The local sheriff’s office didn’t believe us at first, until we showed them the journal and a single diamond. Within an hour, the FBI was involved, and a plan was hatched. They needed me to be the bait to catch the remaining thieves.
For three days, I drove that heavy, treasure-laden truck through the center of town. I made sure to stop at the hardware store and the local cafe, making the vehicle impossible to miss. Every mirror check felt like a countdown to a confrontation.
At night, I returned the truck to the barn, just like my uncle had done for twenty years. But this time, I wasn’t alone in the shadows. A dozen tactical officers were crouched in the haylofts, their eyes fixed on the entrance.
On the third night, the silence of the woods was broken by the crunch of gravel. Three shadows detached themselves from the treeline and approached the barn doors. I heard the rasp of a crowbar and held my breath as the door creaked open.
They headed straight for the rear bumper, their voices filled with greed and relief. “It’s all still here,” one of them rasped, reaching for the hidden lever. That’s when the barn erupted in a blinding flash of tactical lights and shouts.
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