63

LOGAN CHECKED THE COORDINATES GINGER HAD GIVEN HIM,

then looked overboard. Somewhere down there, beneath the island of Bermuda, Atlantis waited.

He dropped anchor, wondering how much damage that did to the reef, but if this all played out like Ginger had outlined, that would be the least of his worries.

Grabbing his scuba gear, Logan scanned the area. A perfect Bermuda day. Sunny with wispy clouds. Logan could see for miles. A pair of boats were well beyond shouting distance, and others farther past them. Windsurfers sailed near the shore, and that party cruise had been headed north. He’d rented the boat for the week, so it wasn’t expected back until then, and no curious Jet Skiers were around to take note of how long he’d be gone. His arrangements were either good subterfuge or suicide.

He hoped it wasn’t the latter.

One more look at the map and the coastline confirmed that he was at the right spot. Ginger had even mentioned the area off the bow where the greens of the shallows