The silent cry rang inside his head as sweat slipped down the groove of his spine like a snake oozing along a vine. His cracked rib protested every laboring breath against air thick with humidity and the sickly sweet aroma of fallen vegetation that rotted in the baking sun. And his heart… His heart screamed for the blood of his enemies. Bartolome Vargas, King Philip of Spain’s most decorated sea captain, instinctively reached for the short sword he kept in a scabbard on his belt, malice swimming through his veins like a living creature. But his searching fingers found no blade, just dry, cracking leather. Two weeks ago, his trusty cutlass had been swallowed by the same ravenous seas that had gulped down his beloved galleon. Just as well. If he attacked the trio of Englishmen who had rowed to shore, he would reveal himself and the remaining thirty-five members of his crew. Reveal that this small, deserted island held the secrets to what had become of the mighty Santa Cristina and the vast treasure she carried in her big belly.
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