky just once, take that vast score, and today his numbers were up. Just bad luck it was all going to be in the midst of a firefight.

Labadee and Levy reached his side and he waved them back. “To the woods. Move it!”

Soon they cleared the tree line and melted away without looking back. Jensen raced to the center of his men as he saw Levy hang back to make sure nobody dared follow them. A brief check of the pirate campsite saw them milling back and forth, undisciplined and unsure what to do. Jensen knew it was imperative to take advantage of their confusion.

“Top of the mountain,” he said simply. “Any cost. Now.”

His men reacted immediately, the mercs a little more slowly. Jensen counted his men as the guys who’d been with him since near the very beginning. Only ten now, several had died recently. But those ten were loyal. The mercs outnumbered them three to one, but the promise of gold made their eyes shine and their brains take a break. Jensen would make sure he put them to the front and the sides of the pack as added insurance for stray bullets. No loss.

He wrapped it up and pointed the way forward. Nobody, not even his lieutenants questioned as to how he’d been captured, let alone what he’d recklessly told the pirates to save his life. Jensen was no coward; he’d faced down unspeakable dangers in his career, but seeing certain, indifferent death in the eyes of a man wielding a blood-caked cleaver? That made a man want to prolong everything, in any way possible. Jensen knew he’d made it all worse.

Still alive though…

And running. He hammered home a magazine into his handgun as he swept past a gaggle of trees, running downhill along a sweeping path and jumping over ruts. To their right the trees frequently thinned and then thickened, offering sporadic views of the pirate camp.

The indolence was lifting. The sullied men were gathering, forming a large hunting party it seemed. Their leader was pointing them toward the great hill with its dangerous obstructions and dense cover. Weapons were being held high and orders were being listened to.

Jensen ran harder, needing to pull out a lead. The man at the top of the hill was going to win this treasure hunt.

King of the mountain?

Shit, the schoolyard game had nothing on this.

“C’mon,” he hissed. “Draw your guns and take a bead. Shoot anything that moves that isn’t us. We have to reach the top first!”