Tracker

But a growl comes from the left.

Shadows break out of the forest, the largest before him.

He has smelled the other dogs, along the road, upon the bushes, in the air. They marked this place as their own. He lowers the gun to the dirt. He recognizes the leader by his stiff-legged movements as he stalks forward in the slink of the shadows that share this space. This was their wild land, and they claimed it for themselves.

To help his partner, Kane must make it his own — if only for the night.

With a low growl, he leaps for the largest shadow.

* * *

The howl and wails of a savage dogfight echoed eerily through to the cottage. It sounded like something from a prehistoric epoch, full of blood, anger, and survival.

Tucker heard it through his earpiece, too.

Kane.

His heart clutched in fear.

Domonkos smiled, drawn by that chorus. He said something in Hungarian that made the one at the window laugh.

Csorba did not lift his face from a laptop he had pulled out of a briefcase. “Wild dogs,” he explained as he worked. “They make their home in this forgotten cemetery.”

No wonder no one had reacted to Kane’s earlier canvass of the place. To those here, he was just another shadowy cur skulking about.

“Dogs!” Csorba continued. “That is who you want to hand that great treasure over to, Jakob.”

Aliza’s father lifted his head enough to glare at the man. Father and daughter clutched hands together. Neither was deceived that they would survive.

“But men in power are more savage than dogs,” Csorba continued. “Give them that much gold, and it will fuel a firestorm of corruption and abuse. Many will die. It is better this way.”

Tucker had a hard time concentrating through the ongoing chorus of growls and snarling barks — then suddenly the dogfight ended, as swiftly as it started. Holding his breath, he strained to listen for the outcome of that fight, but he heard nothing.

No panted breath, no snuffle, no soft pad of paw.

The continuous and reassuring presence of his dog had gone silent. Had the camera’s audio gotten damaged or accidentally switched off during the fight?

Or was it something worse?

His heart pounded in his throat.

Kane…

Csorba rubbed his hands. “At last.”

The screen of his laptop filled with an old map of this cemetery, one drawn by hand, even showing the brick archway.

The professor pointed to the screen. “Jakob discovered this map amid old papers that described an interment back in 1888. How gravediggers broke into a cave beneath this cemetery. The Hungarian landscape is full of such natural cavern systems. Even here under Budapest, over two hundred caves — big and small — are found right under our capital, most formed by the natural geothermic activity of this region.”

Aliza stirred, her eyes widening. “The dying words of Oberfuhrer Erhard Bock. That the stolen gold was buried below where even the claws of the Jewish dead could reach it. He was being literal, referring to a Jewish cemetery. Below a Jewish cemetery.”

“How like a Nazi to bury his looted treasure in a Jewish cemetery,” Csorba said. “Erhard Bock must have heard the stories about this small cemetery, one well away from the Jewish Quarter, and learned about the cave beneath it. After burying his treasure, he likely slew anyone who knew about it, removed all references to it, ensuring the secret would die with him if he wasn’t able to retrieve it later.”

Jakob lifted his head, speaking to his daughter. “But he never thought one of those old books would survive and make its way back to Budapest. Evil never thinks of everything.”

Those last words were directed at Csorba, but they fell on deaf ears.

“Here we go,” the professor said.

On the screen, modern satellite data began overlaying the old hand-drawn map. The ground-penetrating radar was capable of discerning pockets deep beneath the earth: hidden cellars, bunkers, caves, even entire cavern systems. Upon the screen, topographic lines revealed the contour of the cemetery’s surface, while darker splotches revealed hidden pockets below. In the upper left quadrant, an oily blotch grew distinct, underlying one of the graves marked on the map.

Csorba turned, his face glowing with excitement. “That’s it!”

His eyes turned to Domonkos. “Gather your two men, along with hammers, crowbars, and flashlights. If the treasure is here, we’ll have one night to empty it all into a truck and get it out of Budapest before anyone grows suspicious.”

The big man pointed to Tucker, speaking in Hungarian.

Csorba nodded and answered.

Tucker turned to Aliza.

She explained, looking scared. “He says you look strong. That they might need extra muscle to break open the grave.”

And likely it would become his own grave.

Csorba pointed to Aliza. “Tie her down. We will deal with them once we confirm that the treasure is here.”

Aliza’s wrists and ankles were quickly bound with plastic ties.

Once she was secure, Csorba lifted a small case, placed it on the desk, and opened it, revealing blocks of yellow-gray C-4 wired with blasting caps. He flicked a switch, and green lights lit up in a row.

Csorba turned, speaking in English, plainly for his prisoners’ benefit. “This comes courtesy of colleagues of Domonkos at the Hungarian national security service.” He lifted a wireless transmitter. “A small gift to help erase our handiwork here, while creating enough chaos to aid our escape out of Hungary.”

His gaze fixed to Tucker as he pocketed the transmitter. “And for now, I believe, it shall serve as extra insurance in case you decide to try something foolish. With the press of a button, Aliza and Jakob will make this cemetery their final resting place.”

Tucker was shoved toward the door and out into the night. After the brightness inside, the shrouded cemetery seemed infinitely darker. He searched around for Kane.

Had he made it under the sedan with the gun?

There was no way of knowing without looking. He tripped himself and went sprawling flat on his belly, raising a guffaw from Domonkos. On the ground, Tucker searched beneath the sedan’s undercarriage. It was dark, but he saw nothing there.

No sign of Kane.

A meaty hand grabbed him and hauled him up.

“There are hidden grave markers and stones littered across these fifteen acres,” Csorba warned. “It would be easy to crack your head open. So you should best watch your step.”

Tucker heard the veiled threat.

Csorba headed out, taking the lead, holding a flashlight in one hand and a handheld GPS in the other.

Tucker followed, trailed by the other men, across the overgrown cemetery. Ivy scrabbled over every surface. Corkscrewed tendrils snagged at his jacket. Broken branches snapped like brittle bones underfoot.

All around, the flashlights danced over shadows and revealed greater threats than old markers on the ground. Yawning black pits began to open around them, half hidden by foliage or stripped over by vines, revealing collapsed or ransacked old tombs.

Threat or not, Tucker decided to take Csorba’s words to heart and watched where he placed each foot.

The men chattered excitedly behind him in their native tongue, likely planning how to spend their share of $92 million. The professor moved silently, contemplatively.