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Tucker sees my expression and amends, “At least in the scientific community.” He picks up the stove’s instructions and searches the components scattered on the ground. “Do you see a rectangular tray thingy?”
I pick up a piece and hand it to him. “Like this one?”
“Exactly that.” He takes it from me.
“What is it?”
“Drip tray,” Tucker says, installing it below the rear of the grill.
Eager to learn more, I return to our conversation. “Okay. So in short, this expedition is a massive, super petty, ‘back at you bitch’ metaphorical middle finger?”
Tucker can’t hide a little smile before he chides me with, “No, it’s so much more than an ex-lovers’ spat.”
“How?”
“Logan is genuinely passionate about his work, and he’s spent years researching the legend of the lost city of gold. He has everything at stake on this trip. Screwdriver, please?” I hand the tool over and wait for Tucker to tell me more. He does. “Logan had to put his reputation on the line just to have the aerial survey taken. The pictures alone cost half a mil.”
My head explodes. “Half a million dollars?”
“Yep. Now, imagine if this turns into a fiasco. He’d be humiliated. And not just in front of Tara, but every single one of his peers.”
“I still believe there’s an element of ‘I see your pharaoh tomb and raise you a lost city of gold’ archeology competition at play here.”
“Maybe.” Tucker grins. “Logan is only human.”
No, he’s Satan.
“Done,” Tucker announces, screwing the last bolt. “Any other questions?”
“Just one. Why is he so worried? If the satellite images clearly show there’s a city beneath the jungle canopy, what could go wrong?”
“Oh, many expeditions have failed before reaching their target location.”
“Why?”
“Sudden, unpredictable weather, government upheavals, permits rescinded, too many crew members dying off before the destination could be reached…”
“You’re joking?”
Tucker stares me dead in the eyes.
“You’re not joking.”
His gaze drifts down to my unprotected shins. “Didn’t I tell you to wear your snake gaiters at all times?”
I blush. “I thought you meant while we were exploring.”
“No, I said at all times, and meant at all times. Now go put them on before you become the first member of this expedition who dies off.”
“Yes, sir,” I say as my stomach gives a low growl. “How long before dinner?”
“Now that this baby is up”—Tucker pats the stove—“I’ll be done in no time.”
“You want some help?”
“Nah, you go relax a little… and put those gaiters on.”
* * *
