Excavation

Gil lowered himself slowly to the chair. He found himself perched just at the edge of the seat, not comfortable enough to lean back. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to be done with this deal, no matter what the price. He longed to leave the chill of the room for the familiar swelter of the bustling town.

Gil could not even meet the other man’s eyes. He found himself staring out the window at the town’s church steeple, the thin white cross stark against the blue sky.

“Show me what you found,” the man said, his drink still clinking as he gently rocked his glass, drawing back Gil’s attention.

“Yes, of course.” Swallowing the dry lump in his throat, Gil fished out the dented chalice and placed it on the table between them. Rubies and emeralds flashed brightly against the gold setting. Gil felt a resurgence of his resolve as he eyed the jeweled dragon wrapped around the thick gold cup. “And… and there’s more,” Gil said. “With enough men and the right tools, by week’s end, I could have a hundred times as much.”

Ignoring Gil’s words, the man lowered his drink to the table and reached to the Incan cup. He picked up the chalice, raised it to the sunlight, and examined its surface for an excruciatingly long time.

Gil’s hands wrung in his lap as he waited. He stared at the dent along the cup’s lip as the man studied the workmanship on the chalice. Gil feared such a blemish might significantly reduce the price. The fellow had insisted any artifacts be brought to him intact.

As the man finally lowered the cup back to the table, Gil dared meet his eyes. He saw only anger there.

“The dent… it… it was already there,” Gil stammered quickly.

The man stood silently and crossed to a small bar behind Gil. Gil listened as the man added more ice to his glass. He then stepped behind Gil.

Gil could not bring himself to twist around. He just stared at the treasure atop the table. “If you don’t want it, I… I will not hold you to any obligation.”

Without turning, Gil knew the man leaned toward him. The small hairs on the nape of his neck quivered with the instinct of his cave-dwelling ancestors. Gil then felt the man’s breath at his ear.

“It is only ordinary gold. Worthless.”

Sensing the danger too late, Gil’s hand snapped toward the knife at his belt. His fingers found only an empty sheath. Before Gil could react, his head was yanked back by the hair; he saw his own knife gripped in the man’s hand. He did not even have time to wonder how the the blade had been snatched from his side. A flick of the man’s wrist, and the dagger sliced open Gil’s throat, a line of fire from ear to ear. Gil was tossed forward and fell to the floor as his blood spilled across the whitewashed planks.

Rolling to his back, Gil saw the man return to the bar for his abandoned drink while Gil choked on his own blood. “P… Please…” he gurgled out, one arm raised in supplication as the light in the room began to dim. The man ignored him.

Eyes filled with tears, Gil again turned to the open window and the bright crucifix in the blue sky. Please, not like this, he prayed silently. But he found no salvation there either.

Finished with his drink, the man eyed the still form of Guillermo Sala. The pool of blood appeared almost black against the white floor. He felt no satisfaction in the killing. The Chilean had served his purpose and was now more a risk than a benefit to his cause.

Sighing, he crossed the room, careful not to foul his polished shoes with blood. He retrieved the Incan treasure from the table and weighed it briefly, judging its worth once the gems had been pried free and the cup melted into a brick. It was not the discovery his group had hoped to find, but it would have to do. From Gil’s description of the underground vault, there was still a chance of a more significant strike. Stepping back to the room’s bed, he collected the small leather satchel and secured the cup inside.

He studied the room. It would be cleaned up by nightfall.

Satchel in hand, he left the room and its cool breezes for the moist heat of the narrow corridor and the stairs. Sweat quickly broke across his forehead. He ignored it. He had grown up in these moist highlands and was well-accustomed to the swelter. Born of mixed blood, Spanish and local Indian, he was a mestizo, a half-breed. Neither Spanish nor Quechan. Despite carrying this mark of dishonor among the highland people, he had managed to fight his way to a place of respect.

Once through the hotel’s small lobby, he crossed into the midday sunlight. The steps outside were blinding in the bright light. Shading his eyes against the glare, he worked his way down the steps and almost stumbled over an Indian woman and her babe near the foot of the stairs.