Hunt for the Lost Treasure

Prologue

Screeching tires caterwauled behind Leslie as she scampered violently to escape the chase. Above her the cement bridge felt like a tombstone of gray silence, sealing her doom by allowing the Cadillac access to her hiding place. Broken slabs of concrete jutted up towards the sky, having been shed by the structure the last time the rain had stayed long to eat away at the edges of the parapets. Veering to evade them, she failed thanks to the soggy mud that held the tall grass and weeds of the moor-like terrain.

Leslie screamed out loud as a protruding steel rod sank into her calf and dragged itself along the length of her leg until her knee joint expelled its tip with a sickening lapping sound. It happened so swiftly that Leslie hardly noticed her fresh wound spitting blood all over the leaves and stems surrounding her. Writhing in agony, she fell into the cold, wet grass, grasping her leg between her palms.

“Shut up, shut up,” she mouthed, barely uttering a breath for fear of having been heard. Holding her burning leg, she curled up and waited, listening. She had to determine the position and distance of the big V8 on her track if she was to successfully avert capture. Her heart thundered in her chest as she heard the engine stall a few meters away, but when she heard two doors slamming shut instead of one, she couldn’t stop the tears.

Deep in her heart she believed that she was going to be alright, but common sense threatened to debunk her faith. There was very little chance that she could escape these people, especially in a barren area where only weeds grew. Along with her inaudible weeping, the frigid wind harmonized in a morbid aria while caressing her raven hair like a cruel mother filled with malice. Her long, straight hair impaired her vision, adding further to the obscure sight her tears had already caused, leaving Leslie practically incapable of surveying her environment.

“She’s here. I can smell her,” she heard a man say. His voice gave her the chills because of her unfortunate familiarity with it since the morning before when she had met him apparently by chance.

Two doors slammed, she thought, waiting for the awful truth to affirm itself. There were two people in the Caddy. He has someone helping him. He has someone helping him kill me!

Afraid to breathe, the fleeing young woman from Quebec shivered under her thin pink cardigan. She was by no means prepared for the cold in this region. Losing her coat while sneaking out of the bathroom window of her attacker's apartment had been a serious error, leaving her exposed to elements her body was not capable of fighting. The second voice interrupted her thoughts — a voice she did not know. By the revelation of its tone Leslie Michaud was introduced to her diabolical second hunter — a woman.

“Well, find the little bitch, Erich. I’m not spending the night out here again. This is not the first time I’ve had to save your ass by apprehending people who got away from your inept keep.” Leslie perked her ears. The woman sounded older than Erich, perhaps in her forties? Her accent was heavy. Leslie guessed that she was German, perhaps Austrian, a supposition based only on a previous encounter with an Austrian roommate at her university.

Leslie’s foot had grown ice cold, but not from the harsh autumn weather. Blood loss had effectively put her in peril of bleeding out entirely, and if she didn’t do something to stop the bleeding soon she faced a grim end. Another dreadful result of it was her impending unconsciousness. Perhaps her adrenaline rush was playing a smaller part in her concentration at the moment, with the wind chill forcing her into an uncomfortable state of survival. The freezing whip of the gale reminded Leslie of the potency of a cold shower to remedy the fatigue of a hangover. It kept her awake, even while her racing heart was making work of pumping out every drop of blood that still kept her alive.

Dizzy and nauseated, she listened to their trampling steps crunching into the marshland as the dropping temperature warned of the coming night. When she dared open her eyes she could see the tops of their heads bobbing up and down over the tips of the long grass as they searched the savage tract for her. The light was rapidly dimming, which left Leslie wondering whether the arrival of night was a curse or a blessing. If they discovered her she was done for, no doubt. However, against the hellish cold night she had but similar chances. The darkness might dissuade her hunters and hide her, but she would not survive till morning.

“I can smell you, Liebchen!” the woman suddenly sang out, jolting a bolt of panic through the wounded young woman. The wicked song persisted as far as the female pursuer advanced toward her. Leslie's body started shaking uncontrollably. “I want my pound of flesh, along with that little treasure you’re keeping from us, little kitten!”

Low pitched and elegant, the guttural voice of the Austrian woman sawed through Leslie's ears. To her dismay, the bobbing head emerged farther above the top of the grass and with every step closer, the woman's face pieced itself together more and more. Leslie Michaud could not look away from the terrifying, tall female as her face grew bigger the closer she got. Around her head she wore a fancy head scarf and a thick shawl made of some animal pelt adorned her neck and shoulders, keeping her warm and allowing her to seek out her prey in comfort. Before she laid eyes on the girl in the grass, Leslie quickly let go of her leg and, with her bloody hand, she pulled something from her pocket and promptly swallowed it.

“Hello, Liebchen,” the elegant witch smiled. The young woman's movement had drawn her eye and she shouted for Erich to join her. “Give me that trinket, will you,” she ordered Leslie. “Give it to me and I might consider leaving you here for the bears.”

“If I don't?” Leslie asked in a quivering voice, fighting the urge to regurgitate the unnatural morsel she’d just swallowed. The last thing she remembered was the 9x19 mm Parabellum the woman produced from her coat pocket. “Then Herr Luger will save you from the bears.”