Hoisting myself up, I grabbed onto another handhold, desperately trying to maintain my concentration. After three years, I knew the warning signs. I knew all too well the headaches, the sensitivity to the sun, the mental haziness, and the sudden rush of intense, conflicting emotions.
The precariousness of the situation didn’t escape me. I was nine thousand feet above sea level, surrounded by early morning light, and alone.
Completely, utterly alone.
Now, an episode was coming. It was inevitable, unavoidable.
And unless I reached the plateau in time, it would be lethal as well.
Along with my trusty self-belay device, I’d solo climbed plenty of peaks over the last three years. I knew the routine. It was engrained in my skull.
Set the anchor, lead the pitch, and fix the ropes. Rappel the pitch, clean the pitch, and haul the bags.
Rinse and repeat.
Over and over again.
Ordinarily, I found mountain climbing exhilarating yet mind-numbing. I hardly ever found it stressful. But this was no ordinary climb.
I climbed faster, my hands and feet scrabbling for holds on the schist. And ever so slowly, I moved up the sun-kissed rock face.
I could almost feel the flashback as it hurtled to the surface. The fallout, like always, was impossible to predict. I could black out. I could scream, alerting Standish’s people to my presence. I could even rip away my climbing protection in a fit of temporary insanity.
The plateau grew larger, dominating my field of vision. It was so close. Just a few more feet.
Suddenly, violent colors erupted in my eyes. I felt a stinging, debilitating pain in my forehead.
Not now. Please not now.
My brain seemed to separate from my body. I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t do anything. Vaguely, I felt my arms reach out, stretching across the plateau. Then, my boots kicked to the side, landing on top of the rock.
I stood in lower Manhattan, hands on hips, soaking in the moment. The previous day, I’d made the find of the century. A find that would revolutionize the way historians viewed early Manhattan.
A find that would make my career.
Of course, I wouldn’t take all the credit for myself. There was plenty to go around. But deep down, I knew the truth. Without me, none of it would’ve been possible. I was the one who found it. Me. No one else.
A loud shout caught my attention. Turning my head, I saw someone running toward me.
“Cyclone! Come quick! There’s been an accident.”
I frowned. “An accident?”
My headache vanished. The colorful sparks in my eyes died. My head cleared. My emotions dissipated.
I breathed heavily, giving myself time to return to normal. I hated the episodes with every ounce of my being. But that was the price I paid for my sins. It struck me that the experience, although shorter than usual, had been unexpectedly intense. I wondered what it meant. Maybe nothing.
Maybe everything.
Lifting my head, I examined myself for wounds. Seeing none, I propped myself up on my elbows. I ran a hand through my tousled hair and looked around. I lay on a patch of thin soil, covered with grass. Glancing to the side, I noticed that I’d rolled twenty yards away from the cliff.
At least I didn’t roll the other way.
Noises and voices reached my ears. Twisting around, I saw a small camp about a hundred yards away and at a lower elevation. Large trenches zigzagged across a cleared-out field. More than twenty people, wearing hardhats and carrying hand tools, milled about the trenches performing archaeological work.
At least, that’s what they thought they were doing.
Quickly, I stood up and took cover behind a large rock. After removing my climbing gear, I stowed it out of sight. Then, I checked my own tools.
Satchel? Check.
Machete? Check.
M1911A1 pistol? Check.
Reaching to my shoulder holster, I unsnapped the leather strap securing my gun. I wasn’t eager to use it. But with what I intended to do, I was certain to attract unwanted attention. And if someone attacked me, well, all bets were off.
I performed reconnaissance for a few minutes. I didn’t see Ryan Standish’s massive frame anywhere. Nor did I recognize any of the workers. That wasn’t terribly surprising though. Standish preferred to use local help for his dirty work. It made it so much easier to screw them over after he found what he wanted.
The workers appeared diligent but unskilled. The former archaeologist in me grimaced every time one of them picked up something from the ground. They were like kids in an antique store.
An antique store filled with irreplaceable artifacts.
Crouching low, I darted down a short slope. As quietly as possible, I penetrated a small tree grove and skirted my way around the edge of a cloud forest until I reached the rear of the dig site.
A dome-like structure, ten feet tall and thirty feet in diameter, stood before me. It was supported by heavy-duty PVC piping and covered with hefty green canvas. Four smaller domes sprouted out of the ground on either side of the main one.
I grabbed my machete from its sheath. Sneaking forward, I cut a small hole into the large dome’s canvas and peered inside.
Hundreds of artifacts were scattered about the interior, spread out across dozens of tables. Tags dangled from most of the objects. However, they were noticeably missing from the largest and most impressive finds.
After confirming the dome was empty, I snuck inside. Looking around, I saw potsherds, carved greenstone rocks, flint arrowheads, and broken staffs. My eyes swept to the opposite end of the dome, passing by stacks of empty cardboard boxes and giant piles of various packing materials.
A two-foot tall artifact stood alone on a small table. Its golden edges gleamed in the few rays of light that managed to poke their way into the dome. I strode over to the table and picked up the relic.
My heart pounded as I studied the cacique, or pendant, cast from gold. It was heavy, yet felt light in my hands. It appeared to depict an important man, perhaps a chief. He stood with his hands on his hips and a fierce look across his face. Regardless of his place in the Tairona society, he was clearly a great warrior.
I turned it over, marveling at the craftsmanship. Every inch of the cacique featured rich detailing and underlying meaning. The scope of the work took my breath away. The Tairona people were, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the most spectacular gold workers of pre-Columbian America.
“Hello, Cyclone. Good to see you again.”
I whirled around, still clutching the cacique. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood in the middle of the tent. He was clearly athletic, with rippled muscles showing through his tight t-shirt. His hair, wiry and black, was long and tied into a ponytail. His facial features, including a pair of sharp, grey eyes, were strong and distinct.
My muscles tensed. “It’s Cy. And I wish I could say the same thing about you, Ryan. But frankly, I don’t like you. Never have, never will.”
Standish walked forward, taking long strides and swinging his powerful arms. At the same time, three brawny men stepped out from the shadows and formed a loose semicircle around me.
“You have excellent taste.” He nodded at the cacique. “That’s the prize of the dig. It should fetch at least a quarter of a million at auction.”
“It doesn’t belong to you.”
“I found it, I keep it.”
“You didn’t find it. You didn’t find any of this stuff. You paid off some local officials to let you hijack a pre-existing dig.”
He shrugged. “It’s business.”
“It’s theft.”