Chapter 21
Amy’s wrists burned where the zip ties cut into her skin as the speedboat cut through the choppy waters.
The ocean stretched endlessly in all directions, with no sign of land or rescue.
Her captors—two men in tactical gear who moved with military precision—had said nothing during the first ten minutes of their journey.
The bearded man, who seemed to be in charge, sat across from her. His cold eyes studied her with the detached interest of a scientist examining a specimen. He was older, with graying hair and scars that spoke of a violent past.
“Dr. Martinez was very helpful,” the man said finally, his voice carrying a slight accent that Amy couldn’t place. “He told us you’re the key to understanding something that belongs to my family.”
Amy’s heart hammered against her ribs, but she kept her voice steady. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He reached into a waterproof case and withdrew a rolled document, handling it with reverence. “Your father stole this from the Ferrante family twenty years ago,” he said, unrolling what appeared to be an old map. “It cost him his life.”
Amy stared at the yellowed parchment, her mind reeling. “What? My father had a map?”
“Oh yes,” he said, his smile cold. “Michael Roberts was very thorough in his investigation of our family’s business. He thought he was so clever, copying our records, stealing our heritage.” His expression hardened. “He was looking for gold, wasn’t he? Our gold.”
The words hit Amy like a physical blow. All these years, she’d believed her father was investigating the Ferrantes’ criminal activities.
But he’d been treasure hunting?
“This map has been in my family for generations,” the bearded man continued. “It shows the location of a cache that rightfully belongs to us. Your father thought he could use it to destroy us, to trade the information for protection from the FBI.”
Amy’s voice came out as barely a whisper. “That’s why you killed him.”
“We defended what was ours,” he said without emotion. “Sure, he did witness a killing. But he took the map. And now, Professor, you’re going to help us reclaim it.”
Amy looked at the map spread before her, its surface covered in faded ink markings, symbols, and what looked like geographical notations. Despite everything, her academic mind automatically began analyzing the document—the paper quality, the ink composition, the style of cartography.
“I won’t help you,” she said firmly.
The man nodded to his associate, who pulled out a tablet and tapped the screen. “Perhaps this will change your mind.”
The tablet showed a live video feed from what was clearly an aerial view. Amy’s blood turned to ice as she recognized the boat with Nash and the others gathered.
“We have a helicopter positioned not far from your friends,” the man explained casually. “One word from me, and they will open fire. Your boyfriend and his family will be dead within seconds.”
Amy’s breath caught in her throat. Through the grainy video feed, she could make out Nash’s distinctive silhouette as he stood near the boat’s railing, completely unaware of the danger.
“You’re bluffing,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction.
The man spoke into a small radio in a language Amy didn’t recognize. On the tablet screen, she watched in horror as the helicopter’s position shifted, moving closer to the boat. The image zoomed in, and she could see what looked like mounted weapons protruding from the aircraft’s sides.
“No!” Amy cried out. “Don’t hurt them!”
“Then read the map,” the man said simply. “Tell us what it means, and your friends live. Refuse, and watch them die.”
Amy’s hands shook as she looked down at the document. Every instinct screamed at her not to cooperate, not to give these monsters what they wanted. But the image of Nash, oblivious to the threat above, made her decision for her.
“Fine,” she whispered. “I’ll read it.”
The man smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “I thought you might see reason.”
Amy leaned forward, studying the map more carefully. Her years of research had made her familiar with various types of historical cartography, and this document was clearly old—possibly from the late 1800s, based on the style and materials.
“This shows Utah Territory,” she said, tracing the geographical boundaries with her finger. “But there are markings that extend farther east …” She paused, her academic mind working despite her fear. “Into what would be Wyoming Territory.”
“Continue,” the man said.
Amy followed the trail of symbols across the map. “These symbols … they’re similar to ones I’ve seen in Porter Rockwell’s documented activities. The broken arrow, the circle with the cross …”
Her voice trailed off as understanding dawned. The map wasn’t just showing random locations—it was documenting a deliberate trail, a carefully planned route for moving something valuable.
“The gold,” she breathed. “This shows how it was moved from Utah to Wyoming.”
The man leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Where in Wyoming?”
Amy studied the eastern portion of the map, where the trail of symbols ended at what appeared to be a specific geographical landmark. Her heart sank as she realized the implications of what she was reading. “I can’t understand it.”
“Yes, you do.” The man stood and gripped her shirt. “Tell me.”
She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. “I don’t know.”
He pointed to the screen and spoke into the radio. “I’ll kill all of them.”
Her heart raced. “I will. But …” She tried to think of how to get them out of danger. “Not until I see they are on land.”
“No. Now!” the man yelled.
“No.”
The other man said, “Boss, we need her. We have to wait.”
“Fine!” He pushed her down.
Amy grabbed the map and studied the final symbol on the map, a complex marking that combined several of the elements she’d seen throughout the document.
Her mind raced, remembering conversations with Nash about his family’s ranch, about the missile silos, about the strange symbols they’d found, plus the broken symbol.
Was this why her father had relocated to Cross Creek? Her mind raced. She hated thinking her father had put them all in danger over this.
She suddenly had an idea. Tears came to her eyes. Nash had been inspired, telling her about the SOS.
She wasn’t sure how long they’d been sailing when the boat slowed; she looked up and saw them heading to a port on shore she didn’t recognize.
Taking a chance while the men weren’t looking, she ripped off a piece of the map, the one that indicated where she thought the gold was, and crumpled it, sticking it in a couch cushion.
When they docked, the bearded man pointed to the screen. “See? Your precious people are on shore. Where is the gold?”
She rolled up the map and handed it to him. “It’s on a reservation called Windsong. Let’s go.”
He hesitated, taking the map.
She tried to play the part. “Hey, you know I’ve been studying where this treasure is. For a cut, I’ll take you right to it.”
The man chugged out a laugh. “Wow, guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?”
She didn’t want them to think about gunning down any of her people. “Nope. Let’s go find it.”
The men were tying up the boat when she remembered her idea. “Oh man, I forgot something. I’ll be right back.” She rushed back and said, “I dropped an earring.”
“What?” the bearded man asked.
She ran to the radio, crouched, and sent the SOS. Hopefully she didn’t look too obvious.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
“Nothing.” She straightened up, pretending to be holding something, and fiddled with her ear. “I got it. Let’s go.”