The Forgotten Fortune

by Matt James

  Jack wanted to avoid them, if at all possible.

  He reentered the cavern and saw the wheelbarrow he and Emma had found the gold coin in. It all felt like a lifetime ago. Looking up at the metal hatch, Jack thought about heading back inside and searching the weapons locker, but he doubted anything would work after eighty years of inaction. He unsheathed his knife and looked it over.

  “Just you and me, little buddy.”

  Instead of sheathing the blade in his belt at the small of his back, Jack slid it into where Karl’s tactical knife had once been. He headed for the front edge of the platform and got down onto his ass, gingerly slid off, and landed as gracefully as he could under the circumstances.

  Glow stick in hand, Jack set off to confront the Schmidt siblings for what he hoped was the last time. At this point, he’d like nothing more than to get home and hug that Grizzly.

  20

  The treasure room was, once again, quiet. Jack made sure before rushing out, waiting until his knees were killing him. Kneeling was a pain—literally. He groaned and got to his feet and ducked inside, taking the route he had used beforehand. He slid up against the nearest sarcophagi and zeroed in on Jurgen’s final resting place. Jack needed supplies, and he was hoping that the others hadn’t stripped the man of anything else useful. His ammo was gone. Jack saw to that the last time.

  He knelt again and leaned out. “But what about your backpack?” Inside was weeks of supplies, and water wouldn’t be an issue down here. He could always make his way back to the Templar church and collect some if he needed, but that’s not why he wanted Jurgen’s pack. Jack wanted it for the trek home, or more accurately, his return trip to the surface. He had no idea how long it would take, and he needed to be prepared for anything.

  Jack could use the man’s blade too. As much as his trench knife had grown on him, the modern variation was a far-superior design.

  Going uphill when your legs felt like a melting Jell-O mold was a bitch of a task, but Jack did it without too much complaining. As he talked to himself, his comments came in the form of disjointed profanities and an amalgamation of grunts and growls. Three crossroads later, Jack turned right and continued into the center portion of the collection. Jurgen was right where he had left him, and so was his fully stocked survivalist backpack, and his knife. Jack took them both. He stood and shuffled through the sea of wealth and got another idea. Throwing off his pack, he opened it and threw a few handfuls of gold coins inside.

  Worst case, he could buy his way back home if he didn’t get his wallet and passport back. He knew of a couple of people that could help with that—people involved in his past life. Best case, he’d set a little trap for the mad mind of the woman formerly known as Emma Schmidt. Jack didn’t know who she was now, but ever since they had discovered the treasure, she’d gone full-on psychopath. Jack could only imagine what someone who knew her better thought—someone like her brother. Gunter, even with all his anger issues, seemed like a pretty level-headed guy when he wasn’t punching or kicking people, namely Jack.

  It was times like this that Jack was glad to be an only child.

  He went to leave but stopped. He, yet again, returned his attention to Jurgen, specifically the mercenary’s soiled Kevlar vest. With no heavy weapon to drag around, Jack decided that carrying extra armor would be a good thing. If he needed to ditch it, he could, no big deal. Halfway through unbuckling it, he heard voices. Jack needed to hurry if he was to keep up his rouse. Hopefully, they thought he and Karl had died fighting one another.

  He circled back around to the exit tunnel near the front of the train engine. Once there, he hid and watched to see what all of the commotion was about—not that he understood a lick of it. Emma’s body language gave away her frustration, though, as did her feral cries. She had officially lost it. Gunter, on the other hand, seemed to be very much in control of himself. He stayed quiet and allowed his sister to vent.

  “Smart man,” Jack mumbled. “Hell hath no fury like Emma scorned.”

  Maybe I can use that…

  He would do to Emma as he had done with Karl. He planned on using her boiling over rage against her.

  “This might be really stupid,” he whispered before clearing his throat. “Aw, Emma,” he called out, moving as he spoke, “what’s wrong, darlin’?”

  “You!” she shrieked. “I’ll kill you!”

  Jack laughed. “You keep telling me that, yet, here I am. I’m beginning to think you might be lying.”

  He moved higher up into the collection and veered right. Then, he stopped and called out. “I saw Himmler, by the way!”

  Jack snuck a peek and watched her. She had her pistol drawn and was death-gripping it. Gunter was still in the same spot he was before Jack had started up. He was listening, eyes closed, trying to pick up on Jack’s location.

  “Fat chance,” he said softly, moving off again.

  Emma’s hands went to her head, and she somehow grabbed two fistfuls of hair, even with a gun in her hand. She was a mess.

  “He was amazing, wasn’t he?” she replied, through a maniacal laugh. “A true honor to be in his presence.”

  Jack snorted out a laugh. He wasn’t sure if it was loud enough for her to hear, and he didn’t stop to check. He kept going, darting right, heading back toward the rear wall—the one with the tall Greek statues.

  “Yeah, he was,” Jack shouted, “until I pissed down his throat!”

  Gunfire erupted, but it was nowhere near where Jack was. She sent the rounds into random locations within the treasure room. Jack watched as one of the bullets took the head off a priceless terracotta soldier. He slid to a stop and noticed that Gunter was missing.

  “Great…” he muttered. “Now, I have to deal with him too.”

  Kevlar vest around his shoulder, Jack hustled straight for the train. Emma was pacing back and forth, not too far from the fourth and fifth cars. Jack’s next move was idiotic, and it would need to be timed perfectly. If it wasn’t, he’d be turned into Swiss cheese.

  Running downhill, Jack burst out onto the platform, instantly getting Emma’s attention. She screamed and swung her pistol around to meet him. He was still a good fifty feet away, and she was still really pissed. The weapon shook horribly, even with a two-handed grip.

  She fired off another four rounds his way. One impacted Jurgen’s raised vest, and the others went wide. His shield properly absorbed the bullet as he had hoped, and before Emma could continue her onslaught, Jack leapt through the cars and disappeared from view. A stream of high-caliber rifle rounds nearly followed him through, smacking against the flank of the train cars. It was plain to see that Gunter had joined the fray.

  A bullet to the ass had almost undone Jack’s plan.

  “No!” Emma shrieked.

  Jack kept the vest and slunk in between the treasure mounds on the other side. This portion wasn’t as vast, but it still contained a plethora of hiding places.

  “Where are you?” Jack asked himself, looking for Gunter.

  “Here.”

  Jack turned and whipped the vest around with him. The weighty garment clipped Gunter’s outstretched gun hand, and immediately, the fight turned into a brawl—a real slobber knocker. Luckily for Jack, the German didn’t have his carbine anymore.

  He rushed Gunter and staggered him backward for just long enough to shed his restrictive backpack. When he did, Gunter used their momentum to his advantage and pulled Jack to the ground.

  Jack mimicked his fight with Karl.

  He wrapped his legs around Gunter’s back and locked his ankles, keeping the man in close. Then, he used a sequence of sharp elbow strikes. Except Gunter got his hands up and blocked most of them. A few of them landed, but Jack was quickly running out of steam. Soon, the blows would be closer to wet noodles slapping concrete, than disorienting headshots.

  “Argh!” Jack yelped, feeling something jab his left armpit. He hadn’t been stabbed, thank God, but the prod had been from something pretty sharp. It was a s
usceptible location, and one Jack had used to his advantage over the years. He released Gunter and kicked him away, quickly rolling to his feet. The other man stood as well, and they squared off again.

  “Nice moves, Hans,” Jack poked, rubbing the underside of his left arm. “What the hell was that?”

  Gunter held up his right fist, extending the knuckle of his middle finger. It was the tool the man had used to hurt him.

  Jack nodded. “Impressive.”

  “One could say the same about your resilience.”

  “Uh, thanks,” Jack replied, lifting his fists. “I’m blushing.”

  The evenly matched duo traded blow after blow. Each close-handed strike was less effective than the one before. The fight was getting nowhere, and they both knew it.

  “Are we…going to keep doing this…all night?” Jack asked, breathing hard.

  Gunter was sweating profusely too. He looked just as winded as Jack, which should’ve been impossible considering the ass-kicking Jack had taken.

  “What happened to Karl?”

  Jack was taken aback by the question. He didn’t expect Gunter to converse with him in the middle of a fistfight. So, Jack told him the truth—part of it, anyway.

  “He drowned. We fell off the suspension bridge and went under. He hit his head and didn’t make it.”

  Jack thought it was for the best that he didn’t mention that he had also shot Karl in the chest twice and then forcibly shoved the man’s head into an outcrop of jagged rock.

  Gunter wasn’t buying it. He squeezed his fists until the knuckles cracked. “So, you killed him?”

  Jack held up his hands but held his ground. “To be fair, he tried to kill me first.”

  “And my men aboveground?”

  Jack couldn’t hide his deception. Instead of responding, he launched a wave of jabs at Gunter’s eyes, nose, and throat. He also kicked at his knees and ankles too. Whatever he could do to weaken him and gain an edge, Jack did it. After a dozen such attempts, Gunter roared and threw Jack aside like he weighed nothing.

  Well, that didn’t work, he thought, putting his hand on the ground to push himself up. As he did, he felt something beneath his hand, something he recognized.

  Gunter hauled Jack up by the shoulder straps of his Kevlar vest. While he did, Jack wrapped his fingers around Jurgen’s discarded garment. With all the strength he had left, Jack shoved away from Gunter and threw his hands into the air. The German was too busy fiddling with his knife to see what was in Jack’s hands. He had taken his attention off his foe at the wrong time.

  Jack forcibly slid the grubby, bloodied vest over Gunter’s head and shoulders, rotating it back and forth, jamming it down as deep as he could. Jack ducked left under the German’s wildly slashing blade, diving to the ground. The mercenary’s pistol was right there. In one fluid motion, he scooped up the weapon, rolled to his feet, and leveled it at the back of Gunter’s obscured head. Without skipping a beat, Jack pulled the trigger. The Kevlar absorbed most of the bullet’s impact, but not all of it.

  Gunter crumpled to the ground, unmoving. He was alive but incapacitated. Jack’s hands found his knees, and he took in several deep breaths of blood-tinged air. He spat the crimson plasma away and moaned. The worst of his newest injuries was a tender nose and a gash on his chin.

  He tested his nose and winced when he touched it.

  Just like Karl.

  Jack searched Gunter and found his personal belongings as well as six more orange glow sticks. He named everything off as he pocketed them. “Wallet, passport, and phone. Check, check, and, ow, check.” Bending to slip his wallet into his back pocket hurt.

  Now, I can get home…as long as airport security doesn’t ask me why I look like hamburger meat.

  If they did inquire about his physical state, he would blame it on the passion of a woman he had just met. It was a hundred percent accurate too. Everything that occurred was because of Emma’s lust for power. He sighed and laughed at being alive—until his gun was shot out of his hand. The report startled him, as did the clang of the round striking the weapon’s steel slide. Jack turned and found Emma standing there, eyes darting back and forth between him and her inert sibling.

  Jack’s hands went up. “He’s fine, well, no, not fine.” She raised her gun with unblinking eyes. “He’s alive—just out cold.”

  She pulled the trigger.

  He shut his eyes and covered his face, waiting for the projectile to tear through his flesh. Emma was too close to miss.

  Strangely, nothing happened.

  Slowly, he reopened one eye and peeked between his filthy, bloodstained fingers. He watched Emma struggle with her empty magazine. Jack didn’t stick around to gloat. He thanked his lucky stars, and bolted in the other direction, but not before snagging his backpack. Then, he was off to the races.

  21

  Jack ran for his life. He was done fighting, mostly because he was back down to just a knife, and mostly because he had a gun-toting lunatic hurrying after him. Emma shrieked like a banshee, desperately trying to shoot him in the back. Luckily, her emotions were making her a horrid shot. She had gotten lucky and plinked a pistol out of his hand less than a minute ago. Jack prayed that luck didn’t return any time soon.

  Run, run, run, as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m—

  The report of a pistol was followed by a buzz of a bullet passing right by his left ear.

  He darted right. “Shit!” Maybe her aim wasn’t so terrible after all? Either way, he sprinted for the unexplored railway exit, and put on as much speed as he could muster. His bouncing backpack made it difficult. He didn’t have the time to stop and slip in on. So, he ran with it awkwardly hanging over one shoulder.

  As he moved, he cracked glow sticks and hurled them forward. In their light, he’d gauge his next course of action. Unfortunately, there was nothing ahead of him except more darkness. There wasn’t even anything to hide behind. The tunnel was excavated wider on either side than he had seen thus far. It gave him ample running room—Emma as well.

  She made her presence known too. Every few seconds, there’d be a shout of vulgar sounding German. Jack figured she was spewing profanities. Why wouldn’t she be at this point?

  A bullet impacted the left-hand wall, and instead of immediately zigging right, he stayed on a straightened arrow, counted to three, then moved. If his moves became too predictable, Emma was bound to find her mark.

  And she did.

  Jack was punched in the middle of his back and thrown to the ground. If it weren’t for his Kevlar vest, he’d be dead. It was no different than when he was hit in the ribs with two rounds earlier. He hit the ground and slid to a stop on his belly a few feet later, hands by his side. His face was bathed in the aura of one of his orange glow sticks.

  “Ugh,” he mumbled, getting a hand up and turning over.

  He flopped onto his back and wheezed. Whatever air that had been in his lungs was forcibly expelled. His ungraceful landing didn’t help either. The fall opened another cut on the side of his head. If he wasn’t a bloodied mess before, he certainly was now.

  “Aw, poor Jack.”

  And now he had to deal with a triumphant sociopath. He wouldn’t be fighting back—not this time. If Emma decided that it was his time to die, then let it be done.

  By Jack’s count, he had killed eleven of her men, give or take one. She had every right to want him dead. If their roles were reversed, he would’ve felt the same, though, Jack would’ve never stooped to her low. She was the villain, and he was the hero, plain and simple. Jack was never and would never be the “bad guy.”

  He would never be like Emma.

  “Wipe that smile off your face, witch,” he said, pointing a shaky finger at her.

  Emma’s grin faded. It was replaced by a look that he had seen from her several times already. Rage.

  “This is it, Jack,” she said, raising her pistol. “Are there any other insults you’d like to hurl my way before I end your miserab
le life?” She stepped closer. “Anything at all?”

  “Actually, yeah,” he said, pausing as something slid onto his right foot. He had no idea what it was, and he couldn’t see it without moving to check. His first thought was that it was a type of snake, but he couldn’t tell what kind. It could’ve also been something random blowing down the tunnel. There was a slight breeze coming from behind him, deeper into the unknown. Regardless, his Kevlar vest made his body too bulky to dip his chin and glance down to look. So, he asked Emma. Maybe he could keep her talking long enough to think of an escape plan.

  “What’s on my foot?”

  Emma flashed her eyes down toward Jack’s feet as, whatever it was, started to move again. The thing wasn’t trash. It was alive. He snapped his foot into the air and tossed the creature towards her head. Jack’s soccer skills had just paid off. The three-foot-long, brown snake latched onto Emma’s throat. The European viper’s zigzag pattern was unmistakable. It was also highly venomous and one of the deadliest animals in the region.

  Emma reacted as Jack expected. She grabbed at the serpent with both hands, dropping her gun to do so. Seeing it freefall, Jack painfully sat up, and caught the pistol. He repositioned it in his sweaty palms, leveled it up toward her face and pulled the trigger. The bullet exploded from the Glock’s barrel and impacted Emma’s forehead, entering her skull with little trouble. Brain matter and bone fragments splattered all over the tunnel as the projectile exited through the back of her head.

  Gun in hand, Jack flopped to the ground and giggled. There wasn’t anything funny about what had just happened. Jack was laughing because he was happy to be alive. He didn’t care where the viper had ended up, either. He’d deal with it when, or if, the little shit caused any more trouble. For now, Jack stayed put and rested.

  “How’d you get in here?” Jack asked, thinking of the snake.

  Probably came down here to get out of the cold.

  He sat up and followed the animal as it slithered toward the treasure room. If the creature had gotten in, maybe Jack could get out. Climbing to his feet, he unstrapped his vest. He no longer needed it. The only things he held onto were Emma’s pistol, his remaining glow sticks, both of his knives, and his backpack. Next, he somberly reached down and procured Emma’s chest-mounted, right-angle flashlight from her vest.