She swung on her backpack, strapped on her helmet, and checked her safety gear before pulling on a pair of padded leather gloves. She straddled the bike.
Where to? Sophia glanced at the surrounding forest. She lived near the Great Smoky Mountains in North Carolina. Basically, the middle of nowhere with not a soul around for miles. Which suited her just fine. No neighbours. No annoying questions. No light.
She decided to ride over to Standing Indiana Mountain near Georgia’s northern border. It had been a couple of months since she last visited. The old glider landing strip near the peak would be a nice place for a midnight snack.
The bike jumped to life as she feathered the clutch. Following the narrow trails, she rode hard. Low-hanging branches smacked against her chest protector. She ducked thicker limbs, navigated around trunks, splashed through streams and motored up inclines. Her heart raced with pure adrenaline as the bike chewed up the miles.
Sailing over the last mound, Sophia whooped in mid-air. The bike landed with a solid thud. She stopped at the edge of the airstrip and removed her helmet.
It took her a moment to realize that the long grass that had grown wild on the strip had been cut to stubble. Tyre tracks grooved the ground. The glider port was no longer abandoned, but no aircraft was in sight.
Curious to see if the farmhouse nearby was also in use, Sophia hiked to the dilapidated two-storey building. Sure enough, light gleamed from the windows despite the late hour. A blue Ford F150 pickup with Virginia licence plates rested in the weed-choked driveway.
Not a weekender - Virginia was too far. Perhaps the new owners were glider pilots.
The brightness from the house burned her eyes. She averted her gaze and headed to her bike. But the sound of tyres crunching over stones enticed her back. Crouching nearby, she vowed to leave as soon as she spotted the car’s owner. After all, they were technically neighbours.
Face it, Sophia, it’s the first bit of excitement you’ve had since Dad died.
A Land Rover bounced and bumped along the dirt. . . well, calling it a road would be an exaggeration. Clouds of dust followed in its wake. Keeping out of the headlights’ beams, Sophia watched as the Land Rover stopped in front of the house with a squeal.
Two men stepped from the vehicle. A tank-sized, muscular man pounded on the front door. “Hey Rick, come out. We caught a big fish.”
The driver unlocked the back gate. The door swung wide and Rick came out of the house to join his friends.
“Who the hell is that?” Rick demanded.
“He’s a Fed, man,” the Tank said. “Special Agent Mitchell Wolfe.”
An icy chill crawled up Sophia’s spine. The cliché about curiosity and dead cats churned in her mind.
“Shit. How much does he know?” Rick asked.
“He knows we’ve been collecting treasures, but he doesn’t know the pick-up location,” the driver said.
“Shit. What did you bring him here for?”
“He hasn’t reported in yet. We didn’t know what to do.” Keys jangled as the driver gestured.
“How did you know he didn’t talk to the Feds?”
“We threatened to harm his treasure. He blabbed like a baby.”
“Did you get it?”
“Yep.” The big man yanked a long mesh bag from the back seat of the Land Rover.
Rick jerked a thumb towards the house. “Inside. Wake Glenn. We’re gonna need him.” A resigned annoyance coloured his tone.
While living in the middle of nowhere had its benefits, it also had its drawbacks. No wireless signals. No authorities within fifty miles.
The two men discussed delivery times as they waited for Glenn. Sophia heard “4 a.m.” and “three treasures” before Glenn slunk from the house.
“This better be good,” Glenn said.
“We have a problem,” Rick explained.
“No problem.” Glenn gestured. “We’re in the middle of bloody nowhere. Nobody’ll find him.” He pulled a gun from behind his back and aimed.