Spanish Gold

By Fred Rayworth

The discovery of a centuries-old journal from a Spanish monk sends Detach and his team on another quest for gold. From England to the Azores, and finally, to Spain, they follow a twisted trail filled with hazards that test all of their skills. Each clue uncovered brings Detach and his team closer to the hidden treasure, but they will have to escape the death stalking them to get it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: NewLink Publishing
• Release date: Feb 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781948266192

Book preview

September 4, 1715

Spanish Mediterranean Coast

Out of breath and trembling, Marco hunched behind a boulder and eyed the soldiers less than five hundred feet down the beach. He made for rocky ground where there was no sand to give away his path, and moved up the slope. Maybe if I can get over the top before they catch up, I might be able to hide in the underbrush.

A shot rang out. The rock next to his head splattered, sending stinging missiles of gravel into his unprotected face. "Dios!" He ignored the pain and continued climbing. On the verge of passing out, he hurled himself over the face of the slope and came to a dead halt. The flared barrel of a blunderbuss stared into his face. Behind the monstrous looking weapon was none other than Captain John Harwood, the man who put him in jeopardy.

Thought ye’d have away with me gold, ya thievin’ Spaniard. I don’t take kindly to those that cross me. Harwood spread his mouth open in a gap-toothed grin.

Marco sagged his head.

So, laddy, where yer stash me loot?

Marco Antonio Arevallo Padilla spoke English like a native. The son of a former diplomat, he received his education in England. His father thought Marco should learn to deal with Englishmen so he could go into the family business. In his rebellious youth, he failed in his attempt to become a monk, not pure enough of heart to devote himself to the Church. He resolved to help his fellow man in a different way. At the present, that way was not working out so well.

I’m a dead man no matter what I say. He had seen Harwood kill too many people for pleasure. How can this monster keep so well hidden? People loathed and feared other pirates throughout the Atlantic for much less mayhem.

Harwood cocked back the flintlock and aimed at Marco’s head. Marco’s life flashed before his eyes.

I can see in your eyes you’ll never tell me where you’ve hidden it. I’ll find it eventually. I can live with that, but you can’t.

Marco never felt the sting from the mass of lead as it tore his face and most of his skull to shreds.

Harwood had barely pulled the trigger. Without substantiating who shot who, the soldiers he had hired let off a volley of shots, killing their benefactor. The secret both men carried, died with them.

CHAPTER 2

Joseph Detach Datchuk gasped and sat up. What did I miss?

At the head of the table he gazed upon the short, stout figure of Samuel Jams Mason, his boss, mentor, and second father. Jams had his finger poised over the play button of a boom box. The sound of an obnoxious heavy-metal band blared out from the speakers.

Ah, thought you maht’ need somethin’ more stirrin’ than a cup of coffee, bo’ah. Jams exaggerated his Texas accent often, for effect.

Jesus, he’s awake now! Barry Kruger moaned, glaring at Jams.

The boss smiled and hit the STOP button.

Okay, okay, who is it? Detach was not a huge fan of extreme metal either, but was still curious. He and Jams had played the name game with the music since they first met.

Old school stuff. Suffocation. Human Waste.

You must mean turd-something, right? Barry sniffed, then stuck his little finger in his ear.

Several people in the room laughed, but not too loud. This drew a grin from Detach. It was hard for him to picture a man in his mid-sixties liking the extreme genre. That was one of Jams’s eccentricities. Everyone learned to either love or at least tolerate this quirk when dealing with him.

Did Ruby finally solve the sensor problem with the diving suit? Jams said.

Not quite, Detach said when nobody else spoke up.

Then, that’s at least one more technological hurdle we’ve still got to overcome. Jams said, reverting to normal speech, with just a hint of a twang.

What’s on our plate for today? Jams gazed into the distance, over everyone’s heads.

Way-ell, now. Detach dragged out the words. We have that thing with the Chinese boat that sank off Vancouver.

"And we still have a good whack at finding the Cyclops." Becky Mason raised a collegial finger in the air.

Detach stole a glance at her. He had been trying to date Jams’s daughter for the longest time, but she would have none of it. They had an obvious attraction to each other, but she would not bend on the issue. She did not want their working relationship compromised.

There’s also the Loch Ness treasure, a voice said from the end of the long table. It sounded like it would fit right in with the harsh vocals of the death metal Jams loved. Ruby Fenner, their chief engineer and the marvel behind the development of all their advanced technology, twiddled her thumbs and arched a brow.

Detach could not suppress a grin at the sound of her whisky-soaked cigarette voice that made her sound like a skid row hooker with emphysema. Cigarettes had ruined her voice, but she only drank liquor on occasion. Almost seventy, the short, tough woman had the twinkle in her eye required of everyone in the Mason inner-circle.

Naah, none of them inspire me at the moment. Jams dismissed the suggestions. Tell you what. Detach?

Yup?

How ’bout another good ole’ treasure hunt? Jams gave him a sly grin.

You mean the ledger. Detach rolled his eyes.

What’s with that look? Jams arched an eyebrow.

If anything we’ve ever chased after is bull, that ledger thing has to be it, Detach said with a wave of his hand.

Well, what else can I say? It’s the thrill of the unknown.

Jams had used that phrase many times over the years, and Detach knew it was useless to argue. No matter what Jams wanted them to pursue, it was always interesting, sometimes profitable, and usually dangerous.

Did you figure out our first step, Mildred? Detach looked at Mildred Pierce, their resident librarian and head researcher.

"The trail might eventually lead to Spain. That crude little clue this Marco character left in the ledger seems to be written in English as a second language. That might make the exact meaning a little muddy. But…if my guess is right, your first step is in England."

England? That’s where the ledger came from, anyway.

"True, but from the way the thing is written, it seems pretty obvious this guy is going to take you all on a wild goose chase that may, and I emphasize may, lead to a treasure."

This whole thing could be bogus. Or, this Marco character could’ve been legit but someone else already found the treasure long ago, and we’ll come up empty, Becky said.

Detach shrugged and grinned. It ought to be a fun ride anyway.

Maria Carmen Delgado lay on the warm beach in front of her family-owned hotel. El Pentano stood nine stories above the beach in Benidorm, Spain. Her tanned, semi-nude skin soaked up the sun and glistened from the oil she had applied earlier. Considered a ravishing beauty, not only by herself, but every male resident and tourist in town, she reveled in the thrill of admiring eyes watching her every move. Clad only in a hint of G-string, she took great pleasure at flaunting her body. So stunning there had to be a flaw, but Maria’s flaw was not visible until one came to know her. She did her best to keep it hidden, not because of pride, but self-preservation.

"Hey, mamacita, may I join you?"

Your shadow will ruin my tan lines. Go away, Miguel.

But—

"Now." She made sure not to open her eyes all the way.

The shadow disappeared, followed by Bitch.

Miguel’s a local. I don’t mess with locals. She peeked around the crack of her sunglasses and caught the back of his head retreating. Good. Don’t need that kind of attention.

The rays beat down on her front side—warm sand cushioned her back through the large towel. The mild Mediterranean surf beat a rhythm. People milled about, keeping their distance.

Maria’s family was rich by Spanish standards, but that was not nearly enough for Maria. Even as a kid, she always wanted more of everything. When she did not get it, she would fly into a rage. After learning her rages did little good, she developed more subtle means of displaying her anger. At first, she was subtle, maybe putting too much salt in the food when nobody was looking. She stuffed too much paper in the toilet and then flushed it until the water poured out into the hallway. Those childish pranks ultimately did not satisfy her and she graduated to techniques much more serious. The tripwire that ultimately set the pattern for the rest of her life happened at eleven years.

Maria heard about a new jewelry store in town that opened to pull in the multitudes of tourists that came through every year. A schoolmate told her of a beautiful necklace with a jade dolphin framed in gold. Once she spied it herself behind the glass at the main counter, she had to have it. At home that night, she pleaded for it with her dad and he refused. She knew it was not because he did not have the money. He let her know that he did not like her demanding attitude. After the argument, he sent her to her room. Enraged to the point of a seizure, she decided the ultimate revenge––kill dad’s prized cat, a Siamese with a top pedigree. That night, she snuck out of her room and found the cat in the courtyard. Playing friendly with the animal, it never sensed what was to come. When she held it, she brought a razor up and slit its throat all the way to the bone. With the planning and presence of mind to come out naked in the night, she did not get blood on her clothes. After the cat stopped its futile struggle, she brought it to the back doorstep and propped it up against a vase. She snuck back to her room after washing the blood off her body with a garden hose. The thrill of the kill sent waves of delight through her body, a delight she did not understand but wanted to experience once more. That desire would eventually build until she graduated to far more satisfying victims.

Maria squirmed at the memory. A rush ran up her body. She did a quick scan through her glasses to make sure nobody paid attention. The peasants go on about their blissful, useless lives.

The next day, her father found his precious cat and she took ill-disguised glee at his sorrow. Both parents suspected her but could prove nothing, reluctant to accuse her without proof. Maria progressed into her teens. She sensed that they were becoming more and more afraid of her, and for good reason. She finally had enough, and both of them died prematurely from accidents she arranged by the time she reached her mid-twenties. The only blood relatives left to her were a brother and sister. She left them alive because she needed some family to run the business while she partied.

With a sigh, she rolled on her side and scanned the surf. It’s been months. I need a release or I’ll go crazy!

Today, the beach was more crowded than usual, and she carefully picked her spot. Down at the water, a young Dutch lad, by the sound of his jabbering, looked like the perfect target. She repositioned the blanket, aiming her legs in his direction. She made sure to open them occasionally. With an occasional peek under her glasses, she could tell the effect by the bulge in his swim trunks. It won’t be long now. Little do you know, it’ll be your last day on earth.

Aaah, what a town.

Elroy Jones drove down Las Vegas Boulevard toward his favorite haunt, the Circus Circus Casino. His original intention was to bypass not only the temptation of the casino, but to get on the I-15 at Sahara to miss the new and improved interchange known locally as the Spaghetti Bowl. Instead, he opted for the more scenic route to McCarran airport. A few months earlier, he was involved in a salvage operation of the Lusitania. His old buddy Detach had hired him as an explosives expert, and after the mission ended, he realized it was time for a change. He returned here, made up his mind to quit demolition work and gambling.

With nothing to blow up and his major vice on hold, Elroy took up his other passion, writing. He had a knack for adventure stories, heavily laden with the use of explosives, of course. His hand reached for the advanced reader copy of Code Name Zephyr sitting on the seat next to him. I’ve done it! He glanced in the rear view mirror. Can’t wait to show Detach, my man! All that typing was fun, but I need a break.

The light turned red at Flamingo. Across the intersection, he spotted the Bellagio water show, dormant at the moment. Time to make a surprise visit to Galveston.

Turning at Tropicana a few minutes later, he sighed once more when he hit the next red light. His dark-brown face and loosely cut, semi-Afro hairstyle, stared back from the mirror with eyes not bloodshot for a change. He realized that despite all the changes, there was one thing missing, and that was female companionship. His love life had been idle for too long, mainly by choice. He could have had any number of women in the past few years, but he wanted more from them than just sex. Though some of the women also wanted more than sex, they wanted different things than he did. As a result, he remained a celibate bachelor.

He found it a bit ironic that he was rich now, the result of some treasure from the last expedition with Detach, yet he did not gamble anymore. There were the occasional nights at a slot machine, but he limited that to nickels, or more accurately, tickets, nowadays. You could not find slots that used real coins in town anymore. The thrill of gambling big bucks had lost its luster. He considered himself lucky he was able to quit when he saw too many of his friends could not. So be it. Time to move on.

While he parked his car in long-term parking, he wondered if Detach would be in Texas. It don’t matter. It’s not like I don’t have the money to burn. What else is there to do in the Galveston area?

Vladimir Perchenskaya took one last sip of his tea, his fond gaze landing on the elaborately decorated samovar at his side. I’ll miss that old copper urn.

He looked around his cluttered office, a book, a photo and other familiar objects bringing back fond memories. A few months earlier he spent some time in America, and since realized the only real friends he had were there—not in his Russian homeland. A former SVR operative, he never had time for friends. The only ones he had an attachment to in his native land were his immediate family.

After returning from America that last time, he received a gift from his friend, Detach. The lid from the crate still leaned against the wall in the corner, the bogus import stickers still in place. With his newfound wealth stashed in a numbered account in Switzerland, little interested Vladimir in Russia.

On the corner of the desk stood an image of his father. A few months ago, he never imagined he would be sitting here, let alone have a photo of his father. A tear formed in his eye. Their estranged relationship had lasted for years. They had their first heart-to-heart talk since the early nineties. He let his father know his true feelings. To his great surprise, it was his father’s words that hit home.

Son, get out of here while you can. Putin is a madman. He’s going to ruin what might have been a good thing. It was bad under the old regime, but Putin’s trying to take us to something worse. I may be in the minority saying this, but get out now.

But father–

No. Your mother and I are old––too old to start fresh, even with the money you left us. You still have life in you. Make the best of it in America if you can, before they screw up their country, if there’s still a chance. His father spat on the floor.

He had to chuckle at that. America was far from perfect, but after working for the Russian government for so long, seeing it from the inside, Vladimir could take whatever the American system would throw at him. He ought to know. He had studied them as part of his job.

His mother refused to leave. You make yourself a good life in the West. At least you no longer work for those…those… It was her turn to spit on the floor.

Vladimir said his goodbyes. He missed out on a goodbye to his sister, Nadia. She lived near Blagoveshchensk, in far-east Russia. He had not heard from her in years.

Snapping back to the present, he laid his eyes on a map of the United States he had crudely taped to the wall next to his desk. Prominently displayed, was an x over Galveston, Texas.

Detach said he had a use for him if he was ready to leave home, told him any time. Any time started as soon as he finished packing. He did not bother to call ahead. He would show up on their doorstep, a smile on his face, and a suitcase in his hand. Maybe he’ll change his mind if I call ahead. If I had to trust anyone, it would be Detach. After years in the SVR, he had a long way to go to completely trust anyone.

He tore the map off the wall, folded it carefully, and stuck it in his pocket. On the way out of the university, he stopped by his boss’s office. The first civilian boss he ever had was a very nice man who, unfortunately, had ties to the Russian Mafia. The ties were not by choice, and sometimes they bullied him into an uncomfortable task. To Vladimir, that was his only flaw, and he hated to desert him.

Take care of yourself, Ilya Stepanovich said.

I will. Hope all goes well for you.

I envy you having the bravery to make such a move.

Part of my luck is that the SVR has forgotten about me. I wasn’t high enough up the ladder to be worthwhile.

"I wish that could be said about my friends, I’m afraid." Ilya frowned.

Outside of the university building, Vladimir took one last look. He had worked less than a year in this new downsized job after the SVR, yet he felt more for the educational institution than the twenty-plus years he worked out of the Yasenevo District. His money already well away from Russian tax collectors, he had nothing left to do but board the plane and head to a new life. It was hard to wipe the smile off his face as he walked to his old LADA sedan.

The earthquake hit early in the morning. It shook the clapboard houses of the local residents on Terceira, the largest in the chain of seamounts that comprise the Azores Islands. Marc Avrill woke from a sound sleep. Later, he would hear airmen at nearby Lajes field, the American Air Force Base, say hangars shook and the runway tarmac rippled like water before the shaking subsided. Though quakes were not uncommon, this tremor was strong enough to stir most people from a comfortable sleep. It caused no panic. It was only enough of a jolt to make the local news. Earthquakes happened often, especially since they were right on top of a supposedly extinct volcano, yet only the stronger ones still rated a news report.

This scientific monitoring station belonged to the world geological team run in part by National Science Magazine. Besides Marc, the trembling woke up the other two scientists stationed there. Jumping up like there was a fire in the building, he and his teammates scrambled to the instrumentation room and analyzed the results of the little trembler.

Epicenter, Jeb? Marc Avrill called out.

Hard to say. We seem to have two sources, not one.

Did I just hear you right? You don’t sound sure. Marc got a ripple of nerves from his bladder to his chest.

He’s right, Snoopy, Louise Franzetta said.

She was the only one on the whole island who called Jeb by his nickname. Marc almost chuckled, because Jeb hated that name, but since she was hot, the kid let it pass. Returning to the task at hand, Marc said to her, Explain. What you got?

From what I can tell so far, the epicenter seems to be coming from the crater and out there, at the same time. Louise pointed north, out to the open sea visible through their small window.

Marc scratched his chin. Can you be a bit more specific?

About a mile off the beach, in about… Jeb pointed his red laser at an ocean bed contour map posted on the wall. A thousand to fifteen hundred feet of water, under a ledge right here. He pointed to a spot on the topographical map as Marc looked on.

Think there’s a new vent opening up? Louise tapped the spot with her finger.

I don’t remember a fault being in that area. Then again, our predecessors did some pretty shoddy work. One of Marc’s pet peeves was the availability of historical data at the site. Soon after arriving, he discovered the previous regime had kept sloppy and incomplete records. He spent many hours ranting and raving to the other two about the garbage they were left to deal with.

Volcanic hot zones were his specialty, but for one reason or another, he and his two companions had pissed off someone in authority and ended up together in a relatively quiet area, on a usually quiet volcano. If this thing woke up, they would have their hands full. Worse, if things got hot, they had nowhere to go. The surrounding ocean was often a nasty environment. Cold winds and high seas were common. An arctic current held onto its chill, even after traveling thousands of miles south. Then, there were sharks and those cursed jellyfish that thrived in the area. He did not think there were enough boats or even planes at Lajes field to evacuate the whole island if an eruption occurred.

All I can say is get ready for the aftershocks. We might be able to get a better reference of where the epicenter is when they arrive. Marc balled his fists until his knuckles turned white.

CHAPTER 3

"Been a long time, ma’am." Jams drawled at the huge video screen.

Bet you didn’t even vote for me, you rat!

Jams pretended to look hurt. Moi?

Houston, we have a problem, the face on the screen said.

The door behind and to the left of Jams opened and the woman’s eyes widened. Who’s that? Someone else is there?

Jams grinned. "Relax. If we have a problem, this is the man that’ll be doing all the work." He gestured off camera.

Is that who I think it is? Detach said.

In the flesh, and she needs some help.

Detach popped into camera view, gave a half salute, and said, Done that already in Desert Storm.

With whom am I speaking? President Madeline Brown frowned.

Jams motioned to a chair at the conference table. His second son took a seat within view. He noted the bags under Madeline’s eyes, despite the makeup. There was more than a touch of premature gray in her hair she did not bother to dye out.

Detach. He nodded to the president.

Oh yeah. Pleasure, Mr. Datchuk.

Detach will do, ma’am.

Uh, huh. The President grinned. Skeeter will do.

Detach arched a brow at Jams.

Don’t ask. Jams wagged a finger at him.

Just one thing. The President looked straight at Detach. "Don’t ever call me Skeeter in mixed company."

Detach raised his hands. Wouldn’t think of it. He glanced at Jams. What’s up?

Well…we ah…have this problem, the president said for him.

If his head was not shaved, the hair on the back of Jam’s neck would have stood up.

"About a month ago, one of our CDC bigwigs went AWOL—worked in the Level 5 containment area. This serious situation requires