The master bedroom was the last door on the left, just past the single bath. Juan even knew where the bed would be placed, as it was the only logical location, and he jumped on it, bending his knees to absorb some of the spring, and leapt again. He covered his head with his hands when he smashed through the window.

He hit the wet, needle-covered ground, shoulder-rolled, and came up with his gun ready. The muzzle flash from a snap shot fired from the far corner of the house gave away the gunman’s location. Cabrillo put two rounds downrange. He didn’t hear the meaty slap of a strike, but a low, mounting wail rose from the patch of darkness where the shooter had been.

Max came through the window a second later, having paused to let Juan clear the area. His exit wasn’t as dramatic as Cabrillo’s, but he made it nevertheless. They moved through the downpour as fast as they could, the wind and rain masking the sound of their escape. There was barely enough light to see but enough so they didn’t run headlong into any trees. After five minutes, and several random turns, Juan slowed and dropped to his belly behind a fallen log.

Max’s deep chest pumped like a bellows next to him. “You mind telling me,” he panted, “what the hell they’re doing here?”

Cabrillo’s breathing was far less labored, but he was twenty years younger than his friend and, unlike Max, knew what a workout routine was. “That, dear Maxwell, is the million-dollar question. Are you okay?”

“Just a small cut on my hand from going through the window. You?”

“Nothing’s hurt but my pride. I should have had that guy with my first shot.”

“Seriously, how did they get here?”

“Same as us. They followed the trail from the Flying Dutchman. What I really want to know is what they hoped to find.”

“Unless they’re as nerdy as Mark and Eric, they’re not looking for Devereaux’s treasure.”

“And we’ll never know. The rubbing burned up in the kitchen, and I’d already given the journal or log, or whatever it was, to Ronish.”

Max fished around in his jacket pocket and tapped something on Juan’s wrist. He felt the spongy mass of latex-sheathed papers. “I nabbed this when I tackled him.”

“I could kiss you.”

“Let me shave first so you really get to enjoy the experience.” Humor had always been their way of decompressing from a high-stress situation. “So what’s our play?”