Treasure Hunters--Quest for the City of Gold Page 2

  That’s why Mom and Dad call our seventeen-year-old big brother “Tailspin” Tommy. Every time he sees a pretty girl, he nosedives hopelessly in love with her.

  And sometimes, he takes the rest of us down with him!

  CHAPTER 5

  “Keep your eyes on the ground and always look ahead,” said Storm, leading us deeper into the jungle, which was extremely hot and muggy.

  That meant Beck, Storm, and I were extremely sweaty and grouchy.

  Halfway up the slope of Mount Iglesias, trudging through the thick vines and drippy leaves, Beck and I erupted into one of our famous Twin Tirades. In case you’re counting, this was number 1,103.

  These flash rants are yet another twin thing. They’re quick diatribes or outbursts of denunciation (words Mom put on our homeschool vocab quiz last week) that flare up like a match but burn out before the flame can scorch your fingertips. Beck and I get really, really angry with each other and then, usually in a minute or two, forget what we were angry about.

  Storm was so used to our fast-moving squalls of fury that when this one blew through, she totally ignored it and kept hiking.

  “When you think about it,” I said, “I’m actually the most important member of the whole Kidd treasure-hunting team. I write up our adventures and share them with the world! If it weren’t for me, no one would even know who we are.”

  “So? If it weren’t for my drawings, nobody would even know where we are, pea brain.”

  “Yes, they would. I’d just write that we’re on an island in the Pacific Ocean, three hundred and fifty miles off the coast of Costa Rica!”

  “Says who?”

  “Me!”

  “Well, Bickford, a picture is worth a thousand words.”

  “That’s a horrible cliché, Rebecca.”

  “So what? It’s also true. See?”

  “You can’t draw us in Hawaii when we’re in Central America!” I told her.

  “Um, yes, I can, because I just did.”

  “Oh. So I guess your pictures are worth more than my words.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “That’s very interesting, Beck.”

  “So are you, Bick.”

  “That’s very benevolent of you to say, Beck.”

  “What’s benevolent mean?”

  “‘Kind.’”

  “Cool. Good word, Bick.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So, um, what were we arguing about?”

  “I forget.”

  “Huh. Me, too.”

  And just like that, Twin Tirade number 1,103 was history.

  We had hiked another twenty yards when, suddenly, Storm swung up her right arm to halt us in our tracks.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “You two!” Storm replied in an angry whisper. “All your shouting and Twin Tirade–ing may have attracted some unwanted attention.”

  “From who?” I whispered. “Tommy’s girlfriend? Because park rangers are the island’s only permanent residents.”

  “Incorrect, Bick.”

  Storm pointed off into the thick foliage.

  All I could see were a bunch of green leaves, brown dirt, and a yellowish-brown lump of fuzzy black spots with bright yellow eyes.

  The lump moved.

  “Wh-wh-why is that cat wearing camouflage?” stammered Beck.

  “Because,” said Storm, “it is a jaguar, a name derived from the Tupian word yaguara, which means ‘he who kills with one leap.’”

  Storm.

  I sometimes wish she wouldn’t tell us everything she knows.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Back away slowly,” coached Storm, who’s memorized a ton of Jungle Survival Tips. “Avoid eye contact, which can be seen as a challenge.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was challenge one of the largest carnivorous cats in South America. The two-hundred-pound jaguar prowled forward on padded paws. The three of us backed up. Slowly. If you run away from any predator, it’ll just think you’re food. Fast food.

  “Actually,” said Storm, who is so filled with facts they come spewing out exactly when you don’t want to hear them, “you are more likely to be struck by lightning than attacked by a jaguar.”

  “Except,” said Beck, “if there’s one, like, ten yards away from you.”

  “True,” said Storm. “If he lunges at you, be sure to cover your head with your hands.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “The jaguar is a unique hunter. Instead of biting you in the neck and going for your jugular, it sometimes sinks its teeth into the back of your head to pierce your brain.”

  Great, I thought. Jaguars are like zombies. They want to eat braaaaains!

  We kept backing up, totally ignoring Storm’s earlier instructions to keep our eyes on the ground and always look ahead.

  Bad move.

  Because we ended up blindly stepping back into a pit.

  A snake pit!

  “Ah,” said Storm calmly, “that snake coiled around that branch is the Bothrops asper, more commonly known as the fer-de-lance, or terciopelo.”

  “Is it poisonous?” I gasped.

  “Yes. Very. In fact, it’s known as the ultimate pit viper due to its super-strong venom.”

  “But they only attack if attacked first, right?” said Beck as we all backed up to the other side of the pit, where the snake wasn’t lurking.

  Storm shook her head. “Terciopelos are unpredictable. Here’s another interesting factoid: a terciopelo can have sixty babies at once.”

  That made Beck and me hop up and down while we checked around our feet, searching for infant vipers. All I saw were some twigs and broken branches. No baby snakes. The super-viper giving us the beady eyeball from the other side of our mud hole was flying solo. That was a good thing. Then again, we still had that jaguar prowling around the rim of the pit to see if tonight’s dinner would be marinated in juicy snake venom.

  That’s when the floor of the rain forest above our heads started squirming.

  “Uh-oh,” said Beck. “Looks like kindergarten’s out for the day. Here come her babies!”

  At least forty slimy little reptiles slithered up to the edge of our hole.

  “Good-bye, Rebecca. Good-bye, Bickford,” said Storm. “It has been an honor and a pleasure being your big sister. At least our deaths will be swift and this pit will serve as a convenient grave.”

  “Wait a second,” I said. “Who says we’re going to die?”

  “Storm,” said Beck. “And all the itty-bitty baby snakes.”

  “Who cares what they say? We’re the Kidds. We never give up without a fight.”

  “This time,” said Storm, “perhaps we should. Did I mention that the fangs on a terciopelo are an inch long?”

  “Then,” said Beck, “they might scare off a jaguar, too!”

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” I asked.

  “Of course,” said Beck.

  “It’s a twin thing,” we said together.

  “Wait for it,” I said.

  “Waiting,” said Beck.

  The viper uncoiled herself from the tree limb and slithered down the far side of our pit.

  “On three,” I said quickly.

  Beck nodded.

  “One… two… three!”

  We each bent down as fast as we could and grabbed a stick with a forked end.

  I jabbed my improvised tongs under Mama Snake’s head. Beck went for her midsection, maybe three feet down. With a grunt, we simultaneously heaved the snake up and away—sending her flying straight at the jaguar!

  The baby snakes slithered off to find Mama. The jaguar took one look at the hissing snake’s wide-open jaws and bolted.

  Beck and I clambered out of the pit, reached down, and hauled Storm up.

  Then the three of us went running up the trail—suspicious of every shadow and vine wiggling in the breeze.

  CHAPTER 7

  Finally, up ahead, near the summit of the mountain, we saw Mom, Dad, and Tommy.
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  They were standing outside a cave. Our awesome family was about to be reunited again—and none of us had been bitten by a poisonous snake or had our brains bashed in by a giant cat.

  Mom saw us first. “Rebecca? Bickford? Stephanie?”

  (Yep, Stephanie is Storm’s real name. And Mom and Dad are the only ones allowed to use it.)

  “What are you guys doing here?” asked Dad, who was holding some kind of golden crown topped with three gold-plated feathers.

  “Chya,” said Tommy. “What’s up, dudes?” He held an ancient staff, also made of gold. It had a tomahawk-shaped head. He kept twisting the rod so he could check out his reflection in the flat part of the shiny golden blade.

  “We thought you guys might need us,” I told Dad, who was giving us one of his very serious, pinched-eyebrow looks.

  “We did need you,” said Dad. “To stay on board the ship and guard the Lost.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Beck made sure the Door was locked.”

  “Um, actually,” Beck mumbled, “I thought you made sure it was locked.”

  I guess that’s another twin thing: thinking your twin did the stuff you were supposed to do.

  “Sooooo,” I said, hoping to change the subject, “did you guys find the long-lost Treasure of Lima?”

  “Yes,” said Mom proudly. “And we’ve already hauled out the most important pieces.”

  Luckily, they were so excited about the treasures that they didn’t give us any more grief about abandoning the ship. Not right then, anyway.

  “That’s an ancient Incan priest’s headpiece,” said Tommy, gesturing at the glimmering crown Dad held in his hands.

  “And,” said Mom, “Thomas is holding the high priest’s golden staff—a very powerful image in Incan mythology.”

  “Check it out,” said Tommy. “There’s a golden ear of corn at the top!”

  “And why is that?” asked Mom, who’s our homeschool history teacher on board the Lost.

  Tommy got a pained expression on his face. It happens every time he tries to think. “Um, in case the priest wanted to make microwave popcorn?”

  Mom laughed, shook her head, and turned to the smartest Kidd in our class. “Storm?”

  “Maize, or corn, was the chief crop of the ancient Incas,” she answered. “Without it, their civilization would have vanished long before the Spanish conquistadors arrived in Peru.”

  “Too bad there’s an empty hole at the top of the corncob,” said Tommy. “Probably where an oval-shaped emerald or ruby or something used to be. Guess it popped out on the boat ride up from Lima.”

  It was pretty amazing to think that Dad and Tommy were holding relics from a long-lost civilization. I could just picture the Inca high priest performing rituals with the gear. Fortunately, Beck could picture it even better!

  CHAPTER 8

  “We also found a very important document,” said Dad, tapping his leather satchel. “A letter that might prove more valuable than the crown, the staff, or even the very curious artifact the letter was wrapped around.”

  “Why’s the letter so important?” I asked.

  “Because, Bick,” said Dad with a wide smile, “it confirms that the Lost City of Paititi is more than just a legend.”

  “Paititi?” I said. “The Lost City of Gold?”

  Mom nodded. “Hidden deep in the Amazon rain forest.”

  I turned to Dad. “You said there was an artifact inside the letter?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Maybe they’re connected!”

  “Whoa,” said Tommy. “I should’ve thought of that! Because the Incan head was like totally wrapped up inside the parchment the letter was written on.”

  Dad dipped into his shoulder bag and pulled out what looked to be a golden medallion carved to resemble an ancient Incan chief’s head.

  “What is it?” I asked. “I mean, besides an ancient gold emoji of a frowny face?”

  “We’re not certain,” said Mom. “However, it might be the handle of an ancient Incan tumi.”

  “Is that Spanish for ‘tummy’?” I asked.

  “No,” said Dad with a laugh. “A tumi is a ceremonial sacrificial knife, typically one with a very sharp, rounded blade at the bottom. The Incas used it at their annual harvest festivals to slay llamas—”

  “And humans,” blurted out Storm. “The Incas sacrificed humans, including children, to appease the sun god.”

  I told you—Storm has absolutely no filter between her brain and her mouth.

  It was time to change the subject again. “So where’s all the other gold?” I asked. “The coins and the statues and the jewels? All the stuff that was on that ship back in 1823?”

  “Still in the cave,” said Dad. “We don’t have time to initiate a full recovery operation.”

  “What?” said Beck.

  “We need to hurry to Peru,” explained Mom. “The Lost City of Paititi is our primary goal. Treasure hunters have been searching for it for centuries.”

  “And now,” said Dad, “we might finally have the tools to find it.”

  “B-b-but—” I said.

  Dad cut me off midblubber.

  “Now then,” said Dad, tucking the tumi fragment back into his bag, “as thrilled as we are with our finds, I must say, your mother and I are very disappointed in you three.”

  He was looking at Storm, Beck, and me.

  “Storm only left the ship to save our lives,” I said sheepishly.

  “Whoa,” said Tommy, sounding impressed. “Seriously?”

  Storm nodded. “Swarm of hammerheads interested in a Bick-and-Beck sushi platter. I improvised a counterattack with your Jet Ski and Dad’s golf clubs. Seemed to work.”

  “Awesome!”

  Tommy and Storm exchanged high and low fives.

  “Then we’re not mad at you, Storm,” said Mom. “But you two…”

  “We’re sorry,” I said. “But come on. We’re wild things. If there’s a wild rumpus, we need to be there. We can’t be cooped up on a ship when adventure calls!”

  “Yo,” said Tommy, “speaking of calls, did a very attractive Costa Rican park ranger named Sileny happen to call while I was gone?”

  “Who’s Sileny?” asked Beck.

  “The girl I’ll probably marry one day. She’s as beautiful as her name, which, by the way, means ‘moonlight and silence.’ Or maybe ‘silent moonlight’…”

  We all probably would’ve laughed at that except another roaring predator sprang out of the jungle.

  This time it wasn’t a jaguar.

  This time it was worse!

  CHAPTER 9

  Six off-road dirt bikes, engines screaming and spewing smoke, thundered up the trail and surrounded us.

  The helmeted riders skidded to a muddy stop and aimed their weapons at us!

  When the leader of the pack took off his helmet to reveal a French Foreign Legion hat, I immediately recognized our old nemesis from our adventures in Egypt, Guy Dubonnet Merck! (His name rhymes with I, how you say, jerk.)

  Not this guy again! (Ha, get it?)

  “You guys?” said Dad. “Do you know this gentleman?”

  “Chya,” said Tommy.

  I stepped forward and sort of sneered at the man with the eye patch. “That’s Guy Dubonnet Merck.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Mom. “Aunt Bela mentioned his name.”

  Aunt Bela had been Mom’s handler when Mom worked with the CIA.

  “He chased us around Africa when we were trying to rescue you and find Dad,” added Beck.

  “And then,” said Storm with a grin, “we cleverly reduced him to a sniveling, blubbering lump of raggedy mosquito bites, which we left stranded near the entrance to King Solomon’s Mines!”

  “But I could find no mine!” snarled Merck. “No gold. No precious diamonds or jewels. You insolent brats tricked me!”

  “Yes,” said Storm. “We did. It was a beautiful thing.”

  “And, dude?” said Tommy. “You made it so totally easy.
Next time, read a book, why don’t you?”

  “This is the next time, mon ami,” said Merck, pointing his pistol at Tommy.

  “Whoa there,” said Dad, raising his hand. “Take it easy, Mr. Merck.”

  “Take it easy? Ha, I say, Dr. Kidd. Ha!”

  His five helmeted minions took their cue.

  “Ha, ha, ha,” they all said.

  “Your vile children left me and my diseased feet to rot in the jungles of Africa!” screamed Merck.

  Tommy turned to Mom and Dad. “You should’ve seen them. They were totally green and gnarly.”

  “Trench foot,” I explained. “I had it, too.”

  “Silence!” shouted Merck.

  Now all his henchmen racked their rifles.

  “No more happy-family chitchat.”

  Dad made a finger tent under his nose and looked super-serious. “Was your family life happy when you were a child, Mr. Merck?”

  (By the way, one of Dad’s many degrees is in psychology.)

  “Happy?” scoffed Merck. “Ha. We were miserable. Miserable, I say! Every year for Christmas, all I ever got was a new shoelace for my eye patch!”

  “And how did that make you feel?” asked Dad earnestly.

  “Wretched! Horrible! Dirt-poor!” He paused. “But do not worry about me, Professor Kidd. I have found that which makes me happy!”

  “And what is it?” said Mom. “What brings you joy, Mr. Merck?”

  “Stealing shiny gold Incan antiques from foolish treasure hunters who allow their children to blab about what they are doing to everyone they meet! Especially if one of those new friends has a pretty face and a phony park ranger uniform!”

  One of the bikers took off a helmet and shook out her hair.

  Tommy gasped.

  “Sileny?”

  From the look on his face, Tommy was heartbroken. Again.

  CHAPTER 10