The Silent Sea

Actually

Get out! he snapped.

No. Seriously. Juan stooped to raise his jeans' cuff and lower his sock. This prosthetic leg was covered with flesh-colored plastic that still looked artificial under the uncertain light.

James Ronish lost some of his anger. Well, I'll be. A fellow peg leg. What happened?

Blown off by a Chinese gunboat during the reckless days of my youth.

You don't say. Well, there's irony for you. Can I get you boys a beer?

Before they could reply, the screen door outside squeaked open and someone knocked.

Cabrillo looked over to Max, concern etched on his face. He hadn't heard anyone drive up, but with the rain thundering against the house it was possible he missed it. And what were the odds an old curmudgeon like Jim Ronish getting two visitors on the same evening?

Then he told himself to relax. This wasn't a mission. They were just giving some information to a harmless old man living out in the middle of nowhere. Max had been right. Juan did need a little time off.

Damn. Now what? Ronish grumbled. He reached for the doorknob.

Juan's instincts went into overdrive. Something was very wrong. Before he could stop him, Ronish had the door open. A man stood out in the rain, his wet face shining in the light over the front door.

Both the man and Cabrillo recognized each other instantly, and while one spent a critical microsecond considering the implications, the other reacted.

Juan was grateful he was carrying a Glock. They didn't have safeties to slow him down. He whipped the pistol from the holster under his windbreaker and fired around Jim Ronish's shoulder. The bullet hit the frame, gouging out a sizable chunk of wood.

The Argentine Major who Cabrillo had talked his way past at the logging camp jumped from view. The automatic's report had been concussive in the foyer, but Juan could hear voices outside. The Major wasn't alone.

Cabrillo ignored his mind's desire to understand what had just happened. He leapt forward and slammed the door closed. The lock was about the cheapest made and yet he threw it anyway. Every second could count.

Max tackled a stunned James Ronish so that they hit the floor together, Hanley's arm over the older man's back. Cabrillo ducked through into the kitchen, found the light switch, and flicked it off. He then padded into the living room and simply knocked the floor lamp onto its side. The dim bulb went out with a pop. Next, he snapped off the television, plunging the old house into complete darkness.

What's going on? Ronish wailed.

More of my reckless youth coming back to haunt me, Cabrillo muttered, and flipped over a moth-eaten couch for additional cover.

Seconds ticked by. Max helped Ronish over to Juan's makeshift redoubt.

How many?

At least two, Juan said. The one at the door is an officer of the Ninth Brigade.

I figured since you shot at him that he wasn't selling Avon. The front picture window exploded under a murderous onslaught of gunfire. Glass rained on the men as they cowered behind the sofa. The house's thin walls didn't slow the high-powered rounds, so smoking holes appeared in the wallboard. The bullets passed through the living room, and probably didn't stop until they hit trees in Ronish's backyard.

Those are rifles, Max said. He had his pistol out now but looked at it dubiously. Judging by the rate of fire screaming overhead, they weren't just outgunned, they were outmanned as well.

Do you have any weapons? Juan asked.

To his credit, the old man answered quickly, Yeah. I got a .357 in my bedside table and a 30.06 in the closet. The rifle's empty, but the ammo's on the top shelf under a bunch of baseball caps. Last door on the left.

Before Cabrillo could retrieve the guns, an Argentine round slammed into one of the oxygen tanks Ronish kept for when he ran errands. The bullet blew through the tough steel skin and fortunately the oxygen didn't explode, but the twenty-pound bottle took off like a rocket. It crashed into the dining-room table, snapping a leg and sending it crashing under the weight of old magazines.

Next, it hit the couch hard enough to shove it into the men hiding behind it and then punched a hole in the Sheetrock wall, before dropping to the floor. It spun like a top until the last of the gas escaped.

Juan knew how lucky they had been. Depending on the type of ammunition they were facing, the tank could easily have exploded and started a chain reaction with the dozen or more bottles next to them. They were sitting in what amounted to a death trap.

Forget the guns, Juan shouted. We need to get out of here.

I can't make it, James wheezed. His lungs were working overtime but he wasn't getting enough air. I need the oxygen. I won't last five minutes.

We stay here, we won't last five seconds! Cabrillo said, even though he saw the truth. James Ronish couldn't be moved.

The firing subsided as the Argentines regrouped after the first frantic moments of the gun battle. The only thing that made sense was that they needed Ronish alive. Juan knew he and Max hadn't been trailed to Washington, so he assumed that the men outside had followed the same informational bread crumbs as he had. It meant they knew something about the Flying Dutchman's fateful voyage that he did not. Some piece of information that only James Ronish had. And he felt certain it had nothing to do with Pierre Devereaux's pirate loot.

Cabrillo pulled the Glock's trigger three times, laying down suppressing fire to keep the Argentines pinned. Their next tactic would be to encircle the house and come in from multiple angles. Juan still didn't know how he was going to get the three of them out of this.

Mr. Ronish, he said, they're here because of something your brothers found in the Treasure Pit. Something linked to the blimp we discovered. What did they find?

Another crackle of gunfire from outside drowned out Ronish's answer. Dust filled the air from the destroyed drywall, and sofa stuffing was falling like snow. Ronish suddenly stiffened and whimpered softly.

He'd been hit. In the darkness, Cabrillo put his hand on the older man's chest. Feeling nothing, he moved his hand lower. Ronish hadn't been hit in the stomach, so Juan moved to his legs. In just the few seconds since the round penetrated his body, the amount of blood pumping from his thigh told Juan that the bullet had severed Ronish's femoral artery. Without medical help, he'd bleed out in minutes. Juan transferred his pistol to his left hand and pressed into the wound as hard as he could, while Max fired out through the picture window. There were definitely fewer men on the front yard. One or two of the Argentines were flanking them.

What did they find? Juan asked desperately.

A way to the junk was the pained reply. The mantel. I kept a rub.

Juan vaguely recalled a framed piece of art above the faux-brick fireplace. Had it been some sort of rubbing? He didn't remember. It had made barely a passing impression. He looked through the darkness in the direction of the mantel and fired. The muzzle flash revealed the outline of the picture on the wall but no details. It was much too big to be easily portable.

Mr. Ronish, please. What do you mean 'ya way to the junk'?

I wish they'd never gone to the island, he replied. He was in shock, his body's response to his plummeting blood pressure. It all would have turned out different.

Max changed out an empty magazine. Both men had brought only two spares from the Houston safe house.

Juan could no longer feel Ronish's heart pumping blood against his hand over the wound. The old man was gone. He didn't feel responsible. At least not directly. The Argentines would have killed him with or without the Corporation's presence. But had Juan and his team not stumbled onto the wreckage of the Flying Dutchman, James Ronish would have lived out his final days in obscurity. And therein lay the indirect guilt.

A voice boomed from outside. He spoke English. I compliment you on your mastery of my language. My pilot thought you were from Buenos Aires.

And you sound like that Chihuahua from the taco ads. Juan couldn't resist. Adrenaline was seething in his veins like champagne bubbles.

The Argentine shouted a curse that brought into question the marital status of Juan's parents. I give you one chance. Leave the house through the back door and my men will not fire. Ronish stays.

A kitchen window shattered. A few seconds later, wavering light came from the archway connecting it to the dining room. They'd tossed a Molotov cocktail to hasten the decision.

Juan jumped from the floor, firing from the hip through the window, and swept the rubbing, or whatever it was, from the wall. He heaved it into the kitchen like a Frisbee. The frame caught on the jamb, breaking the glass, and it vanished from sight.

Max opened fire again, covering Cabrillo while he changed mags, and together the two men ran down the hallway leading to the bedrooms. The house was a standard ranch, like millions of others built after World War II, like the one Juan had lived in until his father's accounting practice took off, like the ones all his friends lived in, like the one Max had grown up in. The two men could navigate it with their eyes closed.

The master bedroom was the last door on the left, just past the single bath. Juan even knew where the bed would be placed, as it was the only logical location, and he jumped on it, bending his knees to absorb some of the spring, and leapt again. He covered his head with his hands when he smashed through the window.

He hit the wet, needle-covered ground, shoulder-rolled, and came up with his gun ready. The muzzle flash from a snap shot fired from the far corner of the house gave away the gunman's location. Cabrillo put two rounds downrange. He didn't hear the meaty slap of a strike, but a low, mounting wail rose from the patch of darkness where the shooter had been.

Max came through the window a second later, having paused to let Juan clear the area. His exit wasn't as dramatic as Cabrillo's, but he made it nevertheless. They moved through the downpour as fast as they could, the wind and rain masking the sound of their escape. There was barely enough light to see but enough so they didn't run headlong into any trees. After five minutes, and several random turns, Juan slowed and dropped to his belly behind a fallen log.

Max's deep chest pumped like a bellows next to him. You mind telling me, he panted, what the hell they're doing here?

Cabrillo's breathing was far less labored, but he was twenty years younger than his friend and, unlike Max, knew what a workout routine was. That, dear Maxwell, is the million-dollar question. Are you okay?

Just a small cut on my hand from going through the window. You?

Nothing's hurt but my pride. I should have had that guy with my first shot.

Seriously, how did they get here?

Same as us. They followed the trail from the Flying Dutchman. What I really want to know is what they hoped to find.

Unless they're as nerdy as Mark and Eric, they're not looking for Devereaux's treasure.

And we'll never know. The rubbing burned up in the kitchen, and I'd already given the journal or log, or whatever it was, to Ronish.

Max fished around in his jacket pocket and tapped something on Juan's wrist. He felt the spongy mass of latex-sheathed papers. I nabbed this when I tackled him.

I could kiss you.

Let me shave first so you really get to enjoy the experience. Humor had always been their way of decompressing from a high-stress situation. So what's our play?

Where Max had always been the dogged one, the person who would bull through any challenge, it had always been Cabrillo who came up with the plan. Hanley really didn't see what to do next while Juan had figured it out the moment he leapt up and tossed the picture frame into the growing kitchen fire. If he was honest with himself, he'd known the instant the Argentine Major had shown up on James Ronish's doorstep.

It's simple really, he said, turning on his back so that the rain washed the taste of gunpowder from his mouth. You and I are going to solve the mystery of the Pine Island Treasure Pit.