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  “Tyee’ll go down first and make sure the aft anchor is settled in and secure the safety light to it. Then, he’ll check the forward one. After that, he’ll surface and he and I will take the cage down together and place it next to the large opening in the middle of Griffon’s hull where I entered earlier today. Remember to be careful because that’s where I had to slit those two giant Muskies. I’ll place lights at that opening and the smaller opening. When the winch stops paying out, it’ll mean that we’ve got it where we want it and that’s your cue to get wet, Nate. Follow the cable down and meet us,” said Hutch.

  Nate watched as Hutch went over to a box that had been placed next to the rack of tanks during the onload. Hutch bent over and opened it, showing the men what was inside.

  “From my inspection earlier today, I don’t think the chests will stay together. So, Nate and I will be putting each one into these heavy duty wire-mesh bags. That way if the chests do come apart we won’t lose any coins. We’ll bring the bags out to the cage; I figure we can fit three or four bags per load. Once she’s loaded up, Tyee, you’ll swim up and start the winch.”

  Tyee looked confused.

  “What’s wrong?” Hutch said.

  “Why doesn’t Nate just stay up here and operate the winch?” Tyee said. “You and I can handle loading the bags in the wreck.”

  Hutch smiled. “Because you’re too goddamn big to move inside the wreck without risking bumping into something and causing the thing to collapse. It’ll be a tight fit for Nate and me as it is.”

  “Probably a crummy time to blame my parents for their genetics,” Tyee said.

  “Amen,” said Hutch. “Nate’ll follow the cage up and make sure she doesn’t get fouled on the aft anchor line or clip the edge of the drop off. While he’s doing that, I’ll get the next load ready and then come up to join Nate and help bring the cage back down after you’ve offloaded it, Tyee. Any questions?”

  Tyee walked over to the starboard gunwale and sat with his back to the water. He put his mask on and Hutch handed him the large underwater light. Tyee turned it on and flipped back into the water.

  Nate and Hutch stood at the rail, watching as Tyee swam over to the stern anchor line and shortly after, started his descent.

  Then, Tyee’s light went out.

  52

  Hutch and Nate looked into the water, waiting for the light to reappear.

  “The bulbs might have gone bad,” Nate said.

  “Not likely,” said Hutch.

  They scanned the water, waiting to see Tyee’s back-up light come on. When it didn’t, Hutch took his knife out, flipped on his dive light, and dove in.

  ✽✽✽

  The large Indian shuddered as the knife sliced up his side and then punctured his right lung. He was still fighting, and Floyd thought that if he hadn’t had the element of surprise they would have been evenly matched. Floyd pushed the knife in deeper and the man’s strength lessened. He pulled the knife out and got around behind his victim. Snatching the Indian’s hair with his left hand, Floyd sliced the man’s throat with the right. The body twitched, and then sank motionless onto the shelf, blood gushing out of the neck and chest.

  ✽✽✽

  Fiddling with his own gear, Nate followed Hutch’s light as it searched back and forth, preparing to go in after him. He did not hear the sound of a diver easing up onto the swim step. By the time he felt the boat move, it was too late.

  Nate turned around and saw a diver pointing a spear gun at his chest. The diver removed his mask with the other hand. It was Tim Gibson.

  “Take off your mask and fins, Nate. I don’t want you going too far if you decide to jump overboard,” said Gibson.

  “What in the hell is going on, Tim?” he asked.

  Gibson pointed the spear gun at Nate’s feet and then his head. “Fins and mask, please?”

  Nate took them off and set them on the deck.

  “First, I’m rigging a horrible accident at sea. Then, I’m going to do the same thing that you’re here for, Nate: bring up a bunch of gold,” Gibson said shaking the water from his mask. “I’m sorry about your Indian friend, but he got in the way down there, much the same as your friend Hutch is right about now.”

  Nate’s eyes slanted at the water and then back to Gibson. “What about Mickey Leif?” Nate said.

  “Met him only once—when I killed him. Mr. Leif didn’t see me come out from under the dock. By the time he did, I had him underwater, wore him down. Then, I was able to coax the necessary information out of him by threatening his family. Spilled his beans and earned two rounds to his chest.”

  Nate shook his head. “So he wasn’t in on this?”

  “No way,” Gibson said. “Just another obstacle like you.”

  The speargun had lowered while Gibson was talking. As he began to raise it, Nate leapt over the side. Gibson shot but it went high. He loaded another spear and put his mask back on. Without fins, Nate couldn’t get far. Gibson sat on the gunwale and then rolled into the water.

  ✽✽✽

  Hutch’s light found Tyee, and then found the largest diver he’d ever seen coming straight at him. Hutch bit down on his mouthpiece and kicked hard to meet him.

  At the last possible moment, Hutch went low. Using the serrated edge of his knife, he tore across the man’s leg, right behind the knee. He was in the process of turning around to make another pass when he felt two huge hands wrap around his neck. Hutch gagged and the regulator fell out of his mouth. The diver’s strength was overpowering, forcing Hutch to drop his knife and then use both hands to try and pry free. He got one hand off and shook his windpipe loose. He kicked at the man, buying enough time to locate his regulator and take a breath. The man grabbed Hutch’s right arm at the wrist and just below the shoulder. Lifting his good leg, the man applied pressure with his knee on the middle of Hutch’s arm. Hutch saw his arm straighten, shake, and then felt his elbow pop as his arm broke inward. Hutch writhed in pain, his arm feeling as if it had been placed in an oven. The man backed off and reached down for his knife, which gave Hutch a split second to decide what to do. He couldn’t fight the man toe to toe with one arm. He still had two good legs.

  Hutch bolted for the wreck. After a dozen powerful kicks, he looked back. The diver was following, but had to stop every few kicks due to his leg. Hutch dove to the lifeless body of Tyee and grabbed Tyee’s knife. Then, he kicked for all he was worth toward the wreck. Inside the Griffon, maybe he could even the odds.

  ✽✽✽

  Floyd tried to catch the man, but couldn’t. One of the tendons on the back of his left knee was severed—his whole leg throbbed. He watched as the man entered the wreck. Then, he saw a light enter the water on the surface. He watched it for a moment and then continued swimming toward the wreck.

  ✽✽✽

  Nate found his regulator and put it in his mouth. He was only a few feet beneath the surface when two hands grabbed him from behind and pulled him underneath Queen. Nate lashed out with his arms but could see nothing. His body slammed up against the hull. Then, he felt a terrible pain in his thigh. The water began to feel warm around him, and he reached down and felt his leg. In the meaty part of his quadricep rose the end of a metal spear. The opposite end had come out the other side of his leg and was embedded into the hull of Queen. He no longer felt Gibson and could make out a light moving away from him.

  ✽✽✽

  Hutch hid in the wreck and watched as the diver entered through the larger of the two openings, waving a light back and forth. Hutch waited, his knife in his good hand. When the diver was in deep enough, Hutch swam up from behind and cut the man’s air hose. The man grabbed at his regulator. Hutch dropped the knife and moved above. Finding an opening, he reached in and ripped off the man’s mask. The diver turned around slashing with his knife, but Hutch had already kicked past him and was headed for the other opening. The man thrashed out of control, dusting up sand everywhere and then one of his arms hit wood and a wall collapsed on him. H
is inaudible scream sent a column of bubbles up.

  Hutch reached the opening and waited outside the wreck. The diver never re-appeared. Then a light struck Hutch from behind.

  ✽✽✽

  Each movement of his leg sent needles of pain through Nate’s body. He put both hands under his thigh and pulled on the spear, but it would not dislodge from Queen’s hull. He repositioned and tried again with the same result. Nervousness and pain were making him breathe faster. He let go of the spear and instead grasped his thigh with both hands. Yelling bubbles of air in agony, he pulled his leg off of the spear.

  Free from the hull, he kicked up and willed himself over Queen’s starboard gunwale, landing on the deck. Blood splashed onto the stern’s deck boards. He donned his mask and fins, and dove overboard.

  Under the surface he shined his light up at Queen and saw that the entire hull had been wired with the same type of explosives he had seen on the sailboat. Next to the last set, he saw a timer that was at thirty seconds and counting down. Nate turned and kicked with his good leg toward the two lights he saw below—at close quarters.

  ✽✽✽

  Hutch tried to keep the diver off him with his good arm, but Gibson twisted around and took advantage of his weakness, plunging his knife into the shoulder of Hutch’s wounded arm. Hutch shook in pain and reached over with his left hand and tried to remove it, but instead got his arm pinned back. Gibson pulled the knife out and with a clear shot at Hutch’s midsection, drove the knife forward. Hutch’s eyes opened wide, helpless against the inevitable.

  With the knife inches from Hutch’s chest, Gibson’s head jerked back and the blow missed. Nate Martin held Gibson’s tank strap and pulled him away from Hutch. Gibson tried to spin around, but Nate held the strap in an iron fist. They were twenty feet directly below Queen’s hull.

  Nate slashed Gibson’s air hose with his knife and Gibson spit out his regulator after sucking in water. Nate held him down for a few seconds, then released, and dove, trying to get as deep as possible while Gibson raced toward the surface.

  Gibson’s outstretched arm was inches from fresh air, his lungs aching, his eyes pleading, when Queen’s hull exploded.

  The shock sent Nate torpedoing through the water and he would only remember a hand grabbing him, someone pulling him aboard a boat, and then waking up in the hospital.

  EPILOGUE

  It was a rainy October day as Nate Martin and Abner Hutch exited the Hampstead Bank parking lot in Nate’s Jeep. Fifteen minutes later they arrived at Lucille Hawthorne’s house, finished a month ago in exactly the same place her old one had stood.

  The rain drenched the red, yellow, and purple leaves as they took seats on Lucille’s porch. Nate gave Brooke a kiss on the cheek, and then he rubbed her belly.

  Hutch spoke to Brooke. “Has he finished the nursery yet?”

  Nate tried to hide behind Brooke.

  Hutch grunted. “I’ll take that as a no. Better get on that, Nate. You’ve got five months left.”

  “Plenty of time,” Nate said.

  “I’ll keep on him,” said Brooke.

  Lucille emerged from the house and poured them each a cup of cider. “And how did we do, gentleman?” she said.

  In June, the story of their historic find ran on the front page of all the major newspapers. By the following week it was a paragraph on the back page, and two weeks later it fizzled out of the editorials. Below the final editorial in the local paper was the announcement that Leonard Shaw had listed his beach estate with Hampstead Reality, and noted that his yacht was for sale.

  Nate pulled a folded bank statement from his pocket and placed it in front of Brooke and Lucille, saying, “this is what we each get.”

  Brooke’s eyes widened.

  The Government of France had determined the total value of the ten chests of gold—the stolen chest had been anonymously dropped off on Hutch’s front porch the day after they had brought the other nine up—to be worth 22.2 million dollars. Nate and Hutch got half. They decided to split the money with Tyee’s next of kin, his sister Levana, and Mickey’s son Marty—who was now running both the hardware store and bait shop. It was the right thing to do.

  Lucille glanced at the numbers and then locked eyes with Hutch. “Well, at least now I get a proper wedding,” she said.

  “Who says we’re tyin’ the knot?” Hutch winked at Nate and Brooke.

  “You did, one month ago on this porch,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

  He leaned toward her. “So I did.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Thank you for reading my book. As an independent author, my success greatly depends on my readers. I know it can be a pain, but I would appreciate it if you could take a moment and leave a quick review (Amazon, BookBub, and/or Goodreads).

  If you would like more information on upcoming books, please sign-up for my email list through my website or follow me on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.

  If you enjoyed the book, please tell others about it!

  My sincerest thanks to all who helped bring The Wreck to life—you know who you are.

  As far as The Wreck…

  It’s mostly fiction, my friends. However, the Griffon was a real ship and is a very real shipwreck—perhaps, the first on our beloved Great Lakes—located somewhere unknown, far beneath the waves. It is simply not possible to list all the references I have read over the years to gain knowledge and ideas for this book, but there are a few that stand out: The 100 Best Great Lakes Shipwrecks, Volume I, by Cris Kohl; Ships of the Great Lakes, by James P. Barry; Shipwrecks of the Great Lakes, by Paul Hancock; Guiding Lights, Tragic Shadows: Tales of Great Lakes Lighthouses, by Edward Butts; Lighthouses of the Great Lakes, by Todd R. Berger; Ghosts of the Great Lakes, by Megan Long; and Louis XIV: A Royal Life, by Olivier Bernier. I hope Griffon is found one day, but until then I will continue to grin at the thought of Nate and Hutch finding her first.

  Happy Beach Reading!

  L.B.

  If you enjoyed The Wreck, expand your adventure with The Sail, the second book in The Great Lakes series. Here is an excerpt to start the journey.

  The Sail will be released on February 26, 2019.

  PROLOGUE

  NOVEMBER 10, 1975 - 7:00 P.M.

  The seaplane was off course. Twenty minutes ago the navigation systems had failed, and now Captain J. W. Wilson was piloting a descent through a storm. He should radio for help, but no one was supposed to know that they were up here tonight. Nothing was visible: his backup option was pissing away with the barrage of raindrops obscuring the windows and trailing off into the wind. If he could only see a strip of water where they could land, anchor the seaplane, and ride out the storm on the beach.

  A bolt of lightning lit up the sky outside the co-pilot’s window. Thunder boomed as loud as if it were fed into the earphones the men were wearing. The plane banked to the left as Wilson jerked the controls—eyes wide open—and then eased them back to level the plane.

  “Sweet Jesus that was close, pally,” said the co-pilot Jimmy Morris.

  “Almost too close,” Wilson said taking a sip from a flask. The liquid burned on the way down. A little Jacky Dee to calm the nerves.

  He screwed the top back on and then placed the flask inside his flight jacket. Well, flight jacket was generous. It was a dirty parka with J. W. stitched on the breast and Captain stitched underneath. They had been advised to fly without any identification in case they were searched. But Captain J. W. Wilson didn’t give a shit. No jacket, no flight. No wallet, no flight. No flask, no flight. Why not? He was down to a pint a day.

  “We should start seeing water soon,” Morris said, peering out the window. “There’s no way we could still be over land.”

  And how would you know that, Jimmy boy? We haven’t known where we were for the past twenty minutes. Wilson jerked his thumb toward the aft of the plane. “Bring the bags forward and have them ready in case we’ve gotta ditch. I’m not showing up with nothing.”


  Morris looked back at the black bags heaped on each other behind the back bench, then his eyes met Wilson’s. “Ditch? Man, you think it’ll come to that?”

  Wilson brought the bill of his tattered Boston Red Sox baseball cap—he’d never seen a Red Sox game—down close to his eyebrows and then focused on the descent again. “Just get them.”

  Morris unbuckled his safety harness and moved out of the cockpit. Lightning flashed again and the plane dipped to the right this time, enough for Morris to lose his balance and hit his head on the cargo door. “For Chrissakes, keep her level, pally. I just about left the building.”

  Wilson ignored him and continued to ease the controls forward. The rain stopped. There seemed to be an opening in the clouds below and he flew toward it. As they descended, it began to snow.

  Morris got his footing and then knelt on the back bench. He grabbed the two bags and placed them on the seat next to him. Sweat beaded on his forehead, slid down his nose, and dripped onto the bench as he turned around and sat down. He started to unzip one of the bags.

  “Keep it closed,” Wilson ordered from the cockpit.

  “Aw, c’mon, man. Don’t you want to know what we’ve been carrying for the past six months? Especially now, since we might pay the piper.”

  “You know the contract,” Wilson said. “Besides,” he paused, “you don’t want to end up like Wilford, do you?”

  They both thought back to June.

  ✽✽✽

  Five Months Earlier