Amped up. Because after carefully cleaning the hilt of the cutlass, they’d discovered markings that fit the description of a short sword belonging to none other than the great Captain Bartolome Vargas himself. Which meant Alex’s theory about the Santa Cristina having gone down in the waters around Wayfarer Island might actually prove correct.
Bran should’ve been vibrating with excitement too. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get more than half his mind to focus on the amazing find. The other half remained stubbornly obsessed with the distance that separated Wayfarer Island and the Dry Tortugas. With the distance between him and the wonderful, wise-cracking, completely off-limits Maddy Powers.
So close.
And getting closer by the minute.
He lifted a set of field glasses to his eyes. Through the magnified lenses, he could just make out the few spotlights on the seawall that separated the moat and Fort Jefferson from the gulf waters surrounding Garden Key. Now that the sun had set, a soft yellow glow flashed from the little lighthouse built atop the edge of the fort’s curtain wall, illuminating the white hull of what appeared to be a deep-sea fishing vessel that was in the process of anchoring itself a few dozen yards from the little beach that ran along one side of the islet.
So damned close. And he hadn’t the first clue what he was going to say to her once they were actually face-to-face.
Long time, no see was too flippant and trite considering the hell they’d been through together and all they’d since shared. Sorry I didn’t respond to your email; the satellite dish went down while technically correct still sounded like a big, fat excuse. So that left…what? The truth? I didn’t wanna come ’cause you scare the shit outta me. You make me want things I shouldn’t want and contemplate things I shouldn’t contemplate.
Like that was going to happen.
And damnit, now those ridiculous butterflies were back. He reached for the bottle of Gatorade in the cup holder near his elbow, determined to drown the fluttery little suckers. Again. But before he could lift the drink to his lips, he got distracted by the fact that Alex was still talking.
“…so when you add all that up, it was pretty much a given I would tag along. But I have no idea why he’s here.” She hooked a thumb toward Mason. When Alex wrinkled her nose, the zinc oxide smeared across the bridge caught the running lights and glistened. She was the only person Bran knew who still used zinc oxide. “I say it’s because he couldn’t stand to be away from me,” she finished impishly.
Mason’s expression called Alex ten kinds of crazy, but he didn’t say a word.
“Oh, goodie!” Alex clapped her hands. “He’s gone back to being nonverbal. Happy, happy, joy, joy!”
Bran opened his mouth to tell them to stop poking at each other like children. But before he could say anything, a dull pop, pop echoed across the water, barely discernible above the snap of the mainsail as it tugged against the boom basket when a particularly strong gust of briny-smelling wind pulled the fabric tight.
The fine hairs on the back of Bran’s neck stood on end, his adrenaline spiked, and hundreds of missions to the ass-ends of the earth flashed through his brain. If he lived ten thousand lifetimes, he’d recognize that sound for exactly what it was…
Automatic gunfire.
Pop! Pop, pop, pop! Another barrage carried over the waves and slammed into his eardrums like percussion grenades.
“Maddy!” He hadn’t realized he’d roared her name aloud until he saw Alex jump straight into Mason’s lap and turn to stare at him with wide, frightened eyes.
“Huh? What?” she asked, then squawked when Mason hopped from his seat and bobbled her like a hot potato. Once Mason set her on her feet, she smacked him on the arm and glared. “What the heck was that all about?” she demanded. “You could’ve launched me overboard and—”
But that’s all she managed before another unmistakable pop sounded over the water.
“What is that?” she asked, pushing her glasses up the medicated bridge of her nose.
“Gunfire,” Mason gritted.
“Gunfire?” Alex’s face went so white it was hard to see where the zinc oxide stopped and her skin started. “Wh-why? There isn’t hunting on the Dry Tortugas, is there? I mean, what could anyone possibly hunt? There are only seabirds and turtles and…it’s dark.”
“That’s not the sound of a fuckin’ hunting rifle,” Mason grumbled between clenched teeth, lifting his eyes to Bran. The look on Mason’s face was one Bran knew all too well. It said one thing and one thing only: Trouble. The kind of trouble that separated men into two distinct categories: the quick and the dead.
Without conscious thought, Bran turned the key and engaged the catamaran’s dual engines, adding their man-made horsepower to Mother Nature’s wind power. The butterflies in his stomach grew lead wings and fell like rocks.
“Get the M4s!” he yelled, disgusted to hear his voice was nothing more than a reedy bark of sound, barely discernible over the roar of the engines and the hiss of the waves against the twin hulls as the sailboat picked up speed.