The walkie-talkie blared to life with Rita’s Carribean accented voice. “Roger, you gotta get outta dere. Sometings driving de sharks wild in ya area.”

Sharks are the least of my problems, Roger thought. His arms ached from holding them up too long. Two scruffy locals trained handguns on him while three or four more ransacked his yacht’s tiny cabin.

Their leader, a greasy looking man in a blue jogging suit that outlined his paunch, chortled and rubbed his hands together. “Oh ho. It must be my lucky day. You were easier to find than I expected and now God Himself sends a clean up crew.”

Roger could only see two ways out of the situation- be valuable or be shark food. He spoke up, keeping his voice neutral. “Could you tell your goons to knock it off. The map isn’t here. I left it in a lock box at the bank.”

The smile dropped off the leader’s face. “You’re lying!”

“Am I? Why would I hide it on my yacht? I was the only one out here and I sure as hell wasn’t expecting you. If you shoot me, no one gets it.”