He turned as Kowalski yanked the chain and stripped it out of the lakeside muck, bursting the links right at their heels. The two danced to either side. The huge man followed the freed chain to the water’s edge, trailed by Gray. Kowalski pulled more of its length out of the water. The wet links glowed in the moonlight.
“Getting easier now,” Kowalski commented and waded up to his knees to grab more of the chain.
He secured a two-handed grip, dug in his legs, and pulled hard. Still, the length fought him. It just shivered in place, its end vanishing into the black water.
“Shoulda kept my mouth shut,” Kowalski said.
Gray joined him on firmer footing at the lake’s edge. “You two, give us a hand. It may take all of us to free the rest.”
Faraji and Benjie circled around to grab the chain.
“On three, we all pull,” Gray ordered.
Benjie braced to help as best he could. Gray counted down, and they all hauled on the chain. It felt like a tug-of-war with an elephant.
No way we can move this . . .
Kowalski disagreed. “Keep going,” he grunted. “It’s giving way.”
Benjie’s palms burned, his back ached, but he fought, refusing to relent. Finally, they all went tumbling backward as whatever anchored the chain finally dislodged.
Benjie untangled himself from the pile and kicked away from the chain. The others did the same, and they all stood up. Gray grabbed the loosened chain and hauled its length hand over hand, dragging it out of the water, as if pulling in a fishing line. From the strain on the man’s face, it took considerable effort. Whatever was at the end of the chain was heavy.
Finally, something crested the water, fastened to the last link. It appeared to be a sealed chest, the size of a breadbox, all bolted of the same steel as the chain.
“Is it wrong to hope it’s full of gold?” Kowalski asked.
Gray scowled and dragged the crate through the shallows toward shore—unfortunately that wasn’t all that the chain lured from the water.
Behind the crate, a huge form burst out of the lake with an explosion of water. It was all armor and scale and speed. It was a massive crocodile, easily a half ton. The beast shot past the box and raced toward shore, aiming straight for Gray.
The American stumbled backward, falling on his backside. He fumbled for the weapon slung over his shoulder, but there was no time.
Luckily, Kowalski reacted instantly, swinging up his own weapon. He squeezed the trigger, but rather than loud gunshots, the weapon gave off a high-pitched pneumatic whine. From the funnel-shaped barrel, a rain of silver flashed through the air. The reeds were mowed down as if cut by a scythe. Silver bounced off the crocodile’s armor, but some pieces struck softer tissue and imbedded in place. One split the beast’s left eye.
Under the barrage, the crocodile slammed to a stop, writhed around, and rolled back for the lake. Kowalski encouraged its flight with a few well-place single shots. The beast quickly vanished into the depths.
“Thanks,” Gray said and allowed himself to be pulled up by his partner.
“No problem. I’ve been itching to try this out.”
Faraji retrieved one of the weapon’s strange silvery bits of ammunition from the shore’s mud. Benjie stepped over. It was a razored disk, an inch across. It looked like a tiny Japanese throwing star, which the weapon—the Shuriken—was surely named after.
Faraji eyed the rifle with clear lust.
Kowalski noted the boy’s attention. “Don’t even think about it. This baby’s all mine.”
Gray ignored them and hauled his treasure out of the lake. He unhooked the box from the chain, picked it up, and carried it toward the ATV. They all followed, putting plenty of distance between them and what else might lurk in the water.
Gray set the box down near the ATV’s open tailgate. He examined it for a breath, then worked the latch free after yanking out a locking pin. “Let’s hope there’s more than just gold in here.”
He hauled open the lid, which appeared snug and watertight. Inside, something had been rolled and fitted in place. Gray reached with both hands and cradled it out. He lifted it up to the open cargo space of the ATV, and with great care, he unrolled it there. It appeared to be a beaded prayer rug. It looked intricately woven, made of raffia fibers, all strung with glass beads, bits of fur, tiny triangles of copper, and thousands of cowrie shells.
“What is it?” Kowalski asked.
“An example of Kuba handiwork.” Gray nodded to Faraji. “His tribe is known for their fine textiles.”
“So, we risked our lives for some fancy cloth,” Kowalski said. “Fat lotta good that does us.”
Benjie agreed with the American. He knew the Kuba were renowned for their clothwork and the intricate geometric patterns woven into them. This example, though, looked to have been hastily made. There appeared to be no rhyme or reason to its design, certainly no discernible pattern.
“It has to mean something,” Gray said. “Why else would Sheppard have sunk it into the lake?”
They all knew only one of their party could help from here.
Gray leaned closer. “Faraji, does this mean anything to you?”
The boy frowned darkly. “Maybe . . . but it hides the truth.”
“How do you mean? Can you show us?”
Faraji hesitated, but then stepped closer. He reached toward the tapestry’s top, as if to lift it out of the cargo space. Instead, with reverent care, he rubbed his palm down its length, running from top to bottom. He gently turned beads and shells until they reached some preset stopping point. He had to do this over and over again, sometimes pressing harder, other times passing only a single finger down the cloth.
At first, there didn’t seem to be any difference, but slowly as each tiny piece threaded into the raffia was spun into its proper place, an image arose within the textile. It grew clearer with each pass until finally the pattern was complete. It wasn’t geometric, but rather a mosaic made up of copper, shells, and glass beads. It looked like a cubist or pointillist painting of a small stone church with a prominent cross in front of it, all half-buried in a dark jungle.
Gray turned to Faraji. “Do you recognize this place?”
Faraji nodded. “I know. It is missionary church. The Reverend Sheppard’s.” He made the sign of the cross, as if seeking a blessing. “It is his first church.”
“Do you know where it is?”
Faraji pointed deeper into the jungle, farther east of their position.
“Can you get us there?” Gray asked.
Faraji’s shoulders slumped. “Maybe. It is old. I went only once. No trail any longer.”
Kowalski groaned. “In other words, we gotta go straight through the jungle.”
No one looked happy at this prospect.
Still, Gray drew out a digital pad and opened up a glowing terrain map. “Can you give us a rough estimate of where we need to go?”
Faraji joined him, clearly intending to try.
As the two murmured together, a flicker of movement drew Benjie’s eye to the left. He turned in surprise. With a smattering of joy, he recognized the fluttering return of the large moth that had attracted his attention earlier. It wafted across the clearing. With each beat of its flame-edged wings, its body seemed to flash a signal of greeting at him. Like some softer version of a firefly seeking a mate.
He gaped in shock, realizing its carapace truly was glowing on its own.
Amazing . . .
Then joy turned to concern. Especially as the jungle behind it was dotted with thousands of the same moths, all glowing in the shadows, as if summoned by the first. He blinked and turned a full circle. They were everywhere, in all directions. Hundreds of them even floated overhead, while more closed in all around.
Focused on the raffia, no one had noted their silent approach. Benjie remembered Faraji’s earlier concern about the vanished bats. Had they sussed out what was coming and retreated?
Something brushed Benjie’s cheek. He jumped back. A moth had fallen from overhead, fluttering down like an autumn leaf. He reached to his cheek, feeling a burn setting in. As he lifted his arm, the moth alighted on the back of his hand. He stared, momently mesmerized by the beauty of its wings, all shades of black, like a shadow come to life, but its edge blazed a fiery orange.