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  Copyright © 2015 by Julie Ann Walker

  Cover and internal design © 2015 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover designed by Dawn Adams/ Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Art by Kris Keller

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To all the fans who have followed me through each adventure in every story, who have encouraged me to keep writing, and who have cheered me on since the first sentence of the first book I ever published. This one’s for you!

  As the son of a son of a sailor, I went out on the sea for adventure…

  —Jimmy Buffett

  Prologue

  May 26, 1624…

  The end is near…

  The words rang through Captain Bartolome Vargas’s mind with the ominous clarity of a death knell. The seas…the wildly capricious seas had turned against him just as they had done many times before. But unlike all those earlier hard-fought, hard-won battles, something inside him—a premonition, perhaps? Or maybe simple intuition?—told him this day there would be no escaping the watery jaws that waited to swallow his beloved ship and the 224 souls aboard her like a giant blue whale gulping down a gullet full of krill. This day neither Christ nor cannon could protect his precious galleon from the huge, frothing waves rushing up against her hull.

  “Take in the main sails! Make haste!” he bellowed to the crewmen crawling in the rigging and scrambling and sliding across the Santa Cristina’s waterlogged deck. His first mate blasted the command through a whalebone whistle, the three-note trill nearly lost when the ferocious wind caught it and whipped it out to sea. Raking the rain and salt spray from his eyes, Bartolome wrestled with the big wooden wheel, looking toward the east and the roiling wall of clouds that heralded his doom. When he’d awakened that morning to the eerie glow on the horizon, his sailor’s instincts had warned him they were in for one hell of a storm. But so early in the season, he had not been prepared for this…

  Un huracán—a hurricane. There was no doubt in his mind.

  With a violent curse, he swung his gaze to the north, hoping his sister ship, Nuestra Señora de Cádiz, had made it to Bone Key in time to ride out the fury on the leeward side of the island. Upon seeing the tumultuous red sky at sunrise, he and Captain Quintana, his counterpart aboard the Cádiz, had made the decision to split the armada sailing for Spain. Quintana would continue on, taking refuge along the way at Bone Key if need be. And Bartolome would turn back to their home port of Havana—and if he could not make that, he would shelter near the ringed island halfway between. Their thinking had been that if worse came to worst, at least one ship would survive the tempest. But un huracán… Un huracán could very well see them both at the bottom of the sea.

  Just like Eustacio…

  With a grimace, Bartolome thought of the man he lost overboard midmorning along with six of his bronze deck cannons when the Santa Cristina took a rogue wave broadside. It should have been his first clue this was no mere summer squall. He should have sought shelter then.

  He had not.

  “God help them.” Bartolome quietly whispered a prayer for both Eustacio and his sister ship. Then he included a prayer for himself and his remaining crew, “God help us all,” before turning his attention to the south.

  The merciless wind whipped his hair from the clasp at his nape, plastering it against the stubble on his cheeks and chin. He paid it no mind as he strained and wished with his whole heart to see the glittering, welcoming lights of Havana. Unfortunately, with the city still so far away, that sight was no more substantial than a memory. It was impossible to fight the wind and the tides to sail back to her now.

  As if to prove his point, he watched, stricken, while the San Andrés and the San José, the two gunships tasked with protecting the Santa Cristina, each fell victim to the monster waves crashing over their decks. First one, then the other quietly slipped beneath the surface of the teeming water. Their demises rendered even more horrific by the seeming banality, the simplicity, with which they were dragged to the bottom.

  The end is near…

  Those words once again rose up to taunt Bartolome, and he had just enough time to send up an invocation for the lost souls aboard the gunships when—sploosh!—the Santa Cristina’s yardarms plunged into the angry ocean as she rolled violently to her side. The deck heaved beneath his feet. He gripped the wheel with one hand and the slick rail with the other, holding on so tightly his fingers ached. The mighty masts groaned and creaked in dire warning, and the bitter smell of silt and kelp, stirred up by the swirling currents, added to the sharp bite of electricity burning through the air.

  Boom! A burst of lightning, only found in the most turbulent and unpredictable hurricanes, sizzled through the sky overhead, highlighting the determined faces of Bartolome’s crew as they battled for the life of the ship, and ultimately their own salvation.

  They had only one chance: the ringed island he’d left behind just a short time ago when he was still arrogant enough to think it was possible to reach home port…

  “We are coming about!” he yelled to his first mate.

  Nodding jerkily, the young officer lifted his whistle to his lips. Bartolome saw the man’s cheeks puff out, but no sound emerged from the small instrument. With a shouted curse, his first mate shook as much of the sea spray from the whistle as he could before trying again. This time, two short, clear notes pierced the blustery air, followed by one long, melodious trill.

  Bartolome watched through the blinding screen of rain as his valiant crew struggled to do his bidding. When the rigging was ready, he spun the wheel, his muscles burning from the long hours of desperately working to control the big ship. The Santa Cristina moaned mightily, the wood of her hull straining as she fought to make the turn in the heaving seas. But
the instant the secondary sails caught the force of the gale, lifting the ship sharply before plunging her to her side, it became obvious it was too late. She could probably hold together long enough to take them back to the ringed island, but she was far too cumbersome to make the maneuvers needed to safely sail them around to the leeward side.

  “She is too heavy, sir!” the cook’s son yelled, clinging desperately to the railing of the quarterdeck. The fear in the young lad’s wide eyes was as stark as the choices that lay before Bartolome. “We must relieve her of her cargo if we want to live!”

  Her cargo…the tons of gold and silver coins, the barrels of jewelry and uncut gems the Santa Cristina carried in her big belly. It was a treasure King Philip desperately needed to fund the ongoing fight against the English, French, and Dutch—those scurvy bastards determined to see Spain’s empire burned to ashes. A treasure the king had entrusted to Bartolome, Quintana, and the twin ships they captained, the prides of the Spanish fleet.

  Bartolome knew what he must do. King and country first.

  Yanking the wheel hard left, he struggled to follow the currents and pilot the ship from the deceptive safety of the deep water to the certain perils of the shallows.

  “What are you doing?” the boy screeched as the ship plowed up a mammoth wave, the deck going nearly vertical before cresting the swell and plunging down the other side. “You will run us aground!”

  And that was exactly Bartolome’s plan. If he stayed out in the fathomless depths of the straits and liberated the Santa Cristina of her precious cargo before sailing around to the north of the island, they stood a chance against the wrath of the storm. However, half of the wealth of his nation, the wealth his king was counting on, would forever be condemned to a black, watery grave.

  “We will steer her toward the reef line!” he yelled to the lad as another wave crashed over the decks, sending his crewmen sliding and grasping for handholds, and momentarily blinding Bartolome with a face full of foul, briny water. “There will be a chance for salvage!”

  “But you will kill us all!” the cook’s son screeched, and Bartolome once again viciously swiped the salt spray from his eyes, sparing the thirteen-year-old boy a quick, pitying glance.

  So young to be facing the inevitability of death. Likely has not yet tasted his first woman…

  The idea gave Bartolome momentary pause. But then he shook his head and pushed the thought aside, returning his attention to steering the ship through the treacherous seas. The life of a sailor was uncertain at best, and the lad had been well warned of the dangers before signing on to join his father on this voyage with the royal fleet.

  “Please do not do this, Captain!” the boy pleaded, choking on his tears and the water that continued to deluge the ship as the shadowy outline of a small island appeared off their bow.

  Bartolome paid the youth’s cries no heed. And forgoing the whistle of his first mate, he bellowed to his crew on deck, “Away the anchors, boys!”

  If he could catch part of the approaching reef, the galleon would be assured to sink in shallow, salvageable waters and he would have done his duty. Giving his all, his life most likely, for his country and its cause.

  For a split second following his order, all activity aboard the galleon came to a halt, the crew realizing his intent. He wondered if perhaps his men would mutiny. Then his heart swelled with pride when one of his midshipmen—Rosario, perhaps?—began calling out orders and the brave sailors aboard the Santa Cristina once more raced to do his bidding.

  Boom! Another burst of lightning flayed open the blackened sky like a wound, spotlighting the chains on the anchors as they raced over the side of the gunwale, disappearing into the frenzied waters.

  And now all that was left to do was hang on.

  “Lash yourself to an empty water barrel, lad!” Bartolome shouted to the sobbing youth, keeping a firm handhold on the wheel as the anchors dragged against the sandy bottom, searching for the ridge of coral and causing the ship to list precariously as waves continued to beat against her squealing hull like giant, angry fists.

  And then it happened. The anchors found purchase a mere heartbeat before a breaker lifted the Santa Cristina and hurled her against the exposed reef. Crash! The galleon split in two, water pouring into her ruined hold. Bartolome could do nothing but watch as the cook’s son, strapped precariously to the water barrel, was dragged overboard.

  Good luck to you, my boy, he thought as he closed his eyes and lifted his face to the furious sky, the screams of his terrified and dying men filling his ears. Seconds later, a swell overtook him and the great ship, dragging them both beneath the raging surface of the sea…

  Chapter One

  Present day

  10:52 p.m.…

  “And the Santa Cristina and her brave crew and captain were sucked down into Davy Jones’s locker, lost to the world. That is…until now…”

  Leo “the Lion” Anderson, known to his friends as LT—a nod to his former Naval rank—let his last words hang in the air before glancing around at the four faces illuminated by the flickering beach bonfire. Rapt expressions stared back at him. He fought the grin curving his lips.

  Bingo, bango, bongo. His listeners had fallen under a spell as deep and fathomless as the great oceans themselves. It happened anytime he recounted the legend of the Santa Cristina. Not that he could blame his audience. The story of the ghost galleon, the holy grail of sunken Spanish shipwrecks, had fascinated him ever since he’d been old enough to understand the tale while bouncing on his father’s knee. And that lifelong fascination might account for why he was now determined to do what so many before him—his dearly departed father included—had been unable to do. Namely, locate and excavate the mother lode of the grand ol’ ship.

  Of course, he reckoned the romance and mystery of discovering her waterlogged remains were only part of the reason he’d spent the last two months and a huge portion of his savings—as well as huge portions of the savings of the others—refurbishing his father’s decrepit, leaking salvage boat. The rest of the story as to why he was here now? Why they were all here now? Well, that didn’t bear dwelling on.

  At least not on a night like tonight. When a million glittering stars and a big half-moon reflected off the dark, rippling waters of the lagoon on the southeast side of the private speck of jungle, mangrove forest, and sand in the Florida Keys. When the sea air was soft and warm, caressing his skin and hair with gentle, salt-tinged fingers. When there was so much…life to enjoy.

  That had been his vow—their vow—had it not? To grab life by the balls and really live it? To suck the marrow from its proverbial bones?

  His eyes were automatically drawn to the skin on the inside of his left forearm where scrolling, tattooed lettering read For RL. He ran a thumb over the pitch-black ink.

  This one’s for you, you stubborn sonofagun, he pledged, flipping open the lid on the cooler sunk deep into the sand beside his lawn chair. Grabbing a bottle of Budweiser and twisting off the cap, he let his gaze run down the long dock to where his uncle’s catamaran was moored. The clips on the sailboat’s rigging lines clinked rhythmically against its metal mast, adding to the harmony of softly shushing waves, quietly crackling fire, and the high-pitched peesy, peesy, peesy call of a nearby black-and-white warbler.

  Then he turned his eyes to the open ocean past the underwater reef surrounding the side of Wayfarer Island, where his father’s old salvage ship bobbed lazily with the tide. Up and down. Side to side. Her newly painted hull and refurbished anchor chain gleamed dully in the moonlight. Her name, Wayfarer-I, was clearly visible thanks to the new, bright-white lettering.

  He dragged in a deep breath, the smell of burning driftwood and suntan lotion tunneled up his nose, and he did his best to appreciate the calmness of the evening and the comforting thought that the vessel looked, if not necessarily sexy, then at least seaworthy. Which is a hell of an improvement.

  Hot damn, he was proud of all the work he and his men had done on
her, and—

  His men…

  He reminded himself for the one hundred zillionth time that he wasn’t supposed to think of them that way. Not anymore. Not since those five crazy-assed SEALs waved their farewells to the Navy in order to join him on his quest for high-seas adventure and the discovery of untold riches. Not since they were now, officially, civilians.

  “But why you guys?” The blond who was parked beneath Spiro “Romeo” Delgado’s arm yanked Leo from his thoughts. “What makes you different from all those who’ve already tried and failed to find her?”

  “Besides the obvious you mean, mamacita?” Romeo winked, leaning back in his lawn chair to spread his arms wide. His grin caused his teeth to flash white against his neatly trimmed goatee, and Leo watched the blond sit forward in her plastic deck chair to take in the wonder that was Romeo Delgado. After a good, long gander, she giggled and snuggled back against Romeo’s side.

  Leo rolled his eyes. Romeo’s swarthy, Hispanic looks and his six-percent-body-fat physique made even the most prim-and-proper lady’s panties drop fast enough to bust the floorboards. And this gal? Well, this gal might be prim and proper in her everyday life—hell, for all Leo knew she could be the leading expert on high etiquette at an all-girls school—but today, ever since Romeo picked her and her cute friend up in Schooner Wharf Bar on Key West with the eye-rolling line of “Wanna come see my private island?” she’d been playing the part of a good-time girl out having a little fun-in-the-sun fling. And it was the fling part that might—scratch that, rewind—did account for the lazy, self-satisfied smile spread across Romeo’s face.

  “I’m serious, though.” Tracy or Stacy or Lacy, or whatever her name was—Leo had sort of tuned out on the introductions—wrinkled her sunburned nose. “How do you even know where to look?”

  “Because of this.” Leo lifted the silver piece of eight, a seventeenth-century Spanish dollar, from where it hung around his neck on a long, platinum chain. “My father discovered it ten years ago off the coast of the Marquesas Keys.”