The device was called a powerhead, and it was a one-shot underwater firearm that was triggered by making jabbing contact with something.

Due to the retarding density of water, a bullet shot from a regular gun at a distance under water was virtually harmless. But a powerhead set off by spring-loaded direct contact ripped into a target no differently than any other firearm round fired into something from point-blank range.

Already loaded with a waterproofed shotgun shell of double-aught buckshot, the powerhead Gannon pulled from his bag was the kind that spear fishermen used as a backup to protect themselves from sharks.

Gannon pulled out its safety pin and placed its shaft between his teeth like a pirate’s knife and took the second powerhead from the bag.

He’d just pulled the second one’s pin and was turning down toward the entrance of the cathedral double-fisted when Blackbeard’s head emerged into the chamber through the opening just below him.

Floating unseen in the dark two feet above, Gannon waited until he saw the commando’s tattooed bodybuilder shoulders.

Then Gannon swung the powerhead down at the base of the big son of a bitch’s unprotected skull with every single solitary fiber of fear and fury and life force he possessed.

84

Everyone turned to Reyland’s radio as it suddenly began to sputter out static. There were several frantic clicks followed by a short loud beep.

“Emerson? What is it?” Reyland called into the Motorola.

“Holy shit! Reyland!” Emerson called out in a loud, suddenly very clear panicked voice.

“What!” Reyland said.

“The email I was waiting for,” he yelled. “Holy shit! I knew it!”

“What?” Reyland said.

“You have got to be kidding me!” Emerson yelled.

“WHAT!” Reyland screamed back into his handheld.

“This guy, Gannon. The report just came in on him. I had Rayne cross-reference his fingerprints with the covert database, and it popped. It popped. We got a hit! You’re not going to believe this.”

“What are you trying to say?” Reyland called on the radio.

“Reyland, stop interrupting him!” Ruiz yelled from across the hole, sounding suddenly nervous. “How many times I gotta tell you? Every time two people key a mic at the same time, it kills the signal. Keep the line open!”

“Come in, Emerson. Over,” Reyland said into the radio.

There was another crackle and then Emerson said clearly:

“I have the report on Gannon. Listen, he was NYPD, but before that, he was DEVGRU, Reyland. Top echelon. Task Force Blue.”

Ruby’s mouth dropped open as she sat there.

Being navy, she knew that DEVGRU was short for the Naval Special Warfare Development Group.

The special operations organization previously known as SEAL Team Six.

She thought about Gannon. His diving skills. The way he had handled the SWAT team in New York. His preternatural calm.

Gannon was a SEAL! she thought, wide-eyed.

“He’s a SEAL?” Reyland said.

“Yes. Listen to this record. Navy SEAL Buds training, 1995, at age twenty-one one of the youngest ever to go through. SEAL Special Sniper School, San Diego, California. SEAL Covert No Contact Urban Environment Recon Course at Fort Gordon in Georgia.”