Trouble & Treasure by Dave Moyer (robert munsch read aloud .txt) 📕

of an engine running somewhere down the hill. It could be a farmer doing some late-night mowing or another car-full of bad guys ready to do some people mowing instead.

As he moved his face towards the noise, I could see his sharp brow crinkle and press over his eyes. It was Shaw, I realized. The build, the stature, the face, the voice. Apparently Shaw was more than a lawyer/antiques dealer. That, or he had a natural talent for putting down bad guys.

I saw the dips and ridges of his tensed neck muscles as he arched his head further towards the sound. He didn't turn his body fully, and he kept his hands where I could see them. “We might want to get out of here,” he said in a low tone.

“I don't trust you yet,” I said, “So don't you move.”

He turned his head back to me, but apart from that, stayed as still as a tree trunk.

“You tell me what’s going on, then I'm going back into the house to call the police. No,” I corrected, “We are going back into the house.” I kept the gun pointed at him.

I realized I wasn't offering much incentive to play along – tell me your story and I'll arrange for the boys in blue to put you behind bars.

But I had a gun, and guns offer real currency in otherwise-shitty deals.

He sighed. I could tell with every second he was paying less and less attention to me and my inexpertly-held gun, and far more attention to the ever-growing putt-putt of the engine echoing through the valley.

“Short version,” his tone was clipped, “That globe you put up for auction isn't an ordinary antique. It has a treasure map on it. It's also part of a set – a set you said you own. Combined, that set is a map to the greatest treasure humankind has ever imagined.”

My jaw could have dropped off at that. “Treasure map?”

“Treasure map,” he repeated easily. “You don't have to believe me. But do believe this: the men in there,” he shrugged towards the house, “Aren't here for tea and biscuits.”

I sniffed, feeling the weight of the gun in my hand as if it were the only solid thing left in the world.

“I'm going to call the police,” I rasped.

“They won't get here in time,” he said, tone dropping a notch or two.

The fine hair along the back of my neck stood on end. The sound of the engine came closer and closer.

Down by the edge of the property I heard the crunch of tires against gravel.

“Find somewhere to hide.” Shaw stared straight at me, relaxing his arms and dropping them to his side. He didn't take one look at my gun as he moved back and turned towards the driveway below us.

“D-don't move,” I tried.

He responded by reaching into his pocket then throwing a set of keys right at me.

The keys bounced off my chest, falling to the soft grass below.

“My car is parked in the laneway.” He pointed across the field in the direction of town. “It's by a grove of oaks, right next to a bridge.”

Though I knew the place, I didn’t make a move for the keys.

“Lock yourself in or drive away – your choice.” He reached behind him and pulled something from the back of his pants.

It was a gun. Another gun, apparently.

I had a gun and he had a gun – the odds were back to being utterly against me; he was trained, and I was a whimpering mess.

“Go, Amanda, get out of here,” he encouraged with a sharp flap of his free hand.

I remained where I was, gun still held before me, eyes wide.

Too fast, everything was happening too fast.

The car came into view at the top of the incline, though it wasn't a car – it was a big black van.

“Run,” Shaw snapped, flattening himself as he raised his gun at the approaching vehicle.

Run?

At night, with bare feet, in a pink dressing gown, while every mercenary and burglar in the district wanted to steal my antiques?

“Or stand right there and advertise our position; that's a great way to get yourself shot.” Shaw half turned to me, though his eyes were still focused on the van, and he waved me down with an emphatic pat of his free hand.

I watched the hand flap in the darkness, the light rays of the moon glinting off some ring on his middle finger.

“G-e-t d-o-w-n,” Shaw spat again. Obviously fed up at me standing there all dithery and overcome, he snapped up and pushed me over with all the finesse and kindness of a play-ground bully.

I yelped, tumbled over, and came to rest face-first in the damp grass.

A scream of protest came to my lips, but the crunch of the van's tires became all the sharper. Judging by the clarity of the sound, it wasn't far away. Fifteen meters maybe, possibly ten.

Lying on the ground, immobile, and face-first – again – gave me time to process what was going on here. Very soon this Shaw character was either going to shoot the occupants of that van, be shot by the occupants of the van, or throw up his hands and join their evil order – turning around to capture and torture me.

I was exquisitely aware, as the crunch of dirt and stone under wheels filled the night air, of how slippery and sweaty my palms had become.

I blinked my eyes once, then screwed them shut against the outside world and all the apparent gun-toting misery it had to offer this night.

There was a single gunshot. Though I’d been expecting it, my stomach gave such a jolt it felt as if it would jump right out of my middle.

As my skin flamed and prickled with the expectation of a full-on gun fight, a massive beam of light cut over the lawn.

No, my first thought wasn't aliens (well, maybe for a nanosecond).

The sound of a chopper's rotors slicing through the night's breeze sounded from above.

“We have you surrounded,” a determined, guttural voice crackled over a loud speaker, “Stay in your vehicle. Any attempt at violence will be met with swift retaliation.”

Over the ear splitting sound of the chopper, I couldn't hear whether the van was doing what it was told. So, with an almighty sniff, I raised myself up and took a peek.

The chopper above was hovering low – so low that the downward stream of the rotors not only flattened my hair but threatened to flatten my body as well.

The black van had indeed stopped. Despite the phenomenal force of the downward draft, I stared up at the chopper above. Not only was it large and sleek, but it had two prominent gun turrets either side of its nose.

Gun turrets.

A helicopter with actual gun turrets.

That point ricocheted around my head with all the force and speed of a bullet. The mercenaries and burglars had been one thing – but this was something else entirely. The great hulk of metal that hovered above my turning circle was something that belonged in a war – not on a country estate.

Somehow this situation had taken a turn towards even greater danger and peril; and yes, I was still in my dressing gown.

“About bloody time,” Shaw managed to shout over the roar of the helicopter.

As the words left his mouth, several black-clad figures leapt from the open doors of the chopper and rappelled down, landing either side of the van.

They had very large guns.

With my hair still flattened against my face and my eyes blinking hard to stay open, I watched, bottom lip quivering.

Then... then I pushed up, feet sinking into the damp soft grass.

The spotlight from the helicopter was centered directly over the van.

I stepped backwards, receding further into the darkness beyond this fraught scene.

The men from the helicopter shouted various threatening orders at the occupants of the van. Though I couldn’t make out the exact words over the sound of the rotors above, I could bet they weren't asking for directions.

I took several steps backwards, feet gently pressing into the firm ground behind.

I turned.

I ran.

I ran because there was a helicopter on my lawn, there were mercenaries in my drawing room, and there was a burglar in my hall.

Keys jingling in my hand, gun immobile in the other, I made it to the house before anyone knew I was gone. Chapter Two

Sebastian Shaw

I shouted over the sound of the rotors, voice straining with the effort. Though the chopper had already landed, it was taking too long for the damn thing to wind down, and I needed to get their attention. So rather than shout till my lungs were empty and my throat cracked and dry, I pulled open the pilot's door.

“Hello to you too,” said Garry, a giant with a baritone voice and a distinctive South African accent so resonant it could have been heard over a jet engine.

“No time,” I shouted, “She's done a runner. I've got a heavily armed team in the drawing room – left of the front door when you come in.” I sliced a hand towards the large and imposing front door to the manor ahead of us. The place was huge, old, and judging by all the junk that had been in that drawing room, a bloody death trap. But hey, it had treasure too, otherwise I wouldn't damn well be here.

Maratova, his M-15 slung over his shoulder, jumped out of the back of the bird, scuffed army boots landing roughly on the loose stones of the turning circle. Hair whipping back across his face from the still-dying rotors, he reached down, pulled up his balaclava, and fixed it in place. “We've got this, Shaw, you can go back to your books.”

I ignored him. Maratova liked to think a real man was judged by the length of his rifle. I didn't give a shit how long his gun was. All I wanted was to find those antiques before one of the other teams got their hands on them. Oh, and there was the fact I'd turned my back on her for one second and the girl had done a runner with my gun and keys.

Shit, tonight couldn't get any worse.

Maratova cracked his neck, adjusted the sight on his rifle, then slapped me on the back as he walked past. He tapped his ear piece with one hand, cleared his nose, spat on the ground, and grumbled a “Got it.”

The only thing he had was an ego the size of Mars. To hell with it if I was going to let this idiot ruin my find.

Shit, if I'd known they were going to bring Maratova along, I would have called the boys in blue instead.

Rather than fight him on it, I shrugged, shot Garry a look, and walked off around the side of the chopper.

I had real intel on the targets inside, but Maratova wasn't the kind of gunslinger to stop and get his bearings. Shoot first and let someone else clean up was more his style.

Garry shrugged, and the rest of the unit jumped out of the chopper to follow their leader.

It wasn't as if they were going to face any resistance: I'd taken down Romeo's boys in the drawing room.

“Fuck,” I hissed as I remembered one tiny