Caribbean Gold

CHAPTER EIGHT

John Jensen hid it well, but fancied that his humanity might be gone. Hardship and ill-living, dark thoughts and bottles of rum had stripped away whatever light veneer of compassion he’d once had, leaving a living shell of greed and decadence behind.

He knew it, but the knowledge seemed to have diluted in intensity over the years. Jensen was a pirate now, plying these fair shores for whatever bounty he could carry off. The old days were gone — the hours of watching and waiting for the enemy, the endless days of following orders and jumping from one dangerous den of vipers to the next.

Now, he was the viper. And he knew how to stay under the radar.

The raids had started low-key, nothing more than daylight robberies and midnight break-ins. He’d made his way, paid for it with the belongings of others. It was a different life, lived in peace and under a wonderful sky with such peaceful waters nearby always ready to help with the cleansing. Petty crime had led to bigger stuff, and when he started to apply his military training to problems and new concepts an exciting new world showed the potential of opening up.

Men came along, recruited from bars at first and then by word of mouth. Jensen achieved a small reputation and then some good men. Things moved on. They targeted lone boats and well-guarded properties. They leaned on influential people who had secrets to keep. Jensen learned the art of leverage. He founded a base, tailored himself after a seventeenth century pirate or two. As a group they even began to search the old wrecks for sunken treasure, finding very little but occasionally coming home with a bagful of doubloons. The things that lay on the ocean floor fascinated Jensen. He knew of shipwrecks that might be worth millions.

It had come as a bit of a shock when Henry Morgan’s name had come up. Of course he knew about the five ships. Of course he knew the legends. But there were thousands of wrecks at the bottom of the sea. Could there really be a new hoard in his own backyard?

Well, strictly — no.

Jensen watched both Crouch and Leno, trusting them less than he trusted most of his own men. His three lieutenants, Labadee and Forrester were his first and second mates, with Levy coming a close third. If he trusted anyone at all it was these three. They had been there from the beginning.

Jensen let his mind wander a little. Their current workload was heavy, made up of small jobs across many islands, but everything paled in comparison to finding such a treasure hoard. It was nothing short of a life’s dream. All resources, all in. Jensen had built up a solid network of spies, snitches and well-placed informants through the years. Now he could reap the rewards of such judicious planning. And truth be told, he didn’t care too much for Crouch and his cronies. Didn’t care how they ended up. All he wanted to wring from them was information.

The time to talk was almost at an end.

Truth be told, in his younger days he’d been a little in awe of Michael Crouch. But then so had everyone. Even an outfit as professional and superior as the SAS loved to talk. The whispers were that Crouch had started a covert splinter division, and that they were kicking some major European ass. All good, but that and a few other victories sent Crouch’s reputation toward the stratosphere. And now Jensen knew how this crew had been able to move forward so quickly and efficiently.

Crouch was better connected than Vodafone.

Still, he moved alone these days. Part of this crew. Jensen very much doubted anyone in authority would know where he was. It was time to move things along.

“It was good to see you again, Michael.”

He raised a gun.