Juan knew how lucky they had been. Depending on the type of ammunition they were facing, the tank could easily have exploded and started a chain reaction with the dozen or more bottles next to them. They were sitting in what amounted to a death trap.

“Forget the guns,” Juan shouted. “We need to get out of here.”

“I can’t make it,” James wheezed. His lungs were working overtime but he wasn’t getting enough air. “I need the oxygen. I won’t last five minutes.”

“We stay here, we won’t last five seconds!” Cabrillo said, even though he saw the truth. James Ronish couldn’t be moved.

The firing subsided as the Argentines regrouped after the first frantic moments of the gun battle. The only thing that made sense was that they needed Ronish alive. Juan knew he and Max hadn’t been trailed to Washington, so he assumed that the men outside had followed the same informational bread crumbs as he had. It meant they knew something about the Flying Dutchman’s fateful voyage that he did not. Some piece of information that only James Ronish had. And he felt certain it had nothing to do with Pierre Devereaux’s pirate loot.

Cabrillo pulled the Glock’s trigger three times, laying down suppressing fire to keep the Argentines pinned. Their next tactic would be to encircle the house and come in from multiple angles. Juan still didn’t know how he was going to get the three of them out of this.

“Mr. Ronish,” he said, “they’re here because of something your brothers found in the Treasure Pit. Something linked to the blimp we discovered. What did they find?”

Another crackle of gunfire from outside drowned out Ronish’s answer. Dust filled the air from the destroyed drywall, and sofa stuffing was falling like snow. Ronish suddenly stiffened and whimpered softly.

He’d been hit. In the darkness, Cabrillo put his hand on the older man’s chest. Feeling nothing, he moved his hand lower. Ronish hadn’t been hit in the stomach, so Juan moved to his legs. In just the few seconds since the round penetrated his body, the amount of blood pumping from his thigh told Juan that the bullet had severed Ronish’s femoral artery. Without medical help, he’d bleed out in minutes. Juan transferred his pistol to his left hand and pressed into the wound as hard as he could, while Max fired out through the picture window. There were definitely fewer men on the front yard. One or two of the Argentines were flanking them.

“What did they find?” Juan asked desperately.

“A way to the junk” was the pained reply. “The mantel. I kept a rub.”