Into the Wild. Beth Ciotta

has about yellow fever and malaria?”

      “I’m sure she did her homework.” She’d made a point of letting him know she’d researched and prepped for this trip even though it had been spontaneous.

      “Speaking of homework, since I couldn’t find much on the Internet, I e-mailed a friend, a P.I. who has some shifty ways of obtaining background information.”

      “And?”

      “I’ve been waiting to hear back and, lucky you,” Gordo said, sounding distracted, “I just got an e-mail.”

      “What’s it say?”

      “Hold on. I’m reading.”

      Spenser massaged the back of his neck and watched as River photographed the distant slopes of the Cotopaxi Volcano. She was so intent on her subject, she didn’t notice various men looking her way. Even though her attire was far from provocative—cargo pants, crew-neck T-shirt, denim jacket and a looped scarf—she was a damned beautiful sight. Ivory skin, golden curls, wide green eyes. An angelic aura that drew some devilish attention. Spenser tensed when one of the men approached. He couldn’t blame the guy for wanting to make time with River, but if he laid a hand on her…

      “Not a lot here,” Gordo said, “but it’s interesting. I’ll forward it to you so—”

      “Hold on,” Spenser said. “I’ve got an incoming call.” He thumbed over. “Morning, kitten. What have you got?”

      “Not much. I heard back from Ella. She said River got a package the day before yesterday. It was postmarked Baños, Ecuador. Knowing River’s ex was in South America, Ella assumed it was from him.”

      “What was in it?”

      “Don’t know. River wanted to open it in private. But Ella said it felt like a book. Less than an hour later, River called Ella and told her the same thing she told me. That she was flying to South America to get back the man she loved.”

      Spenser flexed his hands on the wheel. A decent night’s sleep hadn’t cured him of his infatuation. Knowing River pined for the guy who’d dumped her made his balls twitch, and not in a good way.

      “If the package was from David,” Kylie went on, “why did River tell me David was in Peru?”

      “Don’t know, hon.” He watched as River sidestepped the touch of the man who’d been speaking with her for the last three minutes. When she turned to leave, the creep made a lewd gesture to his friend. Spenser reached for his door handle, then eased off. Get a grip, McGraw. “Listen, I gotta go, Kylie. Gordo’s on the other line.”

      “Promise me you’ll look out for River.”

      “I already did.”

      “Yes, but that was before you knew you’d end up in Ecuador. I know this can’t be easy, Spenser, but—”

      “I promise.” Not wanting to have the conversation, he said goodbye and transferred over to Gordo. “What’s the scoop?”

      “All I can say is, this is one fricking small world.”

      Bothered by the surge of jealousy he’d just experienced, Spenser snapped at his friend, even as River hotfooted it back onto the bus. “Spit it out, dammit.”

      “River’s dad.”

      “What about him?”

      “He’s Professor Henry Kane.”

      Spenser frowned. “Our Professor Henry Kane?”

      “Looks like.”

      They’d crossed paths with the eccentric archaeologist three years ago. They’d had dinner and drinks in a desert cantina. He hadn’t mentioned a daughter. Then again, Kane had talked of nothing but the Seven Cities of Cibola. The man was obsessed with legendary treasure.

      Llanganatis.

      Baños.

      “Shit.”

      CHAPTER FIVE

      Quito, Ecuador

       Altitude 9,214 feet

      “CAN’T…BREATHE.”

      “Don’t. Care.”

      Gator tried to pry his employer’s fingers from his throat. It was the first time he’d come face-to-face with the man known to him only as The Conquistador. It could well be his last.

      “I don’t care that you had to kill Bovedine,” the eccentric man said. “Collateral damage. But you only brought me half of the damned map.”

      “All there…was.”

      The Conquistador tightened his grip. “Atahualpa’s ransom eluded Valverde. It eluded Guzmán and Spruce and Blake. Generations of adventurers. It’s inconceivable that a bleeding-heart archaeologist succeeded where they failed. That he’ll profit from the historical find.” He rammed Gator’s head against the wall. “If anyone profits, it will be me!”

      Gator knew nothing of this Atahualpa or those other three fucks. He didn’t care about a historical find. He just wanted to live. “Boss,” he croaked. Asshole, he thought. But speaking his mind would be deadly. Gator was a lot of things—most of them bad according to good folk—but he wasn’t stupid.

      With a vicious curse, The Conquistador eased his grip.

      Gator slumped to the floor. He was as quick and strong as his attacker, but cold fury and a touch of in sanity gave The Conquistador a powerful edge. Sucking air into his burning lungs, Gator massaged his bruised neck and watched in anxious silence as his employer snatched up the box he’d stolen from that pompous ass Bovedine.

      The Conquistador sank down on the hotel suite’s brown leather couch and reexamined the contents: half of a treasure map and a silver sacrificial ceremonial knife. “Tears of the moon,” he’d said, when he’d first opened the package. “Proof Kane’s discovered genuine Incan treasure.” Then he’d gone for Gator’s throat.

      “Let’s review your previous trip to Baños,” he said, while stroking the hilt of the intricately decorated knife. “You interviewed Kane’s guide.”

      “One of his guides,” Gator rasped, wondering how he was going to get out of here with his skin intact. “Alberto.”

      “After some…persuading, Alberto admitted to mailing a package to Professor Bovedine. He said Kane had sworn him to secrecy. He assumed it had to do with the location of the treasure. You thanked Alberto by stabbing him to death.”

      Gator nodded, coughed. Pain ravaged his throat. Had the bastard damaged his windpipe?

      “No loose ends or tongues. I appreciate that.” His employer frowned. “But it seems there’s more to the story. The other half of the map. Someone must have it. Who?”

      How the hell would he know? Gator shrugged. “Maybe it’s still with Professor Kane.”

      “Or maybe Kane mailed it to another for safekeeping. If that person knows Bovedine, if they know he’s dead and suspect foul play, they may feel the need to contact Kane. Tracking Kane means tracking the treasure. My treasure.”

      “But no one knows where Kane is,” Gator said, ignoring the wild look in the other man’s eyes. Someone had to be the voice of reason.

      “He’s wherever the X is on the second half of the map. That old codger couldn’t possibly move seven hundred and fifty tons of gold and silver single-handedly. And if my sources are correct, Kane is very much alone.”

      “X marks the spot,” said Gator as he awkwardly rose to his feet. Seven hundred fifty tons of treasure? Maybe this precarious association with a madman was worth pursuing.

      The Conquistador narrowed his eyes. Deep in thought? Crazy as a shithouse rat? Did it matter? Did Gator care? Hell, no. Not considering