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his arms resting on his pulled-up knees. He was passing the time by mentally listing his theories about Lauryn. Either she was in the container because she stole the treasure and wanted to stay as close to it as possible. Or because she’d stolen the treasure and then had a falling-out with her partners who locked her in. Or she’d witnessed the treasure being stolen while she was looking for pieces for the Getty, the heist got her blood heated and she followed the treasure, thinking she could take it from the thieves and keep it for herself. He didn’t give much credit to her claims of being completely innocent.
    “Are you sure you don’t have a concussion?” she asked him, sitting opposite.
    He resented her concern, given that it was more than likely that she had something to do with their current circumstances. “Quite certain.”
    That only kept her quiet for a minute.
    “We have no food or water,” she said, stating the obvious.
    “A good thing, because we don’t have a toilet either,” he said just to torture her.
    She pursed her lips as she stood. “That’s it, then. I’m getting out of here.”
    She did have an indomitable spirit, he had to give her that. “How?”
    “I’m going to think of something.”
    “Happy thoughts will give you wings?” he mocked her.
    “You can’t underestimate the power of positive thinking.”
    Or the power of self-delusion, he thought, hoping she wouldn’t get going and give him a motivational seminar.
    She was staring straight up, as if expecting inspiration to drop from heaven. “How many more bullets do you have left?” she asked after a few minutes.
    Great, here came the brilliant idea. He checked his gun, not keen on handing it back to her. “Ten.”
    “Do you have any matches?”
    “How about a lighter?” He didn’t smoke, but he always carried one, along with a pocketknife. Now and then they came in handy at a dig.
    “Can I have it with five of the bullets?”
    “What for?”
    “There’s light coming in. Which means rust spots in the top of the container. Weakness. A small explosion could peel back enough for us to squeeze through.” She eyed the crates.
    He didn’t think she was kidding. “You can build a bomb?”
    She didn’t respond, only held out her hand, as good as an admission—of her bomb-making skills and her past.
    After thinking it over and realizing they had few other options, he counted out five bullets for her. “You might see why I was reluctant to put you in charge of a traveling exhibit of Valtrian treasures.”
    She closed her fingers around the bullets and the lighter. “The skills I have might yet save your treasures.”
    He couldn’t argue with that, so he said nothing. He simply watched as she scaled the crates, a sleek shadow moving swiftly, higher and higher until she disappeared on top. He pulled his dropped chin back into place.
    “Do you need help?” he asked belatedly. He wanted out of here and she seemed to want the same thing. Whatever hidden agenda she had, for now it looked as if they were working toward the same goal. They might as well work together. “I can help.”
    Now and then the setting of charges was necessary at an excavation, although, due to the high risk of damage, he employed that tool as rarely as possible and always had an expert handle it. But he wasn’t uncomfortable around explosives.
    “Stay covered in case there’s flying shrapnel,” she called down from her perch.
    Shards of steel flying from the top of the container, he realized, were a definite possibility. He looked at the crates. The wood boards were thick enough to protect the contents, his first concern. “And you?” he asked as an afterthought. “I’ll deal.”
    He started forward. “Look, I—”
    A small explosion cut him off, which did send some shrapnel flying and shook the tower of crates Lauryn had climbed.
    “Are you okay?” he called up as the dust settled.
    “Of course I am.”
    “They had to have heard