Legend of the Gypsy Queen Skull: The Devil's Triangle - Book 1 Read Free

looked down at him.
    “Pirate, aye. But gentleman remains to be
seen.”
    Turning his head to the side, the captain
gave an order to his men.
    “Lock ‘em in me lady’s room. I’ll ponder ’em
later.”
    Stepping aside, his men moved in and took
custody of the kids.
    Muenster, however, was another story. He
wasn’t going to go so quietly when one of the pirates reached for
him. Folding back his ears, he hissed and swatted him away.
    Not heeding the black cat’s warning, the
young man reached again for him but he swiftly countered with his
fangs.
    Sinking his teeth into the young man’s
flesh, the pirate squealed out in pain.
    “Ouch!”
    Flinching his bloodied hand back, Muenster
ran up the front of him and launched off his face.
    “Run Muenster! Run!” Tinnie cried out.
    “Curse-ed cat!” the pirate shouted, cradling
his injured hand. “You’ll get yours!”
    “Now that’s how you fight,” Darcy said with
an amused grin. “That puss is all pirate.”
    The wounded crewman licked the blood from
his hand and continued to swear, but Darcy was having none of
it.
    “Let him be. He’s more pirate then half you
ladies.”
    With that, Captain Darcy walked across the
deck, where he vanished into the fog.

Chapter 1 -
The Secret Contact
    Present Day ~ Mid July ~ Parking Garage
Structure ~ Washington, D.C.

    Paul Bismarck checked his watch again. Its
digital display read 11:20 p.m. He’d been parked in the desolate
parking garage for 30 minutes but there was still no sign of his
secret contact, Deep Throat.
    Paul’s nickname for him was a throwback to
the infamous informant in the Watergate scandal that brought down
the Nixon White House in the 1970s.
    Sitting in his prized ’76 Vega, the
forty-something-year-old reached over, flipping down the
passenger-side sun visor. Dropping down from it was a bulging
envelope that he caught in his other hand. Opening it up, he
removed a thick stack of one hundred dollar bills and began
counting them.
    “One hundred, two hundred–,” until he
reached five thousand. Satisfied, he slid the stack of bills back
into the envelope and replaced it above the visor.
    Minutes later, checking his watch again, a
single bead of sweat ran down the side of his face.
    Eleven thirty, where the hell is he?
    Trying not to worry about it, Paul reclined
his head back, closed his eyes, and dialed up one of his favorite
daydreams.
    He was at the opera house in Prague,
attending an award show for the world’s most elite historians. As
usual, he was a finalist for the Edgar Glas Chalice, the most
prestigious accolade a historical researcher like him could ever
hope to receive. In his business, it’s the equivalent of a Nobel
Peace Prize combined with an Oscar.
    Tearing open the envelope, the host leans
into the microphone, “And the winner is… Paul Bismarck!”
    With the audience cheering him on, Paul
files through the crowd to the stage, where he gives an impassioned
speech that ends in a standing ovation. Triumphantly raising his
prized golden chalice over his head, he waves to his adoring
crowd.
    Soon agents are lining up to sign him to
lucrative book deals, lecture tours, and even recurring guest spots
on NPR.
    The future, his future, seems limitless.
    As the minutes passed, Paul continued to
daydream while the wrinkles on his forehead relaxed and a smile
came to his lips. He was beginning to imagine he was the host of
his own TV history series when a siren blared, jolting him back to
his senses.
    Wide awake now, he jerked his head from left
to right, scanning the parking garage several times over, but saw
nothing. As the siren’s shrill continued to reverberate throughout
the parking structure, an unsettling thought entered Paul’s mind. What if Deep Throat ratted me out?
    “It’s the Feds,” he suspiciously whispered
as his eyes grew wide.
    They must be coming up the garage ramp right
now!
    “I was so close!” he shouted, pounding his
fist on the dashboard. His mind was