Trouble & Treasure - Dave Moyer (reading rainbow books .TXT) 📗

me again. At least it meant one thing: above the wind no one would be able to hear what was going on at the Stanton estate, and with the brooding dark clouds, no one would be able to see the lights of the helicopters. Hopefully it would offer enough confusion that I could slip into Stanton’s house unnoticed.

Third bit of luck today, but it bloody well better not be the last.

Hold on, Amanda, I thought as I ran through the woods in the dark, not wanting to draw attention to myself with a light.

Hold on. Chapter Seventeen

Amanda Stanton

I was stiff and cold, my clothes still saturated. We managed to make it off the top of the lighthouse and into a waiting helicopter somehow flying above us, despite the winds and the storm. I’d never been so frightened in my life. Climbing up a rope ladder in a storm off the top of a lighthouse was an experience I never, ever wanted to repeat.

We’d already reached my estate by helicopter, and for the third time since I’d led him into my manor, Maratova turned on me, eyes hooded, face compressed with anger.

“Where are the globes?” he asked, tone menacing.

I’d achieved what I’d set out to achieve; Maratova hadn’t shot Sebastian, and presumably Sebastian was still alive somewhere, though with one hell of a headache. As for me, I’d never been in so much danger in all my life.

I could tell Maratova was starting to suspect something was up.

“They are here,” I insisted again, staring at a patch of dirt on the kitchen floor. The house was in shambles, even more than it usually was. Glass had been traipsed all the way through the carpet in the halls, the kitchen backdoor had been kicked in, and the windows in the library were broken.

“Stop playing us along, Amanda,” Maratova growled at me, taking the opportunity to tap the side of his gun. He was still dressed up as a soldier, still had official army fatigues on, and still held a regulation gun. The other men with him didn’t: they were all dressed in varying shades of black, and though they’d taken off their balaclavas, they were still armed to the teeth. They hardly spoke unless spoken to by Maratova, and I got the picture he was definitely their leader and hadn’t chosen to join them on a whim tonight.

I put my hand up, still not moving my head to look at him, still staring fixedly at that patch of dirt on the kitchen floor. I had to think of some way to string this along. If I could somehow find a way to distract Maratova, I might be able to make a run for it. “They are in a safe place,” I began.

“You take us to them now.” Maratova took several steps towards me, bobbing his head down to my level, the whites of his eyes growing larger as his brow raised in anger.

“Okay,” I said weakly, “They are in the... attic.”

Maratova nodded. He kept his gaze on me, and it was apparent his threat was still there. If I was lying, Maratova would find creative ways to make me regret it.

It was just as I led them to the door, Maratova right behind me, hand always on his gun, that I heard something through the howling wind outside. That thing sounded like a helicopter. I paused in confusion, wondering whether Maratova was calling for reinforcements, but when I saw Maratova freeze by my side, hand at his earpiece, I realized the helicopter was uninvited.

Maratova snapped his head to the side and gave low, quick orders to the other men. Though I couldn't make out his exact words, I heard something that sounded like army. That one word managed to rekindle my hope. Could they be here? Had Sebastian lived, found a way to call them, found a way to tell them where I was?

Would it matter? I was no expert on these things, but I realized Maratova had a substantial number of men with him: almost 20 the last I counted. They were all armed. I couldn't say any of them looked to be incompetent; they all had that steely edge to their gazes, that frozen look to their expressions that told me the only emotion they were capable of was barely suppressed anger.

Maratova pointed several of his men towards the kitchen door. He half turned from me as he spoke into his earpiece, mumbling directions to the rest of his team.

I heard several shots ring out from the kitchen door, no doubt directed at the helicopter above. I felt Maratova push hard at my back.

“Keep moving,” he growled, “Take me to the fucking globes, Amanda.”

Oh great, there was about to be a full-scale war over my house and I still had to take him to the globes. This man was insane. What was he going to do once he had the globes? Well, not that he was going to get them, because they weren't here. But what did he think he was going to do? Tuck them under his arm, whistle blithely, and walk on by past the army? Or, I realized with a gulp, take a hostage and demand a helicopter?

“Up the stairs,” he snapped by my ear. “Quick.”

He obviously wanted to get into the attic before World War Three broke out in my library. Which was great news for me. The second we got up in the attic, and Maratova saw how empty it was, he would shoot me.

There were three levels to my great-uncle's manor, not including the attic above. As the stairwell ascended to each level, on either side were large plate-glass windows. They offered a view of the storm growing outside. Billowing dark clouds met my eyes, the tops of trees swaying madly in the wind. I saw a powerful light slice through them, either from the helicopter above as it hovered in the gale, or from vehicles on the ground. I had no idea how many people were out there. While I assumed it was the army, judging by my luck, it could well be every criminal on earth. If there was one thing the last 24 hours had taught me, it was how valuable the Stargazer globes were, and to what ends people would go to get them. And those ends usually involved chasing me.

“Stay away from the windows,” Maratova growled as he kept pushing me up the stairs.

If he wasn’t a psychopath armed with a sodding great gun, I would react. I didn’t appreciate being pushed upstairs. Then again, when it came to my list of things to complain about, I didn't appreciate being kidnapped either.

As we ascended onto the third level, I glanced out the windows and saw more lights slicing around outside. Maratova saw them too, swore, and snapped at me to move faster.

I reached the end of the corridor, pointing to the square indent in the ceiling. It was hard to make out. It was painted the same white as the rest of the ceiling, and the only indication it was different was a small indent that ran around it.

“We need a ladder,” I said.

Maratova swore. “Then get one.”

I nodded. I had hoped he would get a ladder himself, or at least offer to carry it, giving me a convenient opportunity to escape.

“There is one in here,” I said, indicating one of the rooms further down the hall.

“Move slow, get the ladder, I will be right behind you,” Maratova snapped.

I went into the room, and went to turn on the light, but he grabbed my hand. It sent such a shiver down my spine as I tried to pull away from him, but his grip was too firm.

“Leave the light off.” He tightened his grip on my wrist before letting go.

I sniffed in the dark. “I will break my neck looking for it in here,” I managed, massaging my arm.

“It will save me having to do it later,” Maratova replied.

How nice. I gave a shudder, but I didn’t make a sound. Instead, navigating only by the bare light filtering through the large windows, I tried to locate the ladder. It wasn't until a slice of light from outside shone into the room that I managed to see it propped against the opposite wall.

“Get the ladder now,” Maratova snapped again. In the entire time I’d known him, which was thankfully not long, I’d never heard him speak normally; every word was snapped and dripping with menace. How this guy had gotten into the army, I didn't know. Perhaps they’d lowered their psych standards that day.

I made my way over to the ladder, slipping on several loose magazines, but not falling over. I heaved it up in my arms and managed to maneuver through the door, though I smashed into everything in my path. Maratova growled at me to stay silent, and I grunted in reply, purposefully banging the ladder into the wall.

I manhandled it until it was underneath the attic.

Maratova, hand still on his gun, looked up at the attic above. “If you're lying, Amanda, I will break your neck,” he said, voice devoid of any emotion.

I felt a powerful wave of sickness rush through my stomach, and I touched a hand to my belly, but I didn’t respond to him.

“You go up first, slow, and you stop when I tell you too, otherwise I shoot,” Maratova pulled out a handgun as he spoke, training it right on me.

Though the light in the corridor was off, I could still see him sufficiently to note the move; I could even make out the triangles of white at the corners of his eyes. They were the scariest damn things I’d ever seen.

I turned and made my way carefully up the ladder. Despite the sound of the gale outside and the occasional shots coming from the levels down below, it seemed every creak of the ladder as I climbed it was like a scream. That wasn’t to mention Maratova's breath: it reverberated around my head, louder than the thunder had been at the lighthouse, louder than anything I’d ever heard. It made me feel sick.

I reached the top of the ladder and reached up to push on the attic trapdoor above.

“Slow,” Maratova warned, and I felt the cold muzzle of a gun press into my back.

I pushed the attic door. It creaked open, but once it reached a 90-degree angle, I lost my grip and it fell the rest of the way, slamming on the attic floor with a thunderous bang. It made me jump, and I shuddered on the top of the ladder, grabbing a hand to the open frame of the attic door to steady myself.

“Get up, slow,” Maratova warned again, voice growling even louder.

The attic was darker than the landing below, as there were only two small casement windows at either end. As I saw Maratova stand, I could only differentiate his form from the light filtering in from the open attic door below.

Every second another slicing light tracked over one of the windows on either side of the room, sending in sudden splashes of illumination. I saw Maratova standing, gun in hand, with the desks and cupboards neatly stacked on either wall, and a bare flash