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“Stop fucking around, Silverton!”
“I’m not,” Holt says, twisting to flip the saddlebag open and slip a hand inside.
It’s a miracle they don’t shoot him.
But he comes back with something.
A leather-bound book.
Dad’s old journal?
Sure enough. He flips the book open to the back and I see the inside cover with my dad’s handwriting scrawled all over it.
“Take a look at this,” he says.
“I’m not coming a step closer,” Declan spits, then says, “Will, grab it.”
“I’m not your slave,” Will—the guy with the bandage—bites off, but edges closer to Holt, eyeing him warily before snatching the book out of his hand.
Holt grins.
Moving backward, keeping his gun on Holt, Will moves to Declan and shoves the book at him with a resentful glance. He holds it open so Declan doesn’t have to let me go.
The scumbag’s head brushes mine as he bows to look, muttering to himself, reading numbers over and over again. “Looks like chicken scratch. What the hell does this mean?”
“It means,” Holt says, “there was something far more valuable than anyone knew buried in these hills. Something worth a hell of a lot more than silver. It’s what the man in the saloon died over. I’ve got it, but you’ll never know what it is or what it’s worth if you don’t play nice.”
“I’m getting damn sick of your mouth,” Declan snarls, swinging the gun away from my temple—finally.
Except he points it right at Holt.
Oh, I’m not liking that at all.
“You start talking sense, Silverton,” Declan says. “You talk sense right fucking now, or I will blow your head off in front of your girl, then blow hers off so you can die together.”
“How sweet,” I mutter, tensing up, getting ready to kick free.
Only for Alaska—who’d been so silent it’s like everyone forgot he was there—to suddenly sling a sawed-off shotgun from his back, hidden by his broad shoulders.
In half a second, it’s pointed at Declan.
Everyone takes aim at him.
Guns swivel around everywhere, a proper Mexican standoff, and the only ones not pointing a weapon at someone are me and Holt.
“Let’s be very clear, boys,” Alaska says, slowly and calmly. “You might shoot Holt, but not before I get a good shot off and turn a few faces into minced meat. So. Maybe point your shit somewhere else.” He glances over the scattered thugs. “Y’all really willing to go to jail for this asshole?”
He nods at Declan, a spark of mischief in his eyes.
Uneasy mumbles and two second glances fly around.
“If your choice is jail or death, remember I’ll shoot the whole lot of you, too,” Declan snarls, frustration boiling over in every word.
Holt actually chuckles.
“Hardly a standoff if you’ll kill your own men, is it?” He shakes his head. “You’re a terrible damn negotiator, Eckhard. Just plain shit at it. Lucky for you, I’m gonna lay out some fair terms, and you’re gonna accept them, and then we’re going home.”
I guess Declan realizes he’s backed into a corner and facing a mutiny.
He lowers the gun with a deep sigh so it’s pointing off to the side, instead of point-blank at Holt’s face.
“Talk” he says grudgingly.
“You’ll let Libby go. As insurance, though, she’ll wait in another building.” Holt’s voice rings with a wild confidence that makes it seem impossible that this could happen any other way. “I just don’t want her in the line of fire if this goes south. We’ll negotiate, I’ll hand over the real treasure, and then Libby and Alaska and I get moving while you hash things out with your men. We never have to see each other again. You’re free to fight over money among yourselves.”
“Not possible,” Declan grunts. “You can’t possibly have enough valuables on you here.”
“Wrong,” Holt says, dipping his hand into the saddlebag again.
He pulls out the little black box from Dad’s stuff and flips it open, revealing that dull, rusty blood-colored rock.
“This is what you’re looking for, gentlemen,” he announces. “All your riches are right here.”
There’s a moment of silence.
Then men start chuckling in mad derision, while Declan outright scoffs.
“Unless that’s one hell of a dirty ruby, you are full of so much shit, Silverton. Did you really come here to gamble with a goddamn desert rock?”
“Yes,” Holt says. “Because the desert this rock came from isn’t on this planet. You’re an idiot, Declan. I’m holding an artifact worth seven figures.”
“Bullshit!” Declan’s shoulders jerk. “I don’t get it.”
I sigh, rolling my ears.
“It’s from Mars, you jackass,” I growl. “It’s been buried here. It made the crater where this town is. Private collectors and government agencies would chew their arms off for it. You take it, you sell it, you get big money. My dad knew that. So did the dead guy in the saloon.”
“No fucking way. That’s the most outlandish load of horse shit I’ve ever heard,” Declan says, his eyes flashing venom.
