In the citadel, the surviving prisoners from the Garnor—seven in total, some wounded by blades, others beaten—stood in a line with heads bowed and hands tied behind their backs. Inzunza walked before them with arrogant composure, holding a brocade handkerchief from the Santa Carmen's cargo, which he used to cover his nose. At his side, Yanga marched along, explaining who each man was.
"And this fat redhead," Yanga said, pointing at Mike Hatcher. "He's Scottish."
The lieutenant stopped and regarded the group with indifference.
"Filth," he spat. "Protestant filth… not worth the rope we'll hang them with. Are these all who came in that boat?"
"There were more, your Excellency," Mike replied. "Two fell down the stairs, another tried to jump off the cliff, and a lad… we don't know where he went."
"Shut your mouth, gossip," one of his companions muttered.
"A lad?" Inzunza looked at Yanga, who shrugged.
"If he didn't flee with the scouting party, he's in the jungle… and he won't get far."
The lieutenant pressed his lips together, unconvinced.
"Very well… we'll have to think about what to do with you, bunch of heretical vermin."
"I'm Catholic," Mike said.
"Silence!" Yanga barked.
"Since you've been abandoned," Inzunza continued, "let me be clear: you have only two options. Die in the presidio… or die hanging in Mérida. What do you say?"
The prisoners remained silent.
"I asked you—what do you say?"
The pirates muttered among themselves. Smith lifted his hand.
"I believe this is our destiny… I trust in the word of the Lord—"
The others protested and shut him up. Inzunza smiled.
"How does it feel to be abandoned to your fate?" he asked with sarcasm, a grin of pure delight twisting his features—something that clearly displeased Yanga.
Mike lifted his hand.
"Captain Skippy… he's not like that."
The lieutenant gestured for the plump redhead to be brought forward.
"Say that again."
Mike, like a child who had spoken out of turn, glanced sideways at his companions, who shook their heads in silent warning.
"You think he'll come back?"
Mike nodded awkwardly. Inzunza shot Yanga a look, one eyebrow raised. Without warning, Yanga struck Mike so hard he spun around and fell to the ground. Inzunza stepped forward and pressed the tip of his boot against Mike's cheek.
"Well?"
"The captain… he never abandons his crew," Mike murmured.
Satisfied, Inzunza gave a slight flick of his handkerchief, ordering the Garnor prisoners taken to the storehouse where the other captives were held. When they were shoved inside, they were greeted with whistles and boos.
"Welcome," Larry said. "Always good to see new clients arriving."
"Good grief! What happened here?" asked one of the Garnor men upon seeing the former suppliers of Azure Ore.
"What does it look like?" replied the pirate from the English redoubt. "The Spaniards caught us with our pants down."
"What happened to Kwame?" Mike asked.
The pirates of the citadel looked at one another; some shrugged.
"We don't know. He left for the San Jorge redoubt and never came back… these dogs are looking for him."
"What do you mean?"
"They think he knows where the Xul-Kan transaction money is hidden."
Everyone murmured and exchanged comments under their breath.
"What happened to your messiah… Rafael?" Smith asked. The Garnor pirates rolled their eyes.
"If you must know," the pirate said, "from what we've overheard, they took him—along with all the others—to be hanged in Campeche… for heresy."
A murmur swept through the group.
"As every blasphemer deserves," Smith declared, "and even more so for using the Lord's word for profit."
"Well here's 'the word of the Lord' for you," the pirate said, launching himself at Smith.
The Garnor crew, though they weren't fond of the old toxic preacher, stepped forward to defend one of their own. In moments, everyone was throwing punches, until the Spanish soldiers threatened to blow the storehouse to pieces with a cannon if they didn't calm down. The Garnor men withdrew to a corner.
"What's going to happen to us?" one began to sob.
"I believe it's time to trust in our Redeemer," Smith said.
"Shut it already… if the Spaniards don't hang us, this mob will choke you for your sermons," growled one pirate, who had a gash on his forehead and was wiping blood off with his bandana.
"I only speak what the Lord says in His word—"
"Shut up. You've preached enough—they were about to fill your mouth with the Gospel according to Saint Knuckles of the Beating. And you," he turned to Mike, "can't you keep quiet for one minute?"
"I only answered…" Mike said. "And that's what I think: Skippy's coming back."
The men murmured.
"That's the problem, you Sunday-born half-witted beast under an eclipse," snapped the pirate, smacking him with the bloody bandana. "If Skippy had a plan"—he lowered his voice—"you just gave that Spanish idiot clues to prepare for him."
Everyone stared at Mike.
"You're a fool, Mr. Hatcher," they said with one voice.
Meanwhile, Inzunza walked toward what had once been an ancient temple, now refitted by the pirates as offices and lodgings, furnished with English décor and certain amenities. He summoned the gunners, who arrived under the watch of the Spanish musketeers.
"I can tell you, sir," one of the gunners declared, "that ship was wounded."
"What makes you think that?" Inzunza asked, smelling a fish stew that had been prepared for him.
"The vessel didn't head to open sea. She was taking on water. And if they didn't find a decent estuary or inlet… they must be sinking by now."
"And you're that certain?"
"I've fought in a thousand battles."
"That I don't doubt," Inzunza replied, dismissing them.
Then he turned to Yanga.
"If what that wretch says is true… that ship must already be at the bottom of the sea, its crew stranded on some beach. Which means we'll be able to capture the captain and the rest of the pirates."
He took a sip of the contraband wine.
"It will be a beautiful job, worthy of the viceroy's reward…" he mused, savoring his drink and the moment. "Send a patrol to explore the beach."
Yanga cleared his throat.
"We have a problem, lieutenant… We don't have enough presidio soldiers to do it, and our support patrol—mostly Maya—refuses to go into the jungle at night."
"And why in God's name not?"
"Because of the demons," Yanga said. "Superstitions… but they believe them."
Annoyed, Inzunza dismissed him with a gesture.
"Have them set out at dawn," he said.