Spear of Destiny (Misadventures of Loren Book 1)

by Ines Johnson

  That wasn't exactly the truth. The International Antiquities Coalition, who I often did freelance work for, didn't send me. I had alerted them to the site after I got wind of it through a darknet site frequented by fortune and treasure hunters—tomb raiders. I told the IAC I was on my way, and they'd simply pushed through the paperwork to make my arrival official.

  "Of course," the lieutenant said with a sneer of insincerity. "It's a waste of resources to uncover the mud huts of ancient savages. They probably ate their young like the beasts of the forests. Best to leave the past buried."

  Yesterday, we'd uncovered a sacrificial altar in the center of the town square. Every culture practiced sacrifice, whether it was animal, fasting, or even human. The practice of surrendering what was held dear continued today when a father went without for his child, a wife put her husband's needs before her own, or a junior executive let go of pride to grasp onto a higher ladder rung toward success. At its core, sacrifice was giving up what one held dear for the greater good. In a way, I supposed the government's attempt to hide this find to protect the current cultural identity was a sacrifice. Still, it didn't make it right.

  "The IAC sent me to ground truth the site and authenticate the findings, in accordance with the International Antiquities Agreement. They believe this find has great historical significance that could benefit all mankind."

  The lieutenant raised that eyebrow again as though he didn't believe me. Damn, he was smarter than I'd thought. But I didn't have the time or inclination to offer him any credit when his men were stealing credit from another culture from the dig site.

  "My country does not need an agreement to dig in our own backyard," he said.

  "No, but you will need help in recovering anything that might be looted and taken to another country. I think the location of the site has been leaked online."

  I was finally getting to the reason I'd raced from the satellite phone, where I'd been checking email in my tent, to the dig site. I hadn't been online since getting here. When I'd logged on twenty minutes ago, there'd been an alert of increased activity on the darknet site that had led me here.

  "Nonsense," the lieutenant drawled. "And even if the location got out, my men are covering the entire area."

  "But there's a lot of ground to cover," I insisted. "Perhaps if you don't stretch your men so thin, and instead move them closer to the site itself—"

  "Ms. Rivers, I know Americans let their women have a voice, but you are in my country, in the middle of a jungle, speaking to a ranking officer of the military. Giving orders might not be the best use of your voice."

  I was good at affecting an American accent, but I wasn't American. And, yes, that was what I chose to focus on instead of his misogynistic comments. I had been around him too many days to give this new spin on his age-old record any more play. There were more important things at stake.

  "The only place where any of this junk is going is a government vault," he said, looking around with disgust.

  "You mean a vault with the National Antiquities Coalition of Honduras?" I asked, injecting a note of sweetness into my voice.

  I'd been around too many men and women like him—people more interested in protecting their interests than advancing humanity—to let this slide. The Honduran government had no intention of letting this information get out until they could figure out how to make it play to their benefit. And when they figured it out, the truth of this lost civilization would be doctored and diluted, conquered and colonized, until it fit with the national identity currently in place.

  To the victor goes the spoils, or so the saying went. Unfortunately for the government, I had every intention of being the victor today.

  "Once our experts authenticate the … artifacts, we will decide what to share outside of our borders," the lieutenant said, a condescending note in his voice. "Don't worry that pretty little head of yours about raiders. You are well protected here."

  He was wrong. I had gotten in.

  His words were a threat, despite his attempt to "placate" me. I knew I should show fear—my lack thereof would only excite him, push him to challenge me more. But I was too tired and grumpy about my soiled clothing to pretend I was cowed.

  "Whatever," I finally said with a shrug. "Maybe I'm wrong." I knew I wasn't.

  Lieutenant Alvarenga nodded his head sagely. "If you are concerned for your safety, you can always stop by my tent after dark."

  "Tempting." My tone was sardonic, but the glint in his eyes told me he didn't catch the scorn. If I was going to crawl around in the dirt, I at least wanted to dig up something worth my trouble. I turned on my heel and headed back to my tent, feeling his eyes on my ass. That was fine. It was the last he'd see of it.

  Chapter 2

  The night was loud. Mammals, reptiles, and insects yawned themselves awake and then began their rituals. Crickets rubbed their thighs together to announce their availability. Birds flapped their wings as they sang night songs. Howler monkeys justified their names and bellowed to one another across the branches.

  Down below the night's activity, an anteater crossed my path, stopped, and turned to stare at me where I hid in a crouch. He licked at the mud on my boots but, finding no ants, kept going. He wasn't my only visitor. The animals of this lush forest hadn't seen humans in a millennium. They'd forgotten how to be afraid.

  I climbed up the tree trunk to avoid the further attention of the ground dwellers and to get a better vantage point. A sloth swung by and crawled over to the branch next to me. Its arms and legs held on to the branch, and it looked at me upside down. We eyed each other for a few moments. I lost the staring contest and giggled at the serious expression on its smooshed face.

  The snick of a branch cracking in the distance brought my attention back to the matter at hand. Turning my head, I started at the sight of two of the lieutenant's soldiers. I recognized them from camp. Apparently, the lieutenant had heeded my warning. Unfortunately for him, it was too late.

  The soldiers kept their eyes on the horizon, their gazes fixed on where the sun had set. Something told me to look up toward the new moon. I saw the raiders then. Heart pounding, I counted three of them moving through the treetops above me.

  Dammit.

  I'd known they were coming, but I'd hoped it wouldn't be so soon. They moved through the rainforest canopy like wraiths, silent enough that any sounds they made blended with the noises of the other animals flitting from branch to branch. If not for my gut instinct, I never would have noticed them.

  Tensing my body, I kept as quiet and still as I could and studied them. Two of the raiders were locals. I could tell by the way they moved lithely through the dark. The third, the leader, was a foreigner. He was likely a young man studied in the new-age art of parkour. But tree branches were not like rooftops or concrete half-pipes, and he lagged. It wasn't long before he slipped. The branch beneath him, too slight to hold his weight, cracked.

  I watched with bated breath as the man grabbed hold of the tree trunk. From yards away, I saw his fingers turn pale as they held fast. His lips moved rapidly, probably praying to whatever god he believed in that nobody would see him. Or, if he was smart, that he wouldn't fall.

  The branch snapped. The break was clean. The thick piece of bark turned over, top to bottom, on its way down. Its young leaves were stripped of twigs as the branch fell.

  But it was the only thing that fell. The man had managed to wrap his legs around another branch and was now holding on to the tree trunk with his fingernails and feet crossed at the ankles. Much like my sloth companion.

  The branch hit the ground with a heavy thud, and one of the soldiers was instantly alerted. He looked left and right. Thankfully for the parkourist, the soldier didn't look up.

  The soldier peered around for another minute but then turned and marched away. His thunderous steps cleared the animals from his path, making way for the thieves in the night. The tree climbers pulled out anaconda-thick ropes and began quietly rappelling their way
to the ground. When they hit the terrain floor, they crept toward the dig site.

  I rose from my crouch in the trees, bidding farewell to the staring sloth before swan-diving straight off the branch. The wind whistled past my ears as I tucked my body into a double flip, then landed soundlessly with sure feet on the damp rainforest floor. Not that my silent landing did me any good.

  Straightening, I found myself face to face with one of the soldiers. My heart jumped into my throat. His eyes immediately went wide with terror. The sweat that broke out on his temples had nothing to do with the ever-present humidity.

  "El espíritu," he whispered, stumbling backward. "El espíritu!"

  His frightened shout echoed through the trees, and I sighed. My cover was blown. I'd traded in my jeans and linen blouse for a dark tunic that covered my legs and torso. The head covering that masked my face did a decent job of hiding my identity. With the ornamental design on the strap of the bush sword hanging over my shoulder, I supposed I did look like a vengeful Mayan goddess.

  The second soldier came running into the clearing, gun already drawn. He stopped short at the sight of me. In the near distance, the raider and his cronies paused to watch the commotion.

  "I wouldn't do that—" I began as the soldier raised his shaking gun at me, but he didn't listen.

  He squeezed off two shots in succession, one flying wide, the other winging straight for me despite his terrible aim. I deflected that one easily with my blade, but his third shot was steadier. It hit the leather strap of my sword case; the strap snapped in two, and my bag fell to the ground.

  Anger ripped through me, and I sucked in a deep breath as I brushed the residual metal scraps off my top. Dirt, I could get out. But the torn fabric where the bullet hole had bounced off my skin was another matter. The soldier tried to squeeze off another shot, but I closed the distance in less than a second. My fingers dug into his neck as I picked him up off the ground.

  Gritting my teeth, I slammed him against the tree trunk. His head knocked against the bark with a satisfying thunk, and his eyes rolled back into his head as he immediately passed out. Curling my lip, I released him. His body slumped to the ground like a broken doll, gun hanging uselessly at his side.

  But at least he'd live.

  I turned toward the second soldier, but he was already gone, crashing through the bushes as he sprinted away. Two of the raiders were right behind him, flitting through the trees as if their lives depended on it. But the parkourist had gone ahead while I'd been distracted. Through the clearing, I watched him race off into the ruins.

  I sighed and headed off in his direction at no great rush. Even though we were out in the open, there was only one way in and out of the area, and he was running straight into the out door. I was never one to sneer during a horror movie when the villain or the monster strolled after the distressed, erratically running damsel or clumsy dumb dude. They always ran into the trap.

  But then, I heard a crash and the splintering sound of a thousand years' worth of knowledge being smashed. The raider, who'd tripped over a carefully plotted, roped-off area of the dig, was straightening from his face-plant.

  Seriously? I'd encountered rhinoceroses more graceful than this guy. My heart turned to stone as I zeroed in on the remains of a vase shattered in the dirt. I took off after him, my powerful legs eating up the ground much faster than any human runner could manage. Hell, I'd even outrun cheetahs once. I was on him before he took his next breath.

  With one hand, I grabbed him, then tossed him into an unmarked section of the grass. He landed with an even louder thud than the branch he'd snapped. By the time his eyes blinked open, my foot was pressed into his chest.

  "Do you have any idea of the value of what you just destroyed?" I demanded.

  He sputtered, his eyes bugging out, and I knew he was seeing the same vengeful spirit the others had.

  "The knowledge we would have gained from that single unbroken piece could have filled an entire volume. Would have filled," I added with a snarl, "if you hadn't just destroyed it with your clumsy footwork."

  I eased up on his throat a bit so he could whine and beg. But he only stared up at me in muted confusion. I began to snap at him again, but I suddenly realized I had spoken to him in my native tongue, which was older than English or Spanish. Older than Latin, Hebrew, or any other language still spoken today.

  "W-what are you?" he stammered.

  The way his lower lip trembled made him look like a damn kid. Unfortunately for him, my sympathy meter was low. I felt more for the broken vase than I did for this petulant child.

  "A-are you really a vengeful spirit?" He covered his face with trembling hands. "Oh, God."

  The stench of urine laced the air, and I curled my lip at him.

  He pulled his hands away from his face. "This is your tomb, isn't it? And now you're going to curse me for trying to steal your treasures!"

  "Sure," I said dryly, easing back a little. "We can go with that."

  I took a moment to study the man-child who'd somehow grown enough balls to try to rob this dig site. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five. Probably watched Indiana Jones as a kid, played Assassin's Creed as a teen. He was likely an adrenaline junkie looking to make a quick buck.

  An idea popped into my head, and my lips curved into a wicked smile. I could make use of this guy. "The curse is upon you," I said, filling my voice with Spanish flair even though the ancient people who lived here a millennium ago had never met a Spaniard. "If you want to break the curse and curry my favor, you'll do as I wish … or your family will perish."

  "Yes," he immediately agreed, his voice filled with a combination of fear and eagerness. "I understand."

  I stepped back and let him up. He rose on wobbly legs. His hands went to cover the wet spot of his cargo pants.

  "My people have long been hidden," I intoned in a grave, ancient voice. "It is past time for the world to know about us. You shall be the one to tell them. Follow me."

  I turned on my heel without another word. He scrambled after me like an eager puppy, but I could tell he was being careful not to crush any more artifacts.

  I led him further into the tomb, to the artifact that had first caught my eye when I came here. It was a clay tablet with writings etched into it that predated the Mayan script. I'd already started translating the tablet. It told a different story than the Maya and their descendants told.

  According to the writings, these two cultures had met. The Maya had learned much from this older, more learned culture. I knew that if I left the tablet here the Honduran government would steal it away and bury it so their dirty secret wouldn't get out. But I couldn't let them do that. This tablet was bigger than their need for tourism. On it were clues as to why this civilization fell. It was likely because the people turned on their gods, which was a common reason.

  Gently, I plucked the tablet from its perch. After wrapping it in a protective cloth, I handed it to my delivery boy along with a business card.

  "Take my story to this address," I said. "And handle it with care."

  The raider took the tablet and cradled it in his arms. He stuffed the business card into his pocket. If he wondered how a millennia-old goddess happened to be in possession of a business card with a D.C. address, he didn't mention it.

  Looking him squarely in the eye, I warned, "If you betray me, I will find you."

  I took a step forward, and he gulped when I patted his cheek.

  "Be careful," I said softly. "The next time you plan to raid a tomb, the god you find inside may not be as kind."

  Nodding, he took off like a rocket. As I watched him sprint out of the tomb, I prayed he was better at escaping than he was at breaking and entering.

  Chapter 3

  "When most people think of archaeology, they think of fossils and mummies. They picture huge reptiles buried beneath the ground. They imagine great rulers hidden in triangular castles in the sand. As archaeologists, what we do is bigger than that."


  I stood in front of a crowd of fifty professors, professionals, and students in the theater of the National Museum of the American Indian at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. Believe it or not, fifty was a stadium-sized crowd in my field. The numerous prescription lenses in the crowd reflected off the bright fluorescent lights. Pencils belonging to the older crowd worked furiously over notepads. The nimble fingers of the younger ones flew over keyboards and handheld devices to capture my jewels of knowledge.

  "We're not just uncovering physical relics of the past, we are uncovering ideas. We think we are innovative, only to see that it has been done before."

  A raised platform stood next to my lectern. I pulled the sheet covering it off to reveal the tablet the parkourist had hand-delivered to one of my colleagues at the Smithsonian. The young man had managed to deliver it without a nick or even a raised flag from customs.

  The Honduran government hadn't been happy, but I had warned Lieutenant Alvarenga about the raiders. Actually, it was Sergeant Alvarenga now. Letting out the inarguable facts of this older culture had cost him his rank. Now the entire world knew a civilization predated the Maya. The stories of these lost people would finally be told.

  "History books are written by the victors," I continued. "But sometimes, those winners lie. It's important to unearth not only a pharaoh, but also the pharaoh's servant. When you go out there and dig, search for the marginalized, the minorities, and the underrepresented. Give them a voice. Their stories matter. All tales must be told, even the ugly ones—especially the ugly ones."

  The applause from the smattering of audience members might as well have been the boom of a rock concert. I wasn't often recognized for the work I did; I preferred the shadows and the cover of night to run my crusades of discoveries of the dead. But this long-dead story had to be told, and I was the only living one who could tell it.

  I stepped off the platform and fielded a few questions, declining selfies with excuses ranging from needing to keep my identity quiet so I could participate in secret digs—true—to photokeratitis—not true, but fun to say.