Martinez blanched. “I had nothing to do with that.”
“But youknewabout it,” Nash pressed, leaning forward. “Just like you know why they’re after the gold, and how they’re connected to the Olympus Foundation.”
“I’m just a history professor,” Martinez protested, his composure cracking. “I was approached because of my connection to Professor Blair and her research. That’s all.”
Nash felt a surge of disgust. “So you sold out your colleague. For what? Money? Protection? A nice corner office?”
Martinez’s face hardened. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. The Ferrantes aren’t people you can simply dismiss or intimidate. They have resources, connections?—”
“So do we,” Colt interrupted, stepping forward. In one fluid motion, he was around the desk, gripping Martinez by his expensive silk tie. “And we don’t take kindly to threats against our family.”
“It’s not a threat,” Martinez squeaked, his eyes wide with fear. “I’m trying to help!”
“By spying on us?” Nash asked incredulously. “By following us around Salt Lake? By reporting our movements to people who have already killed once over this gold?”
“I didn’t—I wouldn’t—” Martinez sputtered.
Colt’s other hand curled into a fist. “My brother’s too polite to say it, so I will. You’re a weasel, Martinez. A pathetic little rat doing the dirty work for people who wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire.”
“Please,” Martinez whimpered. “I’m just the messenger.”
“Well, here’s our message back,” Colt said, and without warning, he drove his fist directly into Martinez’s face.
The crack of knuckles against bone echoed in the quiet office. Martinez toppled backward, chair and all, landing in an ungraceful heap on the floor, blood streaming from his nose.
“Colt!” Nash exclaimed, though he couldn’t deny a certain satisfaction at seeing Martinez sprawled on the expensive carpet.
Colt loomed over the fallen professor, his expression hard. “You tell whoever you officially or unofficially report to that the Crosses don’t take threats lying down. And they’d better stay out of our way.”
Martinez nodded frantically, one hand clutching his bleeding nose. “I could sue you!” he squealed.
Colt snorted and nodded to Nash. “Well, then meet my attorney.”
Nash glared at Dr. Martinez then turned to Colt. “Come on. We’re done here.”
Amy stood, her face pale but her eyes clear. “I’ll be emailing my resignation letter.” She paused, then added, “But first, I need to clean out my office.”
Martinez made a gurgling sound that might have been a protest, but Colt took a half step forward, and the professor wisely fell silent.
They left Martinez moaning on the floor, Colt closing the door with exaggerated gentleness behind them.
As they strode down the hallway, Nash pulled Amy close to his side. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, though her hands were shaking slightly. “Better than I expected to be, actually. But I need to get my research before we leave. It’s just down the hall.”
She led them to a smaller office, unlocking the door with a key from her purse. The space was modest but neat—bookshelves lined with historical volumes, a desk organized with meticulous precision, and walls adorned with framed maps and historical photographs. One entire corkboard was dedicated to Porter Rockwell, with index cards, photos, and string connecting various points of interest.
Nash immediately recognized the broken arrow symbol on several of the cards.
“We can’t leave any of this,” Amy said, her voice taking on a practical edge. “If Martinez is working with the Ferrantes, they might try to get to my research—or probably already have.”
Colt glanced out into the hallway. “Better make it quick, then.”
Amy nodded, pulling a cardboard box from the closet. “I keep these for when students bring in historical artifacts,” she explained, quickly dismantling the corkboard display and placing the cards and photos carefully in the box.
Nash moved to her desk, grabbing a stack of folders clearly labeled “Rockwell Project.” “These too?”
“Everything,” Amy confirmed, now emptying a drawer of notebooks and journals. “Especially the blue binder on the bottom shelf—it has all my original notes.”
