Beth Ciotta - Into the Wild

“What I didn’t puke up shot out the other end. For three frickin’ hours. I’m telling you…” Gordo trailed off when he noticed the young woman standing next to them. “Sorry.” He squinted at her name tag. “Yara.”

Earlier, the sultry waitress had lingered at Spenser’s table, flirting outrageously, as most women did, until he’d received the phone call from Los Angeles. Now she was back, and though she spared Gordo a glance, her focus was on Spenser. He winked, encouraging the infatuation. Yara’s pretty face and voluptuous curves were a welcome distraction from Necktie’s disappointing mandate.

Gordo cleared his throat. “Why, yes, I would like to order something. Thank you for asking, Yara.”

Spenser smiled at the woman, then spoke in Spanish. “He’ll have what I’m having.”

“What are you having?” Gordo asked in English.

“Beer and tamales.”

“Forget the tamales.”

“They’re locally famous,” Spenser teased, knowing Gordo was still fixed on the Cairo incident and the “locally famous” molokhiyya.

“Just a beer, please,” he said in Spanish. “Make that two. No, three. Two for me, one for him.”

Beaming at Spenser, Yara nodded and left.

Gordo rolled his eyes. “You’re hooking up with her later, aren’t you?”

Never one to screw and tell, Spenser just grinned.

“Why aren’t you more upset about the canceled shoot? You’ve been hot on exploring the possibility that El Dorado is located in Peru and not Colombia for months.”

Spenser shrugged. Granted, at first he’d been royally ticked. Not just because Nate had pulled the plug on El Dorado, but because that pissant had called his Indiana Jones shtick old hat, insinuating in the next breath that Spenser was over-the-hill.

A) He didn’t do shtick.

B) Since when was he thirty-seven years old?

Shaking off the insults, he now saw the hole in the producer’s new angle. “When the board reviews Necktie’s brilliant idea, they’ll squelch it.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because it’s been done.”

Gordo narrowed his eyes. “What does Necktie want us to do exactly?”

“To canoe down the Amazon, hack through the jungle and somehow connect with a fierce tribe—preferably cannibalistic.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Just about the cannibal part.”

“Great. So we risk malaria, piranha, jaguars and make nice with hostile indigenous peoples. And then?”

“Live with them for six months. Learn and record their ways. Survive whatever shit they sling at us.”

“It’s been done,” Gordo said with a derisive snort. “The Thrill Me, Chill Me Channel. Spock and Parnell Live With the Kaniwa.”

“Yup.”

Gordo scratched his trimmed red beard then massaged the back of his neck, his routine when mentally reviewing a situation. “Okay,” he said, waving away the chips and salsa Spenser nudged across the scarred table. “So the board nixes the living with a fierce tribe thing, but what if they still want to ratchet up the danger? We’re history-buff treasure hunters, not adrenaline junkie survivalists.”

Spenser didn’t contradict the man, even though he was only partially right. Maybe Gordo didn’t get off on adrenaline rushes, but Spenser did and he experienced one every time he suspected he was closing in on a lost treasure or legendary icon. “A hundred bucks says I get a call tomorrow green-lighting the El Dorado shoot.”

“If you don’t?”

“We’ll proceed regardless.” He wouldn’t spend a minute more than necessary in Cajamarca, the city where the Inca Empire had met its end. The capture and execution of the Incan emperor Atahualpa in 1532 launched a legend that had personally haunted Spenser for fifteen years. “Trust me, Gordo. The execs at the Explorer Channel will come around whether it’s tomorrow or a week from now.”

“Again. How can you be sure?”

“Why mess with success?”

“What?”

Spenser brushed crumbs from his fingers and voiced optimistic thoughts instead of the dark ones dwelling in the back of his brain, thanks to the suited pissant and this haunted city. “Our ratings have slipped, but overall they’re still pretty high. We’ve got fan clubs, websites and discussion boards. I’m in negotiations to write a book. We’re still at the top of our game, my friend, and the public’s curiosity regarding lost treasures and mythical icons will never die. All we have to do is Twitter about the possible changes to Into the Wild and I guarantee the execs will be deluged with complaints.”

“We do have some pretty rabid fans,” Gordo said, perking up as Yara served him dos cervezas. “Including influential anthropologists, archaeologists and professors of antiquities. Since you’ve got plans,” he said, gesturing to the enamored waitress, “I’ll tweet and initiate an uprising. The sooner we get the thumbs-up on El Dorado, the better. Don’t forget, you’re supposed to be in Indiana in less than a month. If you miss your sister’s wedding, she’ll never forgive you.”

Not only that, Jack Reynolds, his best friend and said groom, would kick his ass. Or at least try, Spenser thought with a wry smile. Even though he already considered his sister and friend married, he wouldn’t miss the official shindig for the world. “Only one thing could keep me from my little sister’s wedding.”

Gordo winced. “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. If Necktie gets his way you’ll be swimming with flesh-eating fish.”

“Relax, oh voice of doom. I’m not going to die.”

“You’re tough and lucky,” Gordo said as he turned to leave, “but you’re not invincible, Spense.”

Spenser watched his friend move serpentinely through the crowded café. He chugged beer to wash down a surge of old guilt. “Not invincible, Gordo, but definitely cursed.”

Just then his phone vibrated. He smiled apologetically at Yara, who reluctantly moved on to her next customer. “That was a quick turnaround,” Spenser said, assuming the incoming call was from Necktie. Instead it was his sister, Kylie, who only called out of the country when there was a crisis at home. A rarity since she was a problem-solver extraordinaire. He braced for bad news. “What’s wrong, kitten?”

“I know you’re working, but I need a favor, Spenser. A huge favor.”

Quito, Ecuador, South America

Altitude 9,214 feet

RIVER’S HEAD POUNDED as she moved out of the Boeing 757 and into the Mariscal Sucre International Airport. Her legs and back should have ached, too. She’d been cooped up on three different planes for nearly fourteen hours. Instead, her body felt oddly numb as she walked—no, floated—into the terminal.

She dragged a rolling camera bag behind her, chalking up the zombie-like feeling to sleep deprivation. As exhausted as she was, she hadn’t been able to sleep on the long journey from Indiana to Ecuador. Between the all-nighter she’d pulled preparing for her trip and the extensive travel day, she’d been awake for thirty-eight hours. Presently, she was operating on adrenaline and gallons of Pepsi.

River’s first two thoughts as she navigated the bustling terminal: I wish I spoke Spanish, and God, I have to pee.

She ducked into the first bathroom she saw to take care of the second. As for the first, according to her speedy but thorough research, although the predominant language of Ecuador was Spanish, English was spoken in most major visitor centers. Quito, the capital, certainly qualified as a tourist destination, as did Baños. Situated at the base of a large volcano, the small town, some four hours south, was famous for its basilica, hot springs and its accessibility to the jungle. Although Henry had mailed his journal from Baños—also known as the gateway to the Amazon—ten to one he was in the jungle. Ten to one she’d be hiring a guide. She’d just make sure the guide doubled as a translator.