1 | THE SANDBAR OF DEFEAT
BEN PRESCOTT CROUCHED in the dark North Carolina night, holding his rifle tight. The situation seemed desperate. Ben was outnumbered. Surrounded by the enemy. He didn’t know exactly where the armed fighters were in the chaotic sandy terrain, tidal pools, wrecked boats, and tangled uprooted trees that made up this newly formed sandbar, but he knew they were close.
Tonight was about animal instinct, situational awareness, and summoning the will to survive. Back in Ridgeport, people knew Ben as the brain—the one who sometimes seemed to have his head too much in the clouds. Out here, in the dark, with a battle on, all of that book-learning had come to nothing. He was now a desperate man, on the run.
That was the idea Ben wanted to sell, at least.
The breeze off Albemarle Sound was cool after a recent tempest, Tropical Storm Mandy, had passed through and done her worst. There was rumored to be an even bigger system building in the Atlantic that would soon follow Mandy with a second punch at the coast. The wind carried the odor of ocean salt, decomposing plant matter, and the iron tang of rusty buoys and other metallic debris churned up by the bad weather.
Five days ago, before the storm, this sandbar hadn’t even existed. Now it was solid ground and a field of battle, another outcome of the dance of weather and geography that shaped and reshaped the North Carolina coast. The sky was overcast, and clouds hid the Moon and stars and cut off whatever light they might supply. A faint shine from waves rippling across the Albemarle Sound, and the distant glow of houses on the mainland to the northwest and the Outer Banks to the east, provided the only light.
Ben crouched behind the stump and lower trunk of an old uprooted tree. It had probably spent years buried in the muck at the bottom of the sound until Mandy tore it loose and sent it sailing, only for it to fetch up here on another patch of silt and sand and half-bury itself all over again.
Peeking over the driftwood, Ben studied the flat stretch ahead. It was a strip of sand peppered with coquina shells and little sticks, with a few dark heaps of seaweed strewn across it.
Well, not exactly seaweed, Ben reflected. He knew his local biology. Boatmen like his father called it “sargassum.” When sargassum was encountered free-floating, it could be a hazard to propellers and ship tillers. Here on land, it looked totally alien, like dark, tangled piles of a bunch of creatures that had fallen from outer space.
One weedy sargassum pile in particular was larger than the rest, maybe the size of a man sitting up. And draped in front of that large pile was the unmoving body of Maren Davis.
Maren was the girlfriend of Ben’s friend and treasure-hunting partner Porter Rockwell. Maren, athletic and game for any adventure, had come along to the battle to even up the sides. Now she’d paid the ultimate price.
Maren has been eliminated. Her fight was over.
Ben didn’t have time to think about this too long. Beyond the open sand, shapes moved. Was that the four enemy fighters? Ben squinted, looked harder.
He keyed the transmit button on his walkie-talkie and whispered hoarsely, “Latch? Come in, you copy?”
Latch McRae replied quickly. “Yeah, bro,” he answered. His voice in Ben’s earpiece was tight, worried. Exactly as expected.
Latch, Ben’s other treasure-hunting partner and his oldest friend, was usually a man of few words, and even fewer when in a tense situation. He was a straight shooter, at home with machines and engines, sometimes not so much with social situations and people.
“Got eyes on all four of them. Think we’re surrounded.”
“Roger that. On my way.”
Sweat from running and hiding dripped down Ben’s forehead. The odds were bad, and he let some of that desperation leak into his voice. “They’ve got our number, Latch. I think our only chance is to fall back toward the boat,” he said.
Latch’s reply was strained, doubtful. “If they catch us, we’re dead.”
“I know, but we’ve got no choice,” Ben replied, and let out a sigh of resignation. “Let’s head there. See you in a minute. If we make it that far.”
“Heard that. On my way.”
Ben pushed himself up from a prone position behind the driftwood and moved into a crouch. His knees and elbows were damp from the nighttime dew on the sand.
He immediately saw movement in the shadows ahead—almost as if the enemy had overheard his words over the radio.
Well, actually, exactly as if they’re listening in, Ben thought. Because they are. He forced himself not to smile. The trap was not quite sprung yet, after all.
Should I make a run now? Ben considered. No, charging out now will leave me too exposed. But I have to link up with Latch.
Ben felt around on his chest, found the smoke canister—an EG18 “Enola Gaye”—strapped to the military-surplus chest rig he wore. Ben detached the canister, pulled the pin, and threw it onto the open sand. Seconds later, another Enola Gaye followed the first. The two devices let out popping sounds as the fuses inside caught.
Gray-black smoke billowed from the sizzling canisters. After a few seconds, the dark fog had partially filled the open space.
Now or never!
Ben rose from his squat into a low, shoulders-hunched stance and started his run.
Rounds impacted the sand in front of him, and a commanding voice called out, “Stop right there, Prescott!”
It was the OBXers. They had him.
Ben froze.
The OBXers emerged from the smoking shadows around him, their rifles poised.
“Drop the gun, Prescott.”
No choice, Ben thought. They’ve got me dead to rights.
What had he expected? The OBXers had the best guns, the best gear. His side in the battle—west sounders from Ridgeport—were known as Heels. The OBXers—most of them—were usually richer than the Heels. At least their parents were. And they weren’t dumb, either. They knew how to use their advantages to win.
He had believed that his little band of Heels could somehow overcome those advantages by sheer grit and determination. Now it all ended here, in this final moment of confrontation.
“You too, McRae. Get out here!”
Several yards away, Latch stood up from where he’d been crouched behind the ruins of a wrecked kayak that was half-entombed in the sand. He had one hand up. He hung his head in shame—or so it seemed—and tossed his gun away with his other hand.
“Get ’em up, Heel!”
Latch raised both hands over his head.
The four enemy fighters stepped out of the shadows and approached the two hunters. Two of them, including the leader, focused on Ben and Latch, but the other two kept their guard up, scanning the area for anyone else.
“I’d shoot y’all where you stand, but you’re worth twice as much to us alive as dead, you know.”
Ben grimaced. “Yeah. Rules of war. Live capture’s worth more than a kill.”
The leader of the OBXers kicked up some sand and smiled gleefully. “That’s right,” he said. “Now get those hands up and prepare to give up!”
Ben did as he was told and raised his hands. As he did so, he hung his head in a posture of complete and utter defeat.
What the enemy leader said was true enough.
Unless something changed drastically, there was only one option.
Unconditional surrender.
It looked like the Heels were done for. Ben had hung his head and let his blackish-brown hair fall over his features for a reason, however.
He didn’t want the OBXer leader to see the growing smile on his face.