Treasure Hunters Read online

  In other words, if Tommy and I could get our hands on the two underwater assault rifles stowed in our bow, we might have a chance at fighting off the pirates.

  “You sure you guys want to do this?” I said, strapping on my air tanks.

  “Definitely,” said Tommy. “I’m tired of these gnarly surfer ‘dudes’ calling me ‘dude,’ little duder.”

  “I’m tired of that head goon’s ironic facial hair,” said Beck.

  “We could get, you know, killed.”

  “Nah,” said Tommy. “We’re the Wild Things.”

  “And now,” cried Beck, “let the wild rumpus start!”

  We headed up to the deck, flippers slapping hard the whole way. We were ready to roar our terrible roars, gnash our terrible teeth, roll our terrible eyes, and show our terrible claws.

  “You duders ready to make us all bajillionaires?” sneered the pirate leader.

  “You bet,” I said, sliding my mask over my eyes and nose.

  “What about the fat chick?” I heard one of the pirates say, using his speargun to point at Storm. “Should someone stay on board to guard her?”

  “Nah,” said Laird. “Shamu the whale is harmless.”

  I glanced over at Storm.

  She had that thundercloud look in her eyes again.

  “Let’s do this thing!” shouted Laird. He gestured toward the side of the boat. “After you, little duders.”

  This was good.

  They were giving us a head start.

  Tommy jumped in first.

  “Wait a second,” said Beck. “I have a kink in my air hose.”

  “Hang on, sis,” I said, going over to pretend like I was untwisting her line. Then I banged her tank a couple of times like that would fix whatever was wrong. I had to give Tommy as much extra time as possible to pop open our underwater weapons trunk.

  “Come on, you two,” grumbled the pirate leader. “The surf is awesome. Let’s boogie.”

  “Um, if you don’t mind,” said Beck, still working on her hose, “I’d like to breathe while I’m underwater.”

  The pirate pulled out his knife. “We don’t really need you down below, dudette.”

  “Yes, we do,” I said as Beck slipped on her mask, popped her regulator into her mouth, and gave us the good-to-go thumbs-up. “Beck found kegs nine and ten. Me and Tommy could only find one through eight.”

  “Whatever,” said Laird.

  He shoved Beck off the side of the boat. Then he shoved me.

  The two of us sliced into the water, kicked our way clear of our own bubble clouds, and darted like dolphins under the bow of the boat.

  Tommy had the cubbyhole open. He saw us and held out his hand, rotating his wrist and pointing up to the weapons cabinet.

  It was the diving hand signal for “Something is wrong.”

  Beck and I swam closer.

  The weapons cubbyhole was empty.

  My guess? Louie Louie’s Cayman crew, the guys who fixed our hull, took home some Russian souvenirs.

  There was no time to get angry about it, because that was when I heard the muffled thuds of eight pirates jumping into the water alongside The Lost.

  I caught a glimpse of pirate leader Laird’s eyeballs, magnified by the glass lens of his diving mask. He looked seriously steamed.

  Our only hope was to go hand-to-hand, underwater, against the pirates. There were eight of them, three of us.

  And they had spearguns.

  CHAPTER 41

  One major problem with my plan: You don’t do martial arts underwater. When the eight pirates swam after us, we did our best to karate-chop and kick them away. But they had weapons. We had gloved fists and flippered feet.

  That’s when I realized that somebody might die—maybe several somebodies.

  But on deck or underwater, we Kidds were still Wild Things.

  Tommy yanked the mask off the surfer who had been coming at him with a serrated dive blade. It was the short dude with the ponytail. Freaking out from all the salt water stinging his eyes, he kicked his legs and shot up to the surface.

  I saw one of the goons aim his speargun at Beck. I swam over to push her out of the way, but a bad guy grabbed hold of my ankles. I did a backward karate kick and heard the glass in his mask shatter. He let go to clutch his face, and I was free.

  I gave Beck a sharp shove. She gave me a dirty “whose side are you on?” look.

  Until the barb-tipped spear whooshed between us.

  It punctured an air tank strapped to the back of the pirate trying to rip Tommy’s regulator out of his mouth. That dude—looking like he was riding a jet pack powered by bubbles—shot up to the surface, too.

  Tommy gave me a quick okay hand signal and an even quicker thumbs-down.

  I ducked as another spear whizzed two inches above my head.

  Even though sound can be pretty muffled underwater, I could have sworn I heard the spear thunk into something behind me.

  Was it Beck? Was it my overactive imagination?

  I whipped around.

  No. It wasn’t my imagination. It was Laird, the pirate leader.

  He’d been coming up to stab me in the back when the spear went in his arm and out his shoulder. Writhing in pain, he was leaking blood all over the place, and his wound sent up a thick red cloud that drifted through the water like a scarlet jellyfish.

  Tommy tapped Beck and me on our shoulders and motioned for us to move away from the bloody pirate, fast.

  Blood in the water is never a good thing.

  It attracts sharks.

  In fact, two of them appeared out of the murky darkness and started circling Laird, who swam into a tight cluster with his remaining “brohahs.” None of them were aiming their spearguns or knives at us anymore. They were too focused on the toothy sharks, whose keen sense of smell had just announced that it was dinnertime.

  That’s when Storm cranked up The Lost’s engines and sent our propellers spinning till they were churning up foam like underwater Weedwackers. She must’ve yanked the throttle into reverse, because the boat suddenly lunged backward, the whirling propeller blades aimed right at the pirate cluster.

  (I don’t think Storm likes being called Shamuor Chubba-Wubba.)

  The panicked pirates backed off the stern of our ship, retreating maybe twenty yards so they could deal with the sharks without being sliced to pieces.

  Storm reversed engines, cut the rudder, and positioned the stern of The Lost directly over the spot where our air bubbles broke through the surface of the water.

  Three nylon ropes with triangular handles plunged into the water.

  Tommy motioned to his flippers and peeled them off.

  Beck and I did the same.

  Then we each grabbed hold of one of the handles anchored to the lines.

  Tommy glanced over his shoulder to make sure the sharks still had the pirates penned. Then he jabbed his arm up over his head so it shot through the glimmering surface, giving Storm a solid thumbs-up.

  Storm threw the throttle up to full speed ahead. The Lost blasted forward like a rocket.

  Did I mention that one of our favorite activities is barefoot water skiing? That’s right. You can ski without skis if your boat is moving fast enough.

  The three of us leaned back on the towline, forced our feet up to the surface, and crunched our abdominal muscles to bring ourselves up and out of the water. In no time, Beck, Tommy, and I were skiing on our bare feet behind The Lost. Beck even raised her right hand as if we were doing the water-ski show at LEGOLAND Florida.

  It was a blast.

  I was sorry the pirates missed it.

  But they were too busy being shark bait.

  CHAPTER 42

  We gave Storm another group hug for being such a genius and saving our bacon, then slipped our stinging feet into soothing sneakers.

  But the danger wasn’t over.

  Before we could even pop open the first bottle of Jamaican Ting soda to celebrate, a widening circle of rippling wat
er appeared off our port side. The ocean churned, swelled, and burbled up bubbles. A periscope appeared and was quickly followed by a gush of tumbling water as a submarine’s conning tower lurched up out of the sea.

  The letters NCTE were emblazoned on its side.

  Five minutes later, Nathan Collier, accompanied by two armed bodyguards, had boarded The Lost.

  He was about as short as I am (but always made sure he was photographed to look taller) and had a cigar stub jammed between his teeth. He was wearing his standard “I’m an explorer” costume: dusty boots (even though we were nowhere near sand), khaki pants, khaki shirt, and faded leather bomber jacket. As always, his hair was glued into place, with one curl dangling above his left eyebrow. I figured Collier had hair and makeup people on his submarine. Probably a tanning bed, too.

  “Good afternoon, Kidds,” he said with the sleazy smile he uses on his TV show. (It’s on one of the obscure cable networks—the Underwater Weirdo Channel, I think.)

  “Collier,” said Tommy. (Actually, he kind of spit out the C part of Collier.)

  Collier slanted an eyebrow. He does that on TV a lot, too. “I see you thwarted my lamebrain shipmates.”

  “Guess so,” I said. “When last we saw them, your pirate pals were auditioning for Jaws: Part Five.”

  “And Parts Six, Seven, and Eight,” said Beck.

  “A fitting end, I suppose,” said Collier with a bored sigh because we weren’t talking about him. “My moronic sharks reunited with their own kind. It’s so hard to find good thugs these days.”

  I glanced at his bodyguards.

  “Oh, these two aren’t insulted by that,” said Collier. “They only speak Ukrainian. Now then, children, why aren’t you hunting Córdoba’s lost galleons? You’re supposed be three hundred miles south-southwest of here, trolling for Spanish doubloons.”

  “You mean that stupid postage-stamp map?” said Storm.

  As you can probably tell, she was seething again.

  “Yes,” said Collier, smacking another puff on his cigar. “You gave up so quickly.”

  “Because the map was so lame!” I said.

  “Of course it was!” snapped Collier. “I drew it so you four would waste time digging up rubbish and stay out of my way!”

  “You drew it?” said Beck, narrowing her eyes.

  “That’s right. When I visited Louie Louie’s ‘shop’ on Grand Cayman, he didn’t have the item I sought, so my colleagues and I suggested he do us a small favor—for a handsome fee, of course. He hid that absurdly tiny treasure map in some sort of worthless trinket that he’d then pass on to you children.”

  Storm reflexively touched the bee pendant, which she’d taken to wearing around her neck on a chain.

  “I like Mr. Louie,” Collier went on. “He’ll do business with anyone willing to do business with him.”

  “What do you want, Collier?” Tommy said impatiently.

  “I want any information you have about your father’s quest for the rest of the Pirate King’s plunder.”

  “Er, what?” I said.

  “Don’t act naive. I know the reason you abandoned your Córdoba dive was to complete your father’s mission for the Pirate King, correct?”

  “We don’t know any pirate kings,” I said.

  “Is he like a Burger King?” said Tailspin Tommy. “But for seafood instead of burgers?”

  “Enough!” shouted Collier. “I want your father’s maps and files, and I want them now. Otherwise, you four will end up as something worse than shark bait!”

  “Whoa,” I said. “Take it easy. What kind of treasure was Dad tracking down for this big-shot-king guy?”

  “Artwork.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Come, come, Bickford. Must we continue this silly charade? You know exactly what I’m talking about. A certain rare objet d’art?”

  “What’s that?” said Tommy.

  “An art object,” said Beck. “Pottery and junk.”

  “That’s right, Rebecca,” said Collier. “Artistic artifacts of astronomical value.”

  “Well,” I said, “we don’t know anything about art.”

  “Neither do I,” said Collier. “I just know what it’s worth to one very serious collector. And now that your dear old dad is out of the picture, there is only one man capable of finding the final treasure on the Pirate King’s wish list. Me!”

  Collier moved closer to Storm. “I want The Key to the secret room, Stephanie. The room filled with all your father’s papers, charts, and files. Where is The Key?”

  Storm didn’t say a word. Or budge. Or blink. I don’t think she was even breathing.

  “Have it your way,” said Collier. He turned to his bodyguards and shouted a command in Ukrainian.

  Immediately, both men raised their weapons and aimed them at Storm’s head.

  CHAPTER 43

  “Whoa!” I shouted. “Wait!” The bodyguards thumbed back the triggers on their handguns.

  “Sorry, Bickford,” said Collier. “Ukrainians don’t understand the word whoa.”

  “Then stop!”

  “You want them to stop?”

  “Yes!” Beck yelled.

  “Then tell your sister to turn over The Key to The Room. Now!”

  Finally, Storm moved. Actually, she sort of slouched into a shrug. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s get this over with.”

  Wow.

  I couldn’t believe Storm had buckled that quickly.

  Then again, I wasn’t the one staring down the barrels of two Ukrainian guns.

  Storm marched into the deckhouse and down into the galley, where she grabbed a meat cleaver and turned to face us.

  Up came the Ukrainian guns again.

  “Chill,” said Storm. “I need this to retrieve The Key.” She picked up a puffy yellow sponge from the sink and whacked it in half. The Key tumbled out with a tinkle. “The Room is in the bow. Follow me.”

  When we reached The Room, Storm slid The Key into the steel door’s dead bolt and gave it a quick flick.

  “Go ahead,” she said to Collier. “Knock yourself out.”

  Salivating like a dog that just heard somebody shout “Pork chops!” Collier, trailed by his goons, barged into The Room.

  And I realized why Storm had caved so quickly.

  All the stuff relating to artwork was gone. Even the corny cartoon about “What’s a Grecian urn?” wasn’t tucked under the glass blotter anymore. Storm had removed anything and everything from The Room that looked like it was (for whatever reason) important to Dad and Mom.

  Collier and his two henchmen yanked open file drawers. They flipped through folders. They even looked inside all the masks and helmets and picture frames still hanging on the walls.

  They kept at it for over an hour, checking and rechecking every square inch.

  Beck, Tommy, Storm, and I got so bored watching them trash The Room, we went back to the galley to grab a snack. Grilled cheese sandwiches with pickles. We’d lived on the high seas long enough to know that grilled cheese is the best comfort food during a pirate raid.

  Finally, Collier and his Ukrainian cronies joined us.

  Collier’s hair wasn’t plastered in place anymore. He had at least three curls dangling over his eyes. And some of his spray-on tan was melting behind his ears. (I don’t think he was used to sweating.)

  He jabbed a fresh cigar into his mouth.

  “No wonder your father jumped overboard,” he said with a snide grin. “He was a complete fraud.”

  “No, he wasn’t.”

  “Oh yes, he was. He had absolutely no information about the final item the Pirate King hired him to locate, even though he’d accepted a very generous retainer when he took on that task. Your father must have known his ineptitude was about to be unmasked, so he took the coward’s way out and abandoned his ship—not to mention his children—in the middle of a tropical storm!”

  “Get off our boat,” said Tommy.

  I was right there with him. “Leave. Now.�
�

  “Crawl back to your submarine, Collier,” added Beck.

  “You make me want to vomit,” said Storm, “in your face.”

  None of us cared about the Ukrainians or their weapons anymore.

  Nathan Collier had insulted our father.

  “Oh, I’ll leave,” said Collier. “Because someone has to complete the job your father so recklessly abandoned. I always knew he was a terrible treasure hunter.” He gestured over his shoulder toward The Room. “Now I have proof.”

  Collier and his gun ghouls headed out to the deck.

  But before he left, Collier turned around to give us one last bit of advice: “And, Kidds? If we ever meet again, I won’t be nearly as pleasant as I am right now. In fact, you four will end up dead. I’ll make sure of it. Happy sailing!”

  CHAPTER 44

  Right after Collier’s sleek submarine slipped under the water and disappeared, Storm received yet another group hug for being smart enough to hide all the stuff Dad had hanging on the walls of The Room.

  “Way to think ahead,” I said.

  “Life is like chess,” said Storm. “You need to be three moves ahead of your opponent at all times.”

  “You think Collier will go back and help out those surfer dudes?” said Tommy.

  “Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not. Should we do it?”

  “I say we leave the pirates to Collier or the sharks and go check out that map,” said Beck, reminding us what we were about to do before we were boarded by the ninjas in wet suits.

  “It’s inside the mainmast,” said Storm, leading the way toward the prow of the boat.

  She tapped the bottom section of the mast, and a wooden panel popped open. Reaching inside the hollow core, she pulled out the rolled-up map. The four of us each took a corner and held it down on the deck.

  “Still looks like a school map to me,” I said.

  “Not to me,” said Beck, tilting up her 3-D glasses for a second and then lowering them back to her nose. “This is incredible! It has to be why Mom told me to hang on to these glasses after we saw that 3-D movie together in Cyprus. They’re like spy decoder glasses!”