Chloe heard the distinctive chop of helicopters incoming from the west. She leaned back in the sandy pit she’d been working on and swigged from her canteen, tucking sweaty hair behind her sweaty ears.
They’re coming this way. Tourists, or was Braddock sending out search parties? Chloe looked around at the lonely beach, at the five great pits she’d dug. She had blisters on her hands. If anyone came in for a close look, they might wonder what she was up to… Although as she’d stripped down to a bikini top and a sarong—after sweating through her clothes—she might be mistaken for a bored sunbather.
She climbed out of her latest pit, damp sand clumping on her legs and feet, and shaded her eyes as the sound of the engines grew—
—and then she saw them, one to either side of the towering spire west of her, a hundred meters up—helos lugging huge Spanish ships through the sky, black against the sun. The ancient boats swung beneath the roaring copters high overhead, the carracks thundering over Chloe, their huge shadows sweeping across the heaps of rocky sand and sea all around her.
Sand crunched in a patter across the beach, water splashing in front of her as though a hailstorm were passing through, and the ships Aew east and away. Chloe saw something spilling from the smaller vessel, like glitter, before they disappeared around a chalky cliff… And were there people on board?
Magellan’s ships.
Chloe’s heart was pounding. She looked down at the sand, where something had crunched down a meter away. She bent and picked up the heavy gold stick, running her fingers over the item. Sort of a pitted cigar shape, gleaming and perfect.
She looked around her, saw a dozen more pieces, shining against the sand where they’d fallen from the Aying ship.
Lucky not to get brained, she thought vaguely, but then she thought about how many splashes she’d seen in the shallow water, all around her little boat. There was a snorkel set on that boat.
Nate had never turned up. And Sully used to fly, a million years ago.
Her irritation—Nate had definitely tricked her—was promptly drowned out by the weight of the gold in her hand. And turnabout was fair play, so they said. Chloe started picking up the shining pieces—a ring, a bowl, a bracelet— holding up her tiny skirt to carry the growing, heavy collection.
Oh, to get a look at Braddock’s face right now… Chloe had enjoyed a thrilling adventure, a proper affair, a day at the beach scooping up gold that rained from the sky, and she knew that Jo Braddock was pitching a hissy, right this very second? Her life was on track, she decided.
Chloe gathered the priceless objects, sincerely hoping that wherever Nate was, he was having as good a day as her.
* * *
The Concepción was in bad shape: a chunk was missing from her starboard midship and the deck was swinging again, masts creaking. The Trinidad was pulling away and surging ahead. Nate could see the ladder off her stern, the huge, rotting rudder. She wasn’t in the best shape, either. The whole boat looked like it was compressing, the boards too old to be bounced and dangled.
Nate boosted himself through the top hatch, back into the bright, roaring deck—
—and he was lifted off the last steps of the ladder, and held up over the deck by his arms.
Oh no. It was Braddock’s MMA fighter. Nate just caught a glimpse of his humorless face, a whiff of manly aftershave, before he was tossed across the rocking deck, landing on a broken oar that tried to snap his spine.
Nate reached for his new gun but MMA came in fast, a fist the size of a small ham whaling into the side of his head, knocking him back. His brain slapped the inside of his skull.
Nate instinctively scrambled backward before the next hit came, saved by a swing of the ship that sent MMA staggering sideways. Nate jumped up and ran past him, leaping over the crack in the deck to get to the sterncastle. MMA wanted to use his fists? Fine. Nate just had to keep away ’til he could get a clear shot.
He scaled the ladder, the top rung cracking as he threw himself past the mizzen. Get to the high ground and shoot before he—
A giant hand grabbed his running boot and yanked him backward, dropping him to the deck. MMA snapped a kick and Nate’s right thigh went dead, nerves exploding in panic.
The giant kicked him again, his gaze bright with murderous glee—and then they were both Aying.
* * *
Sully didn’t like that the Trinidad was ahead of them, didn’t know what Braddock’s plan was. There were more islands ahead, but getting lost wasn’t really an option, swinging masted sailing ships under a Halo. One or both of the ships was gonna crumble, it was a wonder they’d held together this long, and—
Sully looked down, saw Nate on one of the upper decks, Braddock’s goon kicking the shit out of him.
Sully reAexively acted to help out, dropping ten feet and then urging the carrack upward through its swing, veering north where there were more cliffs. He could hear metal squealing on the bird’s belly, and started to question how long the harnesses would hold under the repeated, multi-ton stresses. He hadn’t really given it any thought.
Add it to the list. The Trinidad was ahead of them and Braddock was vindictive enough to try blocking him, even if it meant both ships could be destroyed.
He worked the controls, trying to go with the ship’s momentum from the sudden change, but the boat was leaning hard against the slings. Sully looked down and saw Nate and the merc both rolling across the deck toward the bashed open rail—and then they both disappeared over the side.
Shit shit shit! The Trinidad was slowing down in front of them. He could see Jo Braddock on the main deck, gripping the rail.
Sully shot another look down. The kid had held on, he could see the top of Nate’s head down by the broken rail. Looked like Braddock’s guy was still onboard, too, clinging to the hull… Nate was inching toward the stern, the muscly goon after him.
“I’m not losing this one, Jo,” Sully said, into his headset. “So, what do you say I keep my ship, you keep yours, and we call it a day?”
Braddock turned on the Trinidad’s deck, looked up at him. Her hands were in fists.
“The only thing I want more than that gold, Victor, is for you to not have it,” she said, enunciating every syllable.
Have it your way. Sully aimed toward the cliffs. The Trinidad fell back and then followed. He couldn’t lose them, but he could sure as hell drag this out until fate stepped in. Maybe he could make her think twice about her decision.
* * *
The world was a painful somersault of sky and wood, and Nate was suddenly clawing at free air—and then the rigging off the side of the Concepción smacked him in the teeth, and he grabbed it. The rotting fibers sagged. Nate got a boot onto the top framing board just as the web of ropes tumbled off the mainmast, disappearing against the glimmering water below.
The MMA fighter had landed ten feet closer to the bow, had his boot wedged in one of the gun ports. Instead of climbing to safety, the big man started edging toward Nate, his expression grim.
Oh, bad. Nate couldn’t let go of the hull to shoot and he wouldn’t make it over the rail before MMA reached him. He slid right, the main deck out of reach now, the moldy boards of the stern rising overhead.
Ladder on the back. The wash of the copter pried at Nate but he hugged the boards, trying to hurry. MMA took bold steps, stink-eye fixed on Nate’s every move. Sully was carrying them toward a cliff, a wall of limestone coming up on the port side.
Nate reached the back and ran his arm around the corner, finding the heavy rungs with his outstretched hand.
Jesus, Sully! They were coming right up on the cliff. Nate swung around the back of the stern just as MMA was in arm’s reach of the corner, his black clothes whipping in the wind.
“What’s that?” Nate asked, looking behind the fighter, at the humps of rock Sully was about to bash up against.
MMA just narrowed his eyes.
“Okay, don’t believe me,” Nate said, and leaned away, praying that the wooden rungs would hold.
The fighter turned his head.
“Ah fuck,” he said, clearly, in a musical bass, and then was wiped off the hull by one of the outcroppings—there and then gone in a final, sickening whump.
The Concepción drew away from the cliff, swinging back over the water. “Kid, you still with me?”
Nate opened his mouth to answer—and saw the helicopter carrying the Trinidad Aying straight at him, dragging the ship just over the water. He could see the Scotsman in the co-pilot’s chair, mouth working as he shouted, getting too close—
“We got incoming!” Nate shrieked. They’re gonna ram us!
He charged up the ladder and threw himself across the empty top deck as the copter’s powerful rotor thwacked into the boards, splinters Aying behind him.
The copter’s engines whined, the pilot veering away.
The Concepción rocked into another swing, and Nate half crawled, half fell toward the main deck. He could hear boards popping and splintering all around, but the frame held strong, even as more wood crashed away and gold trickled over the side.
Nate landed on the main deck on his butt. There were still half a dozen cannonballs rolling around, and he narrowly missed having his own balls crushed by one of them. Reflexes for the win!
He scooped up the heavy shot and crawled to the last cannon standing along the starboard side, about four feet long and propped on thick wooden wheels, the barrel jammed between two of the remaining rail posts. His knowledge of cannons pretty much began and ended with cartoons, but the basics were just logic. Powder, ball, fire.
The Scotsman’s helicopter rose up alongside the ship as Nate fumbled the bag of black powder out, dumping it into the heavy barrel. Scotty leaned out and fired a handgun, rounds splintering across the deck.
Crap! Nate dropped the cannonball into the barrel, heard it roll to the back as the Scotsman fired again—
Ow! A hot line of pain sketched across the top of his left shoulder. Nate ducked and the next rounds missed. Sully was trying to get away, but Scotty’s pilot matched every maneuver, keeping close.
Nate rolled over, grabbing his Zippo. He could see the Scot reloading, shouting, his cheeks Aushed with fury and intent.
The wick. There was what looked like black straw sticking out of an inset in the cannon’s base. Nate Aipped the wheel, nudging the heavy barrel to aim at the hovering copter.
The Zippo lit on the first try, and immediately blew out. Nate held it closer to the wick and spun the wheel again. Fwit-fwit. Fwit. Fwit.
“C’mon, c’mon, I need this,” Nate said, and another Aame popped up, Auttering in the violent wind.
Nate touched the fire to the wick, which caught and hissed, spitting out Aaming sparks. The fuse crackled away, disappearing into the metal plug on a wisp of smoke.
The Scotsman was waving his copter in closer. Nate could see his grin through the shining windshield, as he aimed his semi—
BOOM!
The cannon rocketed backward, its heavy ball slamming into the tail rotor. White, acrid smoke billowed across the ship’s deck.
The Scot’s grin disappeared as the helicopter leapt up and out of sight, the Trinidad rising almost next to them—and then his copter plummeted back down a roaring plume of black smoke, spiraling toward the sea.
“Oh my god!” Nate screamed, and leapt to his feet. “Shit! Yes!”
* * *
Braddock saw the shot that rammed their Halo. She didn’t wait for the outcome as the Trinidad rose suddenly, the damaged copter out of control, the deck swooping under her. For a beat, the ships were almost parallel, and there were ropes and rigging dangling off the Concepción’s deck.
Braddock ran and jumped for the closest line, a nylon grappling rope, wrapping it around her hand—
—and the Trinidad fell out from under her, Scotty’s helicopter spiraling past it, cables snapping, the frantic blast of the engines whining. The carrack bashed into the rocky coast of a bare, deserted isle below, exploding into a thousand boards, splinters Aying. Braddock saw a Aash of raining gold as the copter smashed into the shallows next to it, still swinging bits of cable. The Halo Aattened and sank like a stone.
Hugo gone. Scotty gone. Half my gold, lost at sea.
Braddock only had to climb a few meters to get to the hull of the surviving ship. Gritting her teeth against the burn in her palms, she pulled herself toward the creaking bulk.
You. Won’t. Win. The mantra burned through her thoughts, beat at her like a drum, carrying her upward through the blasting air. When she reached the hull, she grabbed onto the heavy boards and kicked her way up the stern, winding the nylon rope around her bleeding hands.
* * *
Sully watched the Trinidad break open on the rocks, the helicopter with Braddock’s guy crashing into the drink, and felt like a giant weight had been lifted off his shoulders. No more Braddock. The Concepción wasn’t going to be hijacked back, she was still mostly in one piece and carrying more than enough gold to count as a win.
“We’re home free, kid!” he called, grinning. “You did it!”
Now that they were clear they could continue east, carefully, no more diving or swooping. They could set down gently on one of the larger islands off Papua’s coast, a deserted beach somewhere, and hire a crew to help them unload the treasure. They didn’t want to hassle with any authorities, the government of Indonesia or Papua or whoever could keep the ship; the gold was good enough for him.
A fucking CANNON. The kid was a pirate, to his core.
Chuckling, Sully carried them away from the island chain and out over the open water.