For my wife Nicole.
Every day.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Epilogue
Copyright
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to editor extraordinaire Anne Groell for her patience, insight, and enthusiasm. Thanks are also due, of course, to David Pomerico and the entire team. For advice, assistance, and their expertise, enormous thanks to FBI Special Agent Dana Ridenour, Tufts University professors Susan Ernst and Anne Gardulski, and the helpful people at the Port of Miami.
–prologue– –
The singing began at nightfall, and the dying soon after.
Braulio stood just inside the wheelhouse of the Mariposa, smoking a cigarette and listening to the creak of the fishing boat and the clang of the metal pulley against the winch out on deck. It sounded like a buoy dinging nearby, but there wasn’t a buoy within half a day’s sail of this place. They were off the map. Off the edge of the world.
The tip of his cigarette glowed orange in the gathering dusk. The breeze that swept through the wheelhouse carried the smoke away, but still the air felt stifling. Braulio had lived his whole life on the islands of Costa Rica or out on the open sea. At fifty-four, the fisherman was the oldest man on the boat, but even he had never been in these waters before. No one came out here, and there was no reason to do so unless you were lost, or you needed to conduct business in secret.
Illegal business.
Life had been easier for Braulio when it had just been about catching fish.
“Anything?” he asked.
Estevan sat in a chair bolted to the floor of the wheelhouse, leaning back with his eyes closed. In front of him, the radio whispered lonely static, soft and wordless. He opened his eyes into slits and looked at Braulio. “Do you hear anything?”
Braulio gave a shake of his head and turned away, walking out onto the deck. The ship swayed underfoot but his gait was steady. Sailor’s legs. On land, he felt unsteady. Out here he knew who and what he was, or he had, until his age had caught up with him and work had grown scarcer, and need had turned him into a criminal.
Did he hear anything? Only the sounds of the old fishing boat and the low muttering of the crew. Alberto and Javier played cards down in the cabin. Hector stood aft, fishing rod in his hands, letting his line drag with the current that swept toward the dark hump of the island in the distance. Cruz, the first mate, sat in the bow drinking expensive whiskey, though he was long past appreciating its quality. The captain, Ruiz, seemed happy to let Cruz raid his private stock, but the bastard never shared the good stuff with the rest of the crew.
Braulio took another drag on his cigarette, forcing his trembling fingers to be still. He cursed silently, exhaling a lungful of smoke. His hands had begun to shake several months ago—infrequently at first, but then more and more. He had told himself that his age was to blame, that he had damaged the muscles in his hands somehow while working the lines. But the tremors had grown worse. He ought to have seen a doctor, but by then he had decided that he did not want to know. Still, hiding the tremors from the crew had become more difficult. Just this morning Javier had noticed, and Braulio had spun him a lie about arthritis medicine.
Smoking helped, though. Focusing on the cigarette, holding it to his lips, somehow made the muscles in his hands relax. The whole process—the familiar comfort of a cigarette, the smell and the taste—had always eased his tension and anxiety. It might be filling his lungs with poison and probably would kill him in time, but right now Braulio needed to smoke, and not just to still the shaking of his hands.
Estevan sat in front of the radio. If there had been any contact at all, he would have heard and responded. He would have told Cruz immediately, and the first mate would have shared it with the rest of the crew. But there had been no contact—not from the buyers with whom they were set to rendezvous, or from Captain Ruiz.
That last one worried Braulio the most.
He leaned against the railing, facing away from the island. He didn’t like looking at it, and did not want to think about why they had lost communication with the captain and three crew members who had gone ashore. The last glimmer of daylight burned on the western horizon and to the east the world had gone dark, but still no word from the island. That hadn’t been the plan. The men who’d gone ashore should have been back by now.
The quiet troubled him. Troubled them all, though none of them wanted to show it. They were all holding their breath, wondering what the hell had happened. Not only had they lost contact with the captain, but the clients should have been in range by now for radio communication. Yet nothing.
Braulio watched the upper rim of the sun sinking into the water to the west, and shivered.
Fucking Ruiz had decided to get clever, and if there was one thing Braulio had learned over the course of his life, it was that trying to be clever nearly always led to disaster. The Mariposa had left port in Costa Rica with the guns on board, as planned. The job had been simple—rendezvous with the client, deliver the guns, pick up the cash, then catch a ton of fish before setting course for home. But Captain Ruiz just had to complicate things.
The island isn’t on any of the charts, Ruiz had said that night in the bar, whispering low, his eyes glittering with whiskey and greed. He spread an old,
yellowed map on the table and weighted the edges down with sweaty bottles of beer. But it’s here. This thing is old, maybe a hundred years. Still, what are those marks?
To his credit, it had been a good question. Marks had been made on the map indicating … well, something. Ruiz had thought it an old pirate map, which Braulio considered ridiculous, though he did not dare say so out loud. And, after all, it could have been a pirate’s map. Who was to say?
Ruiz had shifted the rendezvous to the open water not far from the island and the Mariposa had arrived a day early. The captain had wanted time to explore the island, to figure out what the marks on the map represented. The rest of the crew had been all for it. They were young enough to believe in buried treasure.
Braulio had not cared much either way, as long as he got paid. But then, a little more than six hours ago, after realizing that the coordinates on the map were slightly off, they had finally come in sight of the island. At his first glimpse of the place, Braulio had felt his skin begin to crawl.
The island was a cemetery. Not of human graves, but of sunken, derelict ships.
“What is this? What does it mean?” Hector had asked.
The captain, staring out at the wrecks arrayed along the coast, had not responded.
Some of the men nodded, satisfied with that story. Hector had glanced at Braulio as though looking for reassurance, but the old man had ignored him, focusing on the captain. Cruz always had an answer for everything and it made the whole crew want to throw him overboard at least once a day, but the explanation seemed sensible, if hard to believe.
That was when Ruiz had tried getting clever.
“Load the gun crates into the lifeboats.”
Braulio had stared at him. What the fuck? But even as the question crossed his mind, he had known the answer. Ruiz intended to make the clients sweat, try to force them to come up with more money or something else in trade before he would turn the weapons over. And from the gleam in his eye, it seemed Ruiz had been planning this for a while.
That had started Braulio’s hands shaking and he’d lit a trembling cigarette. He’d gone through an entire pack since.
With a sigh, he turned toward the railing, toward the island. The last of the daylight slipped over the edge of the world, leaving only the moon and stars to see by. The island loomed in the distance, the ruined ships dark shapes in the shallow coastal water, but he saw no sign of the lifeboats returning. And even if they tried, they might not be able to see the Mariposa. Estevan had a light on in the wheelhouse, but otherwise the fishing boat was dark.
“Estevan!” Braulio called. “Turn on the running lights in case they come back tonight.”
He heard the little man moving in the wheelhouse, and then a voice from within. “Why?”
Braulio took a deep breath, then began to cough. Maybe the cigarettes would kill him sooner than he thought. His hands began to tremble so badly that he had difficulty putting the butt to his lips.
Why? Estevan didn’t think the captain would be back tonight, and nobody argued with him. Hector didn’t even look up from his fishing pole. Alberto and Javier were silent belowdecks. Up on the bow, Cruz probably hadn’t heard.
Braulio took a long puff on his cigarette, the tip flaring orange in the dark. He forced his hands to be steady as he turned toward the wheelhouse. He’d go in and turn the goddamn lights on himself, and then he would have a talk with Cruz, who would be boss if the captain didn’t return.
Braulio strode away from the railing, already questioning his decision to get involved. It wasn’t his job, after all. He was just an old fisherman. But if he wanted to get paid …
Three steps and he froze, a frown creasing his forehead.
“Hey,” he said. “Do you hear that?”
It sounded like singing—a lone voice across the water, distant and quiet, but rising, like something he would have heard in church. There were no words, just that voice—not quite beautiful and yet soothing, aching.
Curious, he took a step back toward the railing.
Up at the bow, Cruz screamed. The sound, high and shrill, lasted only a second before being cut off.
Something fell over in the wheelhouse—maybe Estevan slipping off his chair—and Braulio swore, hurrying along the railing, wondering what the hell had happened. Had Cruz hurt himself? Fallen overboard? Now that he listened, Braulio thought he heard splashing from the water, and something slapping the hull, wet and slippery. Drunk son of a bitch.
He hadn’t even reached the wheelhouse when another scream came from behind him. As he turned, he caught a glimpse of Hector’s fishing pole clattering to the deck, then all he could do was stare at the big man, who was trying to beat at something on his back, to tear at a limb wrapped around his throat.
The cigarette fell from Braulio’s lips.
Hector twisted around, struck the railing, and went over the side. As he fell, the moonlight illuminated his attacker. Braulio’s eyes widened, but he did not scream. “Los diablos,” he whispered, and began to weep.
They came over the railing then, two at a time, scraping wood and metal. In the wheelhouse, glass broke and Estevan started to shout. Gunshots echoed off the deck and out across the water, and Braulio fled, running toward the only shelter he could imagine—the cabin belowdecks. But to get there, he had to go through the wheelhouse.
Something grabbed him from behind, wrapping around his leg. He let out a cry and it fell on him, tearing at him, and he knew that God would not listen to the prayers of a criminal. In a breath, he told the Lord of his sorrow and regret.
More gunshots cracked the night air. Something splashed him, cold on his skin, though Braulio also felt the heat of his own blood running down his chest and soaking his pants. The grip on him loosened and he tore free and rose, staggering.
Only to see Estevan pointing the gun at him.
“Out of the way!” Estevan shouted.
But Braulio barely heard him. He careened for the wheelhouse door. As he passed Estevan, the man fired again, but Braulio did not bother to look back at what the bullets might have hit. He threw himself across the threshold of the wheelhouse, broken glass crunching beneath his shoes. A dark shadow twitched, half-dead, on the floor near the radio, but Braulio did not even slow down.
From the top of the stairs that led down into the cabin, where the crew had their quarters, he saw Javier and Alberto appear. The sickly yellow light gave them an ugly pallor, and glinted off the guns they must have fetched when they’d heard the shots from above.
“Stop!” Braulio cried, half-sliding down the steps. “Don’t go up there!”
“What the hell—” Javier began.
“Look out the window!” the old man said, pointing toward one of the round portholes in the main cabin even as he moved away from the stairs.
Javier ran to the window, pushed his face up against it. The glass cracked. Something grabbed him, pulled, and blood sprayed.
Something broke inside of Braulio then. He ran, limping, into the short corridor where all their quarters were and saw the door to the head slightly ajar. Thinking only of shelter—of tiny vents and metal doors and no windows—he practically fell into the bathroom. Twisting the lock into place, his whole body trembling now instead of just his hands, he climbed on top of the toilet, hugging his knees to his chest.
Only then did the pain begin to truly blossom in his chest. Only then did he press his trembling hands against the wound, trying to keep his life from leaking out. Only then did he realize that he had not escaped death after all.
Braulio shook and bled and wept, and listened to the gunfire and the screams until there were no more of either.
–1– –
Just after one o’clock in the afternoon on a pristine June day, Tori Austin stepped out onto the
deck of the Antoinette, dying for a shower. The wind came up off the Caribbean, salty and warm, and pulled her clothes taut across her body. She breathed deeply as she walked to the railing, invigorated by the crisp, clean air. Then the wind shifted slightly and she caught the scent of rust that always lingered on board the freighter, and her nose wrinkled in distaste.
Back on land, some people drove BMWs and some drove run-down pickup trucks. Out on the ocean, the Antoinette was the equivalent of a long-haul trucker, with a cab full of fast-food wrappers and empty beer cans, and a trailer full of anonymous cargo. The broad expanse of the Antoinette’s deck carried one hundred and eighty-eight massive metal containers, each one the size of a big rig’s trailer, but the principle was the same. This had been Tori’s first voyage aboard the Antoinette—hell, aboard anything larger than the sightseeing ships that ran tours on Biscayne Bay—but in her time working for the vessel’s owner, Viscaya Shipping, she’d learned all sorts of things about the cargo business and the ships in Viscaya’s fleet.