Meanwhile, in the jungle, the party led by the boatswain waited concealed among the trees, taking care not to draw the attention of the night patrols. From their position they could see, in the distance, the walls of the citadel of Xul-Kan. One of the men kept a constant watch toward the cliff beyond the foliage.

  “We should withdraw… go back the way we came and take all that treasure that’s still there,” the pirate Goodwin whispered.

  “Shut up, they’ll hear you,” another hissed.

  “What are you talking about?” asked a third.

  “The coins in that underground chamber,” Goodwin replied.

  “Coins?… what coins?”

  “Didn’t you see the chests?” Ford said.

  “We moved so fast I didn’t even notice…” one of the pirates muttered.

  The boatswain approached with a dark expression.

  “Stop talking, or I’ll sew your mouths shut,” he growled.

  He seized Goodwin and Ford by the front of their coats and pulled them close.

  “Gentlemen Goodwin and Ford, I will say this only once: keep silent, unless you wish to remain here forever with the spirits of the jungle.”

  “Mr. Trumper… you know this operation is already a failure,” Ford whispered.

  “For the last time,” the boatswain murmured, “close your mouth, or I’ll close it for you.”

  Then he scanned the rest of the men.

  “Hold your positions.”

  Kayin crouched among the bushes, musket resting against his knee, eyes fixed on the sky as he waited for the flare that would signal the assault. The boatswain moved to his side.

  “I don’t know why they’re taking so long,” he muttered. “You, sea rat… get as close to the battery as you can and take a look without being seen.”

  “You want me to enter the compound?”

  Trumper tilted his head.

  “Are you stupid? Just observe from the forest. Don’t so much as poke your nose inside patrol range. Do you understand?”

  Kayin nodded and began to crawl through the undergrowth until he reached an observation point.

  Trumper kept his gaze fixed on the torch-lit walls.

  “Kwame must already be inside the citadel,” one of the men said.

  “I hope so…” the boatswain muttered under his breath. “But I have a feeling this is all going to fall apart because of the captain.”

  ******

  Kwame, for his part, moved through the thick undergrowth toward the point where the cliffs met the fortress walls. However, he found the sector heavily reinforced: Spanish patrols, scattered campfires, watch posts stationed along the approach. There was no way to infiltrate from there.

  He had no other choice.

  He would have to descend toward the sea, make his way along the rocks, and from there attempt to scale the cliffs.

  He turned carefully and began making his way down toward the water.

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  The slope was treacherous. Damp earth gave way beneath his boots, and exposed roots threatened to send him tumbling downhill. He steadied himself against twisted trunks and the vines hanging between the stones, descending in silence, step by measured step, as the crash of water against the shoreline grew steadily clearer.

  When he reached the rocky strip below, the terrain became even more dangerous. The stones were slick with algae, slippery as wet glass. The high tide had swallowed much of the natural footing, and the estuary water—dark, heavy, almost motionless—concealed sudden drop-offs and unseen hollows.

  He began edging along the natural wall, his back brushing the cold rock while his hands searched for each protrusion. Every step demanded absolute balance. One misstep would mean falling into the water, and down there, no one would hear the splash.

  ******

  While the jungle held its breath, Sammy awoke tied to a chair.

  The first thing she saw were her legs pressed together, bound at the ankles. She tried to move her hands; they were tightly fastened behind her back. She lifted her gaze.

  She was in a room lit by a chandelier hanging from a beam. On the whitewashed walls, faint traces of Mayan murals could still be seen. On one wall hung a crooked portrait of the King of England, someone having drawn a twisted mustache and childish beard upon it in black chalk.

  Beneath the painting sat a military officer with one leg crossed over the other: powdered wig, coat adorned with decorations, and a black patch covering one eye. He was reading calmly. Beside him, on a crate, rested a bottle of wine and a porcelain plate with two pieces of cutlery and the remains of dinner.

  Sammy swallowed; vertigo ran through her body.

  A young officer with ebony skin and a severe expression stepped in front of her.

  “She’s awake, Lieutenant,” Yanga said.

  Inzunza lifted his eyes, closed his book, placed it beside the bottle, and stood.

  “Hello… did you sleep well?”

  “Where is Mr. Nightingale?” Sammy asked.

  “The other pirate?… He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  Yanga nodded.

  “He threw himself over the cliff.”

  Sammy closed her eyes. She had ruined the operation. It had been up to them to fire the flare that would begin the assault.

  Everything had gone to hell.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Inzunza said, placing the flare pistol on the table. “It’s over. You handed me exactly the card I needed for my move.”

  Sammy shook her head.

  “You don’t have a move.”

  “Lieutenant Inzunza,” he corrected. “I already know the entire plan. My men heard the signal. That shot was the trigger for the assault. The Garnor is waiting to enter the estuary. The pirates are hiding in the jungle… but we’ve prepared a surprise for them.”

  Sammy smiled faintly.

  “The men of the jungle won’t surrender so easily. And you don’t know who you’re dealing with. By now, Skippy has already changed the plan. He always prepares contingencies.”

  Inzunza laughed.

  “Yanga, organize the welcoming committee. Leave this filthy one here. Let’s maintain the charade. Instruct the men to continue acting as though we know nothing.”

  He left the room.

  Yanga waited until he was sure the lieutenant had gone. He closed the door and returned to Sammy. Without looking at her, he pulled out the journal and placed it on the table.

  She opened her eyes.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  Sammy remained silent.

  “I won’t ask twice,” he warned, raising his fist. “What is it?”

  “A notebook.”

  “Of what?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “What’s inside,” he insisted.

  “Irrelevant notes. Nothing useful for you.”

  Yanga paced briefly, glanced through the small window, then returned to her.

  “I saw you consult it. Something in there made you lower your guard. What is it?”

  Sammy moistened her lips.

  “It’s a diary… my grandfather acquired it in London.”

  Yanga listened with interest.

  “My grandfather is a writer. He was desperate to publish something that would bring him back from obscurity. He thought that diary would be the key… but it only brought him trouble.”

  “What is your grandfather’s name?”

  “What does it matter?”

  Yanga picked up the book Inzunza had left and tossed it before her. Sammy craned her neck and read:

  The Legend of the Uncharted Island, by Vigilio Coppieter.

  “You know it,” Yanga said.

  “Of course. That’s the damned book my grandfather wrote based on that diary. He used a pseudonym, but it was a failure. No one wanted to read pirates or adventures anymore. The fashion was Liza Haywood, Swift… When the crates of unsold copies came back, he was devastated.”

  “And that diary—what is it?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. My grandfather never knew what it truly was. He only wrote from it… but the ones who took an interest were the King of Spain—who sent troops to Black Island—and the Holy Inquisition. They kidnapped my grandfather. I haven’t heard from him since. That’s why I’m here, looking for him… and I ended up stumbling into those ruins.”

  Yanga drew a slow breath, looked at the medallion, then placed it back around his neck and buttoned his coat.

  “Kid… you meddled with people you should never have touched,” he said. “And now you’re in grave danger.”

  “I had no choice. He’s the only family I have left. That’s why I joined a pirate ship.”

  “Bad luck,” the young officer said softly. “What’s your name?”

  “Sam Worthy,” she answered quietly.

  Yanga nodded.

  “Sam… fate deals us cruel hands. I’m sorry.”

  He slipped the diary into the pack… and left her alone in the room.

  Sammy began to look around, trying to orient herself, searching for options.

  “What would the Red Falcon do in a situation like this?” she whispered, remembering the hero of her grandfather’s novels.