But they’re not alone. Shadowy mercenaries and a black-hulled yacht
stalk their every move, determined to silence them before the truth surfaces.
From dazzling reefs to the back alleys of Veracruz, Jack and his team are
forced into a deadly game where history isn’t past—it’s a
weapon.
A mile away, Jack Sullivan spotted the same black yacht beyond the harbor mouth. Salt air thick with diesel and the aroma of fresh bread from a waterfront café. Fishing boats slipping through the channel toward deep water. That sleek vessel drifting in the distance—no flags visible, too expensive for these waters.
His hand went to his chest without thinking, pressed there briefly. The same tightness that had kept him breathing in Fallujah when everyone else was looking in the wrong direction.
Walking past vendors shouting prices for jewelry and hand-woven items, Jack led Emma and Steve toward the waiting charter. The dock felt cool now, but by noon it would burn like a skillet. A thirty-six-foot fiberglass Newton dive boat named Maria Elena awaited between a glass-bottom tour boat and a sleek sport fisher.
Sun-bleached fiberglass and primer patches showed the boat’s age, though the new Honda outboard gleamed on her transom. Fresh safety equipment mounted along her gunwales proved someone took care of what mattered.
Luis Ortega stood at the stern, coiling a dock line. His salt-and-pepper hair showed beneath a weathered baseball cap. When he spotted them approaching, his posture straightened with the careful movement of fifty-eight years at sea. A faded anchor tattoo showed on his forearm as he worked the rope, his hands trembling slightly—barely noticeable unless you knew what to look for.
“Señor Sullivan?” The rasp of cigarettes long since quit roughened his voice. Dark eyes studied Jack with an intensity that went beyond a simple greeting.
“That’s me. This is Emma Wilson and Steve Johnson.”
6’3” and sturdy, Jack stepped aboard and tested the deck’s stability before helping the others across. The morning breeze tousled his dirty-blond hair. His faded Metallica T-shirt hung loose in the ocean air.
Emma glanced at his shirt, then reached up to smooth his hair—futile
as always. “The lucky shirt. Same one you wore when you got the Braddock call.” Her fingers lingered a moment. “Should I be worried?”
“Only if you believe in that stuff.”
Emma scanned the boat’s equipment, checking the gear mounted on the gunwales with practiced efficiency. Her fingers traced the BCD inflation mechanism and tested the tank valve pressure gauge—the same methodical approach she used cataloguing artifacts. Steve’s broad frame filled the stern as he stepped aboard, his beard framing an easy smile as he hefted their gear bags with casual strength.” And you,” Emma said, her gaze turning on Steve, “taking a break from whatever mysterious Navy project has you disappearing all the time?”
Steve grinned, a glint in his eyes. “Can’t say much, but the sea trials are next month.”
“You should be with your family today,” Emma said, though her smile was warm.
Steve glanced between Jack and Emma. “I am.”
She stepped forward, pulling him into a quick hug. “You’re like the big brother I never had growing up.”
“And never wanted,” Jack added with a laugh.
Steve grinned and ruffled her hair like the annoying big brother he’d become. Standing next to Emma, they were nearly eye to eye—both tall enough to command attention in most rooms, but both having to look up to meet Jack’s gaze.
Emma leaned back, letting the ocean breeze lift the loose waves of her black hair. “Speaking of secrets, how did your date with Priya go?”
“Well, she’s complicated. But y’know—” Steve grinned. “Like Forrest said, never know what you’re gonna get. Keeps it interesting.”
“Translation, you’re playing it close to the vest,” Jack smirked.
“Translation, you two focus on not getting eaten by sharks, and I’ll worry about my love life,” Steve replied, his laughter mixing with the sound of BCD straps tightening—the vest-like gear that held the air tank and helped control buoyancy underwater.
A soft snort escaped Luis, followed by muttered Spanish about distractions at sea.
Setting the coil down, Luis glanced at his clipboard. “Filed today’s dive plan with the marine park office this morning. Got a call back twenty minutes ago. La Sombra’s clear, but they suggested we try the Palancar shallows instead. ‘Reduce pressure on the deeper sites,’ they said.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t make sense. No one dives La Sombra.”
He looked between the trio and asked, “You want to dive La Sombra?” Not a question. Reluctance colored his tone like a doctor about to deliver bad news.
Luis’s hand went to his cross in a quick, automatic gesture. His thumb worried the chain until his skin reddened, and for a moment, his weathered face aged another decade before he spoke again.
“That’s the plan.” Jack checked his dive computer—the old Suunto dive computer showed Emma’s refresher profiles from Key Largo two weekends ago, conservative settings locked in.
Jack’s pulse quickened at the mention of La Sombra. Emma noticed the slight tension in his shoulders—the same tell she’d seen when he worked through the Braddock clues. Her sparkling blue eyes held quiet concern as she studied his profile. Steve noticed it too, his brown eyes sharpening as he catalogued potential problems.
Working his jaw as if chewing something bitter, Luis finally spoke, “La Sombra. Forty meters down, wedged into the reef wall where the current runs strange. The dive shops don’t take people there.” His fingers brushed the silver cross at his throat. “Ships like that…they take souls with them when they sink.”
His eyes narrowed, searching Jack’s face. “A ship like that doesn’t just sink, señor. Some divers never surface.” He knew about personal loss from experience.
Emma’s hand found Jack’s briefly. Her fingers asked something; his answering squeeze replied. Her fingers were warm against his salt-cooled skin. His answering squeeze said trust me without words, his striking blue eyes reflecting the determined intensity that had driven him through Iraq, Afghanistan, and the Braddock hunt.
“We know what we’re doing,” Steve said, though his gaze tracked the black mega yacht on the horizon. His shoulders squared with the automatic alertness of a man who’d learned to assess threats from a distance.
Luis studied them for a long moment, then turned the ignition key. The Honda coughed to life, idling low. “Sí,” he said quietly, “but does La Sombra know what you’re doing?”
David R. Leng, known for his expertise in risk management and insurance, now
ventures into the world of fiction with his latest historical thriller, Echoes
of Fortune. With a distinguished career spanning over 30 years, David is the
author of International #1 Best Sellers including “Insured to Fail” and “The
10 Laws of Insurance Attraction,” and has saved clients over $42 million in
premiums and overcharges. As Executive Vice President and Partner of the
Duncan Financial Group, David is celebrated for his innovative Risk Profile
Improvement Process and has earned numerous accolades, including Advisor of
the Year by the Institute of WorkComp Professionals. An avid contributor to
industry publications, David’s passion extends beyond his professional
achievements to include boating, skiing, woodworking, and supporting his local
high school’s musical productions. His foray into historical thrillers
reflects his deep storytelling skills and a lifelong commitment to engaging
and captivating audiences.
