Chris Kuzneski
The Prisoner's Gold
About the Author
Chris Kuzneski is the international bestselling author of numerous thrillers featuring the series characters Payne and Jones, including THE SECRET CROWN and THE EINSTEIN PURSUIT. He is also the author of THE HUNTERS, the first novel in a new electrifying series that continues with THE FORBIDDEN TOMB and THE PRISONER’S GOLD. Chris’s thrillers have been translated into more than twenty languages and are sold in more than forty countries. Chris grew up in Pennsylvania but currently lives on the Gulf Coast of Florida. To learn more, please visit his website: www.chriskuzneski.com.
About the Book
THE HUNTERS
If you seek, they will find …
The travels of Marco Polo are known throughout the world.
But what if his story isn’t complete?
What if his greatest adventure has yet to be discovered?
Guided by a journal believed to have been dictated by Polo himself, the Hunters set out in search of his final legacy: the mythical treasure gathered during Polo’s lifetime of exploration.
But as every ancient clue brings them closer to the truth, each new step puts them in increasing danger. …
Explosive action. Killer characters. Classic Kuzneski.
Acknowledgments
Here are some of the amazing people I’d like to thank:
Scott Miller, Claire Roberts, and the whole gang at Trident Media. They sold this series long before it was written. That’s the sign of a great agency!
Vicki Mellor, Emily Griffin, Darcy Nicholson, Jo Liddiard, Ben Willis, Mari Evans, and everyone at Headline/Hachette UK. They bought this series when it was nothing but an outline, then they helped me bring it to life. Thanks for believing in me and the Hunters.
Ian Harper, my longtime friend/editor/consigliere. He reads my words before anyone else — and then tweaks them until they’re perfect. One of these days, you’ll see his name on a book of his own, and when you do, I urge you to buy it!
Kane Gilmour, who has traveled more than Polo himself. In addition to being a talented writer, he actually visited most of the locations in this book. His time in Asia and Italy helped me get things right. Thanks for all of your help.
All the fans, librarians, booksellers, and critics who have enjoyed my thrillers and have recommended them to others. If you keep reading, I’ll keep writing.
Last but not least, I’d like to thank my family for their unwavering support. At some point, I’ll actually take some time off and get to thank you in person.
Okay, I think that just about does it. It’s finally time for my favorite part of the book. Without further ado, please sit back, relax, and let me tell you a story …
Map
Prologue
Metal creaked and groaned, startling Rustichello da Pisa from his restless sleep. Even in the fog of slumber, he knew the horrific sound of a cell door opening. Anytime he heard it, he would snap awake to the pounding in his chest — even after all these years.
His senses on full alert, he strained to hear every rustle and scrape on the other side of the wall. He knew the Genoese guards were returning his neighbor after yet another round of torture. With any luck, they were done for the day and wouldn’t be coming for him next.
He would find out soon enough.
The uniformed guards moved into the adjacent cell and dumped their day’s entertainment on the floor with a wet splat. Then they quickly closed the door behind them and left without a word. Only then did Rustichello let out the breath that he had been holding.
He didn’t move until he heard the guards’ heavy footsteps recede down the dark corridor. He always did his best to avoid their notice, unless they were coming for him. On those occasions there was nothing to do but submit. He was too weak and frail to fight them anymore.
There was no sense in making them mad.
He slowly stood from the loose straw on the floor that served as his bed and brushed away the pieces that were tangled in his hair. Then he slipped a hand into his ragged linen trousers and scratched at the fungal infection on the right side of his groin. Thanks to the humid air in the city of Genoa, everything in the dungeon was damp. The walls, the ceiling, the floor, his clothes. Molds and lichens grew over every surface of his cell. Some patches were so large that they looked like broccoli.
On the bright side, at least he hadn’t started eating them.
Or naming them.
Confident that the guards were gone, he moved over to the wall and peered through the small window into the next cell. It was little more than a missing stone that had been dug out by a previous occupant, but the rectangular gap served a monumental purpose. Rustichello and his neighbor used the empty space to chat, to pass the long hours well into the night.
Their window provided meaningful human interaction.
But today, he couldn’t see his friend through the hole.
Suddenly worried, Rustichello lay on the damp floor where it met the moss-covered wall and glanced through an even smaller gap. This one at floor level and designed for drainage. The stench of dried urine in the gutter near the hole was overpowering, but he needed to check on his neighbor, who was deadly silent in his cell.
‘My friend,’ Rustichello said in Venetian, ‘do you need water?’
He knew better than to ask if the man was all right. Both had been to the chamber where the Genoese slapped them around. When they left there, they were never all right.
The beaten merchant blinked at him a few times, trying to regain his bearings, then coughed up some blood from his broken ribs. Though he was far younger and hardier than Rustichello, the constant beatings were taking their toll.
‘If you can spare some,’ he croaked.
Their daily rations were minimal at best, but Rustichello would gladly share his water. His neighbor had done the same for him on his own return trips from abuse. He grabbed his tin cup and scooped some murky water from the stone bowl he was given each morning. Then he carefully positioned the cup in the tiny drainage hole on the floor and nudged it through the tunnel, careful not to tip it or touch the drinking rim to the top of the tunnel’s roof.
With a trembling hand, the merchant grasped the thin handle and dragged the cup along the floor until it was right next to his face. He pressed it to his swollen lips and sipped cautiously, pleased when swallowing did not add to his pain.
‘I don’t think they are after information anymore … I’m not even sure they still enjoy the beatings. It feels more like routine now — for them as well.’
‘Must not have been Guillermo, then. That sack of shit enjoys it every time.’
The merchant smiled at the eye on the other side of the wall. They would frequently curse their captors in private, but never loud enough to be heard by the guards or other inmates.
‘No. Not the ogre,’ he muttered. He finished the water in small sips, quietly thankful that Guillermo hadn’t been to work in nearly a week.
It was a small blessing in his current hell.
The merchant had been captured during Venice’s war with Genoa when his ship had run aground on a sandbar near the Anatolian coast. Enemy soldiers had taken him in chains on one of their boats back to the Republic of Genoa — one of the last places a Venetian ever hoped to find himself. Of course, it probably hadn’t helped matters that during the fighting he had fired the severed heads of Genoese sailors from a massive catapult in between the volleys of rough iron balls designed to plunge through the decks of enemy ships.