The roads are… not good.”

“What’s Chacchoben? A town?” asked Danny.

“No, it’s an old Mayan site. But Miguel thinks they were looking for a newer site that one of the girls had read about online.”

“Any idea where that might be?” asked Clay.

Giorgio held his palms up in supplication. “I’m sorry, Miguel did not know.”

“Hey, we know more than we did five minutes ago. Thank you, Giorgio.”

Danny had his phone in his hand. “How do you spell Chacchoben?”

Giorgio spelled it out for him as Danny typed the letters into the search bar of the phone’s browser. Seconds later, Danny tapped one of the results. A map filled the display with a small red pin highlighting the site’s location.

Clay nodded at his brother. “That’s a good place to start, I suppose.”

“Damn right. Chacchoben, here we come.”

11

Do they even know the last guy is missing yet?

Probably not, Ghost answered her own question. Otherwise this dickhead wouldn’t be swanning around on his own.

She had followed him, unseen, to the ramshackle gas station some five miles away from the compound. What was he doing out here? She knew they had a free-standing gasoline tank at the rear of the camp, so he hadn’t come for that.

She settled her weight against the gnarled trunk of a tree, relaxing into a half-sitting position, keeping one leg tucked under her, ready to move rapidly should the need arise.

She could see the storekeeper inside, filling a wire stand with oversized bags of potato chips. But where was the guy she had followed? The store looked to be no more than about fifteen feet square. Not many places to hide. He had parked his truck to the side of the two pumps out front.

“But that don’t mean you went inside…”

The area surrounding the gas station was devoid of flora, all plant life long since poisoned and trampled into oblivion. The road she had followed the man in on was barely wide enough for two vehicles, a narrow scar cut through the emerald canopy. To the left of the cinder-block store, a collection of used oil drums was stacked in a haphazard manner like a child’s fort.

Uncoiling from her seated position, she flitted from tree to tree, keeping the man’s truck in view as much as possible. If he returned to his vehicle she would need to sprint back a hundred yards to her own truck to continue her pursuit.

As she crossed the hard pan of the road she stayed low, and was swallowed by the various shades of green within seconds. Cutting a wide semi-circular path around the gas station, she could see the remnants of a small tractor and trailer behind the arrangement of oil drums. The tyres of the tractor had long since perished and the heavy wheel rims bit deep into the earth. Another assortment of empty crates, the kind that held soda bottles, formed a mini pyramid on the back of the listing trailer. An old soccer ball sat atop the uppermost crate. A dog lay curled in the cavern of shade below the rear of the trailer, its ears twitching against the flies buzzing around its narrow head. A hole marred its left ear. The dog followed her progress but remained in the shade.

A square enclosure built from rusting corrugated tin sheets and timber stood at the rear of the main building. She chose the door that held the legend “Caballeros”. She could hear two different voices. Beneath the soft fabric of her mask, her lip curled in resolve. She didn’t know who the second man was, but anyone who consorted with her target was likely to be cut from the same cloth.

The two men stared at her with wide eyes as she entered the restroom, weapon drawn. The one she had followed, with his goatee and pork-pie hat, was just taking a roll of banknotes from the younger man. A bag lay open on top of a stained sink.

The younger man’s hand moved towards the pistol on his hip.

“Don’t!” ordered Ghost. She angled herself so she had a clear shot at both men.

“Drop the gun.