Treasure Hunters

by James Patterson

  “So? He can close them!”

  “Not if we force them open.”

  “And how are we gonna do that?”

  “I have some pliers,” Tommy chimed in.

  “We have those hot dog tongs, too,” added Storm.

  “Kids?”

  Uncle Timothy, hands on hips, was staring up at us from down below.

  “Oh, hey, Uncle Tim,” I said. “We didn’t know you were down there.”

  “Obviously. Look, I’ve told you all that I can, okay? Now knock it off, Bick and Beck.” He stretched into a yawn. “I’m bushed. Gonna go grab a quick nap down below. Don’t wake me up unless there’s another pirate attack.”

  “Yes, sir,” we all said in four-part harmony.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes: Uncle Timothy actually took the Bluetooth device out of his ear.

  He was definitely shutting down for nap time.

  “We give him ten minutes to zonk out,” whispered Beck when he was gone. She slid the thin box out of her pocket. “Then we give him this.”

  We all nodded.

  Because, like I said earlier, we Kidds are Wild Things.

  And even though what we were planning to do to Uncle Timothy was probably illegal (not to mention potentially lethal), we were going to do it anyway.

  When cornered, we have no fear of adults and zero interest in obeying the rules of their so-called society.

  We’d give Uncle Timothy ten minutes to fall asleep.

  Then the Wild Things would pounce.

  CHAPTER 36

  What Beck had swiped from the pirates’ underwater interrogation room was a thin box about the size graduation pen sets come in.

  The box was labeled TRUTH SERUM.

  I guess that’s one way to make sure nobody beats your lie detector: Give them a shot of truth juice.

  Under the box’s clamped lid were a syringe and a vial of Pentothal—a fast-acting, short-lasting drug that’s used for all sorts of medical reasons, including numbing the part of the brain that makes up lies.

  Storm spent five minutes memorizing everything several Internet nursing sites had on how to safely give an injection. Then the four of us tiptoed into the main cabin, where Uncle Timothy was sacked out on the bed.

  “Sorry about this, Uncle Tim,” said Storm as she jabbed him in the arm with the needle. “But we need to know the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

  Weirdly, Uncle Timothy didn’t wake up when Storm stabbed him. He just kind of snorted and shifted, swatting at his arm, then went still again.

  We gave the drugs a minute to kick in.

  Then Tommy splashed some cold water out of a bottle on Uncle Timothy’s face.

  “Huh?” he said, waking up.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Your uncle Timothy.”

  “But who are you really?”

  And Uncle Timothy started talking.

  “My name is Timothy Quinn.”

  “Who do you work for? The pirates?”

  He shook his head. “No. I work for the Agency. The CIA.”

  “The Central Intelligence Agency? You’re a spy?”

  “Affirmative. I organize and orchestrate clandestine operations to keep America safe. Just this week, under the cover of darkness, we extracted several US citizens who were being held hostage in the notorious mountain regions of Pakistan. I’m happy to report that the package was safely delivered without significant blowback.”

  “What’s blowback?”

  “Unintended consequences of covert activities, such as civilian casualties.”

  Okay. That was pretty dramatic.

  “How do you know Dad?” asked Beck.

  “Your father, Thomas Kidd, works for me.”

  “What?”

  “He is, or was, a CIA agent.”

  “Dad worked for you?” I blurted. “Seriously?”

  “Yes. So does, or did, your mother.”

  “Whoa,” said Tommy. “Mom’s a spy, too?”

  “Are Dad and Mom alive?” I demanded, not waiting for the answer to Tommy’s question.

  “I cannot say at this time.”

  “Well,” said Storm, “are they dead?”

  “I do not know.”

  This gave me hope. “So they might be alive?”

  “They are both extremely talented operatives. However, their most recent missions were and remain extremely dangerous. I give them each a thirty percent chance of survival.”

  I smiled. Hey, 30 percent is way better than “definitely deceased.”

  If Uncle Timothy was telling the truth (and he didn’t really have a choice right now), we might even need to buy Dad a new captain’s hat at our next port to replace the one we’d tossed overboard at his funeral.

  CHAPTER 37

  “What’d you give me, kids?” said Uncle Timothy after the truth serum had worn off. He rubbed his arm where Storm had poked him. “Pentothal?”

  “Actually,” said Storm, “the drug’s generic name is sodium thiopental.”

  “I know,” said Uncle Timothy. “We used to use it. Until something better came along.”

  “So where exactly is Mom?” I asked. “And Dad?”

  “I have no information on their current whereabouts.”

  “Well, are they dead or alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s it?” said Beck. “That’s totally lame!”

  “And extremely cryptic,” I said, using the biggest word I knew for secretive and sneaky.

  Storm tugged on my shirt. “He’s a spy. Cryptic is what spies do.”

  Uncle Timothy touched his Bluetooth earpiece, which he had slipped back on after our truthfest.

  (By the way, he even sleeps in his sunglasses!)

  “Roger that,” Uncle Timothy said to whoever was jabbering in his ear. “Tommy? Cut loose my boat.”

  “What?”

  “Cut the line,” he barked. “Then put some distance between your vessel and mine.”

  “Um, okay. Bick?”

  “On it.”

  I went to the cleat where we’d tied off Uncle Timothy’s superboat, which, now that we knew the truth about him, I realized was probably some kind of top secret stealth seacraft, the kind that could sneak up on a submarine undetected. With a nod from Uncle Timothy, I cut the rope and ran back to the group.

  Tommy was up in the wheelhouse. He fired up the engines and took us about a hundred yards due west of the spy boat.

  “That’s good enough for government work,” hollered Uncle Timothy.

  Tommy cut our engines.

  That’s when Uncle Timothy tugged one of the zippers on his safari vest, hard.

  KA-BOOM!

  His high-tech spy boat exploded.

  “It was only a prototype,” he said coolly, as if that explained how it was all right to blow up a perfectly good bajillion-dollar spy ship. “Still, we can’t risk letting the technology fall into the wrong hands.”

  Tommy was at the poop deck railing, his mouth hanging open, staring at the billowing ball of black smoke where the obliterated boat used to be. “Awesome, dude.”

  “Thank you, Thomas.” Uncle Timothy tapped his earpiece again. “Package is prepped and ready to be picked up. Roger that.”

  He unzipped another pouch on his vest.

  We all flinched. But this time nothing exploded.

  He took his Bluetooth out of his ear and tucked it into the zippered pocket.

  “Listen up, Kidds,” he said. “Whether you like it or not, you’re the only people who can finish what your father started.”

  “Which was what?” I asked.

  “What do you think?”

  “Finding Mom! He knew she was alive.”

  “Whether he knew it or not, Bickford, the Thomas Kidd I know would never abandon hope of retrieving what he considered the most important package on earth, would he?”

  “No, sir.”

  “When we last made contact, he told me he had already plotted his next move
s. Sounds like you guys picked up the slack since his disappearance and followed through on phase one.”

  “Finding the bee amulet?”

  “Correct. Your next step will become crystal clear once you study the map he told me about, the one hanging down in The Room.”

  “The one of the Western Hemisphere?” said Beck.

  “Roger that.”

  “But it’s just a pull-down school map.”

  “Study it again. Look at it differently. Follow the course plotted on the map.”

  “There was no course!” said Beck, sounding frustrated.

  “Your father told me there was,” said Dad’s CIA boss. “Find it. Don’t let that map fall into the wrong hands. I’d say ‘good luck,’ but you four don’t need luck. I’ve worked with plenty of top-notch agents. I’ve also seen how you four handle yourselves. Whether you know it or not, you are well on your way to becoming expert operatives. Your parents would be proud.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Tommy.

  “We know karate, too,” added Beck.

  “I know. Your father showed me your files.”

  We had files? Who knew?

  “I have every confidence that you’ll get to the bottom of this mess. Just know that your success is critical—for you, your family, your country, and, yes, the world.”

  Suddenly, I heard a helicopter overhead.

  Its thumping rotors became louder and louder.

  Uncle Timothy snapped us all a crisp salute. “I’ll be watching!” he said, shouting to be heard over the descending whirlybird.

  I looked up to see a Black Hawk helicopter hovering above The Lost.

  Out came a rope ladder. It unfurled and snapped into place directly in front of Uncle Timothy, who hopped on and was hoisted away.

  The package was picked up.

  I guess that’s why Uncle Timothy was so calm about blowing up his boat. He knew he wouldn’t need it for the ride home.

  CHAPTER 38

  “We need to check out that map!” Beck said to Storm the instant Uncle Timothy’s helicopter made its Hollywood exit and disappeared behind a bank of towering clouds.

  “It’s up front,” said Storm. “Inside the—”

  Fortunately, she did not finish that thought.

  Because we were suddenly surrounded by scuba ninjas!

  Eight guys in shimmering black wet suits—all of them toting weapons—had scampered up the sides of The Lost. They must have been treading water just above the surface (and out of our line of sight), waiting for Uncle Timothy to make his big chopper exit.

  Tommy made a mad dash for the deckhouse, hoping to grab the shotgun.

  “Chill, dude!” said a diver who’d boarded our stern. His fierce-looking speargun was aimed at Tommy’s chest.

  Beck, Storm, and I assumed our hachiji dachi (ready) karate positions. We were all set to hand-chop and drop-kick the flippers off these frogmen when one of the ninjas raised his dive mask and peeled back his rubber hood to reveal long, greasy hair and a hipster chin beard.

  “Yo, karate kids. Chill.”

  “Uh-oh,” muttered Beck at my side. “They’re baaaack.”

  “We come in peace, dudes and dudettes.”

  It was the same gnarly pirate freak who’d led Beck’s kidnap party.

  “We don’t wanna hurt anybody. The Big Kahuna just needs to see what’s behind that steel door.”

  While the scruffy pirate dude babbled on, I noticed a very fancy crest on the sleeve of his and the other ninjas’ dive suits.

  “Nathan Collier Treasure Extractors,” Storm mumbled.

  Nathan Collier. Mom and Dad’s number one nemesis. These surfer pirate dudes weren’t here to shout “shiver me timbers” or to plunder booty. They were here because Nathan Collier, the worst treasure hunter to ever sail the seven seas (he was so lame he probably thought there were only five), wanted to rip off more of Mom and Dad’s brilliant ideas.

  “Dad’s not here,” said Tommy, joining the rest of us in the center of the ninja circle. “He’s the only one who ever had a key to that room.”

  “Uh-oh,” said the leader, moving forward, his wet flippers flapping on the deck. “Sounds like the coolaphonic big brother is also a most excellent liar.”

  “He’s telling you the truth,” I said. “Dad took the only key with him when he fell overboard.”

  “Nah, brah,” said the leader. “Jadson?” he called to one of his buddies.

  “Chyah, Laird?”

  “Play that digital dealio for me again.”

  The pirate named Jadson removed a miniature MP3 recorder from his watertight utility belt.

  “You see, little duder,” said Laird, “Mr. Collier has all this supercool, totally rad techno gear on his treasure-hunting vessels. He even has this, like… what’d he call it, Jadson?”

  “A parabolic microphone.”

  “Chyah. It’s a long-range listening device, so from, like, three hundred yards away, we could poke it up out of our submarine and hear junk like this.”

  Jadson pressed the Play button.

  “Here’s the worst part.” It was Beck’s voice. A little staticky, but clearly her. “More than anything, they wanted The Key.”

  “Did you tell them where it was?” That was Tommy.

  “Um, no.” Beck again. “Only Storm knows where it’s hidden, remember?”

  “Oh. Riiiight. Forgot that part, too.”

  Now we heard Uncle Timothy’s voice: “Well, it seems the pirates shanghaied the wrong daughter. They should’ve kidnapped Storm.”

  Jadson snapped off the MP3 player.

  Laird marched up to Storm. “So, Chubba-Wubba, where’s the friggin’ key?”

  CHAPTER 39

  Storm looked like she might have a heart attack. Maybe a stroke.

  Maybe both at the same time.

  So I did what I do best. I started spinning a story.

  “Is that all you guys heard?” I asked.

  “Chyah,” said Jadson, kind of sheepishly. “The parabolic dish is, like, you know, a bowl? So, if you tilt it wrong, a pelican might roost in it and all you’ll hear is a big bird slurping down fish—”

  “Doesn’t matter, little duder,” said the tough guy, Laird. “We know your hugantic sister here has the spare key hidden somewhere on board this bucket.”

  “But you didn’t hear us talking about the dive? Or the kegs of Confederate gold coins, right?”

  Laird stroked his chin beard. I had his interest.

  “Great, Bick,” said Beck, pretending to be annoyed but really trying to help me out. “Why don’t you just tell them all about the kegs of Confederate gold—”

  “Don’t worry, sis,” I said. “These guys aren’t treasure hunters. They just work for Collier. They don’t care that we’re sitting right on top of the CSS Chattahoochee.”

  “Gesundheit, bro,” said Laird. “At least cover your mouth.”

  “No, dude,” I said. “CSS stands for ‘Confederate States Ship.’ The Chattahoochee was a boat. A blockade runner. Captain Stephen Lee ‘Cotton Ball’ Davis was in command of the swift little steamship. He was making a run out of Savannah, heading down to Cuba to pick up a load of sugar because the Confederate troops loved to suck on rock candy.”

  “They used to sing that rock candy mountain song all day long,” added Beck.

  trapped. In a last-ditch effort to outrun the Yankees, Captain Davis ordered those ten heavy kegs rolled over the side of his ship. Without the extra weight, the Chattahoochee slipped free and took off for Bermuda.”

  “Then what?” asked the dude named Jadson.

  “The Confederate soldiers never got their rock candy, so the South lost the war. And… no one ever found the dumped gold.”

  “Until yesterday,” said Beck. She pulled out her little pocket sketchbook and whipped up a quick picture of the phony Confederate treasure.

  “It’s all right down there,” I said, gesturing at the ocean just off our bow. “So, come on, Storm. Show these g
uys The Room. Let them shuffle papers for Nathan Collier. Then the four of us can get back to some serious treasure hunting.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Beck.

  “Hang on,” said Laird. “We want the kegs filled with gold coins.”

  “So you can give them to Nathan Collier?” I asked.

  “No, little duder. If there’s a mondo mother lode of gold coinage down beneath the swells, then Collier can take my gas. Me and my brohahs will go buy our own submarine!”

  Jadson nudged me in the back with his speargun. “Put on your dive gear, little duder. You’re taking us down to collect our Confederate gold.”

  “Fine. But my brother and sister have to come, too.”

  “Yeah,” said Beck. “Bick’s not so good with remembering stuff.”

  “Like where we, you know, found the gold,” added Tommy.

  “Fine,” said Laird. “Gear up. We dive in five.”

  Tommy, Beck, and I hurried belowdecks to grab our scuba stuff.

  “We take ’em under the bow?” said Tommy.

  I nodded. “And blast ’em with everything we’ve got!”

  CHAPTER 40

  Remember how I told you Dad had custom-built all sorts of secret cubbyholes and hiding places into The Lost?

  Well, since Dad wanted to be prepared for anything, including underwater ambushes, he had the shipbuilders install an airtight, pressurized compartment under the bow of our boat. Stashed inside were two APS underwater assault rifles.

  I used to wonder how Dad got his hands on a pair of special underwater AK-47s created by the Soviet Union during the Cold War. Now that I knew he and Mom were CIA agents, I figured they’d just picked them up on Spy Orientation Day or something.

  Underwater, ordinary bullets are seriously inaccurate. They just sort of drift and drop and hit innocent fish. The APS (short for Russian words that mean “Special Underwater Automatic”) was designed to fire straight shots when submerged. Plus, it has a longer range and more penetrating power than most spearguns.