Under the moonlight, was where it all began. The first glimpse of something which didn't belong. The beach with its ebony sand and the navy blue sea with waves lapping gently at ebb tide was empty and I hoped it would stay that way. I was almost a hundred yards further out along the gentle crescent, walking along the fine volcanic grains pushing damply against my feet. Coolness calming the burn remaining from my earlier jog. The glint of a brass accent on the corner of the object caught my eye and I dropped to my knees.

Pulling the trowel out of the back pocket of my Daisy Duke shorts, I dug furiously hoping for treasure. Glancing at my watch as it flashed by, the time announced itself in stark white numerals. 02:39. Not a particularly safe time of the day. Full slack at the end of ebb tide. I quickly uncovered a small trunk.

The miniature version of what glamourous travelers packed in the early last century, winked further brass fittings at me and I pushed myself to expose the bottom edge. Wedging my fingers under the end, I worked to free it from its surrounding prison.

No one could know about this. I knew this was the spot marked by the X on my great-grandfather's map. It took me over ten years of travelling to every black sand beach ever discovered. This one was on a small atoll in the south Pacific. Rustic accommodations on this island weren't even close to what most seasoned voyagers expected. Actually, there were none and I was rough camping.

In fact, I had a fisherman from the neighboring island bring me over with a large pack on my back. Wading in from his boat proved to be an adventure in and of itself when I almost made the mistake of heading into a riptide.

I discovered Grandda's lean-to on my first sweep of the jungle. His carved date markings and his initials were exactly where his diary said they were. The wood, teak branches, was still held together by his expert joinery. Amazing what an accomplished journeyman finish carpenter can accomplish when he was waiting for rescue. His shipwright's trunk of tools was there too. I fully expected the divers working the lagoon to be back in the morning. They were after the same shipwreck's cargo I was.

The trees were taller now than his detailed description and eagle-eyed measurement estimates indicated. Grandda's son, my own grandfather, taught me to use the modern version of Anthony Elgin Montgomery's excellent vintage tools. I would bring those home with me as well.

The trunk pulled loose as I sensed the turn of the tide. The waves moving with purpose now, they sloshed into the hole so recently vacated. I took the trunk with me into the trees. Thankfully, my pack was big enough, and empty enough to stash the trunk in it now that my supplies were down to the last few MRE's. At least fishing was easy, and I ate well because of it.

The case was only twenty inches long and little less than a foot deep. Perfectly proportioned, it matched the sketch on the last page of the diary. For once, luck was with me. Digging my camera out, I brought my photographer's persona out of hiding.

The diver's checked on me every day. I got the distinct impression they thought of me as a helpless damsel in distress. I asked if I could take pictures, but they said only of the boat. The distinctive diver down flag fluttered in every single shot I took. What I didn't tell them was I wanted the telephoto shots of their faces.

They didn't match any of the legit archeological undersea teams I knew about. Heck, I should have had mine here doing the survey they were destroying. I saw the clouds of debris they loosened with their underwater vacuum. Could I sneak my treasure out right under their noses?

Doubling as an investigator for the Nautical Archeology Society, I was also an Interpol informant. This crew was of interest for many thefts. Their usual MO was to observe a legit expedition, wait for them to conclude their operations, then ransack the careful gridwork for artifacts and treasure. I was actually legally official as I was a legitimate heir to the items I was recovering.

Tomorrow was extraction. If no one saw me. The divers were gone, as was their habit. Arriving at an obnoxiously early hour, they worked continually through the early hours of the day before the temperature rose to alarming levels in the afternoon. I wasn't kidding about burning feet. The black sands absorbed heat unlike the normal white or even occasional pink beaches most of my colleagues dealt with.

I set my alarm on my watch. The solar charging panel was already packed up right alongside my satellite phone. I hoped my ride back to civilization was armed. I doubt the divers were going to let me go without trying to relieve me of anything they deemed worthy of interest. I completed my mission. We had positive identification on eight of the ten crew members. Five of them confirmed from other raids on legitimate research sites.

I doubted we were ready to take them out yet. We needed to find them on a site where the local government was not as corrupt as they were first. After checking my personal weapons, which included a handgun and a collapsible spearfishing rig, I pulled my mosquito netting over myself, including my face and tried to go to sleep.

Instantly awake, I listened. What was that?

Voices.

Not good. I pulled the netting off rolling it into a tight ball. The routine reflexive, something I've done like breathing for years. It was the last thing to go into my pack, just the trunk with the tools left, and that was buried in the undergrowth. I could hear the monkeys moving restlessly above me.

"Just a damn stupid woman. Shouldn't be a problem. Bring her back to the boat and sell her to the divers."

The fishermen. 

A double cross.

Two of them. That meant their boat was here and dawn was just starting to break. I had a chance. The divers wouldn't be here for at least another hour. They started early, but never before seven.

I crept out, pack on my back, speargun over one shoulder, and my pistol in my hand. I had no problem taking these two out. Double tap straight to the middle of their torso. I screwed the silencer in place.

There's the first one. Burly bugger. No wonder he thought he could handle me. I took the speargun and pulled the trigger. Right into the groin. He was done. Forgot how much lower it hits when I wasn't under the waves.

Where was the other one?

Rustling leaves and a warning scream from the monkey lookout.

Behind me. I whirled and nailed him. Simple.

Pulling the trunk out, I headed onto the beach.

And it begins again. Under the moonlight, the full moon winked at me. Safe for now in the Zodiac, they were better equipped than I thought.

Why?

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