by David Meyer
I shook my head.
As she strode away, my side cramped up. I clutched at it, pinching my skin. The pain faded but only for a few seconds. Then it returned with a vengeance.
I rubbed my eyes. I was tired. Hungry too. I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept or ate a good meal.
I turned toward the jungle. A row of trees faced me, forming a nearly impenetrable barrier. I looked through the gaps but all I saw were more trees, lined up in neat rows.
Rows of trees. I wonder …
A soft breeze pushed at my back. Leaves reached out, beckoning me. Releasing my side, I limped toward the jungle.
"Hey Cy!"
I stopped. "Yeah?"
"Where are you going?" Miranda called out.
"I'm just taking a walk."
"Well, don't go far. I don't want you getting lost."
I gave her a nod and walked to the edge of the clearing. Then I strode past the tree line, letting the jungle swallow me up.
I knew I shouldn't have lied to Miranda. After all, it was her dig. But I'd already decided this would be my final job as a treasure hunter. And I didn't want it to end on a low note. I wanted to go out with my head held high.
I wanted to go out as something other than a shovelbum.
Chapter 12
"What are you doing?" The voice, sultry and feminine, floated into my ears.
I whirled around. "You followed me?"
"Of course." Beverly took a few steps forward. "Now, what's going on? And don't lie to me like you did to Miranda."
"I'm looking for something."
She arched an eyebrow.
"The person who beat us to the tomb—W.H.—carved marks on one of the tunnel walls. A circle, some lines, and an X. I figured it might be a map. The circle could be the tomb. The lines could represent trees."
"So, you're looking for the X?"
"Exactly."
"And Miranda doesn't know about it?"
"No."
"Good. I don't trust that woman."
I found that intriguing. Dr. Miranda May enjoyed a sterling reputation. She was known for her fierce work ethic and endless thirst for knowledge on the Classic Maya Collapse. Selflessly, she used that knowledge to help inform people about the dangers of climate change.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I talked to Dutch. He told me what she did to Eve."
"Like I said, it was an accident." I shrugged. "By the way, how's he doing?"
"He's flipping out."
"Why?"
"Let's just say Eve might not make it."
We'd paid a lot of money for Eve and her modifications. But since I was retiring from treasure hunting and salvage work, I wouldn't need to replace her. Good thing too. It wouldn't have been easy.
Or cheap.
She cocked her hand. "You still haven't answered my question from this morning. We haven't worked a job in four months. What made you come out of retirement for this one?"
"I wanted to meet Miranda."
"Why?"
"She's probably the most famous archaeologist in the world. I guess I wanted to see if she lived up to the hype."
"Did she?"
"I'm not sure yet."
She ran a hand through her hair. "This isn't really our last job, is it?"
"That's the idea."
"You didn't kill those people. Votan did."
"I know."
She studied my eyes. "You can't just run away when things go bad."
I felt a sudden prick under my shirt. Then one on my face. And another on my neck. Abruptly, gnats swarmed me, biting viciously, mercilessly at my bare skin. The natives called them roderos. I didn’t know what that meant nor did I care. All I cared about was making them go away.
I waved my hands. But it didn't work. Unfortunately, I'd just have to put up with them until sundown.
Of course, that was when the mosquitoes came out.
"I'm not running away."
"You're lying."
The confrontation had been building for months. After our encounter with Votan, I'd returned to Manhattan. I'd even gone on a few job interviews. Beverly, however, hadn't been ready to settle down. She'd spent every waking moment trying to convince me I was making a mistake.
I exhaled. "For the last time, I don't blame myself and I'm not running away from anything."
"Then why are you quitting?"
"It's not important."
"It is to me." She took a step in my direction.
"Hang on a—"
Her right foot lashed out. Still exhausted, I barely blocked it. "Don't do this." I backed away. "This isn't the time or—"
She threw a vicious punch at me.
I parried it. "Stop it, Beverly. I'm serious."
Another punch whizzed toward my head, missing my ear by less than an inch. "I'll stop," she said. "When you start talking to me."
She aimed another punch at me. It slipped through my defenses and slammed into my gut.
"Ouch." I reeled back a few feet, wheezing for air. "That hurt."
"I know." She adopted a fighting stance. "That's the point."
Her right fist swung toward my head. I grabbed it out of mid-air. Then I yanked her toward me, wrapping her into a tight embrace.
She struggled violently. "Let me go."
I held her tight. She continued to thrash against me, drawing ever closer. Her heaving breasts touched my chest. I felt the warmth of her body. Heard her rapid breathing. Saw the hungry look in her eyes.
I lowered my face.
She raised hers.
There was no hesitation, no gentleness. Animal instincts took over and our lips mashed together, violently and passionately. And then everything seemed to disappear at once.
Everything but us.
Chapter 13
Beverly jumped on me, wrapped her legs around my waist. I toppled over. My back slammed to the ground. Before I could move, her hands worked their way beneath my shirt. Her hair swirled around my face, enclosing me like a curtain. Then her tongue thrust deep into my mouth.
Hot damn.
My hands closed around her waist. I shifted my arms. A small yelp escaped her lips as I rolled on top of her.
She fought back, trying to regain the top position. But I distracted her with soft kisses, teasing her lips. Her cheeks flushed and she lunged at me. I dodged her and started nibbling at her ears and neck. Her head drifted to the ground. Her back arched and she moaned softly.
My left hand stole up her shirt, snaked behind her back, undid her bra clasp. The straps eased. Her breasts, now freed, swayed gently under her shirt. I touched them, rubbed them, kneaded them. Ever so slowly, her eyes rolled to the back of her head.
My right hand undid the button on her jeans. Her fly popped open. She inhaled sharply. Thrust her hips toward the sky.
I tried to hold her down, to contain her. But she was fired-up, crazed beyond belief. She twisted her hips. Rolled me to my back and regained the top position. Before I knew what was happening, her fingers had slipped down my cargo pants.
I rolled again and remounted her. But she answered with her own roll. And then we were rolling, rolling, rolling.
Wind rushed against my face. Underbrush and rocks struck my back. I saw blurry glimpses of trees and bushes. Deep down, I knew it was dangerous. Hell, we could've been rolling toward a cliff for all I knew. But it didn't register. Nothing registered. Not the excavation, not my retirement, not anything. Nothing except the plain truth that I wanted her. I wanted her body, her soul.
I wanted everything.
My left side banged into something hard and we slid to a stop. A sharp pain shot through my torso, but I barely noticed it.
I kissed her neck. One arm held her close, the other danced beneath her shirt. She shivered, but only for a second.
"Cy?"
"Yeah?" I breathed slowly, deeply. My hand caressed her taut stomach. But she was strangely cold to my touch. "What's wrong?"
"That."
&
nbsp; I pulled back a few inches. Looked into her eyes. They were locked on something just behind me. Twisting my head, I noticed a slab of rusty metal. It was heavily soiled and half buried in muck. "Is that …?"
"It's a plane." Her tone became hushed. "A very old plane."
Mentally, I compared our location with the etchings from inside the tomb. "I guess X marks the spot."
Chapter 14
"What were you doing out here anyway?" Miranda asked. "We're almost a quarter of a mile from the tomb."
I squinted into the growing darkness. "We found something."
"What?"
"It's better if you see it."
"Fine." Miranda picked her way under a fallen tree trunk. Then she continued forward in a straight line, waving her flashlight from side to side. "Let's get this over with."
A bloodcurdling howl rang out. I tightened my grip on my machete. My other hand flew to my shoulder holster.
Transporting my gun to Mexico had proven difficult. But I was glad to have it. Alligators and crocodiles lined the shores of the nearby river. Jaguars, pumas, ocelots, tapirs, and other animals roamed the jungle.
The howl died out. Slowly, I released the pistol. But I kept my machete in front of me.
Picking up the pace, I strode ahead of Miranda. Rows of giant palm trees dotted the landscape, forming a series of massive, endless walls. Saw grass, briars, thorn-covered bushes, and acacias sliced at my arms and legs. Ankle-deep mud sucked at my boots, threatening to pull them right off my feet. I found it amazing Beverly and I had survived our all-too-brief foray through the jungle.
"Stop," I called out.
Miranda stopped. So did Beverly. Silence and stillness fell over the area.
I aimed my beam at a rusty metal pole. It was awkwardly angled and covered with soil. "It's over there," I said. "It looks like an old biplane."
"We think the pilot survived the crash," Beverly added. "He might be the same person who beat us to the tomb."
The quiet jungle burst into sound as we made our way toward the wreckage. Our machetes hacked against vines and tree branches. Leaves rustled. Our footsteps pounded against the soft earth.
I found myself thinking about the pilot. I pictured the trees rushing toward him at a harrowing speed. The wind tearing at his face. His stomach churning at the sudden acceleration. The terrifying jolt as his airplane struck the ground. The gratitude that he'd survived the crash. The intense anguish upon realizing he was alone.
I cleared through the last briar patch and pointed my light at the ground. A mangled steel-tube fuselage, blackened with soot, lay before me. Pieces of rotten wood and tattered fabric poked out of the soil.
"It looks old," Beverly said. "If I had to guess, I'd say it's been here for nearly a century."
"It's a Vought O2U Corsair biplane," Miranda said. "It was probably equipped with a four-hundred horsepower engine although it's difficult to say for sure."
I glanced at her. "You knew about it?"
She nodded.
I crossed my arms. "Start talking."
"I suppose I owe you that much." She shifted her beam, lighting up all areas of the wreckage. "Back in 1929, General José Escobar led a military coup against the Mexican government. It didn't last long, maybe a month or so. But that was long enough for his northern forces to hire two American pilots. The arrangement quickly fell apart and the pilots became prisoners of a sort. So, they stole a few planes and escaped. The first man flew to Texas. The second man, Wallace Hope, headed for El Salvador."
I recalled the initials—W.H.—etched onto the knife I'd found inside the tomb. "Why El Salvador?" I asked.
"The government was looking for American pilots. Unfortunately, Hope experienced engine trouble on the way. He survived." She kicked the fuselage. "His plane didn't."
"How'd he find the tomb?"
"Sheer luck. He thought he'd seen a river shortly before he hit the ground. So, he climbed up a small hill to find it. But the ground caved and he fell into what we now know was the tomb. He reported seeing a big, ugly statue and a giant stone trough inside it."
"I definitely saw a statue down there. And big and ugly is a pretty good description of it. But I didn't see a trough."
"I think he was referring to the sarcophagus," Miranda replied. "If you took off the lid …"
"It would look like a trough." I thought for a few seconds. "There's just one problem. Hope couldn't have removed the lid. Otherwise, the tomb would've collapsed on him.
"Remember how you told me about the breach in the sarcophagus?"
I nodded.
"I think he used his knife and other tools to carve a hole in it. Before he left, he sealed it shut again."
"But why would he describe it as a trough?" Beverly asked. "Why wouldn't he just call it a sarcophagus?"
"Because he found more than bones inside it."
Beverly's gaze turned curious.
"Hope claimed to have found thirteen metal rods extending across the trough. Fifty-two disc-shaped objects dangled from each rod."
"What kind of objects?"
"Plates." Miranda hesitated. "More specifically, gold plates."
Beverly's eyes bulged. "Fifty-two times thirteen. That's …"
"Six hundred and seventy six gold plates."
"Wow." Beverly looked impressed. "And to think I had you pegged for a stuffy archaeologist."
"Don't misunderstand. I'm not here for gold." Miranda tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Anyway it appears Hope had ruined his tools by that point. He tried to pry a plate loose but it wouldn't budge. So, there he stood, surrounded by a fortune in gold he couldn't take with him. He constructed the water trap to protect it, sealed the tomb, and fought his way back to civilization."
As I listened to the story, I felt creeping disappointment. Miranda had told me the sarcophagus would shed definitive light on the Classic Maya Collapse. Somehow a bunch of gold plates just didn't measure up.
"The trap was never released," I said. "So, I'm guessing he never returned here."
"He certainly tried," Miranda said. "He led an expedition to this region in the mid-1930s. But his memory failed him."
"How'd you get involved?"
"I managed to procure a copy of Hope's diary back in 2012. The ink was heavily faded. But Dora and Renau were able to translate some of the hieroglyphics he'd copied from the tomb."
"2012?" Beverly frowned. "That was a long time ago."
"It takes time to plan an expedition. Anyway we started analyzing satellite images of this region. We identified over a dozen locations where Hope might've crashed. We did some more work and eventually narrowed it down to this part of the jungle. We located the plane a few days ago. We were able to link five separate artifacts to Hope. So, as you can see—"
"Wait." Beverly held up a finger, demanding silence. Then she tilted her chin to the sky.
A distant, chopping noise caught my ears.
I looked at Beverly. "You know what that is, right?"
"Yeah." Her jaw tightened. "And it's heading toward us."
Chapter 15
"Wait," Miranda shouted. "Don't …"
Her voice faded away as I ran through the muck. My arms pumped. My legs churned. I was running fast. And yet, it didn't seem fast enough.
I raced through a patch of bushes. Thorns tore at my pants and ripped into my flesh. Gritting my teeth, I powered through the pain.
I ran into the clearing as the last vestiges of daylight started to slip from view. Graham, surrounded by tools, knelt in front of Eve. A forlorn expression adorned his face. Off to the side, Miranda's team crouched in front of the sarcophagus. Their flashlight beams illuminated its ornate lid.
"Hey Cy," Graham lifted his head. "Can you—?"
"Turn off your light," I hissed loudly. "And get your gun ready."
The sky cracked. Wind whipped across the clearing. A large helicopter appeared directly overhead, its blades chopping at the air.
As it drifted downward, it pull
ed a cloak of darkness along with it. Glancing to the horizon, I caught one last look at the sun before it dipped out of sight. It was red as blood.
Beverly darted out of the jungle, just moments behind me. Her gaze flew upward. "I only know one person who likes to make secretive helicopter trips to remote archaeological digs."
"Me too." I steeled my jaw. "Votan."
Chapter 16
The helicopter settled into the clearing. It was large, exactly the same size as that flown by Votan. And yet, it was painted differently. His helicopter had been painted black. The one before me was white with blue trim. Of course, that didn't mean anything. Votan might've repainted it to throw off the authorities.
Debris spat into the air. The two dogs, barking loudly, ran to the edge of the clearing. Shielding my eyes, I retrieved my pistol and took cover behind my truck.
The helicopter's engine ceased. Its exterior lights blinked off. Its blades slowed to a halt.
Miranda jogged out of the forest. Bending over, she heaved for air. I tried to get her attention, but she didn't see me.
The cabin door slid open. A single individual, dressed in outdoor clothing, hopped to the ground. His face was stern and rugged. His skin was drawn taut, with deep lines etched across it. "Where's Reed?"
I tightened my grip on the gun. "Who the hell are you?"
"Adam Crowley. I handle personal security."
"For Votan?"
"No. Place your gun on the ground."
"Not a chance."
"I'm not going to ask twice."
"Then don't."
He walked around the truck. I hesitated, unsure of whether he was friend or foe.
His right arm twitched. The air cracked.
My neck twisted as his fist slammed into my jaw. I dropped the gun and fell to a knee.
"Now, you must be—" Crowley cocked his head and I saw an earpiece lodged in his ear. "What was that?"
Breathing rapidly, I gathered some strength.
"But he's carrying … listen to me, Emily. We can't take—"
I sprang to my feet. My left arm circled his waist. He gasped as my shoulder smashed into his belly.
He swung his fist at me. I grabbed it. Pushed it into the air.