Burial Ground

I

Pomacochas, Peru

October 25^th

3:26 a.m. PET

Merritt knifed down through the wispy clouds that would shroud Laguna Pomacochas until the morning sun burned them off. The night was a solid black, save the flashers on his wings, which diffused into the mist, pale haloes of light that barely penetrated the cabin. He had made this run to and from Chiclayo so many times that he could have done it blindfolded, only this time he was thankful for even the wan glow so he could study his passengers. They weren't his normal fare. They obviously weren't tourists, nor were they locals. Usually, a flight like this in such an old plane, which rocked and swayed and made popping sounds as though rivets snapped with every hint of turbulence, had his passengers constantly fidgeting with their flimsy lap belts and turning green around the gills, but this group appeared unfazed. This definitely wasn't their first sojourn into the South American wilds.

"We're going to circle around the lake before landing on the water and taxiing to that pier you can vaguely make out through the clouds on the western shore by the town proper." He spoke into the microphone, though only the woman in the copilot's chair was wearing cans. The other six sat in the seats behind them, faces alternately hidden and revealed by shadows. With the roar of the engines and the shriek of wind-shear, they wouldn't have been able to hear him even if he shouted at the top of his lungs.

The woman leaned forward so she could see past him through his window. He dipped the wing to give her a better view. Like the others, she looked as though she had spent the past twenty hours in transit, yet when she saw the darkened silhouette of the City of Pomacochas rising up the slope beyond the pier, she lit up. A few stray strands of jet-black hair had slipped out from beneath her headset. She brushed them aside and stared through him with the most exotic eyes he had ever seen.

"First time in Peru?" he asked.

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.