Royal Captive

“I’m not too keen on going on an ocean voyage at the moment.” Prince Istvan strode to the front and pointed at the lock from the inside. “Are you sure you can’t open this?”

“Not with my bare hands.” That was as close to admitting her shady past as she was comfortable with.

“I have a tool for you.” He pointed the mean-looking handgun in the general direction. “Show me where to shoot.”

“It’ll be too loud.”

“Not if I shoot just as they rattle the next container into place.”

She felt around in the near darkness, then grabbed the barrel of the gun and pressed it against the right spot.

“Here.”

He aimed. They waited. Then when they could hear chains creak and the corner of the next container bump against another, he squeezed off a shot. Inside the container, the sound seemed deafening. But she had a feeling that with all the machinery and the noise of the harbor outside, it had been barely noticeable. Still, they waited a few minutes. When no one raised the alarm and no one came to investigate, the prince drew back, then slammed his shoulder into the door before she could stop him.

That had to hurt. She winced.

“Patience.” She stepped over to examine the damage to the lock. “You’ll need at least one more shot.”

Except that the crane seemed to move on to the other side of the ship. He waited on the spot anyway, in case the crane came back. It didn’t. An hour or so later they felt the ship shudder, the engines start and the ground move under their feet. Istvan used that distraction to fire off his second shot, which did the trick at last.

This time when he shoved his shoulder into the door, it opened.

Four inches.

Just enough for them to see that they were blocked in by another container in front of them.

“Trapped.” She closed her eyes for a moment against the disappointment and frustration. She could have banged her head against the metal. They should have done something much sooner, on the riverboat. But the prince had thoroughly distracted her, and now it was too late. The very reason she always worked alone. A partner was nothing but trouble.

“Going in an unknown direction on a strange ship,” he thought out loud. His voice sounded off.

“A ship that’s controlled by criminals.” Not that she blamed all this on him. Maybe a little. If he’d let her do her work in the treasury earlier, she would have been done and gone by the time the thieves got there. He would have still suspected her, but she could have been dealing with that unfair cloud of suspicion at the five-star hotel where the Getty was putting her up, instead of here.

“Or your friends. Although, the two might not be mutually exclusive, I suspect.” Apparently, he still harbored some mistrust of her.

“People we don’t want to meet up with,” she offered as compromise. “At this point, if they found us, they’d kill both of us. They sure didn’t hesitate shooting the guards at the treasury.” The memory turned her mood even more somber. “And they will find us. If not sooner, then when they come to get the loot.”

The more she thought of that, the bigger that lead ball grew in her stomach.

And bigger yet when he said, “Just so we’re clear, I still think that you’re involved in this in some way. And when we get out of here and I return the crown jewels to the treasury, I will figure out what your role has been. And then I’ll personally see to it that you’re prosecuted to the full extent of Valtrian law, Miss Steler.”

Chapter Three

His stomach rolled with each wave that the ship encountered and there was an endless supply of those. When he went on longer trips, he usually took a pill to counter his motion sickness. There’d be no relief here.

Istvan leaned back against a crate as he sat on the ground, his arms resting on his pulled-up knees. He was passing the time by mentally listing his theories about Lauryn. Either she was in the container because she stole the treasure and wanted to stay as close to it as possible. Or because she’d stolen the treasure and then had a falling-out with her partners who locked her in. Or she’d witnessed the treasure being stolen while she was looking for pieces for the Getty, the heist got her blood heated and she followed the treasure, thinking she could take it from the thieves and keep it for herself. He didn’t give much credit to her claims of being completely innocent.

“Are you sure you don’t have a concussion?” she asked him, sitting opposite.

He resented her concern, given that it was more than likely that she had something to do with their current circumstances. “Quite certain.”

That only kept her quiet for a minute. “We have no food or water,” she said, stating the obvious.

“A good thing, because we don’t have a toilet either,” he said just to torture her.

She pursed her lips as she stood. “That’s it, then. I’m getting out of here.”

She did have an indomitable spirit, he had to give her that. “How?”

“I’m going to think of something.” “Happy thoughts will give you wings?” he mocked her.

“You can’t underestimate the power of positive thinking.”

Or the power of self-delusion, he thought, hoping she wouldn’t get going and give him a motivational seminar.

She was staring straight up, as if expecting inspiration to drop from heaven. “How many more bullets do you have left?” she asked after a few minutes.

Great, here came the brilliant idea. He checked his gun, not keen on handing it back to her. “Ten.” “Do you have any matches?” “How about a lighter?” He didn’t smoke, but he always carried one, along with a pocketknife. Now and then they came in handy at a dig.

“Can I have it with five of the bullets?”

“What for?”

“There’s light coming in. Which means rust spots in the top of the container. Weakness. A small explosion could peel back enough for us to squeeze through.” She eyed the crates.

He didn’t think she was kidding. “You can build a bomb?”

She didn’t respond, only held out her hand, as good as an admission—of her bomb-making skills and her past.

After thinking it over and realizing they had few other options, he counted out five bullets for her. “You might see why I was reluctant to put you in charge of a traveling exhibit of Valtrian treasures.”

She closed her fingers around the bullets and the lighter. “The skills I have might yet save your treasures.”

He couldn’t argue with that, so he said nothing. He simply watched as she scaled the crates, a sleek shadow moving swiftly, higher and higher until she disappeared on top. He pulled his dropped chin back into place.

“Do you need help?” he asked belatedly. He wanted out of here and she seemed to want the same thing. Whatever hidden agenda she had, for now it looked as if they were working toward the same goal. They might as well work together. “I can help.”

Now and then the setting of charges was necessary at an excavation, although, due to the high risk of damage, he employed that tool as rarely as possible and always had an expert handle it. But he wasn’t uncomfortable around explosives.

“Stay covered in case there’s flying shrapnel,” she called down from her perch.

Shards of steel flying from the top of the container, he realized, were a definite possibility. He looked at the crates. The wood boards were thick enough to protect the contents, his first concern. “And you?” he asked as an afterthought.

“I’ll deal.”

He started forward. “Look, I—”

A small explosion cut him off, which did send some shrapnel flying and shook the tower of crates Lauryn had climbed.