2

  Celeste relented but felt her muscles rebel as the gooey mud sculpted itself around her knees. It wasn’t long before she found buried rocks that made their presence known with pressure pain that Celeste couldn’t resolve as quickly as she would have preferred. Her progress was slow, meanwhile, The trio of bounty hunters, their faces impassive as the stones that lined the nearby riverbed, set to work with insults, laughter, and taunts. They began rifling through suitcases, containers, and boxes. Pierre’s lifeless body, Celeste noted, lay beside a tree, a grim tableau suggesting that Pierre, at some point hours before, had managed to pull him free to then stumble from the wreckage. Then the rain came, and Pierre took his last breath and succumbed to his injuries as he fell over, tripped, and died.

  “Hey, look at the pilot,” one of the men said. His voice carried faint traces of the slurs and nuances that often accompanied foreign accents. Yet the cadence wasn't one of a hard-knocked local criminal. No, there was a swagger that said, “On loan muscle.” But in contrast to his companions, any position and authority he had surely come from family seniority or fear or someone who, for the moment, held this guy in some sort of loyal esteem. Perhaps there was even some name recognition because of his wrap sheet. Celeste maintained careful balance and prayed no one was close. She needed to know if someone was armed, and what sort of power and pull these three had between each other.

  The first man kept making faces at the pilot’s body, looking like a complete idiot, but he carried himself without much care in the world. He wore a heavy coat, suitable for the rainy environment, but it didn’t do much to hide his long arms and lean frame.

  “Dude, that is sick, man!” he said, impersonating a rapper.

  Celeste shook her head, frustrated she hadn’t been faster to beat them idiots to the crash site. Yet, it troubled the back of her mind that her information had been off; how had they known he’d take a plane, and how had they tracked him so effortlessly?

  “Hey!” a second man yelled, but when the showboat didn’t respond he wandered over. Unlike the first guy who had his head in the clouds and would drink himself into a stupor, this one actually looked like he’d do exercise, and he was at least five years old, and his demeanor said that he wanted to be anywhere, but here.

  So, are you aware of something important? Or are you superstitious?

  “What’s your problem?” the second man demanded.

  “Yo dude, look,” the showboat laughed, and he made exploding noises, “he looks like a water balloon.”

  Celeste was keenly aware of the medical conditions that would accompany that type of description, and it sickened her to listen to the degrading comments of the boneheaded murderer. Celeste was grateful that she had distance and had positioned herself at an angle where she didn’t have the vantage point to see inside the plane.

  Most of the contents are outside. Celeste assessed, So you guys are doing my work for me.

  She glanced back toward the mastermind’s body and there was a lump beneath his shoulder that told her that Pierre had undoubtedly been holding the statue in the moments before his death, and oddly enough, these three were ignoring him entirely.

  The second man clenched his fist, and Celeste glimpsed a brief chance instance, but the man restrained his ever-present fury. Clearly, there was no love loss between them. The second man glanced toward the pilot and then immediately pulled back and put his hand over his mouth.

  “Hey, what's your problem?” The showboat asked, looking dumbstruck.

  “You can't smell it,” The second man spat. His accent was thick and seemed much more authentic. “Pendejo! The smell! The old fool is dead, and he’s also missing a leg!”

  “What!” showboat slurred and pushed past the man for a second look. “Wow. That’s epic.”

  “No!” the third man said sternly, “That is a warning.”

  Celeste perked up at the sudden almost declaration. The third man spoke as though he had wisdom and mounds of experience. He wore a ragged-brimmed hat and a poncho with holes across the chest and at least one large hole near the hem. The sage glanced at the plane and had a solemn demeanor, if not one step shy of mourning.

  You’re not a criminal, Celeste determined, you were coerced into it.

  Celeste hardly considered this guy a potential ally, but distinct differences between these men put the whole situation in a brand-new light. Showboat would be the one who would shoot first and ask questions later. The second man, the grump, had perspective and vision and wanted the finer things in life. He had an education and connections, and in the right situation, he seemed like the kind of man to give commands, and he’d expect them to be followed.

  “A warning!” Showboat said with a dismissive hiss.

  “Si,” the Sage whispered dryly. The man had enough sense to be cautious around these guys, and he appeared confident enough to know that these guys weren’t going to take him seriously. Yet, there was a dedication to his beliefs that he wasn’t going to put them aside, even for two overly dramatic heathens.

  “These men were not lucky.” He said, “Both are dead, but that one is marked. A Panther.”

  Celeste retreated back down the trail and then risked moving through an uncharted section to get closer to Pierre’s body. As she came up beside some trees, the body no more than about ten, maybe fifteen feet away. The three men came into view, and she found Showboat brandishing a gun in the man’s face, while he stood there, calmly, muttering to himself.

  “If panthers are here, they’re chasing those groups from the university,” Showboat was nearly shouting as if his voice would be enough to convince the jungle that his will should be obeyed.

  “Stupid idiots! You’re ruining years of research. Not our science.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Celeste groaned, but this was an expected reaction. She had grown accustomed to non-academics showing their own stupidity by resorting back to pre-school-age tactics.

  “It’s unwise to assume dominance over predators,” The Sage insisted, but it was with persistence. Instead, he spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. Showboat grunted then grabbed the man by the shirt.

  “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said this whole trip,” Showboat spat, “Jorge, why do we even need this guy?”

  “Enough!” Jorge bellowed, “We’re short on time and short on patience. Look, Ramon, you need to cool down and keep your piece holstered.”

  He gestured to Pierre, and Celeste felt her body go rigid. If they noticed any kind of movement, it was game over.

  “La Policia are coming, and we didn’t go through all this trouble to lose. Mastro, please keep your fortunes and proverbs to yourself.”

  Roman and el Maestro glared and each other and nodded.

  “Now, any luck finding the codex, his signet ring, and the ledger?”

  Celeste made a mental note of the objects and couldn’t hide her intrigue. So they weren’t here for the statue, but a ring, a codex, and a ledger. Two out of the three objects, that was easy. The signet ring and the ledger were the tools of his operation. In more capable hands. There was no telling the sort of damage these men and those pulling their strings could cause.

  The codex? There was no telling what someone could find on the black market, but Pierre’s dossier hadn’t molded his personality into any kind of literary connoisseur.

  Ramon tightened his grip on his gun but didn't seem too eager to put it away. At the insistent glare of Jorge, though, he relented and stuck it down the back of his jeans. Maestro maintained his calm disposition.

  “Was there any indication of how many suitcases Pierre had before he fled?” Maestro asked.

  “No,” Jorge replied. “I have searched the inside of the plane and the ones that are scattered across the ground. There's nothing.”

  “Maybe someone got to it first,” Ramon said.

  “It's possible,” Maestro replied, “but it’s unlikely. We only come thanks to your machines. The rain was strong, and panthers hunt at night.”

  Maestro glanced up toward the sky. “I say we only have about five hours of daylight left.”

  In the heart of the Jungle, he was not wrong. Celeste clenched her fists and began to form a plan. The tight-knitted trees would be like a net, and she had a flashlight and some fire-starting tools, but she only planned to use them in the direst of circumstances.

  “Check the body!” Jorge ordered. Ramon stood there and flinched when he realized the order was directed at him. Ramon raised a hand to object, but decided against it and begrudgingly moved toward Pierre’s corpse.

  He wasn’t armed, and Celeste felt confident that he could take him on. It was unlikely that Maestro had a weapon, but Jorge unquestionably did.

  “There’s something in his hand!” Ramon spat.

  “Get it open,” Jorge insisted, “and check his ring finger.”

  Ramon grabbed a stick and lazily jabbed it in the fingers. When it snapped, he tossed it aside and then removed the machete from his belt. Celeste gulped and pursed her lips together as he cut his hand off with one swift motion just below the wrist.

  “Que!” Jorge spat in alarm.

  “Nah,” Ramon retorted. “He’s dead!”

  Ramon pried the fingers open and removed the length of the chain. Once free, he tossed the hand against it and held out the chain, but there was nothing on it.

  Jorge grunted. “Keep looking.”

  Ramon nodded toward the body. “There’s a statue over here. Do you want to take that instead?”    “A statue?” Jorge pressed.

  Roman discarded the chain and pulled Pierre's shirt. He kicked an object out from beneath his chest. A piece of his shirt sat wedged in a cleaved portion of the design.

  “Los ojos de Pesadillas,” Maestro said with apprehensive reverence.

  Ramon and Jorge shot him a disgruntled look, but that expression quickly changed to one questionable concern.

  “The eyes of nightmares,” Jorge said.

  “Si, it’s something unique to the region,” Maestro said, “There-”

  Celeste rushed through brush and plants, and she scooped up the statue. Her hands closed around it like a vice, and she positioned it in the crook of her arm. The three men screamed in a mixture of outrage, surprise, and protest, yet Celeste had a few seconds head start, and hopefully, like the more aggressive shoppers in the viral Black Friday videos, that would be all she would need to get home free.

  Now back in the jungle, Celeste had to through caution to the weather as she cradled her illicitly acquired prize while attempting to keep the mud off her face. The terrain seemed determined to thwart her, sending her stumbling over hidden roots and slipping on treacherous patches of mud. Her feet screamed in protest with each jarring impact.

  Celeste retraced her path as she could and stumbled multiple times before finding her way onto the makeshift road. Her feet throbbed, and her heart thrashed against her chest. Ramon and Jorge were undoubtedly in pursuit. They might have even stashed some kind of vehicle close by. Celeste darted the last hundred yards and then she found herself on course toward the excavation site.

  “Stop!’ a voice yelled, but it was distant, and a motor had almost made it inaudible. Celeste pushed herself forward, but her fatigue had caught up to her and it forced her to slow down.

  So close. Celeste thought, but her defeat and reevaluation stalled when piercing yellow eyes appeared inside what almost looked like a wall of woven plants.

  “Oh no,” Celeste whimpered as a panther trudged forward with almost a royal and distinguished pageantry. The jungle foliage parted because of its presence. Its sleek black coat carried the shadows like a rope it was willing to part from. The seamless movement, the hard and toned muscle in its lithe body rippled with fierce precision as it stalked through the jungle and came to a stop, its paws making barely a sound on the soft underbrush, but once in place, the majestic beast relived its claws as it padded at the ground.

  Maestro said they hunted in this area. My flight and the pursuit must have caught its attention.

  “Alright, drop the statute, Chica!” Ramon demanded and she heard the gun cock.

  “Or not,” Jorge added. He had started out causal and Celeste figured he hadn’t had a chance to draw his weapon, if he had one. Celeste’s entire body felt drenched in ice. Jorge had thrown the confrontation off balance and his approach had attracted the panther’s attention.

  Celeste remained where she was. This was a dangerous gambit, but how likely was it that the men would run?

  “No, we should,” Ramon insisted, but the Panther hoped through the air. Ramon let off a shot, but it flew wild as the men retreated. The panther spat a feral cry and sprinted through the forest in pursuit.

  Celeste felt a weight drop from her shoulder, but she cautiously turned around and saw Maestro leaning against a tree.

  “You, not like the others.” He spoke with almost absolute certainty.

  “Who?” Celeste questioned.

  “Hunters and thieves,” Maestro said with lamentation in his voice. “Like the panther, it's a predator, and predators know when something is chasing something else.”

  “It’s instinctual,” Celeste added, “But what’s your point?”

  Maestro chuckled. “The panther knows a hunt, but it also knows who has dominance and who is not a threat.”

  “That’s quite poetic,” Celeste said, “who are you.”

  “Not important,” Maestro said, “but I will say that like the panther, who was no mere observer. I can tell that you have a good heart, and you can see beauty while desperate. You can see the heart in the place of pain.”

  He then gestured to the statue. “You may triumph over nightmares and save us all.”

  Then without any salute or explanation. The man known as Maestro wandered into the jungle and disappeared from view.