Nate hugged the hood of the Gullwing as it Aew into the open air and immediately tipped forward, aiming for the sea. Boxes were raining down above and below the falling car, the clamor of the plane’s engines fading to the whistle of air in Nate’s ringing ears.
For fuck’s sake, I just got back inside! I was inside!
Chloe kicked open the Gullwing’s door and climbed out, her dark hair streaming, “What the hell are you doing?!” Nate shouted, even as she yelled back the same thing.
“You don’t have a parachute?!” they yelled in unison, and Chloe shook her head like she was irritated, scanning the sky as they plunged toward the sea, picking up speed in the frigid air.
Without another word she spread her arms, kicked off the dropping car, and dove toward a big, gray plastic crate spiraling down fifty feet away and in front of them, falling just a little faster than they were. The box was strapped with netting and a parachute, Nate saw the red handle as it spun around.
THAT was your plan, catch a ride on the way down? The fuck is that? And you have what better idea right now, exactly?
The thought process was nearly instantaneous: freefall had a way of hurrying things along. Nate planted his feet on the Benz’s door and pushed off, following her, not looking down but unable to block out the growing blue- green sea below.
Chloe had angled herself in a straight line to the whirling box, arms out.
As she neared it, she tucked her arms in and sped up, becoming an arrow.
Nate brought his arms in, too—
—and then he was shooting past Chloe, and the crate.
“Shit—” Nate spread his arms out, trying to slow down, to turn. He looked up, saw more crates way up in the sky, falling, saw Moncada’s Globemaster jetting away, already the size of a toy. Sun Aashed off the plunging Gullwing’s side mirror. It was like looking at some weird optical art where the perspective was wrong.
Nate blinked his air-blasted eyes and saw Chloe grabbing the net on the falling crate, twenty feet in front of him. He dove like Superman, even pointing his toes—
—and somehow she was too far left, he was passing her again. Nate made a desperate grab and clipped the corner of the heavy box with his knee.
He spun away, lost track of everything for a second but the gradually warming air and the high whistle of his fall, a terrifying Aash of the encroaching sea. How high up did a parachute still work? A thousand feet? Below that and you hit before it has time to—
“Nate!”
He turned to the sound of Chloe’s voice, saw the crate only a dozen feet behind him, Chloe clinging to the side. She had one arm shoved through the netting, the other reaching for him.
Nate kicked like he was swimming which didn’t help at all, but she leaned out and he focused on her strong, slender hand, made touching it his life’s work. His muscles tensed and shifted, body adapting to the air’s resistance as her hand got closer. Nate reached again—
—and touched her hand with his, their fingers locking. Chloe yanked him in and he grabbed the heavy box, digging his boots into the hanging net.
The ocean was coming up fast. Nate scrambled around the side of the tipping, rocketing box and saw the chute, a Aat, army-green pack with a red handle. He grabbed the handle and pulled hard—
—and a tiny chute puffed out, followed by a billow of folded nylon. The main chute expanded with a whump, suddenly blowing up like a piece of popcorn, and the crate jerked violently out of its fall. Nate was slammed into the crate’s lid and Chloe let out a cry but they both hung on.
We did it, we—
The box hit the sea like a ton of bricks, saltwater splashing up in a plume.
* * *
The hold was a mess—more than half the equipment gone or smashed, burning crates of machine parts that had to be put out, the broken side door— but after Chloe drove off into space, Braddock closed the ramp and the pilots seemed to get things back under control. Braddock sent Scotty up to talk to them, while Hugo dragged Moncada’s body downstairs and stuffed it into a crate. Alvaro and two of his guys had survived, she put them to work on clean up. Fuck the air drop, they’d land and use Moncada’s ship to take them to Demar, to the Golden Cove. Once they found the gold, she could call in whatever she needed to take it out.
Braddock looked over the supplies they had left in the smoky, windy hold, considering the players left in the game. Drake’s brother had to be dead, she’d seem him knocked off the ramp by the Gullwing… Though it was possible that Frazer had survived, if she’d had a chute in the car. The pilots had been extremely off course by the time she’d deplaned, however, and they were now well southeast of the island.
Even if by some miracle she reaches it, she has nothing to dig with; she’ll pilfer a few crumbs and scurry away. Sully was the real issue. He had the map and that nasty, lucky survival habit… But he’d jumped so early, they’d still been out over open water, fifty klicks from anything.
If there’s a way to fuck me, he’ll find it.
Her hatred for Sully bubbled up, but she made herself look at the facts, reminded herself of her current position. Moncada was dead, and Sully and his friends had parachuted into the ocean, whereas she would land in Port Moresby soon and could have a fully re-equipped team ready to set out within twenty-four hours.
And once I’ve got my hands on the gold… Sully wouldn’t matter anymore. She’d find him and kill him just for amusement’s sake, though, of course, she’d make him pay for his stupid cartoon of a life and all the ways he’d undermined her. And she’d take her time…
Braddock didn’t realize that she’d started grinning, staring over the shattered supplies.
* * *
After they’d crashed violently into the sea, and the parachute had Aoated down over them like a wispy punchline, Chloe dragged her bruised, aching body to sit cross-legged on the lid of their new home—no point in tempting any sharks —and waited for Nate to say something. And kept waiting, as they drifted along through the shining water on their big square chunk of ridged gray plastic.
Nate unhooked the chute and pulled it in, rolled it into a dripping pillow that he dropped between them, then turned his back to her. They both just sat, staring in opposite directions at the misty sea, sun beating down, water lapping at the crate—which was packed with ready-to-eat meals, according to the stamp on top. Vacuum packed and double wrapped, lucky them, since the container had cracked in a couple of places. An entirely different story if the box had been filled with boat motors. And they wouldn’t starve to death… Except, of course, they’d die of thirst long before food became an issue.
Chloe turned her face up to the brilliant, open sky and closed her eyes, listened to the sea birds, the whisper of the wind. Time passed. They were headed vaguely southwest, she thought. And Nate still hadn’t said a goddamn thing.
She glanced back at him, sitting all stiff-backed and silent, gazing out at the endless span of water.
“I’m not going to apologize, if that’s what you’re waiting for,” she said.
Nate half-turned. “You know, I could probably forgive you for what you did in Barcelona, maybe even for knocking me out of a plane with a car… but Braddock? Really? That’s just—”
“I’m not working with her,” Chloe broke in. “Moncada hired us both.”
“I don’t really care about the intricate politics of your bad guy cabal,” Nate sniffed.
“You really think there’s any difference between them and you?” Chloe was gobsmacked. “You and Sully were just as eager to screw me over as they were!”
“Except for the part where we didn’t,” Nate said. “But you would have,” Chloe said, firmly.
“I’m not Sully,” Nate responded, as if that had anything to do with anything.
“Hallelujah,” she said. “One’s bad enough.”
“So, what is your point?” Nate asked. “You want me to thank you for pistol-whipping me?”
“You know what? Suit yourself,” Chloe said, done with the conversation. Nate was too naïve to see past his own brief experience, a clever pickpocket among easy marks. Sully was a professional criminal; they were all criminals who’d been bit by the discovery bug for whatever reason. She had lines she wouldn’t cross, but there was no reward for taking the moral high ground among thieves.
Chloe glared across the gently bobbing sea, noticing faintly that there were more gulls on the wind—and she saw the dark blur of land, hidden by a soft mist only a few klicks southwest. The afternoon sun shimmered through the fine spray.
Is that a… beach?
She leaned forward, squinting. “Do you see that?”
Nate turned from his pout and looked—and stared. Tiny dots moved on the sandy shore, and there was some kind of structure…
“Yeah, unless I’m hallucinating,” Nate said.
Without another word, they both dropped into the water behind the crate, hooked their arms through the netting, and started kicking.
* * *
They ditched the crate when they got closer to the shore and swam the rest of the way in. About fifty feet from the sandy white beach, Nate’s feet touched bottom. They waded in, the warm water pushing at their backs. A few people watched them slog onto dry land and then went back to their drinks, or phones, or tans.
Colorfully uniformed servers carried drinks to the sprawl of rich tourists parked on the sand, littered with canvas lounge chairs. Behind them, lush greenery half-hid the luxury resort’s beach bar. A kid chased a beachball past them, kicking up sand and giggling.
I mean… Nate had spent ten-plus hours locked in a trunk with Sully, then fallen out of a plane. Twice. Doomed to die of thirst Aoating around in the Banda Sea, most likely, with a woman who didn’t seem to like him much… And they’d washed up at an elite vacation resort. A few of the tanning tourists put their noses in the air, clearly disapproving of the two human beings who’d just crawled out of the open sea.
A friendly-looking white guy in cargo shorts and a jersey was watching them from a lounge chair, and as they trudged out of the waves, he spoke up.
“Whoa, what happened to you?”
Nate was too tired to come up with anything. “We fell out of a car that fell out of a plane.”
Cargo Shorts didn’t blink. “Huh. Something like that happened to me once.”
“Really?” Nate took a closer look at him—dark-haired, aging handsomely, kind of reminded him of one of the Brady boys from the TV show, but his features were more finely chiseled. He didn’t appear to be lying, either.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” the guy said, and leaned back in his chair, his gaze taking on a faraway look.
Nate glanced at Chloe, who shrugged as they kept walking, aimed vaguely toward the bar.
“Good luck!” the guy called after them, and Nate raised a hand, but couldn’t muster the energy to turn back for a smile. Must be nice to be on vacation, reminiscing about past adventures, chatting with strangers. He was gonna be that guy someday, assuming he lived that long.
Behind the tropical, thatch-topped bar—they were doing big business with the rum, obviously—was a manicured stone path that led through the greenery, past a lush, sprawling outdoor infinity pool and to a lobby. The lobby was amazing, decked out in fountains and tropical fronds, the desk people dressed in linen, the passing tourists clad in designer swimwear and perfect tans.
Nate fished Sully’s money clip out of his front pants pocket, water dribbling off the wet bills. They’d been stuck in that trunk for a long time, long enough for Nate to get bored… and not a little resentful, when Sully started snoring.
They dripped their way to the front desk. Minutes later, they were led through the palatial compound to a private cabin tucked some distance from the main hotel, the uniformed bellman chatting about their Wi-Fi and where to put their laundry for cleaning and the number to dial for room service as he led them up the short front steps. Chloe asked about where she might print out some papers, having spun a story about the two of them falling off of their yacht, and the bellman said they’d deliver a portable printer, along with some toiletries from the gift shop.
Nate stepped onto the wooden-railed porch, taking in the luxury. The cabin was as big as a small house, topped with woven palm fronds, a wide veranda running its length. Canvas chairs and small tables were placed at intervals between the many sliding, wood-slatted doors that fronted the building. Rustic-looking lamps hung down from the cabin’s overhang, glowing against the mellow, unpainted wood Aoor. Stunning views in every direction, Aowering shrubs and a fountain to the west, the light of the setting sun glimmering a blazing path across the sea to the east. It smelled like the ocean, and Aowers, and was literally the nicest place Nate had ever been.
The bellman stopped at a pair of sliding doors, swiped a card, and then stepped back as he opened them, gesturing with one arm toward the palace inside. Intricately carved wooden partitions broke up the luxurious room, the GOAT in honeymoon suites—fresh Aower petals trailed toward a raised king- sized four-poster on the right, draped with bunched curtains of fine white netting. A big heart had been formed in petals on the ivory bedspread. To the left, champagne was chilling in an ice bucket, next to comfortable, stylish chairs and a cushy buff-colored couch in front of a dynamic wall sculpture.
Chloe dropped her shoulder bag on one of the suite’s white-upholstered chairs and looked around, smiling a little. Nate got it. They’d done the rags-to- riches bit in under an hour, but he was too worn out to do a dance. More than that, he was still thinking about what Chloe had said, that he and Sully had planned to cheat her. Sully, maybe… okay, definitely, but Nate was just a dumb guy who’d been tricked into an adventure, and what made her any better than Sully, at this point? She’d lied, she’d stolen. Anything to get to the gold, that was everyone’s brilliant plan. Braddock had killed Moncada, who’d killed many. Sully had run out on Nate, multiple times, and Sam when it had counted most. Chloe had laid him out Aat with a gun to the puss and didn’t think she needed to apologize.
What have I done? Stolen, killed… Those mercs had been people, he’d been defending himself but still…
Nate walked back to the veranda and leaned on the rail, looking out at the glowing sea. He took a deep breath, let it out slow. He needed to watch out for himself. Sam had trusted Sully, and it had been the end of him. Nate wanted to get to the gold, but it wasn’t about the money anymore, if it ever really had been. What would Sam have done? What was he going to do?
The sunset was amazing. Nate watched it, soothed by the sound of the ocean, the sweet, cool breeze. The suite was well placed; he couldn’t see any part of the hotel except for the stone path leading to the door, reality cleverly hidden behind well-placed greenery. It was like they were on their own private island. Technically, they’d ended up on the east end of Timor-Leste, according to the brochure in the lobby. Demar wasn’t far away, north and east, even a small boat could get there in a matter of hours…
Chloe slid open a wooden door to Nate’s left and stepped out onto the porch. She’d undone the top of her jumpsuit, the damp arms hanging off her waist, and was wearing a thin white camisole underneath. Her hair was still wet at the ends, sticking to the tops of her muscular shoulders. She looked sexy in a way he’d never really experienced—powerful, bedraggled, glowing with life.
She joined him at the railing, looking out at the bright, dying trail of the sun on the gentle waves. A soft wind swept rustled through the shadow-filled greenery.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
True that. He watched the sun set and didn’t say anything, waiting to see which way she wanted to go.
Chloe stepped closer. “I know you’re not Sully, okay?”
He straightened a bit, turned to look at her. She met his gaze and held it, reached out and put her hand on his shoulder.
“I’m not Sully, either,” she said. “I’m not.”
You idiot, look away! Too late. Her gaze was searching his, looking for forgiveness, for understanding, her hand was warm against his back… And the same spark that had kindled between them on her balcony in Barcelona snapped to new life, a hundred times stronger than before. They weren’t drunk, and he wasn’t as clueless as he had been then, about who she really was…
She fucking told you. Now you believe her, that’s the only difference.
Chloe’s warm hand crept to the side of his face. She touched his temple, then the purple lump under his eye, her fingers brushing ever-so-lightly over the injury. “How’s that eye?”
“Still works,” he said, fascinated at the surge of electricity that went through him, at the feel of her hand on his cheek. Until she pressed a little too hard.
“Ow,” he said.
“Sorry,” Chloe said, pulling her hand away. “I pack a punch, don’t I?”
Her hand drew back, but somehow, the rest of her was closer—and Nate thought he liked her an awful fucking lot, more than any woman he’d known, and she was beautiful, and they were both alive, here, together. Later, tomorrow they’d find the gold or get shot or be enemies. In the moment, he wanted to explore her body with his mouth, and make her have to catch her breath. He saw the same hungry, delicious look in her face.
“Are you—leaning in?” he asked, just to be a hundred percent.
“I think you are,” Chloe said, and then she kissed him, stepped into him, her hands winding up into his hair, her lips soft and eager.
Nate opened his mouth, and his knees went weak. His arms came up, pulling her in so he could get more of the taste of her. She pressed against him and he ran his hand down her lean arm—
“Ow!” she said.
They both looked down. She had a nasty cut across her forearm. Braddock? The wound had closed but there was heavy bruising cropping up around it.
“You got it pretty good, too,” he said, and then they were kissing again, fiercely, deeply.
Chloe wrapped her arms around him and jumped up, locked her legs behind his back, breathing into him. She caught the pain sound when her boot clunked into one of the Scotsman’s kidney blows.
Both of them wincing at bruises, grinning against each other’s mouths, Nate stumbled them inside toward the bed. He aimed for the petal-heart on the creamy silk duvet and managed a perfect landing, decorative pillows Aying everywhere. He couldn’t get enough of her and the feeling was mutual, all of their skin needed to be touching. They yanked clothing out of the way, each new touch a revelation, discovering injuries everywhere, kissing them… And then, for a good long while, Nate didn’t think about anything, only felt the singing of nerves and delighted in the sounds Chloe made, on the bed of their private island.
* * *
After they’d done everything, twice, Nate called dibs on the shower. Chloe lay sprawled across the posh bed for a full minute, naked. Just. So. Relaxed.
ENTIRELY satisfying. She’d called it back at that nightclub: Nate could dance. And he’d checked in with her at every turn, seemingly aware of her with all his senses. Anything he might have lacked in technique, he more than made up for by his genuine curiosity about what she liked. He wasn’t performing sex with some self-image in mind, he was with her, and doing his utmost to satisfy both of them with the tools at his disposal. All a girl could hope for on a night out.
I wish we could stay here for a month, and not come up for air.
Chloe sighed, then forced her loose limbs into action. She donned a soft white courtesy robe, scooped up her clothes and tossed them into the hamper, then opened one of the sliding doors. Lush moonlight lay across the boards of the porch, the resort silent except for the endless soft crash of waves against sand. She pushed the hamper out, saw that someone had discreetly left supplies on their doorstep at some point.
Hugging the thick white robe to her desperately-needing-a-shower body, Chloe retrieved the heavy woven hotel basket and carried it inside, setting it on the fine, spindly writing desk by the door. A laptop, a Aat printer, a cord bundle, a pack of paper and some assorted office supplies. There was also a sack of toiletries, and a pair of emergency rescue packs for cell phones, instructions printed across the bottom. Chemical desiccants in plastic bags, basically, and of course a fancy island resort would have something on hand for tourists who took their phones snorkeling. She tore one pack open on the way to her shoulder pack, tossed on one of the suite’s chairs. She still had the gold crosses, and Demar wasn’t all that far away, certainly closer to them than it was to New Guinea.
But Braddock’s got Moncada’s resources at her back, at least until someone figures out she murdered him. A ship, maybe helicopters, more mercs… and she’d guard the gold like a dragon.
So go home, then. Chloe’s lips curled. Not bloody likely. She took her phone out of the pack, extracted the memory card, then dropped the cell into the chemical kit, zipping it up. She’d tell Nate to do the same, if he ever got out of the shower. She was going to take a long one herself, maybe end with a soak in the oversized tub. Maybe she’d ask Nate to join her…
Business first, ya nympho. She wanted to look at the map again, figure out exactly how far they were from the island, see what Nate thought. Chloe plugged in the laptop and connected the printer, then slotted the card into the reader. She’d put all her homework on the cell’s memory card—high-res shots of the map, the satellite image, everything she’d needed to make the pre-Aight presentation that Moncada had insisted on—bad idea, as it turned out, telling Braddock where the payoff was before they got to it, but useful considering Sully currently had the map. God only knew where he’d ended up.
Probably landed on top of the gold, the lucky bugger. Chloe grabbed an apple, munched it while she sized photos and stacked up jobs for the printer. As things stood, Braddock was likeliest to end up winning this one, but Chloe wouldn’t quit until she’d made every effort. She’d rent a boat after breakfast, she decided.
By the time Nate got out of the shower, the printer was humming away and Chloe had broken into the minibar for an overpriced import. She finished her beer and headed for the shower, dropping a megawatt smile on the diligent and talented Nathan Drake as they passed, all fresh-faced and clean in his matching robe. He smiled back, nearly blushing, and her jaded little heart went pitter-pat.
Oh my god, you’re ridiculous, she told herself, but smiled all the way to the shower.
* * *
Nate’s shirt needed a wash, bad, but the khakis were just damp. He pulled them on, unable to totally relax with everything just hanging out under the Auffy robe, especially after Chloe had smiled at him like that. He tossed everything else into the hamper sitting outside—shirt, boxers, two nasty balls of sock—and looked at the small printer humming through paper. Blowups of the map he and Chloe had found. God, that seemed like years ago, but it hadn’t been two full days.
Nate emptied his pockets, dropping their clammy contents on the long, low coffee table in front of the cushy couch to dry out. He had Sully’s clip, his own silver Zippo, a damp pack of Yum, a dead phone, and Sam’s postcards, crumpled but still dry.
The printer kept printing. Six full sheets of paper for each side of the map; it seemed there’d been a more detailed drawing of Demar etched into the leather on the back.
Nate carried the prints to the coffee table and laid out the leather side, noting the red X at Cala de Oro. Obviously, that’s where the gold was… Except, it absolutely wasn’t there, because it was too obvious.
All that trouble, the journal, the traps, the hidden map… and then he draws a big red X on the hiding place?
Nate stared at the X, trying to keep calm but more and more certain every second—no way the treasure map was the final word. Elcano and his crew had put in too many safeguards, the answer wouldn’t be so blatant; X-marks-the- spot was a misdirect. If Braddock was headed for Golden Cove, she was going to come up empty. Sully too, if he’d washed ashore somewhere and got to a boat. Victor Sullivan was as driven as Braddock, or Moncada, or Chloe.
Or me. Nate wanted to find it, to confirm the legend, more than he’d ever wanted anything. Go figure.
So where was it? What was the trick? How far had Sam got, figuring it out? He’d died before reading Elcano’s journal, but he’d learned about its existence somehow. Maybe he really had uncovered the secret, the last real clue.
Nate went to the laptop and opened the photos Chloe had taken. She had several maps of the various seas and islands around Indonesia, and he set the printer working again. He put his cell in the rescue bag thingie and followed Choe’s lead on cracking a cold one. It tasted fine. He was wired and exhausted, his sore muscles pleasantly limp after his time with Chloe…
Man. He didn’t know what to think about Chloe. They’d both had a very good time, the best time, but that didn’t mean they were suddenly a team or a couple. Not that he was averse to the idea of them finding the gold together; Sully had opted out of their partnership once he had the map in his hands. On the other hand, Chloe was still just as likely to opt out if she saw an advantage. And Sully will turn up, once he realizes he jumped the gun. Maybe it’d be better if Nate’s phone stayed broken… Although strangely, his anger at Sully wasn’t as blazing as it had been. Sully was who he was. They all were. Maybe world-class sex just had a way of making everything look better.
He dumped Sam’s postcards out on the table, shuffling through to the most recent ones. A museum painting of King Felipe VI. The cathedral at St. Mary of the Pines. The vacation shot of San Sebastian.
Chloe walked out of the steamy bathroom, dark hair pushed back, her robe tied but sliding off one perfect, golden shoulder. She looked relaxed, happy. Sexier every time he saw her.
“What’s all this?” she asked, stopping at the printer to look through the new stuff.
Nate tapped on the map pages. “Are these the same dimensions as the real thing?”
“To the exact millimeter,” Chloe said, carrying the printouts over. “Why?”
To tell, or not to tell? The hesitation was brief. He wasn’t going to start lying to her now, and maybe she’d have some ideas.
“Braddock’s not going to find the gold, not where she’s looking.”
Chloe sat next to him on the couch. She looked over the scattered postcards, the pages of map, her gaze turning sharp.
“You mean we still have a chance?”
Nate nodded. “The map’s not enough on its own, the captain left a final clue. Sully said my brother knew what it was, thinks he may have tried to tell me what it was…”
He picked up one of the postcards, a map of Argentina. Sam had scrawled Edge of the world, bro across the back, and his initial. “These postcards are the only things I’ve gotten from Sam in ten years. If he tried to tell me something, it’s in these cards.”
Chloe nodded, and he realized she’d lost her lazy, careless air. She looked alert, focused. She started Aipping the cards over to the photos. More than 20 of them in all, nothing in common but Sam’s initial, a line or two of banality…
Just nothing I’ve noticed. Yet. If Sam had known the trick, he really might have tried to send it to Nate… And he would have done it in code, because that was just a given.
Nate finished his beer and set to work.