The Legend of Waterhole Branch

By Lucas R. Wright

A Harrowing Race Against Time!

For centuries, treasure hunters have sought to uncover the infamous legend regarding a wealth of gold buried somewhere in Waterhole Branch by a notorious Spanish explorer...

But it turns out that one man may have already found it Hunter Pierce, raised in a rural area of southern Alabama, has mysteriously built a lucrative career on Wall Street. He's young. He's smart. He's ambitious. And he has his whole future ahead of him.

Then one night everything changes.

Locked in a treacherous game with ruthless killers and embroiled in a treasure hunt of epic proportions, Hunter is reunited with his two childhood friends - Brian and Camilla - who unexpectedly find themselves coaxed into this pulse-pounding adventure.

Unsure who is friend or foe, Hunter returns to Waterhole Branchwhere his survival hinges on outsmarting the bad guys, masterminding an escape, and putting his trust in an unlikely source...

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496942968

Lucas R. Wright

Lucas R. Wright was born in 1982 in Fairhope, Alabama. After graduating from Fairhope High School in 2000, he attended the University of Alabama graduating with his Masters in Accounting. Upon graduation he moved to Atlanta, Georgia where he now resides. He is a CPA and currently provides transaction advisory services for private equity firms. The Legend of Waterhole Branch is his first novel. www.LucasRWright.com @lucasrwright

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

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The cold steel from a Glock 19 lightly tapped against Hunter Pierce’s temple. He was trapped in his home office on the forty-second floor of the Trump SoHo by a well-built Spanish man and five other men with guns. His body broke out in a light sweat, but his heart rate never wavered. Steady and normal.

Hunter’s indifference seemed to unnerve the Spanish man with the ponytail. He paced back and forth. Most men would cower or beg for their lives, but Hunter remained silent. He slouched in a black leather chair, staring straight ahead while the men searched his office for information.

The truth was, he had known this day was coming.

Where is it? the large man holding the pistol to Hunter’s head asked in Spanish. He then faced the other men. Victor, check the desk drawers too.

The Spaniards ransacking his office were muscular and tall, their biceps bulging through the sleeves of their black shirts. Victor was the only exception, but what he lacked in height he made up for in muscle. He moved furniture aside and overturned the smaller pieces throughout the office with the ease of a champion weightlifter.

"Where is what?" Hunter said quietly, trying not to sound oblivious.

Although he spoke fluent Spanish, he responded in English. No reason to show off for these guys. Now was not the time. He reserved that skill for impressing women, clients, and certain high-profile dignitaries that he often entertained for his job.

The man’s hands shook, and his face reddened. The gold, Señor Pierce, he said coolly. Where is the gold?

The gold he was referring to was the fabled Alonso Álvarez de Pineda treasure long rumored to be hidden in south Alabama sometime in the early 1500s—August 1519, to be exact. Hunter had performed extensive research on the subject and was now one of the most knowledgeable people on earth regarding early Spanish explorations and the various valuables that had accompanied the adventurers on their voyages. Pineda was an explorer thought to never have made his way inland, but the reality was that he had spent a small amount of time in south Alabama, sailing north through Mobile Bay and settling on the eastern shore near the southernmost point of the state. From Mobile Bay, Pineda and his crew maneuvered smaller boats into the adjacent Weeks Bay and north through present-day Fish River and Magnolia River, small tributaries, neither longer than twenty-five miles.

The small rivers fed the bays, which fed the Gulf of Mexico, where most Spanish explorers landed after making their way around Florida from the Atlantic Ocean to search for the perceived riches of the New World. They brought massive amounts of gold to engage in trade with whomever they might find, but the land was scarcely inhabited by Native Americans, who didn’t have much to offer in return. Two weeks after Pineda made landfall, a large hurricane destroyed much of his fleet, and the gold was said to be hidden in a small creek off Fish River called Waterhole Branch. This was where Hunter was born and raised until his life was drastically altered at the age of fourteen.

Perhaps we started off on the wrong foot, the Spaniard continued. "My name is Roberto Ibanez, and we know you found the gold. Now you are going to tell me where it is and provide me with the necessary assistance to export it to Spain, where it belongs … with my family."

And why would I do that? Hunter glanced around the room.

His office was in shambles. The floor-to-ceiling windows allowed maximum sunlight and offered a great view of the city. A huge modern desk covered with paperwork, an overturned phone, and a quietly whirring computer matched the dark-wood coffee table. Two soft leather chairs faced the desk. Books and files littered the hardwood floor. Drawers had been pulled out and carelessly discarded; priceless antiques and vases broken.

The Spaniard tapped his cheap wingtip impatiently. Because if you don’t, I will snatch the life right out of you.

Hunter shifted uncomfortably. His mind raced. He eyed the metallic pistol inches from his forehead. Given the circumstances, he didn’t have many options. These men must’ve already killed the doorman, Freddy. He glanced at the door to his office, noting that a bullet had shattered the lock. Surely someone had heard the gunshot and the men trampling down his door. Maybe one of his neighbors had called the police.

At least Hunter had been able to grab his iPhone and switch it to silent mode before slipping it into his right cowboy boot without anyone noticing.

"Where is it, cabron?" Roberto demanded.

I don’t have any gold.

Roberto struck out with a fist, causing Hunter’s head to whip around. Pain exploded up the side of his face and into his temple.

Wrong thing to say, I guess.

"Have a temper problem?" Hunter asked, spitting blood onto the floor.

Roberto leaned forward, his sour breath coating Hunter’s bruised cheek. Watch it, smartass. I do not have time for games. Tell me now before I decide to put a bullet between your eyes.

Hunter briefly wondered if he could take out two or three of them, but he decided against it.

Even though Hunter was six foot three with broad shoulders and a powerful build, years of prolific drug use and an exhaustive nightlife had weakened his body. One of the men bumped his chair, and Hunter’s fists clenched. A rare flash of anger heated his face. These muscle men were invading his privacy, and there was nothing he could do about it. Hunter hated feeling helpless. He hated that his life had become so pathetic. Once he’d been a star athlete and considered classically handsome with high cheekbones and light brown hair that curled at the tips; however, dark shadows now rimmed his blue eyes and paled his normally tan skin.

Still, he had to do something.

Hunter continued to shift uncomfortably. His mind systematically weighed potential solutions. He didn’t have a lot of options, given the circumstances. In his glamorous suite, six men with guns were holding him against his will and threatening his life.

Ten minutes prior to this exchange, the intercom in his office came to life with the voice of his doorman, Freddy. Freddy informed Hunter that a gentleman by the name of Roberto Ibanez was here to see him, but wisely Freddy began and concluded his message with the phrase Can you hear me, Mr. Pierce?

Freddy had been the nighttime doorman for the building since Hunter moved in two years prior. Hunter had instructed Freddy to use this precise phrase in the event someone who appeared less than civil entered the building looking for Hunter. Again, Hunter had always known this day was coming; he just didn’t know when.

Hunter was able to reach his own pistol before the men came barreling in, but he quickly realized shooting his way out of this situation was not likely. Hunter was an awful shot. He was not able to hit anything. Hunter had grown up shooting guns, given his backwoods Alabama upbringing, but he never developed his skills. Beyond a range of six or seven feet, Hunter was as likely to shoot himself as he was the target. He quickly handed over his gun and stood motionless while they searched him.

Hunter nervously tugged on the sleeve of his customary Hickey Freeman suit and pastel Peter Millar button-down shirt. His mind drifted back to the moment before the men broke into his apartment. He had debated going out for the fourth consecutive night or staying in. Recently Hunter had begun to question his own character. What would his parents think of his jet-setting, cocaine-fueled socialite lifestyle? He concluded that his mother and father would likely disown him. Hunter had many self-doubts, despite being one of the most popular young professionals in Manhattan. He needed to make some changes. Unfortunately, his self-evaluation session and internal debate on the night of April 19, 2013, was interrupted at gunpoint.

Quickly, Hunter concluded he didn’t have any other option but to try to bluff his way out of this and give the Spaniard a reason not to kill him in the process.

Look, I don’t have the gold here. But I did find it, Hunter admitted calmly.

Roberto and the other men stopped moving and stared at him with cold eyes.

I found it six years ago in Waterhole Branch, Hunter explained. I’ve been back a few times to check on it, but I haven’t come up with a solid plan to harvest it, liquidate it, or launder it yet. Spent the last few years trying to put the necessary infrastructure and proper entities in place, but—

How long will it take? Roberto asked.

Hunter’s gaze darted from one brown face to the next, and he gulped. Um, I’ll need at least two more years and probably another five to hide it from the government.

You are a very bad liar, my friend. Roberto grabbed a chair, straddled it, and faced Hunter. Ever since my people discovered that you were searching for the gold in the Canary Islands, we’ve been keeping tabs on you. We have followed you, waiting for you to lead us to the gold, but you never did. His eyes narrowed. Then we noticed something very interesting two years ago, Señor Pierce. You started purchasing valuable real estate. Took lavish vacations, and even started buying cocaine by the kilo. Roberto smirked and jerked his chin at the bag of cocaine sitting on the mahogany desk.

Not good. Hunter’s stomach twisted, and nausea crept through his chest.

Keep your cool, Hunter. Don’t lose your faith now.

Roberto leaned back in his seat. "And six weeks ago you bought a Gulfstream jet, as though you’re some kind of Saudi Arabian prince. So I know you already found the gold, and you’ve been enjoying a wealth of riches that do not belong to you. It belongs to me. He pounded a fist into his open palm. Glowering, Roberto pressed the gun to Hunter’s forehead hard enough to push his head into the headrest. Now I have come for it. I have crossed the globe and spilled the blood of anyone who got in my way, but that all ends today, pendejo."

Hunter was in trouble. If he had learned anything in life, it was that no lie is worth telling unless you have the fortitude to roll up your sleeves, put some bass in your voice, and deliver your message. And lie your butt off.

"Look, Roberto, I work for one of the most prestigious hedge funds on the planet. I made nine million dollars last year. Do you ever pick up a magazine? I made Forbe’s top thirty under thirty."

Shut up! Roberto yelled. "I do not care about lists or Forbes. Where is my gold?"

It isn’t in my possession. If you want me to take you there, I can. He sighed. "Do you have a plan to move sixteen thousand pounds of gold from Waterhole Branch? Because I don’t. Truthfully, I can make a lot more money at my current job than a measly finder’s fee on some Spanish gold. So why bother?"

Roberto lowered his gun and turned his back to Hunter as if he were deciding Hunter’s fate. The first flicker of real fear slipped out from beneath his cold exterior. An icy sensation crept up his spine.

The Spaniard must be planning to just shoot me in the head.

"Fine, we leave tonight, Roberto said to his henchmen, and then he turned toward Hunter. Señor Pierce, we are going to need your plane. I trust you can make this happen without delay?"

Hunter breathed a sigh of relief. The Spaniard had bought it. Getting the plane was no problem. No, the real dilemma would arise once they arrived at Waterhole Branch.

I can arrange to have the plane ready in about an hour, Hunter said, forcing his voice past the lump of dread that threatened to clog his throat. I’ll need my cell phone and wallet so I can call the hangar and alert the pilots. The nearest airport that can handle a plane that size is Pensacola. About forty-five minutes from Magnolia Springs.

Roberto scratched his chin and then handed Hunter his primary work phone, a BlackBerry, and wallet. While Hunter made the necessary calls, he noticed that Roberto made a call too. He couldn’t hear the entire conversation, but he overheard the line Bring her to the airport.

Sirens blared in the distance. The police were no more than two minutes away. Hunter could try stalling, but Roberto seemed too smart for something so obvious.

Let’s move out! Roberto ordered, and he seized the bag of cocaine, sealing the container and slipping it into his pocket.

Then he grabbed Hunter by the back of the collar, lifted him out of the chair, and walked him to the front door. The men tucked their weapons back into their holsters, and everybody took the elevator down to the parking garage. A black Suburban was parked in the quiet lot with its usual driver, Charles, behind the wheel. They got into the SUV, and Roberto rode shotgun.

To LaGuardia, Charles, Hunter mumbled after slamming the car door.

No luggage, sir? Charles asked.

Not this trip. These guys just want to look at my beach house. Been trying to sell that headache for two years, Hunter said smoothly.

Charles nodded and started the engine. He drove out of the garage and merged with oncoming traffic. The driver softly hummed to Lionel Richie while they drove to the airport.

The phone in Hunter’s boot rubbed against his leg. He had to find a way to contact someone before the plane took off. His list of trusted allies was short. He could reach out to Walker Stephens, his closest friend, a young congressman in Washington, DC. Stephens was a powerful friend, but he was no use against Spanish vigilantes. Hunter thought of Josh Simpson, his old friend from college. Josh was fantastic young lawyer, and while his services might be critical at some point, he wasn’t the right choice.

Ultimately, Hunter could only think of one person who was capable of getting him out of this huge mess. One of Hunter’s oldest friends and possibly the toughest guy that ever graduated from the Navy SEAL program came to mind. Brian Andrews.

Twenty minutes later, the group pulled up to LaGuardia Airport and Charles flashed his credentials to get clearance.

Now inform these guards that another car will be arriving shortly, and ensure that they’ll have clearance, too, Roberto instructed.

Charles turned to the gate agent. Hey, man, another car will be here soon. Can you make sure they are waved through?

The man grabbed his clipboard and pen. Sure. I’ll just need their names.

Charles turned around to look with raised eyebrows at Hunter, who then glanced at Roberto.

Abilio Ibanez and Camilla Dawson, Roberto said briskly.

No way. Absolutely no way. Goosebumps prickled Hunter’s arms. Camilla is alive?

His body went numb. Hunter had not heard that name in over fourteen years, despite having recited it in his head hundreds of times.

The SUV proceeded through the security gate and stopped outside the hangar, which housed Hunter’s personal jet, a spectacular Gulfstream plane. The large door opened and a staircase rolled into position beneath the doorway. The pilots were already busy prepping the aircraft.

The headlights of another car flashed, and a black Mercedes pulled into the hangar. Roberto got out and walked over to the sleek car. The other men and Hunter slipped from the SUV and waited.

Roberto opened the back door, and a statuesque Spanish man with a long scar under his left eye emerged. Hunter recognized him instantly, and that fear he so effortlessly suppressed rose through his blood.

Behind the scar-faced Spaniard, a rather tall, thin woman with an olive complexion stepped out and walked toward the pale-faced Hunter. His heart galloped in his chest. The woman coming toward him was wearing a black dress that had been tailored to accentuate her womanly shape. Her long black hair blew across her strikingly attractive face.

She stopped right in front of him and looked Hunter up and down. Hello, Hunter.

Camilla, Hunter said, unable to utter more than her name. He then mentally kicked himself.

Speak up. At least be polite.

She smoothed down her hair and said in a voice dripping with sugar, I understand you’re going to take us to our gold?

CHAPTER 2

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The phrase our gold hit Hunter in the face like a lead pipe. His knees weakened. He repeated the phrase over and over again in his head. He snapped back into form. Abilio walked past them with a black duffel bag and nodded his head, signaling Camilla and the rest of the crew to board the plane.

After you, Abilio said, quietly smirking at Hunter.

Reluctantly Hunter followed.

Control the fear. Control the anger.

Hunter collected his wits and calmly instructed the pilots to lower the steps to the plane and confirm they were scheduled to depart for Pensacola Airport momentarily. The pilots acknowledged the group was set to arrive at Pensacola Airport at 11:00 p.m. CST, roughly ninety minutes from their departure time.

After the steps descended, Abilio and Roberto followed Hunter on board and signaled the other men to follow without anyone saying a word. The silence worked well for Hunter. He didn’t want to waste any time conversing with his captors or Camilla. Rather, he needed to focus on how he was going to get in touch with Brian.

Brian and Hunter had grown up together in Magnolia Springs, Alabama. Magnolia Springs was a small town in south Alabama adjacent to Fish River. It currently had about seven hundred residents. When Hunter was growing up, it felt as though there were fewer than one hundred people in the small country town. Its occupants were mostly farmers or people who worked on the farms. Julio Jones, the professional football player and University of Alabama standout, was born and raised near Magnolia Springs, but no one else of importance came from the region. The nearest cities of any size were Mobile, Alabama, and Pensacola, Florida, each about forty minutes away by car. Hunter’s parents built a house at the very end of Waterhole Branch, a tributary of Fish River, in 1989.

The branch was three miles long, with only the first two miles navigable by any sort of sizable boat. The house was of average size, with two bedrooms and a large living room area. It was stained a dark chestnut color and had green shingles. The Pierces had an elevated porch that wrapped all the way around the house. Only Hunter, his mother, and his father inhabited the small cabin-like house.

Hunter’s mother was a simple lady, and her dream was to have a house in the country with a wraparound screened-in porch. Land in rural Alabama in the late 1980s was extremely cheap, and the modest family was able to afford the house despite Hunter’s mother being a teacher at the local high school and his father maintaining a low-level sales job at a steel distributor in Mobile. They didn’t make a lot of money, but people didn’t need a lot in Magnolia Springs. The family had two acres of land with 130 feet of waterfront property on the small creek.

Their neighbors, the Andrews, owned the adjacent eight acres, with only the tail of the property, roughly sixty feet, on the water. The creek curved around their property to flow south along the Dawson estate. Joseph and Contessa Dawson—parents of Camilla Dawson, who was currently sitting across from Hunter on his Gulfstream jet—owned most of the land in Magnolia Springs. The Dawson family settled the Magnolia Springs area two hundred years prior and laid claim to most of the acreage when obtaining land in America was as simple as declaring it was yours and shooting anyone who attempted to disagree.

Both Hunter’s and Brian’s families purchased their land from the Dawsons, as did most of the people living in Magnolia Springs. The rest was in the possession of the township, which was quite a bit of hilly waterfront land covered in cypress trees and larger oak trees farther inland. Magnolia Springs was mostly farmland, timberland (pine trees), and waterfront property consisting of swamps, marsh, and wooded land on Fish River and its tributaries.

Meet at the creek! was a popular phrase yelled with youthful excitement by Brian, Camilla, and Hunter during their childhood. They had known each other since Brian was seven, Hunter was six, and Camilla was four years of age. Camilla turned five that August, so she was only one grade behind Hunter in school. They played together every single day while growing up. There were no other kids within twelve miles, and they had seemingly infinite swampland, woods, and fields to explore. A single dirt road, Sandy Lane, connected all of their houses to the paved County Road 24, which lay about a mile off the property.

Daily the kids rode tricycles up and down Sandy Lane, stopping to play in the sand and perform other menial tasks young kids did when they lacked the imagination or motor skills to do anything more productive. This worked out well for Camilla, and the boys didn’t mind having her along. Until Brian and Hunter were eleven or twelve years old, Camilla was taller, stronger, and more athletic than they were. She got along great with the two boys, and not a day went by that they didn’t play along Sandy Lane or venture into the woods.

The kids got older, and they started playing sports on a daily basis. Camilla did her best to participate. They would play baseball during baseball season, football during football season, basketball during basketball season, and myriad other hobbies, such as soccer, tennis, tennis baseball (baseball with tennis rackets), and Frisbee golf. Unfortunately for Camilla, the activity the boys enjoyed the most was fishing, an event she despised. From ages ten through fourteen, Brian and Hunter would fish every day of the warm weather months, either along the banks or in one of two little eight-foot aluminum johnboats that they kept down by the creek. Camilla would tag along, but she was mostly in the way and essentially hated it. But Camilla reasoned that a miserable day on the water with Brian and Hunter was better than sitting alone on Sandy Lane.

Before they had boats, the kids had to fish off the bank, and Camilla’s family owned the most waterfront property by far, so she would always threaten to force them to leave if they didn’t participate in some of the activities she wanted to do. Naturally, the boys had to capitulate to keep her and her parents happy so they could continue to roam freely across the land owned by the three families.

All three of their houses had humongous backyards that stretched from the rear of the houses down to the creek; it was approximately one hundred yards from the houses to the water. Camilla’s land lay to the west and was eighty acres in total. This was gigantic compared to the combined ten acres owned by Hunter’s and Brian’s families. Ironically, none of the parents were friends. All of the adults were introverted, while the kids had personalities larger than life. Both Camilla and Hunter were only children, while Brian had three much older brothers who were in and out of jail and were the scum of the earth—generally speaking, of course. All three dropped out of high school, and none were around much. Hunter hated it when Brian’s brothers showed up unannounced. Brian looked up to his brothers, and Hunter was always afraid that his best friend would adopt the scandalous, troublemaking lifestyles of the dreaded trio of older siblings. Brian’s father was an out-of-work alcoholic that left the family when Brian was three. His mother was a loudmouthed disabled factory worker living off of the government. Neither of Brian’s parents graduated high school, and his mother was tough to communicate with. She lacked class and was quite uncouth.

Camilla’s father was a fifth-generation farmer and grew corn, cotton, and peanuts on their vast acreage of land directly on the outskirts of Magnolia Springs, approximately seven miles from their estate. Camilla’s mother was a dark-skinned Hispanic woman whose family used to work in the Dawson cotton fields. Because he was from south Alabama and was inherently incompetent when it came to ethnicity, Hunter assumed Mrs. Dawson was Mexican. Most of the people working the fields were Mexican, and while Camilla’s mother was darker and taller than most of the Mexican workers, she spoke with a Spanish accent, and, well, that was good enough for Hunter to make his judgment. Mexican it was.

Hunter stared silently across the plane at Camilla, who was playing with her cell phone. He let the memories of their youth flood his unconscious. Hunter was nervous. He watched Camilla intently while she typed rapidly on the small phone. Her face was stern. All business. Hunter gazed at the Spanish men and then back at Camilla. Hunter was starting to think Mrs. Dawson was of Spanish descent. Call it a hunch.

Hunter’s parents, Emory and Sue Pierce, had grown up in central Alabama in two towns about thirty miles apart but equally indigent and decrepit. His father was from Pine Hill, and his mother was from Linden. Neither town had much going for it since the invention of the train or the motorized vehicle, given both towns had evolved around shipping logs down the rivers.

The local workers wouldn’t use boats for shipping logs and other goods; rather, they floated them and allowed the current to transport the logs south. The Alabama River was the vessel for the Pine Hill–based loggers, and the Tombigbee River for the Linden loggers. The economic backbone of these towns, and others in the mid-1800s, hinged upon people cutting down trees and tossing them into a river so they would float the one hundred miles south to Mobile. This was not a bad line of work for 1850, but needless to say, Hunter was a little disappointed his ancestors hadn’t had the foresight to pack up their belongings and move the first time a train whizzed through town.

That said, Hunter later made a small fortune selling short the debt of camera companies, movie rental companies, newspapers, and other print media companies that were doomed to

Reviews for The Legend of Waterhole Branch

[fictionzeal · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is a modern day treasure hunt. The place where “X marks the spot” is in south Alabama where Hunter Pierce, Camilla Dawson, and Brian Andrews grew up together and came to know the place like the back of their hands. It was here that life took a drastic turn in 1999 for the three who were teenagers. The parents of Hunter and Brian had been killed. Camille’s father had also been killed, but the ruthless Spaniards abducted Camille and her mother. They were never located by authorities. Hunter and Brian went to live with relatives, keeping in touch for a while but less often as time goes on.Hunter went on to college obtaining a degree in finance. He did well, grabbing a prominent career in Manhattan’s financial district. After college, he became obsessed with the fabled treasure that had caused his parents their lives. He did extensive research into explorer Alonso Alvarez de Pineda and the treasure of gold and pearls that was supposedly hidden in Magnolia Springs in 1519; more specifically, Waterhole Branch in a creek located off Fish River.The story actually picks up with Hunter being grabbed at gunpoint in Manhattan in April 2013. He recognizes Abilio Ibanez by the scar on his face. He is the one that murdered his parents. They have Camilla with them. Is she part of their group now or is she seeking freedom? They overlook Hunter’s cell phone and as soon as he gets an opportunity, he leaves a message for Brian who had graduated from the Navy Seal program. Hunter is being forced back to Alabama; Abilio is once again demanding the gold. Hunter needs to insert a delay long enough for Brian to get into place.This is Lucas Wright’s debut novel While the background information is essential to show the character development of Hunter, Brian, and Camilla, there is actually quite a lot which had no impact on the current situation nor the main story line and slowed down the pace. The narration between the children was light and heart-warming. The scenery descriptions were well done, allowing the reader a glimpse into this swampy wooded terrain where Hunter, Brian, and Camille grew up. While I completely understood why the mobsters would think Hunter had obtained the treasure, it wasn’t clear to me why they would have thought the parents knew the whereabouts of the gold. I rated The Legend of Waterhole Branch at 3.5 out of 5.