A light mist hung over West Boggs Lake as Eli guided the truck into the nearly empty parking lot. The air smelled of damp wood and the faint tang of fish. A few gulls circled lazily overhead. The picnic shelter sat near the shoreline, its metal roof popping occasionally as it warmed in the morning sun.
Sarge was already there, leaning against one of the posts with his arms crossed. He wore his old field jacket, the kind that still looked like it had a mission to complete. Ray Henson sat at the far end of a picnic table, sipping from a travel mug and watching the lake.
Kate and Eli walked up, the tin box under Eli’s arm.
“You were right to call me,” Sarge said. “Word’s been floating around about that snake-eye bastard since before you two were born. Never figured he’d show up in my backyard.”
Eli set the box on the table and opened it. He lifted out the gold medallion and placed it in Sarge’s hand. The morning light caught the raised carving of a narrow, slit-pupiled eye.
Sarge studied it for a long moment before looking up. “This isn’t just some trinket. That eye? It’s the symbol of the Fifth Mark.”
Kate frowned. “So what is it, exactly?”
Sarge glanced toward the lake before answering. “Back in the late forties, five men pulled off a job down in Kentucky — a bank robbery nobody could ever tie to them. Each one kept a piece of the map to where they buried the take. The first four pieces were just coordinates or sketches. But the Fifth Mark… that was different. It wasn’t paper. It was this.” He tapped the medallion. “Whoever held it could match the other four pieces and find the stash.”
“And the old man?” Eli asked.
“Name’s Corbin Voss,” Sarge said. “Last living member of the Five. That snake-eye ring he wears? Exact same design as the one on this medallion. It’s his way of telling people he’s still in the game — and still dangerous.”
Ray shifted in his seat, his voice low. “I’ve heard stories about him. Folks who get in his way… don’t stay in the way for long.”
Kate’s eyes went from the medallion to the scrap of paper in the box. “So the sketch points to where we start, and the medallion is the key to finishing it?”
“Exactly,” Sarge said. “If Voss lost this to you, he’ll be desperate to get it back. And desperate men don’t play fair.”
Eli hesitated. “One of his people has already made contact. We saw him at the shelter here a few days ago, and again at Biggins. He followed us.”
Sarge’s gaze sharpened. “Baseball cap? Dark jacket?”
Eli nodded.
“Yeah,” Sarge said grimly. “That one’s called Mercer. Doesn’t talk much, but he’s not the type you want at your back. If he knows you’ve got this, he’ll keep circling until he gets a shot — or until someone tells him to stand down.”
Eli folded the paper and returned it to the box. “Then we’d better move before he decides to come looking.”
Sarge shook his head. “Too risky. You’ve got what Voss wants, which means you’ve got leverage. Let me make a few calls to people who owe me favors.”
The wind picked up, carrying the sound of a boat motor somewhere across the lake. Kate pulled her jacket tighter. “And if he shows up before your friends do?”
Sarge’s eyes hardened. “Then we make sure Corbin Voss learns that not everyone here scares easy.”
For a long moment, the four of them sat in the shelter, the lake stretching out before them like a promise and a threat all at once. Eli could feel the weight of the medallion in his hand — not just metal, but history, danger, and the pull of something unfinished.
Whatever the Fifth Mark led to, they were now in it for the long haul.
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