The Lost Island

29

At the helm of the Horizonte, Linda Cordray gripped the wheel with whitened knuckles. There they were — right where she wanted them. Her men would hold their fire, as she had instructed.

The ruse had worked perfectly. She had positioned the Horizonte in the lee of the cay, in a sheltered cove close enough to shore so their radar image would merge with that of the cay itself, causing them to look like just another rock.

As she stared at the Turquesa, now turning in an ineffectual attempt at escape, a white-hot rage lanced through her. In the cabin below, wrapped in a blood-soaked canvas, lay her husband’s lifeless body. He had bled to death, screaming and sobbing before lapsing into the final coma as they chased the Turquesa. Cordray told herself, yet again, that even had she headed straight to the nearest port, he never would have made it. Nothing she could have done would have saved him. She told herself that several times.

They’d shared a unique bond. Living outside the rules, two against the world. They were remarkably alike in their thirst for adventure, their loathing for the settled life. He was the velvet fist in her iron glove. They complemented each other perfectly. Ironically, the great physical difference between them just cemented the relationship.

Their dream of the past five years had been to find the wreck of the privateer Compostela, laden with the fabled Treasure of Coromandel. It had been sunk off the Guajira coast back in 1550, and they’d narrowed down the possible locations to the point where it was almost in their grasp. A few more weeks of sidescanning, and they would have it.

At first, they’d worried that the Turquesa was also looking for the Coromandel treasure. There had been others before — it was a celebrated treasure — and they had dealt with them. But during cocktails they realized the two, Mark and Amy, were instead looking for a different prize. A prize that was possibly even bigger than the Treasure of Coromandel.

Five tons of gold.

She realized that they weren’t the usual treasure-hunting idiots, out there on a song and prayer, with a leaky boat and some flea-market map. Oh, they had a map, all right — and she knew it was genuine the moment she saw it. Fake maps always looked the same. This one had been unique. Totally unique.

Her man, her partner, was dead in his blood-soaked shroud, but she could still hear his quiet voice in her mind. Advising her what to do. Telling her what he wanted. And what he wanted most of all was to get the map to the Spanish treasure — and then kill Mark and Amy Johnson. In that order. If she merely killed them, sank their boat — which she could do right now if she wanted — he would not approve. More important, Cayo Jeyupsi was big enough that you could spend a year digging on it. She needed that map.

The Horizonte bulled through the swell, the deck heaving. Linda Cordray handled the helm smoothly, her instincts for the waves unerring, staring fiercely into the darkness ahead. The Turquesa had doused its lights, but she could still see it clearly on radar. It was eight hundred yards ahead, but they were going a lot slower than before. Engine trouble, perhaps — the vessel had taken some rounds.

She had her four men. They were young, strong, instinctual, and merciless. They would board her, take the boat, and incapacitate the Johnsons. She would take over, get the map — this time with no mistakes. And then those two would die. Horribly.

Seven hundred yards. She was close enough to blow them out of the water with the machine gun. But she wouldn’t deploy it yet. It wasn’t until her men had fired, willy-nilly, on that decoy launch and it went up in flames that she realized how much she needed that map. She’d had a bad moment then, realizing her mistake, thinking the map was gone. She was almost relieved to see it had been a ruse.

She called in the first mate, Manuel. She told him exactly what the plan was for ramming and boarding the Turquesa. Manuel listened in silence. His face was dark. He was ready to kill. She explained the stakes. If they pulled it off, if they got their hands on that map, it would make him rich beyond his wildest dreams.

And they would pull it off. They had the bigger boat, four tough men, and overwhelming firepower. While the Turquesa might have some small arms on board, the 50-caliber at short range could obliterate them.

She glanced at the radar. They had now closed to six hundred yards. Any idiot could see the Johnsons were doomed. They were no idiots. Cordray unhooked the VHF mike and turned it to channel 16. “Turquesa, this is Horizonte.”

Silence. She knew they must hear her — it was standard for cruising vessels to keep the emergency channel 16 live at all times.

“Turquesa, hove to, or we open fire.”

No answer.

“Hove to. We just want the map. Give us the map and no one will get hurt. Do you read?”

Again, no answer.

She gave the engines slightly more power, even though they were running close to the red.

The gap began closing more rapidly. The six hundred yards dwindled to five. A large wave bashed the side of the boat, surging up and over the decks. She had to fight to keep the boat on course. The sea was growing worse. The VHF weather channel had begun issuing a stream of bad news: a tropical storm, passing to the north, was gaining power and would soon be a hurricane. Seas were expected to grow to twenty feet or more.

Another shuddering wave swept over the foredeck, foaming gray-green as it surged through the railing. She couldn’t see the Turquesa, but she knew it had to be worse for them. The boat was shorter, narrower — and much lighter. It would be tossed around like a cork. It was amazing they were still afloat.

The pursuit continued. They were now edging into the Barraquilla Basin, deep water hundreds of miles from shore. There was nothing out there — nothing.

Cordray didn’t care. Four hundred yards.

She picked up the mike. “Turquesa, this is Horizonte. I repeat: hove to or we will sink you. This is your final warning.”

Nothing. No answer. Three hundred yards.

She called Manual to her side. He had seen everything the sea could throw at a man, and he was still looking pale. “You and Paco, man the gun,” she told him in Spanish. “Be ready to fire at my signal. Focus your fire on the two. Keep it high, avoid holing the vessel.”

“Sí, señora.”

Two hundred yards. One hundred.

The VHF crackled. “Okay, Horizonte, you win. We’re hoving to.”

It was the woman. This was it: the endgame had arrived.

“Lights!” Linda Cordray cried.

The bank of lights atop of the Horizonte snapped on, throwing a brilliant glow across the heaving sea, blinding them. And there was the Turquesa, swinging around to face them.

The floodlights of the Turquesa went on in turn.

She scrabbled at the VHF mike, yanked it down. “Off! Turn those fucking lights off or—!”

The first shot punched through the pilothouse window, spraying plastic slivers across her face. Her brain was only starting to process what was happening when the second shot slammed into her brow, taking off the top of her head.