Read Chapter 31: The Second Cache

The engine coughed once, then settled into a ragged idle as I throttled back. The dinghy bumped against the rocky shore of the islet, and I was over the side before Pete could kill the engine.

"Mack, wait—"

I didn't wait. The sand was wet and heavy under my boots, slowing every step. Mendoza had maybe ten minutes on me. Ten minutes to find a hiding spot in the scrub-choked interior of this godforsaken rock. But he was carrying a canvas bag full of cursed gold, and I was carrying nothing but twenty years of bad decisions.

The trail was easy enough to follow. Fresh boot prints in the damp sand, heading for the treeline. I pushed through the low brush, ignoring the sting of leaves against my arms. The island wasn't big—maybe a quarter mile across—but it rose steeply toward a rocky spine that ran its length. Mendoza would go high. Hiding spots were better up there.

I found him at the base of a limestone outcropping, his back against the rock, the canvas bag clutched to his chest like a child with a teddy bear. He was breathing hard, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. His eyes went wide when he saw me.

"Donovan." He scrambled to his feet, one hand going to the bag. "You shouldn't have followed."

"Give me the coins, Mendoza. You don't know what you're carrying."

"I know exactly what I'm carrying. You think Cruz was the only one who heard the stories about the Santa Catalina? This is my retirement."

"This is your death sentence." I took a step closer. "That gold is cursed. Every coin you take—"

"Spare me the ghost stories." He laughed, but it came out thin. "You had your chance at this treasure. You chose to throw it away, turn yourself in like some saint. Fine. But I'm not a saint. I'm a survivor."

"You won't survive this."

He pulled a knife from his belt. Not a threat—a warning. His hand shook. "Stay back."

I stayed back. Not because of the knife. Because of the way the canvas bag seemed to press against his chest, almost pulsing. And because, for just a moment, I felt the warmth in my own pocket—the eight coins I'd kept back, the ones I'd meant to return but hadn't. My coins. My curse.

They burned against my thigh. Hungry. Expectant.

"Mendoza." I kept my voice low, even. "Listen to me. That bag has more than fifty coins in it. Every one of them will attach to you, eat at you, until you do what the captain wants or you die trying. I've seen it. I've lived it."

"I've heard the stories about you too, Donovan. You're not the man you pretend to be." He spat on the ground. "Navy cover-up. Dishonorable discharge. You think I'm afraid of a man like you?"

I wasn't going to reach him with words. I lunged.

The knife came up fast—faster than I expected from a man his age. I twisted, taking the blade along my forearm instead of the belly. The cut was shallow but immediate, blood welling in a thin red line. I grabbed for the bag. He yanked it back, stumbling, and his foot caught a root. He went down hard, the bag flying from his hands and skittering across the rocks.

Coins spilled out. Golden. Gleaming. Singing.

The sound hit me like a wave. A chorus of voices, all of them old, all of them hungry. The coins on the ground seemed to vibrate, calling to me, and my own pocket grew warm enough to scorch through the fabric.

Mendoza crawled toward the coins, scooping them up by the handful, ignoring the way his fingers trembled. "Mine," he muttered. "All mine."

I stood there, bleeding, watching him. And I felt it—the urge to join him. To scoop up a handful for myself. What did it matter? I was already cursed. Already marked. The Navy would take me, lock me up, throw away the key. But the coins could buy my freedom, buy Rosa's forgiveness, buy a future that didn't end in a cell.

My hand drifted toward my pocket.

Then the warmth in my coins shifted. Not hotter—colder. Wrong. The song turned sour, angry, and I understood in a way I couldn't explain that the gold didn't want two masters. It wanted one. And it had already chosen.

Mendoza looked up at me, clutching a dozen coins to his chest, the rest scattered at his feet. His eyes were too bright. "They're beautiful," he whispered. "You were right about one thing, Donovan. They're alive."

I stepped back. The cut on my arm throbbed.

"Help me gather them," he said. It wasn't a request.

"No."

"Then leave. Go turn yourself in." He laughed again, and this time the sound made my skin crawl. "Go lose everything. I'll be rich."

"You'll be dead," I said. But I said it quietly. And I meant it not as a threat, but as an epitaph.

I left him there, sitting among the scattered gold of the Santa Catalina. He was still laughing when I reached the treeline.

Pete was waiting at the dinghy. He saw the blood on my arm and started toward me. "What happened? Where's Mendoza?"

"Still up there. With the coins."

"You didn't stop him?"

I looked back at the island. Couldn't see Mendoza anymore through the brush, but I could feel the tug of the curse, distant and fading. Like a weight being lifted. Letting go was easier than I'd imagined. Easier than I deserved.

"He'll curse himself," I said. "That's not my burden anymore."

Pete was quiet for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "We should get that arm wrapped."

"Let's go to Nassau."

---

The sea was flat and glassy as we made the approach to Nassau harbor, the water a color between turquoise and green. The Sea Serpent moved through it like a creature returning to its birthplace. Rosa stood at the helm, her hands sure on the wheel, and I stood beside her, watching the skyline grow larger.

"You're sure about this?" she asked.

"I've never been surer of anything."

"That's a lie." She glanced at me, and there was something soft in her eyes beneath the steel. "But I understand why you're telling it."

I didn't argue. She was right. I wasn't sure—not about any of it. I was sure that I'd done terrible things. I was sure that I'd hidden them. I was sure that the men who'd covered for me had done so because I'd asked them to, called in favors, made threats. I was sure that running had only made it worse. But the choice itself? That felt less like certainty and more like the only path that didn't end in me becoming Mendoza, clutching gold on a deserted island.

We docked at noon. The paperwork took two hours. By the time we were done, the Sea Serpent belonged to Rosa—lean, low, and fast, a boat that had seen curses and storms and the ghosts of long-dead pirates, and was now just a boat again.

She ran her hand along the rail as we stood on the dock. "She's a good ship."

"She's a better woman," I said.

Rosa laughed. It was the first real laugh I'd heard from her since my confession. It didn't forgive me. It didn't even come close. But it was something.

"Don't try to charm your way out of this," she said.

"I'm not trying to charm anything." I pulled the eight coins from my pocket. They were cool now. Still, for the first time in weeks. "I want you to take these."

She frowned. "Why?"

"Because they were the last ones. The ones I kept. And I don't trust myself to carry them to the Navy." I pressed them into her palm. "Have them melted down. Or throw them in the harbor. I don't care. Just don't let them near anyone else."

She closed her fist around them. "And what about you?"

"I'm going to go see a man about a debt."

---

Eduardo Reyes's office was above a shuttered barbershop, one of those narrow buildings that smelled of old wood and older secrets. The stairs creaked as I climbed them. The door was unlocked, and Reyes was behind his desk when I stepped in, a ledger open in front of him, reading glasses low on his nose.

He looked up. The surprise on his face lasted less than a second before it was replaced by a practiced neutrality.

"Donovan. I was told you'd skipped town."

"People say a lot of things." I took the envelope from my jacket and set it on the desk between us. It was thick. Heavier than it looked. "That'll cover the original loan. Plus interest. Plus a little extra for your trouble."

Reyes stared at the envelope for a long moment. Then he opened it, flipped through the cash with an appraiser's precision, and set it down again.

"This is almost double what you owed."

"I know."

"Why?"

I sat down across from him without being invited. My arm throbbed where Mendoza's knife had opened it. The bandage was fresh. The wound would heal. Some of my other wounds wouldn't.

"Because when I took your money," I said, "I intended to pay it back. I didn't intend to get anyone killed. I didn't intend to lie about it. But I did. And now I'm going to turn myself in, and I've got no idea if I'll ever be in a position to square an old account. So I'm squaring it now."

Reyes leaned back in his chair. There was a fan on his desk, turning lazily. It made the only sound in the room for a long time.

"You're going to turn yourself in," he repeated.

"Yes."

"What for?"

I hesitated. Then told him.

Not everything. Not the ghosts, not the curse, not the pirates' gold. But the Navy cover-up. The missing report. The men who died. His face didn't change through any of it, and when I was done, I felt lighter, the way you do after you've thrown a heavy thing off a cliff.

Reyes took off his glasses and set them on the ledger. "You know what the Navy will do to you. Conspiracy to conceal. Obstruction. They'll make an example of you."

"I know."

"And you're walking in anyway."

"Yes."

He was quiet again. Then he stood, walked around the desk, and extended his hand. I took it. His grip was dry and firm.

"I've had a lot of men owe me money, Donovan. Most of them found a hundred reasons to hide. Excuses. Blame. Threats." He shook his head. "I've never had a man walk in and hand me what he owes, knowing it would cost him everything else."

"Cost me money, not everything." I smiled. "I'm still alive."

He almost smiled back. "That's more than I can say for most of my clients. Debt should be paid, but integrity is a kind of currency, and I'd say the account is settled." He released my hand. "If you need a character reference when the Navy comes calling, you tell them Eduardo Reyes said you were the straightest man he ever did business with."

"That means a lot."

"It means what it means." He sat back down. "Good luck, Donovan. I suspect you'll need it."

I left his office and stood on the street for a moment, the Nassau sun hot on my face. I'd paid my debt. I'd told the truth—most of it. I'd let the coins go. The boat was in Rosa's hands. Jake was ashore with Abigail, making their own plans. Pete was somewhere around, waiting, probably, for this to be over.

And it almost was. One last thing remained.

Tomorrow, I'd turn myself in. Tonight, I was still a man who could walk the street without handcuffs. I considered enjoying that. Considered finding a bar, having a drink, pretending I was someone else for a few more hours.

Instead, I went to find Jake. Because there was one thing left unresolved. And it weighed heavier than all the gold I'd ever carried.