MoonRush (7 page)

The heavily painted woman tittered just above and behind his left shoulder, a constant irritant that felt like a fruit gnat at a picnic. She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at one of the displays as she gasped in Buton’s ear.

“Look out!” She indicated a blip that represented one of the now numerous sharks circling ever nearer
toward
the wreckage of the Spanish ship. Her breath sighed out in an exaggerated fashion as the blip moved away once more.

“Ms. Broadhope, the team is perfectly capable of extricating themselves from this situation with no adverse consequences.” Buton had helped the crew out of far worse scenarios than the one they were currently facing.

“But why take these ridiculous risks when there are Star Diamonds on the moon, ripe for the picking?” Even the timbre of the newscaster’s voice set Buton’s teeth on edge. He did what he could to keep the disdain out of his response.

“That, my dear lady, is nothing more than dumb luck.” He looked back to see her mouth pucker in what some might consider a pretty pout. His irritation bubbled to the surface once more.

“Do you not realize the level of sophistication represented here?” Buton indicated the complicated rows of machinery and monitors surrounding them. “Over half of these items were designed by a Rogue. Between us, we have eleven degrees.” He watched the woman’s eyes widen in evident surprise, with no small amount of satisfaction. “No, you will never find us on our knees panning some pathetic moondust.”

“Whatever.” Her attention span had clearly ended. She pushed a button on her remote control, starting the recording disk spinning and blinking once again.

“But if they get kill
ed, it’ll make great copy.”

* * *

“Incoming!”
Rob heard Cleo yell
as a dark silhouette blocked the light from the porthole.

The shadow
of the shark
filled Rob’s vision, blocking everything else. His body jerked, the involuntary response knocking him into Cleo. His breath surged in and out of his lungs, and a harsh taste of iron lay on the back of his tongue.

Cleo held him close, her tone unmanning in its gentleness. “It’s okay. The breach is too narrow for them to get in.”

Rob pulled away from her, finding his voice. “Let ’em come!” He was pleased at the lack of tremor in his voice.

Jarod called over his shoulder while clamping a heavy cable to the chest. “Rob, can you give us some tension here?”

Happy to shove aside those dark memories, Rob leapt at the chance to help out. “Abso-freaking-lutely
!
”

Rob took the cable offered by his uncle, and then touched a button on one of his prosthetic legs. Water jetted in a strong burst from the appendages, propelling him toward the treasure far faster than his legs ever would have. There
were
some perks to having no legs.

The whirring from the jets built to a rumble that shook everything around them. Rob cut the power to his legs, but the shaking continued unabated. He scanned in all directions, checking the walls for falling debris.

“No worries. They were worse earlier,” Jarod assured them.

But the rumbling didn’t end. It continued to build and build…and build.

“That’s no aftershock!” Cleo shouted. “Get clear!”

Um, there was no way
that
Jarod was gonna leave this find, this close to the goal line. And if she thought Rob was going anywhere, she really
was
still smoking dope. Rob moved to his uncle’s side, hooking his shark prod back on his belt, ready with both hands to claim the gold.

“Move!” Cleo’s obvious fear made her voice strident. She grabbed the cable.
“Now! Now! Now!”

That got Jarod’s attention fast enough. He whipped
around
to face her, yanking the cable out of her hands. “I’m not leaving this much gold to…”

Rob felt the hold shudder with something more than the growing quake. Riled beyond reason by the tremors, an enormous hammerhead shark slammed against the porthole right in front of Rob, splintering the wood and thrusting its body in up to its dorsal fin. It writhed, caught, as its thrashing continued to widen the hole. It was only a meter away from reaching him.

Rob’s muscles froze, straining, contracting on themselves. Yet with all that activity, Rob couldn’t move an inch.

He watched in sick fascination as the head bulled its way ever closer. The prod rested inches from his hand. It might as well have been miles away.

“Ten o’clock!” Cleo screamed.

Rob watched, detached, as Jarod spun to face the new danger. His uncle grabbed for his shark prod, only to discover it wedged between the chest and the cable.

“Crap!” He yanked at the immovable prod.

Rob urged his unresponsive hand to action. Why couldn’t he move?

Too far away to bring her own prod to bear, Rob watched Cleo grab for his leg, opening a compartment in the side. She grasped the silvery spiderlike shards within. Her hand flew in an arc as she released a string of the tiny spikes at the head of the frenzied predator.

The glittering objects struck, tiny hooked limbs embedding themselves in the hammerhead’s smooth skin. Electricity arced between the mini-
T
a
s
ers, stunning the shark and sending it reeling back out of the hole.

Only as the head retreated did Rob feel life begin to enter back into his leaden body. Even before he thought to advance toward the chest, he felt the distinct sensation of movement. All around him.

The
San Rafael
was sliding toward the ridge.

* * *

“We’ve got to surface!”

Cleo’s voice could decalcify bone when she put her mind to it. Jarod fumbled with the cable hooks, fingers bumping into one another. They were so close, and there wouldn’t be any second chances here. If he could just…“It’ll only take a second to secure the chest.”

Out of his peripheral vision, Jarod watched Rob shake himself out of his shark-induced haze. Rob latched onto the cable, giving Jarod the perfect amount of slack to finish the job.

Cleo grabbed Jarod’s arm, causing him to misplace the hook. Her grip—as well as her voice—urged him, “Don’t make the same mistake twice.”

Jarod yanked his arm back, his face burning. He couldn’t keep from glancing at Rob’s missing limbs. He forced his eyes back up to meet Cleo’s, his glare challenging.

“Chuck’s only problem was not being fast enough,” Jarod shot back.

Buton’s voice broke into their Mexican standoff. “Perhaps I did not make it clear that it was a 6.4 seismic event?

Rob joked, albeit nervously. “Buton likes to repeat himself a lot, doesn’t he?”

“Only when he’s right,” Cleo retorted.

The last of her statement was nearly obscured by an earsplitting
crack
that resounded throughout the hold. The shipwreck had split entirely in two, and the half containing the hold was tilting toward the waiting crevasse.

Jarod redoubled his efforts with the chest. The ravine, the earthquakes, and the sharks were all working against him, but screw ’em. Not when he was this close to the prize. His and Chuck’s.

He felt a tug. Jarod craned his neck to see Cleo looping the cable through Rob’s belt and fastening the hook with precision. The same cable attached to
his
belt. Jarod tried to hit the release lever as Cleo yelled over the intercom.

“Buton, start the winch!”

The scientist’s tone was as even as ever. “But you haven’t—”

“Now!” Cleo demanded.

Jarod strained to free himself as he felt the irresistible pull of his ship calling him home.

“No!”

He watched, helpless, as the prow of the
San Rafael
slid past them, sinking into the abyss with hundreds of millions of dollars in gold. And what did he have? One lousy chest of it.

“You can thank me later,” Cleo muttered.

Not sharks. Not earthquakes. Not the Tongue of the Ocean. Apparently, it just took a friend to
keep him from his destiny.

* * *

Gil Chapman focused his digi-laser binoculars on the puny bottom-feeding ship bouncing around on the waves churned up by the recent quake.
Rogue
s
’
Gamble
. Ridiculous name for a craft, but fitting, he supposed, for that tub. He followed with the lenses as the bedraggled team hauled themselves up onto the deck. From the hand waving and scowls, it seemed that they were fighting.

Let’s give them something else to fight over, shall we?

He smoothed his hair down over his scalp, making sure his thinning patch was masked. Appearance counted. Gil spoke without turning to the dark-skinned captain beside him.

“Time to take care of these pirates, don’t you think?” The man grimaced, his eyes white against skin so dark that it almost appeared blue. The captain picked up the loudspeaker handset.

“This is
Caribbean Fire
representing the Bahamian government.
Rogue
s
’
Gamble
, prepare to be boarded.”

Even the officials in this part of the world sounded like they were about to sell them some sort of herbal refreshment. Gil couldn’t listen to any of them without getting some obnoxious reggae song stuck in his head.
I shot the sheriff… but I didn’t shoot the deputy…

The speaker spit and hissed. Gil smirked at Jarod’s attempt to remain calm. “
Caribbean Fire
, we are in compliance with all regulations and have the necessary permits. Please advise.”

Ah, Jarod. Jarod, with his silly permits and foolish regulations. When would he learn?

The captain acknowledged, “He is right on all accounts…”

Gil picked an annoying bit of leftover pork from between his teeth.

“Either you fire on them, or I’ll hire one of your crew to do it.” Gil motioned to his second-in-command, Talon, who fanned out a weighty stack of bills in front of the now very attentive crew. Talon’s height, bulk, and shaved head were persuasive. The money he held in his fist was downright motivational. “I don’t particularly care who I pay.”

The captain glanced from Gil to Talon, to the money
.
T
hen
he glanced
back to the crew. The frank greed in their faces must have persuaded him. The captain’s grip tightened on the handset as he spoke into the mic. “Those permits are no longer valid. Our government believes in historic preservation. We are here to confiscate any items you have stolen.”