Page 6 of Wild Temple (Tyson Wild Thriller #84)
R ex’s face tightened, and he looked at me with those regretful brown eyes. I know he was wishing I had never stepped into his bar. With a reluctant sigh, he asked, “What do you need?”
“I thought you said all the cops were on the take.”
Rex scoffed. “Shit, you’d have to have a helluva lot of money to bribe your way out of something like that. What do you need a gun for, anyway?”
“It’s kind of obvious.”
“Do you know what kind of risk you’re asking me to take?” Rex’s cheeks reddened, and his veins pulsed .
“I’m sorry,” I said in a genuine tone. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
He glared at me for a moment, then softened. Rex grumbled to himself. “Fuck, Wild. I told you I don’t want to get involved in this shit.”
I raised my hands in surrender. “I understand. Say no more. I appreciate the intel. It was good to see you.”
I extended my hand, and we shook.
He felt guilty. “Want a beer?”
“No. Thank you. I need to cover as much ground as I can. Somebody has to have seen her.”
There was an awkward moment.
“I’ll see you around,” I said before heading for the door.
I was halfway there when Rex shouted, “Wild...”
I stopped in my tracks and looked back at the bar.
With a resigned sigh, Rex said, “Come back tomorrow. I’ll see what I can do.”
I grinned. “Thanks.”
I stepped outside and strolled the sidewalk back toward the hotel. Throngs of tourists drifted up and down the boulevard, and I dodged more street vendors and hustlers pedaling fake Mata Vaya.
I stopped in the popular bars and restaurants, talking to bartenders and waitstaff, flashing Isabella’s picture. A few people had a vague recollection of seeing her, but tourists come and go. Isabella constantly changed her appearance and hair color. She kept a low profile and tried to blend in .
On the way back, I stopped at a coffee shop near the hotel.
The smell of hot java swirled, and chill music pumped through speakers.
A few people lounged in booths, comfy couches, and tables.
The place sold pastries, cakes, and cookies—plenty of things to fatten you up while you worked on a marathon coding session or the next novel.
“What will it be?” the barista asked with a smile when I reached the counter.
I displayed Isabella’s image on my phone. “Looking for her. Has she been in recently?”
The dark-haired man was in his late 30s with well-sunned skin. He studied the image for a moment. “Yes. She was in here last week. Came in almost every day and worked on her laptop. Sometimes in the morning. Sometimes at night. Always ordered the same thing.”
Isabella knew better than to keep the same schedule, but maybe she liked the coffee.
“That was the last time you saw her?”
He nodded. “Yes. I think so. People come and go. She was nice and tipped well.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Briefly.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I don’t really remember. The usual stuff.” The barista thought for a moment.
“Hey, buddy. You gonna order coffee or what?” the douchebag behind me said, growing impatient. He was a young American in his late 20s.
I gave him a dirty look, then stepped aside and told the barista to attend to him while we continued our conversation.
The douchebag studied the menu on the wall, then ordered.
The barista said, “You know, she did ask about the Twin Sisters. If I recall, she was looking for something less touristy. It’s farther away but worth the journey. Legend has it, the water is healing.” He shook his head. “But that’s just a myth.”
“Myth?”
“People think it’s downstream of Pura Jiva.”
“Now that’s a myth,” the douchebag said.
“What’s Pura Jiva?” I asked.
“Dude, don’t get scammed. We paid this clown a ton of money to take us to the lost temple ,” he said in air quotes.
“This guy just led us around in circles in the jungle, sweating our asses off. The temple was just a few rock formations with carvings. Total bullshit. No magic spring. Nothing. The guy took off and left us there. We had to find our way back. My girlfriend was totally freaked out.” His face reddened as he relived the anger.
“Then I find out the place doesn’t really exist. It’s all BS.
Just some scam they pull on tourists.” Then he added, “And don’t drink that fake water they sell on the street. ”
“Thanks for the heads up,” I said.
“Anytime, bro.” He paid the barista, took his coffee, and left .
The barista glanced around, then said in a whisper, “The lost temple is real. But the jungle keeps her secret well. The sacred site remains hidden. Only the worthy shall find the way, and the unworthy will perish. The path is treacherous. The guardians protect it. It is unwise to anger the spirits. If your friend set out to find Pura Jiva, she may be in grave danger.”