Celeste Kane paused her ascent beside the battered edge of a clearing. The jungle she had navigated through over the past several hours was thick, vibrant, full of wonders, teeming with life. Celeste cut down a coil of vines and pillow-sized leaves. She was no stranger to devastation, but what sat before her was a charred, desolate husk. Celeste sheaved her machete and fingered her tool belt, ready to take hold of a more lethal weapon.
Monsters.
From an early age, Celeste had been taught to respect nature. She was the last one anyone would see at a protest. Still, she drew the line and meaningless destruction on behalf of any number of greedy surveyors, over-eager treasure hunters, and the more vicious indigenous tribes who’d instead burn an area than let a possible enemy inhabit the land. There were clues scattered across the ground, but it wasn’t much of a mystery when all parties involved had a hand in the destruction. The serenity she had once marveled at upon arrival and through the villages and pueblos she had visited at the start of her trek had been memorable. Those people were gems, and the children waved as Celeste made her way. The thick, lush tapestry of the Amazon rainforest lay with open arms behind her, while this section was no more than a ghost of its former self, a severed limb left discarded by heartless criminals.
Celeste directed her light to the uneven, puddled ground. Numerous clues hinted at many possible culprits, such as whether it had been by a drunk imbecile and a poorly discarded cigar or if it had been an adventurer and their poorly made DIY torch.
The air was thick with the acrid scent of burned wood and scorched earth. It wasn’t the pleasant scent of a meditative candle. Celeste extended her arm to extend her light further out around her, and particles hung in the air alongside the water droplets. Rain was symbolically an uplifting occurrence, but this signal promised no rebirth. Daytime would reveal the full extent of the damage. Celeste muttered something in a local dialect. Some people had told her it was a curse, but she had doubts. Whatever the cause, it was clear the fire had consumed more than just the vegetation—it had ravaged this place's soul.
Celeste scanned the surrounding foliage, her eyes sharp for any hint of suspicious movement. The heavy rain, pouring in torrents, did little to ease the urgency gnawing at her. She would have preferred to move more cautiously, but the storm offered no mercy, and this part of the jungle had become far too familiar with turmoil. In some ways, it had nearly invested itself in the criminal enterprise.
The dense, overgrown underbrush hid a myriad of dangers. Even the most seasoned, well-prepared explorers could be at the mercy of the forest’s silent, unseen threats. In the nearby hills, some caverns extended for miles into the depths of hell itself. There were plants and small animals that could instantly kill a na?ve traveler. Celeste didn’t think of them as villainous; it was their nature, but it made them all the more dangerous if one stumbled onto them unaware.
Celeste stepped into the open. She was now vulnerable, but the rain was a shield as much as a blessing. A few people would pop out in these conditions. Their operation depended on it. Even though the local law enforcement is known to be spread thin across the neighboring settlements. There were solid, honest, outstanding men and women fighting to regain control of their land. They had done what they could to stem the tide of chaos, but their control was fragile. The pressure of their mounting struggles had begun to show in how their influence frayed at the edges, unable to contain the criminal undercurrents that now ran deep in the region's heart.
Celeste proceeded up a hill, one hand firmly by her knife, and she maintained control of her light, ready to strike instead of flinching at any number of possible movements. She was a woman who had an impressive resume by any standard—at least on paper and among those who knew her best. She was a martial artist with a disciplined edge, an avid chocolatier with a keen sense for crafting decadence, and a gourmet chef whose culinary creations had earned their following, or would if she spent time to publicize them. Her travels spanned continents, each new place a patch in the ever-expanding quilt of her experiences. She spoke a handful of languages fluently enough to navigate the most difficult situations. She had sampled several exotic and unique cuisines where she could identify ingredients and trace their origins. She had almost made and lost several friends and acquaintances who had shown her more than a textbook or tour ever could. In her heart of hearts, she missed those good old days.
Yet, standing at an average height, with an average build carried by the stories and her resume, Celeste never stopped training and let the unknown push her around. There was a thrill to venture into uncharted territories. It was a chance to see what had never been seen, to venture where only a select few had ever attempted to travel. There would come a time when she figured she could talk about it, but Celeste didn’t search for fame. No, Celeste’s soul yearned for something greater. A medicine man had classified her as someone who held a deep, almost primal urge to be part of something special and everlasting.
“In you, Ms. Kane,” he said in a thick accent. “You will chart the course! You will offer value to history, and your work will be for the betterment of humanity.”
Celeste had never forgotten that visit; she could hear his voice whenever she remembered the experience. Every mission and hunt felt like a step closer to answering that call.
“Now to the brink,” Celeste muttered.
There were no maps, and Celeste was a risk taker, but she wasn’t an idiot, and a rational mind and a keen sense of self-preservation held together her skills.
Would the destroyers have taken the time to lay down any booby traps? There was no clear way to discern the footprints. Would one or two stay back, watch for any oncoming parties, and keep the costs clear for bounty hunters and native tribes?
Celeste stepped up beside a tree, taking the environment fully aware of clicks, rustles, snaps, and the gulp of heavy patches of mud. There was a delicate balance between daring ambition and the wisdom to survive. Celeste’s line of work had no insurance—no safety net. No matter how thorough her preparation or how strong her background was, there was no actual shield from the natural elements and dangers. She had arrived at the fork in the road, metaphorically speaking. Celeste wiggled her toes in a pair of sturdy boots. Boasting razor-sharp treads—footwear she’d seen lauded in glowing reviews. Yet even they were failing to live up to their promises. She wore dark cargo pants, practical and rugged. Insects were buzzing around her face, and she grimaced at the thought of any creepy crawlers that had popped down the neck of her shirt.
“Next time I come to South America, I’ll try a destination resort.”
Celeste giggled. Who was she kidding? The gritty, wet earth clung to her boots, the discomfort of dirt and moisture slipping between her toes despite her best efforts. She adjusted her stance, keenly aware of the perilous landscape around her. Yet, at the same time, this was her playground. She could lounge by a pool whenever she wanted and take on more serious challenges than what to pick from an overpriced menu.
Celeste could hear the commercial voice pitching the vacation of a lifetime. “The terrain will be treacherous, rocky, and uneven. Ladies and gentlemen, this is not a magic act. This is not done by a daredevil who has trained and practiced amazing feats to wow you with daring skill and tremendous bravery. This land will make your heart race, and you’ll feel the blood pumping in your caffeine-saturated veins. Yet, beware! One wrong step, and you’ll be tumbling into the gorge that looms just beyond where you could safely see.”
Celeste couldn’t see it, but she could hear it. The river at its base was infamous, a wild, churning force of nature, with heavy boulders and swift rapids ready to swallow anything unlucky enough to fall in. It was a hazard she knew well, and Celeste took extra care with each step, navigating with precision, knowing that a single misstep could mean certain death.
This is why you should travel commercially—and not be an idiot with an inflated ego who refuses to pay customs fees or secure the proper documentation for rare historical finds.
Celeste Kane’s online profile is a reflection of the modern age where business cards were all but obsolete for anyone under 40, so simply read archivist. But over time, she’d tweaked it. She added her educational background, a nod to her expertise, and for kicks, tacked on “amateur treasure hunter.” Her closest friends had laughed at that, but it wasn’t entirely a joke. They understood that anyone who spent their days buried in old books and crumbling maps was bound to develop a thirst for something more—something with a bit of excitement. It was the kind of curiosity that made you want to step beyond the sterile world of academia, the world of stiff-shirt scholars obsessed with penning the next bestseller or creating the musical everyone would eventually be forced to see.
Celeste admired and respected many in her field—true authorities, people whose work inspired and challenged her. But she was well aware that there were just as many scholars out there trying to outdo one another, each one vying to be the next great name, the next to claim a spot in history. The tension between the two sides, the ones who sought knowledge for the sake of discovery and the ones who craved fame, was a dynamic Celeste had come to know well. Celeste had tasted what people called being a celebrity, and there had been a sizzle and several sleepless nights.
This was better.
There were still plenty of people clamoring for her expertise. Celeste had pulled her mind away from scrolling news reports and had several emails, those that she checked and others that she occasionally visited to see who had reached out. The academic world was abuzz with whispers about the elusive Professor Kane, who seemed to defy categorization. Celeste preferred to remain somewhat of an enigma, a maverick who operated on her own terms. That allowed her to choose her topics, set the stage and beat her critics to the punch.
Her last published writing, nearly two years earlier, “The dusty tomes and crumbling scrolls held more than just relics of a bygone era; they contained the keys to unlocking the mysteries that lay hidden beneath the surface of reality.”
Celeste's true passion lay not in the lecture halls or offices or conference stages, but in the hidden recesses of forgotten knowledge, where she could uncover secrets and piece together the puzzle of human understanding. In this quiet, unassuming way, she was revolutionizing the way people thought about the past, present, and future.
At the same time, occasionally she didn’t mind mesmerizing the crowd. Some people called her a visionary, a master weaver of disparate threads into a rich tapestry of understanding. The universities and institutions that courted her were drawn to the promise of groundbreaking insights that she challenged listeners to find.
Celeste took a laden breath and then proceeded past a few smoldering trees and piles of soggy ash. Celeste felt small pockets of warmth, but they were quickly being carried away by the wind. She didn’t mind as long as she could stake on course and track the elusive and somewhat enigmatic Pierre Beaumont, a French millionaire who had been on the brink of stardom when everything came crashing down due to an Interpol investigation and a poorly executed murder. Pierre, who people said believed himself to be untouchable, and he sought to own one of history’s most priceless treasures. Celeste had been following the discovery with peaked interest, bug and it still was unfathomable that someone with his standing would resort to committing murder, but the internet soon became livid with accounts and the initial evidence to show that investigators were ready to unravel the tangled threads of his illicit empire and bring him to account for his crimes.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Celeste had come on the scene because she wanted to make sure the treasure didn’t end up at the bottom of some pit or compound where no one would see it for several decades, if ever. At around 5 feet 6 inches, the internet-famous treasure hunters often talked about how they never considered her a real challenge. That overestimation of their skills and brilliance let her slip through the cracks, and they did so at their own peril and in no small manner of public embarrassment. Her legs, long and lean, gave her an air of elegance, a subtle deception that belied the sharp mind and quick wit that lay beneath. With the right shoes, she could elongate her frame, accentuating the curves that hinted at a hidden strength. It was a potent combination - athletic physique, piercing gaze, and a mental acuity that could snap shut like a steel trap.
Pierre had somehow managed to evade the authorities and the ensuing game of risk had really annoyed the authorities, while it energized multiple criminal underworlds, and Celeste believed many cartels to be active. Pierre was a bargaining chip, if not a piggy bank if he wanted to avoid a jail cell. Before leaving the States, Celeste had made sure she knew what to expect. Pierre was no cold-blooded killer, in fact, before the big reveal, most people considered him to be a total idiot. A flamboyant personality, he dropped thousands of dollars at nightclubs and hours later be hailed a hero when he dropped twice the amount at a local charity. He was an idiot with money to burn.
The world had bought the act hook and line, but the sinker never dove beneath the show when a senior history professor, the esteemed Trevor Farnsworth, was killed. The security had found his cold lifeless body left beaten on his office floor. The news had sent shockwaves through the academic community, and the police were scrambling to make sense of the senseless crime. That was until they discovered his wallet had been removed from the office, only to be randomly tossed in the bushes. Why kill a tenured, well-respected professor?
His research.
Professor Farnsworth had written avidly about a mysterious statue he had named Ojos de las Pesadillas; the nightmare eyes or eyes of nightmares. Celeste recalled attending a seminar and had been intrigued by the prospects. Such a discovery would offer insights lost to the world since the travels of Cortes. When the dominos began to fall, Pierre was publicly noted to have connections to black market antiquities dealing. The connection was easily established and Pierre had to make a daring move.
Celeste had heard stories of genuine master criminals, but this guy had broken the mold and had taken a huge leap only to crash and now the race was on to see who could snatch the prize, a statue referred to as Los Ojos de Las Pesadillas. while leaving the world's most eccentric and idiotic criminal at the mercy of the authorities.
The rain began to let up and once Celeste found some cover beneath a stone outcropping that looked to be like something partially constructed after a partial rockslide, or it had some other purpose that had been abandoned. As she drew close, Celeste felt her boots sink and there were rocks that created cracks and channels that directed the rainwater toward the edge of an incline. Celeste ducked beneath the refuge but took care not to put her full weight against the rock face. The last thing she needed was to have sticky sap on her clothes and she hoped her movements wouldn’t unearth something unseemly. She could take old books, relics and photographs yet she drew the line at a corpse when it up close and a bit to personal.
After a few minutes of composure, Celeste returned to the trail, and it didn't take long before she spotted the remains of a dig site. There were shady dig sites and reputable ones. The difference fell on whether the spokesperson looked eager to give a lecture or if they were putting on a show to then stab you in the back before robbing you blind. The area seemed deserted, and she found it odd that there were some wooden crates that had been overturned, dumped out, and even smashed. Further along the trail, there was an open clearing where the remains of rubble that had been blasted were now scattered across the ground, and there was a standing foundation of what appeared to have once been out of an outpost or waypoint, but its condition was now an ash skeleton of its former glory.
The building had been burned and burned recently. It was not prime real estate, but it had been someone's livelihood and Celeste didn't need any experience with arson wildfires to know that. She fingered the Glock 38 she had wrapped in his zip lock bag in a thigh pocket. In her mind, the last few hours played out before her. Celeste wasn’t a psychic or a trained detective. Yet what was a messy room, a cleaned conference space, or the remains of a dig site if it wasn’t a relic of modern history waiting for an outsider's mind to come and piece things together?
One thing was clear: someone had driven these people out of there. Celeste felt sore on her lip, fueling the medical-grade loathing she held for pirates, looters, and the average scumbag. They were always on the hunt for the latest score, regardless of those who got in the way. The sense of entitlement was infuriating. There were the rights of salvage, and to an extent, Celeste conceded that Finders Keepers was a legitimate argument in this line of work, with the only caveat being that you shouldn't cheat unless you're sure you can get away with it.
Some poor college students are going to have real-world experience for their next thesis.
The thought made Celeste sick to her stomach. If the aftermath was any indicator, these people hadn’t been merciful. There would be some sleepless nights before they'd feel capable of articulating the experience. Sadly, anyone willing to listen would chalk up the tail to a wild dream or caffeine-driven fan fiction. Celeste watched the adjoining paths and several hastily abandoned tents. There were lights still on, but for that moment it appeared that no one was home. Celeste took a wide arch past the tents and then a chance to sprint toward the rubble. There were large chunks of rock capable of providing cover to avoid any prying eyes up on the hills or up on the top of the taller trees.
How many people were going to take a run at Beaumont's prize? It wasn't a trinket, but was it worth leaving the lap of luxury? Celeste could smell the faint stench of exhaust, and she spotted tracks near several smaller chunks of rock that looked like they belonged to ATVs. And not a choice for this area given the tightly woven jungle, narrow trails, thick mug bods, and heavy rain. Celeste spotted several sets of footprints, but the conditions were terrible to make any accurate guesses as to the headcount. Armed with this realization, Celeste moved towards the ruins. She had basic Intel, a profile, satellite maps of the region, and some specific information authorities would have been close to their chest as they piece together their criminal case but also launched a refuge effort, given that Beaumont was a man of some prestige and position his character notwithstanding. Well, Pierre wasn't the kind of man who would get his hands dirty, and while some people suspected that Beaumont had a bunker to hide out until the media frenzy died down. He would undoubtedly have his army of lawyers trying to scrape together as many millions as they could before the court seized it all. But would he hide out in a jungle? That didn't seem likely. Pierre was a man with refined taste, despite his arrogance. The Ojos statue was a prize, and he would want to flaunt it. Celeste felt her shoulders and knees go numb. She hadn't sat down in several hours. Fortunately, she had plenty to mull over. The possibilities could turn this venture into quite a problem. Celeste was well aware of rumors and legends and had seen sketches of what people believed to be the Ojos statue, which included its rough size, shape, and weight. But those figures had been mere projections based on rough historical records and previous eyewitness testimony that had not been properly authenticated. During her preparation process, Celeste had concluded that she'd be able to haul the statue back to her base. But what if she couldn't? What if there was something that she had overlooked? Celeste took one last look at the tents and considered going back to see if there were tools or equipment she could salvage, like a dry pack, for instance.
Celeste let out a low, fatigued breath and she took a moment to rest by gobbling down a protein bar and sipping on some water. No, there was no time to search the tents. She felt confident in her abilities and the timetable she had plotted for herself when she had agreed to take on this job. Along with the specs, maps, and instructions, there had been dossiers, surveillance photos, and some odd and slightly suspicious phone calls; the kind where you would pick up and not hear anything, but the noise is in the background were not the noises of the average scammer.
Celeste was no stranger to competition, and some of the best trackers and treasure hunters, along with their minions, many of which were people Celeste would love to see from a distance. They were good and would only be a few hours to maybe a day behind. Any headway she had was closing fast, and Celeste had several names in the back of her mind who were much more well-equipped to tackle this kind of terrain, and that made them unpredictable.
If I had to guess, most people would charter a flight into Quito. That would save them a day on the track, and that would only mean a 20-minute flight to Caco before using a ferry to get to Nuevo Rocafuerte. From there, all you would need was an iron will, supplies, and a good boat to come off the windy river with an unpronounceable name.
Determined, Celeste set out across the clearing stopping near the edge of some dense vegetation. Most of the plants had been plowed down, and she saw no footprints, but the tire tread was deep, so they had proceeded in a single file line.
Celeste proceeded at a brisk walk, minding every set with careful placement while keeping an eye out for light, movement, clues to indicate proximity to animals, any kind of trap or something to let her know what she was up against. She couldn’t take a chance.
About a quarter of a mile down the makeshift trail, Celeste spotted something in the brush. No, it wasn't something. It was someone. No, it was multiple someones. Celeste counted at least three people who all had their backs to her. They wore plain clothes, but they hadn’t left their chains and bling back home. The trio moved around a big chunk of what appeared to be the remnants of a wing from a small airplane. At the angle from which it had fallen and impaled the ground, Celeste could see the entire thing was mostly intact, but the force had ripped the support columns right off the shell. The fact that it was mostly together meant that the plane had to have been close to the ground. The three men looked over some papers and they compared that information to a handheld device.
Of course, Celeste choked, these guys are bounty hunters.
The statute was a worthwhile prize, but Celeste hadn’t considered if anyone would come after Beaumont himself. Someone had sunk a considerable sum into their gizmos and probably had a strict plan in place to apprehend the Frenchman and leave if they wanted to get paid. Bounty hunters were obnoxious and a bit surer of themselves compared to lackeys and cartel lieutenants, but it wasn’t a fault mostly. These guys, they were skilled. They would know what to look for in order to avoid the authorities lying in wait on the street and reputationally, it was so much easier to let the authorities do the hard work for them. There’s no need to track the bad guys; let the good guys do it, and it's easier to track them because authorities are great at assuming that their plan is flawless.
The bad part, Celeste acknowledged, was the turnover rate. Like little kids at recess, the bullies would dominate, but at least one out of the three would be armed and wouldn’t hesitate to kill the other two. A treasure hunter knows that they need to rely on their team. A bounty hunter wants fear because they depend on the flight or fight response. The more savage you are, the scarier you appear to desperate people on the run.
Celeste ducked into a crouch and followed at a distance as the trio seemed to reach an agreement and twenty minutes later, they came up beside the remnants of a small Cessna airplane.
But this is unexpected, Celeste thought. This isn't where you're supposed to be.
The plane had come in at an angle, and its impact had been rough, confirmed by a trail at least twenty feet long that left a dike in the ground, created from the plane sliding across the distance. Celeste spotted one of the landing gear off in the distance, and some personal items were hanging in the trees or were scattered across the jungle floor. Celeste glanced back toward the propeller and saw a gaping out with fractured material bent outward.
New rules, Celeste thought. The rest of the damage was superficial, but that hole could only mean one thing: Sabotage. That changed her initial assessment. These guys were just bounty hunters; no, these guys were something special. To be this far ahead and to have been able to find the plane when it was far, of course. That meant they would have needed to have intimate knowledge of his flight plan and his movements, and they would have needed access to the plane itself.
Pierre, who did you cheat? Celeste thought and a new realization filled her with soured dread. When you look at history, there is always more to the story, and it's written by the victors. That is, unless you get taken out by the competition, or someone you stomped all over to get your way.
