{"product_id":"blood-and-treasure-isbn-9780593953174","title":"Blood and Treasure","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe destruction of the International Space Station and the discovery of an ancient scroll are inextricably intertwined in this debut crossover thriller from a former Navy helicopter pilot.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe International Space Station suddenly loses contact with Earth. When a NASA tech devises a way to restore the feed, the images that come through are unfathomable: a scene of terrible violence, the crew unresponsive, droplets of blood hovering in zero gravity. But which of the astronauts on board would have done such a thing? And why?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOff the coast of Mozambique, former special ops pilot and current treasure hunter Ethan Cain sees something he can’t believe: an object shot out of the heavens plunging deep into the Indian Ocean. When he goes to investigate, it becomes even less intelligible. A space capsule has crashed into the sea, and inside is a woman—alone, unconscious, and injured. Ethan knows he must save her. What he doesn’t know is who she is, how she got there . . . or why she’s the only survivor of a killing spree conducted 254 miles up in the sky.“Ryan Pote’s \u003ci\u003eBlood and Treasure\u003c\/i\u003e is the must-read debut thriller of 2025. Evoking equal parts Clive Cussler and Tom Clancy, this novel is high-speed, high-stakes, and relentlessly entertaining.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Mark Greaney, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eMidnight Black\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A superbly crafted story of action and secrets that is as imaginative as it is compelling. Take a breath, hang on, and enjoy.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Steve Berry, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Medici Return\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"An adrenaline-fueled thriller of the first order, \u003ci\u003eBlood and Treasure\u003c\/i\u003e blazes with action and intrigue in a harrowing chase for history’s greatest artifact.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Dirk Cussler,\u003ci\u003e #1 New York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of\u003ci\u003e Clive Cussler The Corsican Shadow\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Blood and Treasure has it all – tactical accuracy, globe-trotting locales, a touch of history, and a hero who’s a mix of Indiana Jones and Jason Bourne – it’s a sure-fire page turner that’ll keep you awake long after bedtime.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Brad Taylor, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of the Pike Logan Series\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Blood and Treasure\u003c\/i\u003e slams the throttle to the fire wall in this gut-punching, white-knuckled techno-thriller ride in a big adventure that catapults from the cold void of space to the deserts of the ancient prophets. Piloted by several fresh and original characters, Ryan Pote’s debut novel pushes the story’s airframe to its max in a series of rivet-busting plot twists more harrowing than an Immelmann turn in a helicopter. Strap in, hold on, and grit your teeth as you careen toward the sudden impact of the climactic ending.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Mike Maden, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eClive Cussler Ghost Soldier\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“\u003ci\u003eBlood and Treasure\u003c\/i\u003e explodes with action on the first page and never lets up. Filled with intrigue and ancient secrets, Pote’s debut is an ultimate-stakes chase from the reaches of space to the shadows of history.\"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e--Tosca Lee,\u003ci\u003e New York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Line Between\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ryan Pote’s \u003ci\u003eBlood and Treasure\u003c\/i\u003e is a generous pour of Cussler-style action, mixed with a globe-trotting adventure like Indiana Jones, and finished with a dash of intrigue. Shake it up, and you’ve got the perfect recipe for an unforgettable adventure. Sip, savor, and enjoy the ride!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Jack Stewart, author of \u003ci\u003eW.E.B. Griffin’s Direct Action\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ryan Pote explodes onto the thriller scene with his debut novel \u003ci\u003eBlood and Treasure\u003c\/i\u003e, a book that will keep you reading well into the night. Equal measures Dan Brown, Tom Clancy, and Jack Carr this well researched novel is one surprise twist after another written with an intensity and authority only possible from an author who has smelled the jet fuel and heard the bullets whizzing by in real life. Great characters, superb suspense, and a plot that keeps you guessing and wanting more. We have no doubt that Ryan Pote will become a name you can’t wait to see on the new release shelves for many years to come.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e —Andrews \u0026amp; Wilson, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling authors of \u003ci\u003eTom Clancy Act of Defiance\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e “Ryan Pote packs a punch with his exciting debut Blood and Treasure, striking just the right balance between espionage and action-adventure in a novel that fans of Tom Clancy and Clive Cussler are sure to enjoy. Drawing upon his own military experience, Pote demonstrates a high level authenticity through his protagonist Ethan Cain, a modern-day Indiana Jones, who is soon to become a thriller genre favorite.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e--Taylor Moore, author of Cold Trail\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ryan Pote delivers an unforgettable adventure with BLOOD AND TREASURE, a cerebral thriller with hard-hitting action, a mystery that keeps you guessing, and a cast of characters you’ll find yourself cheering for at every turn. This dazzling debut that marks the arrival of an exciting new voice in fiction—don’t miss it!” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e--Ryan Steck, author of\u003ci\u003e Gone Dark\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eRyan Pote\u003c\/b\u003e is a twelve-year veteran Navy helicopter pilot who was part of a joint interagency special operations task force deployed throughout Central and South America. He was medically separated after sustaining injuries during an emergency landing. Ryan currently works for the Department of Defense. Before his time in the Navy, he worked as a scuba diving instructor in Hawaii and as a microbiology lab tech conducting algae-biofuels research. He holds a master's degree in history from Ashland University. He lives with his wife and children in New England.\u003cb\u003e PROLOGUE\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eJohnson Space Center\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eHouston, Texas\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eOnly the dead silence of space replied for the crew.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Station, Houston,” the tech said. “How do you read?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA tonal chirp like the one from a tiny bird followed the broken sound waves from the digital speakers throughout Johnson Space Center’s Mission Control. The sound was a carryover from an old technology and was no longer produced by the radios organically; now, the artificial Quindar tone bookended all transmissions. This tone echoed across dozens of blank faces. Again, the radio pinged, but this time it was followed by a thick Japanese accent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eStation, Scooba. Come in?”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEveryone in Mission Control listened, holding their breath. Still, there was no answer. Then the radio pulsed from Germany. “\u003ci\u003eStation, Munich.”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen more.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eStation, Montreal. Over.”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eStation, Moscow.”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKorolev, Moscow. The Russian Center for Control of Flight, known by American astronauts as SOUP. Korolev was the sister to Houston for control of the International Space Station (ISS).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eStation, Moscow. We’re transmitting in the blind. If you hear us, we’ve lost link to station and cannot control thruster. Be advised, orbital creep is approaching critical altitude. Station, Moscow. Come in, Station?”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJordin Devine sat at her desk in Mission Control, perched on the second floor of Building 30 at Johnson Space Center. A tiny cog in the international machine of space exploration. A very tiny cog. Each of the twenty long desks, stacked with computer monitors, handled a different area of the station. Jordin tucked her hair behind an ear and focused on the monitors, so hard her eyes stung. She handled audio and video, and among the important problems growing for the ISS, audio and video took priority for the flight director. He needed to see his astronauts. Hear their voices.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe furiously tapped away at her keyboard, rifling through the endless lines of code.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Devine?” The flight director said, projecting his voice over the room. The flight director was an astronaut himself and the one responsible for the ISS in orbit. He was known to all by his callsign, \u003ci\u003eRemi.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJordin spun in her chair. “Sir?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Devine, we need \u003ci\u003esomething\u003c\/i\u003e—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes, sir. Working on it,” Jordin said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Well, work faster.” Remi remained stationary, staring at the opposite wall full of giant digital screens streaming the orbit of the ISS around the globe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe orbital path fell, displayed by a colored line playing in a looped graphic, blinking from green, to white—then red.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJordin leaned into her keyboard, fingers keeping pace with the dizzying speed of her cast gray eyes. An eagerness preceded the last rap of her hands on the keys.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I've got a feed…”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Audio or video?” Remi said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJordin clicked her mouse and lifted her gaze to the big screens on the far wall of the control room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Both,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA crackling hum filled Mission Control as the audio came through. Then a live video feed flickered on from inside the \u003ci\u003eDestiny\u003c\/i\u003e Laboratory and the \u003ci\u003eUnity\u003c\/i\u003e module (Node 1), connecting the US and Russian Orbital sections. It was muted in dark shades of red and slipped into a black screen at irregular intervals before finally establishing a continuous live stream.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEveryone glued their eyes to the screen. Gasps floated across the room like a dark cloud. The flight director turned away and whispered into his headset. Remi spoke to the “back room,” or executive NASA leadership. It was a one way flurry of information without reply. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen Jordin stood, covering her mouth with a trembling hand as the video resolution tightened. “Oh my God…”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe International Space Station\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe internal lights of the International Space Station flickered and dimmed, twitching a slow death. With every spark from a bundle of split wiring, the station’s lights guttered. The constant, gentle drone of the station was interrupted only by the radio, churning clipped static as the station flew over the horizon, away from the frequency’s reach.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eStation, Moscow?”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eStat—oscow\u003c\/i\u003e—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA single eggshell-colored Extravehicular Mobility Suit glove moved through the \u003ci\u003eUnity\u003c\/i\u003e module. It wasn’t flying; it was falling. Falling off the edge of the earth as the station executed its orbit at over 17,000 miles per hour. Spinning like a ballerina, the glove impacted a padded wall, sending it twirling on its axis through a swarm of floating orb-like marbles and into the \u003ci\u003eHarmony\u003c\/i\u003e module—the heart of the ISS.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe burgundy-colored spheres stretched and blobbed. Some clung to one another and formed larger orbs, while others multiplied and stained the glove red.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’s what blood does in outer space.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe woman hooked her feet under rungs on a wall of the module, holding herself in place among the zero-gravity environment. She took a deep breath and brushed the wet nodules away from her face as if they were flies. Her cheeks were smattered with blood, tissue, and tiny fragments of debris. The circular window only made it worse; without it, she wouldn’t have ever known the station was rotating. But every two seconds, the light reflected off the earth’s surface and flashed over her almond eyes. Strobing a reminder of the station’s motion, hurtling out of control through orbit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe radio continued to crackle, but the woman continued to ignore it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003e—tation, Mosco—”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe wore an EMU suit, but the helmet and gloves had been removed. Bloody hand prints marked the suit and partially covered the red, white, and green of the Iranian flag on her shoulder. A velcro patch on her chest held a name written in both Farsi and English:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eMojdeh “Moj” Zahedi.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer eyes locked in on a computer screen as she fought back the flutter in her stomach and the bile rising in the back of her throat. Vertigo. She could throw up at any moment. But there wasn’t time for that now. There was only time to complete her task. She wiped away the beads of sweat that pooled on her skin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMoj released the Russian Makarov 9mm pistol from her hand, and it gently drifted away before the stiff corpse of a man in a navy blue flight suit bounced off the wall—a bloody orb growing over his body like an inflating balloon. She nudged him along and returned to her work. Fingers jabbing at a breakneck pace, she worked her way through the station’s systems.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLIFE SUPPORT — FAILING.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eACTIVE THERMAL CONTROL SYSTEM — LEAK WARNING. STATION TEMPERATURE CRITICAL.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eORBIT — DEGRADED. ORBITAL DECAY CRITICAL. WARNING. FIRE THRUSTERS.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWARNING.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWARNING…\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMoj muttered in Farsi, then Arabic, then Russian, before closing her eyes and slamming a fist into the keyboard. The station shook.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMoj screamed something in Farsi.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eHouston\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe video feed cut to a black screen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCONNECTION LOST.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What?” the flight director said. “What the hell just happened?” He paced the floor of Mission Control. “Get me back that video feed, Devine.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes, sir. It wasn’t a live feed, like I originally thought. There’s a delay.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“How long of a delay are we talking here?” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Maybe an hour, or more?” she guessed. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I need that feed yesterday.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJordin Devine sunk back to her desk, staring at the computer, shaking her head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eNo\u003c\/i\u003e,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Is the station over the horizon?” The flight director said, “Switch to Germany—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No,” she said louder. “No, it’s not the feed, it’s—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eWhat\u003c\/i\u003e?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJordin clicked her mouse, and the wall of monitors in Mission Control now displayed the orbit of the ISS. A warning tone continued in the background, synced with a flashing red banner across the screen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“WARNING,” a digital voice repeated. “ORBIT DEGRADED. FIRE THRUSTERS. WARNING. ORBIT DEGRADED. FIRE THRUSTERS.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The entire station,” Jordin said. “It—it’s just… \u003ci\u003egone\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaputo\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMozambique, Africa\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEthan Cain jolted awake in the darkness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSweat soaked his body and the sheets \u003cb\u003eof\u003c\/b\u003e his bunk. His arms frantically reached out for the wall, and its presence grounded him as his chest settled into a rhythmic breathing pattern.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA glance down at his Garmin Fēnix 7 Solar smartwatch told him it was too early. But it was always too early.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e4:32 a.m.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEthan swung his legs over the side of the twin bunk and his feet found the floor. After a brief exhale, he stood and shook the sleep from his face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot bothering to dress, he exited his stateroom and crept down a narrow hall as the boat rocked gently. A lap of dull waves thudded against the fiberglass hull. Ethan crept past several other stateroom doors, still shut.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis employees.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis friends.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis responsibility.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe ascended a short set of teak stairs into an open salon, complete with a galley, living room, and dining area. The far bulkhead held a nautical chart of the eastern coast of Mozambique, fixed to the wall with packing tape. He flicked on a light and the modern interior burned to life. Ethan stood in his shorts studying the charts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe wore his past on his skin as if it were a wax patina. Starting at his feet, off-color burn scars enveloped his entire body like the rippling bark of an ancient oak tree. They wrapped him in gruesome patterns of crosshatched lines known to plastic surgeons as \"fishnet\" scars-the result of partial-thickness skin grafts. A lot of them, halting only at the neckline. Only his face had been spared the same trauma. Except for his hands, with pants and a long-sleeved shirt, none were the wiser to his injuries.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Ethan could never hide them from himself. To him, the fire that caused them was always burning in him, an eternal flame.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSkin-the largest organ-protects the body from germs and regulates body temperature. Packed full of nerves, it transmits hormonal and electric sensations to the brain, differentiating hot from cold. But without these nerve bundles and glands intact, burn-scarred skin can't regulate temperature in the same way. Like the sensation of warmth flooding a pair of cold feet, pins and needles constantly plagued him. The pain was unrelenting. A living nightmare he could never wake from.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe only solution he'd devised was staying in nearly perpetual motion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEthan scanned the map, pulling the cap off a purple marker. His hand brushed past hundreds of tiny boxes laid out in a grid pattern, some with lines hatched across their interior. The grids worked their way offshore like a frustrated game of Tetris. The marker squeaked as Ethan added a few more to the stack.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThrough the port window, the eastern horizon glowed indigo. In the middle of it, the waking sun peeked through, offering a hint of pink.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the steering console, Ethan typed a series of coordinates into the GPS and synced it to the boat's autopilot. He twisted a steel key and depressed a pair of igniter buttons, starting overpowered twin turbo-diesel inboard engines. A heavy chug rumbled the deck to life. The boat crept forward as the navigational touchscreen computer blinked:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAUTOPILOT ACTIVE.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the same touchscreen, Ethan turned on a hull-mounted side-scan sonar. His rough-textured finger moved through a series of operating modes, landing on one titled SEA FLOOR MAPPING.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe ran the program.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCALIBRATING.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Early bird gets the worm,\" he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEthan stepped out into the morning darkness. The churn of the engines gurgled water astern and gently pushed the fifty-two-foot Bluewater 5200 custom monohull yacht at just over one knot. A snail's pace.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the bow, Ethan pulled up the now slack, salty-wet line that was attached to a fixed-bottom mooring of concrete blocks. Free of its tether, the boat gently turned to port.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEthan's eyelids fell and he inhaled deeply. A pair of hazel-green eyes flared open before he dove off the starboard bow, slipping smoothly underneath the ocean swells of East Africa. The initial shock of the cold water sent his heart racing-then calm. The water was a solace from the constant plague of his injuries and his mind. Surfacing, Ethan remained close alongside, matching the boat's languid pace as he swam.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSplashes of alternating freestyle strokes and gasps focused Ethan’s thoughts. Rhythmic. Smooth. Almost meditative. No matter how turbulent the surface, the water beneath always remained constant-unwavering. He aimed to be the same.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSuddenly, a harsh spotlight surrounded him, making everything else seem darker. He stopped swimming and treaded in place, shielding his eyes. The boat drifted ahead of him before the engines cut to an idle. A deep, panicked voice projected over the water.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Man overboard! Man overboard!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll the boat's lights came on at once. Ethan looked up at a burly oxlike man with dark skin who hurled an orange life ring into the water. It splashed ten feet away from Ethan.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Grab on, man. I got you! Grab the ring!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEthan spat salty water and smirked. \"Who are you yelling to, Hank? The only other person on the boat is Mona Lisa, and you know she doesn't wake up before the sun. For anything.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHank Goodwin's shoulders seemed to relax. Ethan watched the life ring drift farther and farther out of reach.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Good to know, if I was actually drowning,\" Ethan said, \"you'd at least try and save me.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Very funny, man.\" Hank hauled in the rescue line, hand over hand. \"You doing your little swim ritual again?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I was.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHank nodded. \"Damn, E. You know that shit freaks me out. We're already at high alert on this job enough as it is.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"C'mon, whoever they are, they won't find the artifact before we do. They're just treasure hunters. We've got the scroll.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yeah?\" Hank said. \"And what happens when they find us first?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEthan didn't reply. His brand of optimism wasn't a widely shared quality, but he knew better what could happen. The thought of risking his friends' lives hadn't been lost on him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFar from it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe also knew that no matter how much he lied to himself, whoever was pursuing them-they were much more than just treasure hunters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEthan swam closer and slicked brown wavy hair out of his eyes. He surveyed Hank, who was naked except for a pair of red-white-and-blue superhero-branded boxer shorts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Really?\" he said under a smirk. \"Captain America, huh?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHank's face grew long and he pulled the life ring back onto the deck. \"You really are nuts, you know that? Trusting a computer to drive the boat-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Computers are wrong less than people are.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yeah, well, I ain't so convinced yet. Look, if you wanna swim laps with the sharks-you do you . . .\" Hank tapped his bulging chest and followed it with a wide grin. \"But I'm drivin'.\"","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48532128465125,"sku":"NP9780593953174","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593953174.jpg?v=1773182760","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/blood-and-treasure-isbn-9780593953174","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}