Chapter Two
The jungle is sweltering, teeming with innumerable, voracious pests lying in wait for some human to come bumbling along.
I’m beginning to suspect that the trees the ancient Maya slashed and burned were used to create smoke as a bug repellent.
This creepy-crawly version of Hell will likely suck the life out of—
“What are you writing about, Junior Mint?” Juan asked, settling into the neighboring camp chair. The silver hair at his temples glinted in the firelight.
“Nothing much.” Quint closed his waterproof field notebook before Angélica’s father could read the written version of his pissing and groaning. “Just some notes about the verdant ambience of our surroundings at this potential dig site.”
Potential for what, he had no idea. From the bit he’d seen while scouting the fringes of the camp after listening in on the status updates from the hired guards, there wasn’t much here besides mounds of rubble crawling with ants and centipedes.
Before leaving Cancun, he’d made a promise to himself—he was not going to bitch about the jungle.
Not to Angélica, or her father, or any of the crew that joined them on this expedition under the green, monkey-filled canopy.
No matter how much the oppressive humidity made him sweat through his clothes, and the ever-present bugs inspired itching day and night, he would carry on with the business of helping them dig up the past without a word of complaint.
At least not out loud, anyway. However, the pages of his notebook were fair play.
“ ‘Verdant ambience’?” Juan snorted. “Those are fancy words for a pest-infested, vermin-filled clearing hacked out of the jungle.”
Juan had grumbled aplenty while the guards had ticked off a list of knee-quivering dangers earlier. Venomous snakes. Poisonous plants. Deadly creatures big and small with sharp teeth and a strong dislike for humans—except maybe as soft-skinned chew toys. Jesus!
The tent-covered hammocks they’d be bunking in under the trees didn’t seem like near-enough protection from Mother Nature’s weapons of “ass” destruction. But Quint had not joined in Juan’s lamenting, instead sending a tight smile Angélica’s way whenever he caught her checking on him.
“What can I say?” Quint smacked a mosquito trying to steal blood from his arm. “I’m feeling hoity-toity after our lovely stroll through the trees this afternoon.”
Juan chuckled. “This place doesn’t really feel like a full-on dig site yet.
More like a dimple in the forest.” He stared at the small campfire.
“I suppose I’ve been spoiled by Angélica’s last few digs.
Hot meals for breakfast and supper. Mostly comfortable cots inside waterproof tents.
A latrine with makeshift walls and actual camp showers.
” He shook his head. “They were Ritz-Carlton accommodations compared to what we have here.”
Quint nodded once, but bit back anything derogatory in case he was being tested.
Juan had a history of messing with him just for shits and guffaws, especially when they were tiptoeing through ancient temples inside suffocatingly narrow tunnels with crack-riddled ceilings.
Juan’s shenanigans were often laughed about around campfires by Angélica’s crew, especially those starring the jokester himself tangled in misadventures triggered by drinking too much Maya ceremonial wine.
“I’d forgotten how quickly it gets dark in the thick of the jungle.” Quint shifted to a neutral topic—and a truth.
This deep in the trees, the shadows crept out from their hiding places as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon, cloaking their camp in a somber darkness. Overhead, the stars glittered through the break in the canopy, his only window to the rest of the world.
Meanwhile, here they sat in a ring of firelight, easy targets for whatever predators hovered nearby, whether pointy-toothed or stinger-happy.
Worse yet—the two-legged, human kind. After seeing the cache of weapons the three hired guards had hauled in to this so-called camp, Quint wasn’t sure which foe he’d rather face in the dark, a hungry jaguar or a gun-toting drug runner.
Juan shifted in his chair, stretching his bad leg out in front of him. “I sometimes forget how loud it is at night under the trees compared to the daytime.”
“Yeah.” At the moment, Quint could barely hear the crackling and popping of the burning fire over the howling and screeching coming from the trees.
And the trilling. And squealing. And the all-around clamor in the surrounding vegetation.
He’d heard quieter circus parades. All that they were missing were some trumpeting elephants.
The jungle here seemed louder than what he’d experienced at the last two dig sites with the Garcías. Maybe it was because they were hunkering deeper in the trees with less open space carved out of the forest and no buffer of large temples or other structures to block some of the noise.
A low roar cut through the racket, raising the hairs on Quint’s arm. The surrounding wildlife fell silent for a breath-held moment before the cacophony cranked back to life.
“What was that?” Quint asked, peering into the trees in the direction of the roar.
“Probably a big cat on the prowl for its supper.”
“How big?”
Juan waved off his worries. “All of this commotion at night makes me homesick for the wide openness of my ranch back in Arizona with the coyotes as my only company. Their yipping and howling as they pass by in search of their next meal is downright relaxing compared to this hullabaloo.”
“That sounds like a slice of heaven.” Quint could picture the wide-open desert landscape. Starry skies and dry breezes.
Even better would be the private beach bungalow he’d planned to be lounging in right now with Angélica by his side, enjoying moon-on-the-water views, cold beers, and a love bite or two while fooling around.
Instead, he’d have to settle for squeezing into the mesh-covered hammock tent the size and shape of a coffin hanging next to hers, and crossing his fingers nothing decided to take a bite out of him in the dark.
Something crashed through the scrub brush to their left.
The surrounding shrubs and fronds danced in its wake, along with Quint’s pulse.
He could really use those night vision goggles he saw in the makeshift communications tent.
Then again, maybe it was better not to see whatever was making the bushes shiver.
“You packed your earplugs, right?” Juan asked.
“Yep.”
“I hope you brought your cojones along, too.”
Quint grinned. “I packed an extra pair of those.”
“Good. I have a feeling you’re going to need them.”
“Why? What do you think is going to happen here?” Quint had some unsettling ideas of his own, but maybe Juan’s notions were less nut-shriveling. After all, Juan hadn’t ended up in a terror-inciting tomb at the last site, unlike Quint and Angélica.
“Besides a lot of sweating, swatting, and swearing?”
“Don’t forget swinging a machete.” Quint grimaced. “I’m probably going to lean hard into the swearing bit.”
“So will my daughter.” Juan sat up, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared into the fire. “I wish you two had escaped on your secret getaway before INAH had interfered.”
That made two of them.
“I have a bad feeling about this place, Quint.”
He studied Juan’s profile, trying to figure out if the jokester was being serious. “Don’t you have a bad feeling about every site?” Angélica was often bemoaning her father’s superstitious nature.
“Not all.” Juan puffed his cheeks and then blew out a sigh. “But certainly the ones that come with armed guards.”
Speaking of guards …
Quint glanced toward the communications tent.
About a half an hour ago, Angélica had mentioned something about needing to “check in quick” before heading off with the tall, pencil-thin guard and ducking inside the green tarp entry.
He’d assumed she was talking about calling her boss at INAH on the satellite phone the guards had brought with them, but how long did a “quick” phone call take?
“I also have a bad feeling about the food situation here,” Juan said, interrupting Quint’s wondering.
He turned back to the fire. “What do you mean?”
“If my daughter decides whatever is at this site is worth digging up, I’m going to put my foot down and insist she have a proper mess tent brought in and set up first and foremost, along with the basic cooking necessities.”
“You mean like a camp stove instead of a fire pit?”
“I mean María. Those hard, chalky protein bars we had for supper are like prison rations compared to the homemade Maya meals that amazing woman throws together.”
María had been the camp cook on both of the prior digs Quint had been on with Juan and Angélica.
A Maya version of Betty Crocker, she was capable of making mouth-watering dishes out of what looked like forest weeds, a few spices from a jumbled collection of jars, and whatever wild game or fowl her husband, Teodoro, caught.
“Damned straight.” Quint rubbed his hands together. “I’ll walk that picket line with you for María’s panuchos.”
“Glad to hear we’re brothers-in-cutlery on this.”
“A proper camp shower would be nice, too.”
Before he’d sat down at the fire, Quint had used the water from the bucket designated for bathing to rinse off the dirt and sweat—and any ticks still hanging on after chopping through the underbrush—before changing into a fresh shirt.
Feeling a fraction cleaner, he’d taken a seat at the edge of the firelight with his notebook and pen only to feel something wiggling along his lower back.
After a bit of hopping around trying to shake out whatever was inside his shirt, Angélica had come to his aid and fished out a small worm, which she’d informed him fell randomly from trees around here, especially in the rainy season.
He’d heard of it raining cats and dogs, even frogs, but worms? Seriously? That was some messed-up shit, man.