Read Chapter 8: Dead Reckoning

The watering hole was a green smear against the brown rock of the island, a shallow basin fed by a trickle that fell from a crack in the cliff. Not much of a paradise, but fresh water was fresh water, and the *Sea Wyvern*’s casks had been scraping dry for three days. Darrow had ordered the ship anchored in the lee of the island, out of sight of the shipping lanes, and sent half the crew ashore with axes and empty barrels.

Aidan walked alone, away from the noise of the men filling casks and hacking at the scrub for firewood. He wanted distance from Redman’s gossip and the cook’s sideways glances. The locket sat heavy in his pocket, a constant weight against his thigh, and the vial of black powder was tucked into the lining of his boot. Two secrets, each a noose if Darrow found them.

He climbed a low ridge of loose stone, following a faint deer track that wound through the thorny brush. The island was bigger than it had looked from the ship, and the air had a strange, still quality—no birdsong, no insects, just the distant murmur of the sea and the men behind him. He crested the ridge and stopped.

A clearing. And in the clearing, a grave.

It was a simple mound of stones, and at its head, a cross of two planks lashed together with tarred rope. The wood was weathered grey, the rope frayed, but the name cut into the crossbar was still legible, carved deep by a knife that had pressed hard.

THOMAS LANDON.

Aidan’s blood went cold. He knew that name. Knew it the way a sailor knows the shape of a ship that tried to kill him.

Landon. Lieutenant Thomas Landon, gunnery officer aboard HMS *Retribution*, under Admiral Sir Edward Hayward. The same fleet that had court-martialed Aidan for cowardice after the engagement off Barbados, where his gun crew had been slow to fire and the ship had taken a crippling hit. He’d been cleared of treason, but not of incompetence. Cashiered, disgraced, shipped home with a letter of dishonor that closed every door in the Navy.

And Landon—Landon had been his replacement. The man who took his post. Aidan had heard the name whispered in the wardroom before his trial, the young lieutenant sent out to fill the gunner’s billet. Then Landon had vanished. A carriage accident, the Navy said. Or a duel, some said. No one knew for certain. He’d simply stopped existing in the records.

But here he was. A thousand miles from the Admiralty’s ledgers, buried under a pile of rocks on a nameless island with a wooden cross that named him a traitor.

Aidan stood over the grave, his chest tight. The dust of the island clung to his boots. He thought of Jonas’s words, weeks ago, when he’d first asked about the missing name on the captain’s board. *Landon was the former captain,* Jonas had said, *killed as a traitor.* But this wasn’t a captain’s grave. A gunner’s billet. A naval officer under the same Admiral who’d ruined him.

And Landon had served on the *Sea Wyvern*. Aidan was certain of it now.

He turned and walked back toward the watering hole, his mind racing. He found Jonas by the casks, wiping his hands on his apron, watching the men work. The cook didn’t look surprised to see him.

“You found it,” Jonas said.

Aidan stopped. “You knew about the grave?”

“I dug it.” Jonas spat on the ground. “Darrow wouldn’t let me bury him proper at sea. Said he didn’t deserve the water. So I dragged him up that ridge and put rocks over him until the gulls stopped circling.”

“Landon was the gunner on this ship,” Aidan said. Not a question.

Jonas met his eyes, and for a moment the old cook looked like a man who had seen too much and wanted to see less. “Aye. He was Darrow’s gunner before you. Came aboard with a secret, that one. Thought he could keep the two apart.”

“Two what?”

“His past and his present.” Jonas lowered his voice. “Landon was Navy, like you. Ran from something, but it followed him. He made the mistake of thinking he could turn us over—sell Darrow to the authorities for a pardon. Thought he’d be a hero again. Instead, Darrow found out.”

“How?”

“The gunner’s mate at the time. A man named Pearce. He was loyal to Darrow, saw Landon writing a letter and brought it to the captain.” Jonas shook his head. “Darrow didn’t hang him. That would’ve been too quick. He called Landon to the quarterdeck, all the crew gathered, and read the letter aloud. Then he shot him in the knee and let him bleed out while the whole ship watched. Made Pearce drag the body up the ridge and leave it for the birds.”

Aidan felt the bile rise in his throat. He remembered Darrow’s easy smile, his hand on Aidan’s shoulder after the powder magazine, calling him a fine gunner. The same hand that had killed a man for writing a letter.

“Why is no name scratched on the board?” Aidan asked. “Landon’s name should be there.”

“Darrow doesn’t scratch off men he’s killed,” Jonas said. “He scratches off men who owe him and are still alive. Landon paid his debt in blood. He was struck from the books like he never existed. That’s the fate for those who owe and can’t pay.”

Aidan looked back toward the ridge, though he couldn’t see the grave from here. “Were they the same? Darrow’s debt to Landon, and his debt to me?”

Jonas studied him. “What did the captain offer you?”

“The gunner’s billet. A full share.”

“And in return?”

Aidan hesitated. “Loyalty.”

Jonas nodded slowly. “That’s the debt. Landon gave his loyalty, and when he tried to take it back, Darrow took his life. If you betray him, you’ll end up like Landon. Buried on some rock with no one to mark your name but a cook who’s tired of digging graves.”

The moment stretched. The men were filtering back to the boats, casks full, the sun beginning to slide toward the horizon. On the ship, Aidan could see the silhouette of Darrow on the quarterdeck, watching the shore. Watching him.

“What else do you know about Landon?” Aidan asked.

“He was looking for something,” Jonas said. “Before he died. He had charts, old ones, that he kept locked away. Darrow has them now. I think that’s why Darrow kept him alive as long as he did—trying to get the location out of him. Landon wouldn’t talk, not even when Pearce broke his fingers. He died with his mouth shut.”

Aidan’s mind raced. The map in the powder room. The location near Port Royal. The governor’s vault. Landon had been chasing the same treasure, or something like it, before Darrow killed him. Could the widow know more? Could she have been Landon’s source?

“The woman,” Aidan said. “The Spanish widow. Does she know about Landon?”

Jonas’s face tightened. “She knows more than she lets on. That one’s got her own secrets, and she’s watching you just as close as the captain does.” He glanced toward the ship. “You be careful, O’Malley. Landon thought he was clever too.”

Aidan walked down to the boat without another word. His boots crunched on the sand. Behind him, the ridge where Thomas Landon lay in his unmarked grave seemed to watch him go.

As the longboat pulled away from the shore, Aidan looked back at the island. The cross on the ridge caught the last light, a small dark shape against the sky.

He had come to the Caribbean to escape his past. But the past had a way of washing up on shore, bleached skulls and wooden crosses, to remind a man that debts were never forgotten. Landon had betrayed Darrow and died for it. Aidan had been given the same choice. The debt he owed was not to Darrow—it was to himself. And now he knew the cost of refusing to pay.

The locket felt heavier in his pocket. The woman aboard the ship, the treasure, the map—it was all connected. Landon had died trying to unravel it. Aidan would have to be smarter.

He would have to be faster.

Darrow was watching him from the quarterdeck as he climbed aboard. The captain smiled, that same easy smile.

“See anything interesting on the island, Mr. O’Malley?”

Aidan met his eyes. “Just graves, Captain. The usual for these waters.”

Darrow’s smile didn’t waver. He held Aidan’s gaze for a long moment, then turned away.

“Set sail,” Darrow called. “Tortuga by sundown tomorrow. The men have earned their drink.”

Aidan watched him go, the weight of the vial in his boot and the locket in his pocket. He’d buried Landon’s name in his memory, but not the lesson. The next time Darrow gave him a debt, he’d be the one collecting.