The Rush (5 page)

A voice interrupted her vigil. “The GPS tether is only functioning
at 24.7 percent.” Buton, their resident computer expert, said as he lurched
across the deck of the Rogues’ Gamble. He had been working with them for over a
year; yet somehow, he never quite managed to find his sea legs. His tweed suit
with leather patches on the elbows, as well as the laser-precision of his
British accent overlaying his Mumbai heritage, spoke of his many years at
Oxford. “But at last sweep, it appears that Jarod is surfacing.”

“Thanks for the update,” Cleo answered, reaching out a hand
to steady him. Buton latched onto the proffered arm before transferring the
steely grip onto the railing. “You didn’t have to come down to tell me, though.”

“I knew you were…concerned. The history here—”

“I’m just up here to be ready when Jarod finds a way to
complicate things.”

“That is not necessarily the predetermined outcome of this…”
Buton must have noticed her eyebrow arching, for he stopped, and then nodded. “Agreed.”

He was right to agree, wasn’t he? They’d been here for over
a week without a single mishap. History didn’t need to necessarily repeat
itself, did it?

“Well then, I will be getting back to the bridge,” Buton
responded, his face as academically impassive and inscrutable as always.

Perhaps she had been too harsh and too eager to shut down
any discussion of the dive. Cleo went to say something to the retreating
figure, but instead stifled a laugh. Buton’s arms extended as far out as he
could possibly get them, swaying from side to side as he made his way back to
the bridge.

“Hey!” A voice called out from the water. “Can I get some
help down here?”

Buton spun around, lost his footing, and would have fallen
overboard if it hadn’t been for Cleo’s intervention.

“Hang on. Don’t let go,” she instructed Buton, pressing his
palms against the railing before turning to survey the water. Jarod’s tanned
face bobbed above the surface as his sun-bleached hair spread out around him.
His grin was incandescent, lighting up the water. Or maybe that was the
sunlight reflecting off the bright gold goblet clutched in Jarod’s fist. A ray
glinted off a jewel and embedded itself in the back of Cleo’s brain.

Jarod crowed his excitement as he hauled himself up on the
side of the ship. “Tell me this isn’t fifteenth-century Spanish!”

He hopped over the railing, sending salt water spraying over
Cleo and Buton, as well as Jarod’s rapidly approaching nephew, Rob. Once the
teen saw the jewel-encrusted bauble in his uncle’s hands, he let out a huge
whoop.

“Yes!”

“I know, right?” Jarod’s cat-eating-the-canary grin grew to even
greater proportions. “Let’s get outfitted, guys! This find ain’t gonna wait.”

“What about sharks, Jarod?” Cleo hoped her caution could cut
across the guys’ enthusiasm.

“No sharks. We’re good.” Jarod’s smile didn’t even flicker.
But she knew…she could feel…that at least thirty-five hundred hammerheads were
within a fifty-league radius. And he hadn’t run into a single one? Yeah, right.
Just because she lacked proof from the radar didn’t make her a complete moron.

The boat lurched, knocking everyone but Jarod to the deck.
The prow of the Rogues’ Gamble listed toward starboard, churned by the suddenly
restless waters. Everyone grabbed whatever he or she could to ride it out.

Jarod recovered, calling out, “No worries, people! Just an
aftershock!”

Rising, Cleo looked out at the surging waters and cocked an
eyebrow. Earthquakes were known to agitate the hammerheads into feeding
frenzies. And without radar down there, they had to rely on eyewitness
accounts.

“You’re certain there weren’t any sharks down there?”

“I told you, no!” Jarod held up the goblet. “Now, who wants
to celebrate?”

The second cheer nearly deafened her as Buton, Jarod, and
Rob headed for the bridge. Cleo looked back into the slowly subsiding waters, a
flash of movement catching her eye.

“Cleo, we’re breaking out the rum!” Rob’s face peered out
from the bridge. “Well, Uncle Jare says rum cake for me, but you’re missing it!”

Cleo beamed at the boy, watching him retreat inside. She
glanced once more at the still-seething waters, the smile slipping from her
face.

* * *

The farmstead showed signs of not just wear, but decay. The
rolling hills were verdant, but distinctly overgrown. The equipment dotting the
property looked like something out of a postapocalyptic film.

The old house appeared ready to fall down—if not for the
abundant ivy covering the walls. A doorway-shaped patch had been cut out of the
intruding vines. Within that slight hollow, two men in black suits labored to
post a notice onto the peeled-paint surface of what must have been, in more
prosperous times, a proper door.

Inside, the atmosphere was cozier, if no less run-down. The
kitchen was small, colored in the yellow-orange, avocado, and tan shades of the
late fifties. Knickknacks and framed photos of family covered every inch of
every wall and shelf. Plaster-of-Paris red roosters, old milk bottles filled
with fake flowers, and salt and pepper shakers of all kinds dotted the meager
counter space.

The farmer let his hand fall away from the threadbare
curtain covering the window above the sink. From where he stood, he had a
perfect view of the two black vultures with their vile eviction papers.

“They can’t…We’re the last family-owned farm in the county.”

“I know it, John Henry. You know it. But the bank just don’t
care about it.” His wife glanced up from her knitting, the soft click, click of
her needles never slowing for a moment. “Those bastards wouldn’t know kindness
if it slapped them across their ugly faces.” She squinted at the framed
painting of Jesus on the wall and waved a halfhearted apology at him.

“Maybe I should get out my shotgun.”

“Maybe you should.”

John Henry stared out at the men, undecided. Before he could
take action, the suits were done and headed down the long, dirt driveway. That
was it. After centuries of working this land, the family name would leave the
county for good.

A bright spot of light seared across his vision, landing
less than twenty yards from the farmhouse, right in front of the chicken coop.
The birds clamored, their raucous clucking filling up the late evening air.

“Doggone-it! Something done scared the chickens, Martha.” He
shook his head to clear out the bright stripe across his vision with no
success. “I’m gonna head out and see what’s got them so stirred up.”

“Mmm hmm,” she agreed. Martha’s knitting continued,
implacable.

John Henry grabbed his flashlight and ran, or rather
trotted, out to the henhouse. His knees weren’t what they once had been. About
fifteen feet in front and to the east side of the decrepit structure, a small
pit glowed with a ruddy light.

“What the…? Martha! Come see this!”

Martha strolled across the yard, needles still tracing
circles in the low light. Her ball of yarn was stuffed in her pocket. He felt
her move beside him.

“It’s just a rock,” Martha said, purling a row.

John Henry smiled, though, flashing the light across the
fragment’s surface. A riot of colors lit up the night, illuminating everything
around it. The sharp intake of breath from his wife confirmed that she
concluded what he had.

A Star Diamond had fallen onto their land.

“I don’t think we’re gonna have to move,” John Henry
whispered.

For the first time that night, Martha’s needles stopped
moving.

* * *

Jarod stalked back and forth in front of the huge array of
sophisticated computers comprising the bridge of the Rogues’ Gamble. Enormous
amounts of data flowed across holographic screens. Topographic maps cycled
endlessly, revealing the shape of the ocean floor beneath. A huge scar cut
across the detailed relief, an ending of the terrain just a quarter league from
their current location.

The central screens, the ones hooked to the unmanned probe
they sent down to the galleon, remained stubbornly static. Turns out that even
the most expensive holographic screens needed data to project.

Jarod growled his frustration. “Come on. Come on! You’re
killing me.”

“You are positive that there weren’t any sharks down there?”
Cleo asked, as if she already knew the answer.

Jarod groaned. “None. Nada.” He faced down Cleo’s infamous
I-can-see-into-your-head glare without flinching. Much. Man, she could’ve given
his mom a run for her money. “So can we come on now?”

Buton lifted his head from the keyboard. “Patience, my dear
man.”

The scholar’s steady tone made Jarod want to throttle him a
little bit. “We launched the vid-cam over an hour ago.”

Rob chuckled with the dismissive mirth that only a teenager
could manage. “Lighten up, dude. We’ve been working this site for seventeen
months.”

“Seventeen months and an hour,” Jarod countered.

Frustrated with the monitors telling him nothing new, his
eyes drifted to the bridge’s forward window, where the entire deck lay open.
Lounging on the battered folding chair was the very attractive reporter, Brandi
Broadhope, here to capture a “Rags to Riches” sub-segment of the regular
feature, “Striking It Rich” for the nationally syndicated Wake Up, America. She
was a natural redhead with the frosty beauty that told most men to back off.
All it said to Jarod was, “I’m a challenge.”

Challenge…accepted, baby, challenge accepted.

Aloud, he mimicked the scientist’s clipped speech. “Buton,
my dear man, there’s more at stake than gold…” Jarod pointed toward the deck as
he talked with the curvy redhead.

The East Indian frowned. “Seldom does the process of
historical discovery trouble itself outside the realm of bounty.”

Rob snorted. “Or booty!”

“Well, it should,” Jarod agreed, winking broadly at Rob. A
sharp elbow in Jarod’s side interrupted their male bonding moment.

Cleo tugged on his arm, drawing him away from the cluster of
monitors, a frown creasing her smooth, cocoa skin.

“Jarod, what happened to our ‘no more pajama parties’ rule?
Remember? Creating a more ‘wholesome’ atmosphere?”

“Um, I can hear you,” Rob intoned. “And I’m fourteen, Cleo,
not four.”

“Exactly!” Jarod turned away from Cleo so she wouldn’t see
the eye roll he directed at Rob. “And if you’re upset about a booty call, blame
it on Buton.”

Buton’s head swiveled around. “Excuse me?”

“Hey, you’re the one who invited Brandi onboard,” Jarod said
with a shrug.

“For…to…to help synergize our marketing paradigm…” the
computer expert stammered on. “To create demand from collectors by—”

Jarod saved Buton from flailing anymore by redirecting his
energies to Cleo. “The deal was that I’m not allowed to bring chicks onboard.”
Jarod pointed to the top-heavy reporter. “This one was served up on a big, fat
digital platter.” Cleo’s scowl intensified, but Jarod just smiled. “Darlin’,
don’t hate the playa, hate the loophole.” To make his point, he low-fived Rob
behind his back.

Before Cleo could scold him any further, a monitor crackled
to life with a news report.

“Shut it, guys!” Rob yelled. “It’s our segment.”

The display whirled in 3D as the sidebar streamed enough
information about the location, likes, and length of the transmission for all
the geeks out there watching.

A male reporter sported blond hair so perfectly coiffed that
it looked plastic—especially given the run-down farm in the background. The Ken
doll was ready to interview a scientist, complete with an out-of-place starched
white coat. It appeared that the proverbial stick up the guy’s backside, at
least in this case, was maybe not so proverbial.

Rob turned up the volume. The men on-screen seemed engaged
in the icy, age-old battle between the news reporter looking for sound bites
and the scientist unwilling to give them.

“Chad Whistler here, with Dr. Weigner.” Jarod noticed that
Buton crossed his arms at the scientist’s name. Was some professional rivalry
going on? Before Jarod could ask, Chad continued, turning to the starchy
scientist.

“Being a preeminent stellar geologist, could you tell us
about these ‘Star Diamonds’?”

“Well, your first error is in calling them diamonds,” Turned
out that Weigner’s tone was as stiff as the fabric of his lab coat. “These
precious gems were forged by a collision of stars. It’s a trillion-to-one
event. Not soon to happen again.”

The reporter’s silicone smile cracked just a bit. “Any
estimates of how many of these jewels are buried on the dark side of the moon?”

“Any number I gave you would be wild speculation, due to the
crystal’s elusive structure that defies detection by traditional means.”

“Well,” Chad said with an overly warm smile, “with everyone
flocking to the moon, we’ll know soon enough, won’t we, doctor?”

Oh, nice one. Despite Chad looking like he’d been
manufactured in a cookie-cutter, ready-for-prime-time-reporter machine, the guy
had some balls. Chad pivoted away from Dr. Weigner, dismissing the scientist
without having to say a word. The Ken doll fixed his eyes forward and spoke
directly to the camera.

“There you have it. The ‘Moon Rush’ has officially begun…”

Brandi stuck her head in from the deck. “Got anything, yet?”

Jarod gestured for Rob to turn down the volume.

“Yeah…uh …we’re close,” Jarod answered, trying really hard
not to sound busted. “Give me another minute.”

Brandi wrinkled her pretty nose in irritation. “We need
something fast, or we’ll miss our window for the story.”

“Yes. Absolutely. One more minute.” Jarod turned up the
wattage of his smile. And it worked. That little wrinkle smoothed out, and she
glanced over her shoulder before heading back out to her oceanside perch.

Jarod motioned for Rob to turn the volume back up. Grainy,
flat images of miners panning for gold in a river accompanied the stiff
voice-over.