“You should talk. You’re not an archaeologist, not anymore. You’re just a treasure hunter.”
“And you’re an asshole.”
He held out his hand. “Although I’d love to keep this up, I have work to do. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like my cacique back.”
I stepped backward toward the canvas. My free hand brushed against something hard and slightly sharp on another table. It felt like an arrowhead and I quickly palmed it. “I found it, I keep it.”
“You’re on an isolated plateau in the middle of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. You’re surrounded by my employees. You have nowhere to go and no one to save you.”
“You’re right.”
He looked at me suspiciously. “Then you’re going to give it back?”
I held out the cacique. “I want free passage off this mountain.”
“Of course.”
I wanted to punch him and his magnanimous smile. He had no intention of letting me live.
Then again, I had no intention of giving him the cacique.
I tossed the artifact over Standish’s head. His eyes widened and he dove to the ground to catch it. The other three men, distracted by the action, looked toward him.
Spinning around, I grabbed my machete. Sweeping the flint arrowhead across its back, I sent a shower of sparks flying into a nearby pile of foam peanuts. Small flames formed and grew in size, quickly igniting the canvas tent. Before I knew it, a wall of fire rose high into the air.
I shifted my attention back to Standish. He lay on the ground, holding the cacique, his attention diverted from the ensuing disaster.
“¡Rápido!” he shouted. “Obtener los —”
I stepped forward and kicked him in the jaw, cutting him off. Then I reached down, grabbed the cacique from his outstretched hands, and darted into the blaze.
Tremendous heat engulfed me. It singed my shirt and burnt my jeans. It leapt at my throat, stealing my oxygen. It was hell, pure and simple.
And then a split-second later, I was free.
I sprinted toward the cliff, passing a series of stunned, frozen workers. Behind me, I heard shouts and orders.
At the bottom of the hill, I glanced over my shoulder. Every single worker, male and female alike, raced after me. It was a strange, disconcerting sight, like being chased by an army of angry lemmings.
I sprinted uphill and grabbed my climbing equipment. As I slipped into the harness and secured my weapons, I snuck another look behind me. The workers were right on my tail. I didn’t have much time.
I didn’t have any time.
I stuffed the cacique into my satchel and ran forward to where my climbing rope was still anchored to the boulders below. With a savage cry, I leapt off the cliff. As my feet left the ground, a single thought raced through my mind.
What the hell am I doing?
I soared through the air and twisted my body, taking one last look at the workers. They returned my grin with shocked expressions. I shot them a quick salute and then, like a cartoon character, dropped like a rock.
Wind rushed into my face and ruffled my hair. I fell, praying to God that my multi-directional anchors would hold. They had to.
So, why am I still falling?
Abruptly, the rope jerked and my body jolted. I swung to the side, bashing my back against the hard schist. Looking up, I saw that the jutting cliff blocked me from view.
I was safe.
I was alive.
At least for the moment.
Chapter 3
Although exhausted and jittery, I still stopped to check my appearance in the cracked, dusty mirror. My face, covered with dried grime, looked worn and tired. My body sagged and my neck and shoulders sported numerous abrasions.
I tried to wipe away the dirt but merely succeeded in spreading it across my face. Next, I fiddled with my hair, turning it from a mess into an even bigger mess. I breathed rapidly through my nose, highly annoyed at myself.
Calm down, Cy. She’s just another girl.
But she wasn’t just another girl.
She was Beverly Ginger.
Giving up on my appearance, I walked over to the dilapidated, unmarked door. Lifting my fist, I rapped on the surface.
“The door’s open.”
Her voice, spicy yet melodic, sent shivers down my spine.
Get a grip on yourself, you idiot.
Twisting the knob, I opened the door. “I got it. I…”
My tongue tied as my eyes fell upon the woman sitting at the small table. With a classic hourglass figure and long, cascading chestnut brown hair that seemed to dance as she moved, Beverly Ginger was a strikingly gorgeous woman. Her tanned facial features were those of a classic beauty and radiated a youthful glow. Her eyes, a deep violet, seemed to peer right into my soul.
She wore a tight blue t-shirt that curved in all the right places. Her khaki pants hugged her hips and tapered downward, accentuating her long, shapely legs. A pair of slender boots completed her eye-popping look.
She was a goddess, an unobtainable, unreachable goddess. It wasn’t her face or her body that gave me butterflies. Nor was it her clothes. It was something else, something intangible. She possessed that rare, indefinable quality that turned men’s heads and caused women to shrink into their shoes.
She was, for lack of a better way to put it, Beverly Ginger.
Beverly looked up at me, batting those long eyelashes. Her smile vanished, replaced by a concerned look. “Are you okay?”
“Nothing that a cold shower and a hot meal can’t fix.”
She grinned. “Then you came to the wrong place.”
I glanced around the room, surprised to see no bathroom or kitchen. In fact, there wasn’t even a bed. There was nothing, except for the table and two chairs. “Do you live here?”
“No. But I wanted to meet someplace private.”
I walked over to the table, opened my satchel, and removed the cacique. “As promised.”
She took it into her hands, coddling it gently, like a baby. “It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen such workmanship.”
“Neither have I.”
“Any problems?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
She placed the cacique on the table and stared at my bruised face with concern. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you into this.”
“I recovered an artifact for your museum and got to kick Standish in the face. Honestly, I couldn’t ask for a better day.”
“I’d love to hear all about it. That is, unless you’re busy.”
“As long as you don’t mind hanging out with a human dirt pile, I’m all yours. What did you have in mind?”
“First things first. I owe you money. Five million Colombian pesos right?”
“When you put it that way, it sounds like a huge score.”
She smiled. “It converts to about three thousand of your American dollars. Not exactly earth-shattering money.”
“I’m not really an American,” I replied. “These days, I’m more of a nomad. How’d you raise all that cash anyways?”
“I rustled it up from the locals. They’re just as mad as I am about Standish stealing my dig site.”
“That’s awfully generous of them. I bet they can’t wait for you to open your museum.”
She stood up and crossed the room. In the corner, she picked up a small shoulder bag. “They’re excited all right. When we open next July —”
“Next July? I thought you were opening this year.”
Returning to the table, she rifled through the bag. “Did I say July? I meant December.”
My nerves began to tingle. “Wasn’t it November?”
“I’m sorry, Cy. I really am.”