Burial Ground

She smiled as though he had asked her the most asinine question ever.

'Not even close.'

'First time in Pomacochas then?'

'From the air.'

He banked the seaplane around the eastern shore and started his rapid descent. The clouds rose away from them to expose the placid lake, a sheet of fresh tar against the asphalt darkness. The plane's lights reflected back up at them like submerged jewels.

The other plane, carrying the remaining members of the group, including a film crew, and the lion's share of their supplies, dropped from the mist behind him.

For whatever reason, the man who had booked his services on behalf of Advanced Exploration Associates International had specifically requested him. Merritt liked to think that it was because his reputation preceded him, but he was by no means a stupid man. This all went back to the body he had found by the river. He had looked in the man's backpack after all. He'd seen the golden headdress. He should have known it was only a matter of time before word leaked and the treasure hunters descended like vultures.

Merritt felt the heat of the woman's stare and glanced over to find her scrutinizing him.

'So you were the one who found Hunter,' she said.

He hadn't learned the man's name---it was better that way---but he hadn't stumbled upon so many corpses that he didn't know exactly who she was talking about.

'I should have known,' he said.

'Known what?'

'I didn't initially peg you guys as huaqueros. I guess I'm losing my touch.'

'We are not grave robbers. I'm a paleoanthropologist, for God's sake. The man you found was a good friend of mine, a good person.'

'Who just happened to have a priceless artifact stashed in his backpack.'

'How dare you judge him. Any of us for that matter. Who do you think you are?'

'I'm a man who flies a plane, honey. That's all. I like to keep things simple.'

'You've done an excellent job. I don't think I've met anyone simpler than you.'

'Ouch,' he said, and watched as she huffed, crossed her arms over her chest, and turned to look out the opposite window.

Merritt laughed inwardly. The girl had spunk. No doubt about it. She radiated an inner strength, almost a sense of self-possession, which made her positively glow.

Sure, he had been with more than his share of beautiful women in his life, and there had even been one or two back home who had shown long-term potential. The problem was that none of them had ever really challenged him in any meaningful way. They had all lacked that mythical spark, that element of passion beyond the physical that inspired a man to follow his heart to the ends of the earth rather than face a single moment without her. But since coming to Peru years ago, any relationship at all sounded like more trouble than it was worth. Of course, for the right woman, he could probably be coaxed into giving it a whirl.

As he prepared for landing, he glanced back at the rest of the party in the mirror to his right. The two men directly behind him met his stare, or had they been watching him the whole while? Every time he looked back, there they were, studying him in the mirror even as he appraised them. A white-haired man in his late-fifties or so, and another man perhaps ten years Merritt's senior with eyes of stone, a military man if he'd ever seen one, and he'd seen far more than his share.

There was definitely something going on here, something brewing beneath the surface. He sensed a hint of danger that he hadn't felt in a long time, an unwelcome sensation he would have gladly lived his entire life without ever encountering again. His heart beat faster, and his palms grew damp on the controls. In the span of a blink, he was there again, on the other side of the planet in an eternity of sand and rock formations that he was certain mimicked the landscape of hell.

Smoke billowing from the mouth of the stone orifice. Footprints in the sand, some bare, some sandaled. The mechanical echo of his own rapid breathing inside the constrictive rebreathing mask. The barrel of his Heckler & Koch HK416 assault rifle swinging in front of him, barely visible through the swirling dust and smoke. Piles of rock in his path; gravel raining from the sandstone roof. The earthen walls scored black. The bodies...flames lapping at their clothing and hair...dark skin caked with soot and ash...and the young woman, her wide eyes shot with blood, one hand still at her swollen throat, deep lacerations from where she had torn through her skin with her own fingernails...

The pontoons touched the lake with the sound of thunder and water fired up against the underside of the fuselage and wings. He throttled down and coasted toward the pier, desperate for a breath of fresh air.

II

Hotel Spatuletail

Pomacochas, Peru

6:12 a.m.

Colton spread the maps out on the table before him. They had rented two adjoining rooms in what passed for a hotel in the middle of the Amazon basin, a converted Spanish hacienda that hadn't seen so much as a paint job since the conquistadors defeated the Inca with Christianity and smallpox. It was little more than a square of decomposing adobe enclosing a central courtyard with wild greenery attempting to claim the obligatory fountain, itself a cracked-tile basin brimming with slimy rainwater that smelled of flatus. But it didn't matter. They were only going to be here for a single night, after which the rooms would serve as storage for their boxes and the packing materials they wouldn't be lugging into the mountains. The sooner the better, he thought. He was no stranger to the type of accommodations one must endure in such remote locales, but the walls were alive with small green and brown lizards and several enormous black spiders had made themselves at home inside the mosquito netting over the beds. He expected that kind of hospitality from the jungle, not the hotel.

He had already formalized their route into the mountains, but there were still any number of variables for which he couldn't account. The maps couldn't predict the depth of the bodies of water or the speed of the current any more than they allowed them to find trails through the dense forestation. For the most part, experience suggested they should be able to follow certain aspects of the topography, but that still remained to be seen. Regardless, they had a starting point, and somewhere in the southern portion of this twenty-five square mile grid was their final destination.

The first thing they needed to do was inspect the area where Hunter had washed up along the Mayu Wanu. The medical examiner had estimated that his body had been in the water for somewhere in the neighborhood of seventy-two hours. He had, of course, qualified that assertion with the caveat that he hadn't been able to examine the remains quickly enough as the body had been delayed by the process of identification and the ultimately unnecessary quarantine. However, a detailed inspection of the river and its current, coupled with an educated guess as to its level at the time, ought to help him narrow down the range where Hunter must have entered the water. The boats had already been reserved, and the guides would be ready to lead them up the river before sunrise tomorrow.

But there was still one element that didn't sit well with him.

The sharp scent of guarana coffee preceded Gearhardt into the room. He carried a Styrofoam cup in each hand, and set one down in front of Colton.

'Here's what passes for coffee down here,' Gearhardt said. He sat in the chair beside Colton. 'It has the consistency of syrup and tastes like they burned it, which I didn't think was even physically possible.'

'The guarana bean has four times as much caffeine as the coffee bean. They even use it in soft drinks.'

'That doesn't make it taste any better.'

'Get some cream and sugar then.'

'And just when do you think I became a woman?'

Colton looked up from the digital elevation reconstruction to find Gearhardt smirking at him. This was good. It was the first time Gearhardt had made any attempt at levity since he had first called. Colton didn't blame the guy,