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I gape at the scene, aghast, as a band of hardened men transforms into a pack of doting puppies all wagging their metaphorical tails.
Please tell me this isn’t happening.
Oh, but it is.
All my worries are confirmed when I study the group’s dynamic now that a pin-up has joined the ranks. She’s the focus of everyone’s attention, all the sensible topics my colleagues were discussing beforehand forgotten at once. How are we going to get anything done?
The only attitude worse than the widespread adoration is the approving leer curving the lips of Colonel Smith, our chief of security and another member of my team I didn’t pick.
I wasn’t eager for a squadron of mercenaries to join the expedition in the first place. But Smith and his two minions are one more nuisance that came as a package deal with the funding. I can’t help not liking the man; he honestly gives me the creeps. An ex-Delta Force assault squad leader, Smith has turned to private security in his retirement. Of an undecipherable age somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five, he’s retained all his military bearing: buzz cut, lean muscled body, and a hard face marked by a livid white slash. The ominous scar cuts from his left eyebrow to halfway down his cheek. And he probably enjoys frightening children with it in his spare time.
The colonel is dressed in a military-like uniform of all black—from shirt, to boots, to weapons—and he looks like he’s constantly standing at attention. And so do the other two soldiers, Carter and Montgomery—all three men only provided surnames—who also are ex-Special Forces. The trio is inseparable, apparently.
I drop the empty juice glass on the appropriate tray and join the rest of the team, ready to tighten the leash before my puppies get in a dog fight to gain the photographer’s attention.
“This should be everyone,” I say, entering the semicircle the others have formed. “Why don’t we make the introductions official? I’m Dr. Logan Spencer.”
The woman turns toward me, her eyes widening as if in… recognition? Nah, impossible. I’m sure we haven’t met; I’d remember a face like that. Next, she blushes slightly, and, finally, her expression settles on a half-amused grin she’s working hard to suppress. What does she have to smirk about? It’s unnerving.
Determined not to get sidetracked by the woman’s cryptic half-smile—See? She’s already a distraction—I tear my eyes away from the blonde and continue with my self-introduction. “I’m the lead archeologist on this team, and also a professor of Archeological Research Strategy at Berkeley University. Before I lay out the details of our itinerary, I thought it’d be good for each team member to introduce himself to—”
“Or herself,” the woman interrupts.
Oh, great, so the killer looks come paired with a feisty personality. Looks like I’ve won the Pain-In-My-Ass Photographer lottery.
“Sure.” I nod toward her, trying to keep the annoyance from showing on my face. “And tell everyone his or her role.” I tilt my head in her direction. “Ladies first?”
She flashes me an impertinent grin, and says, “Winter Knowles, travel photographer.”
That seems like all she has to say. Miss Knowles, at least, is not overly talkative. Without adding another word, she turns to the guy standing on her left, none other than my best friend, Archie, who quickly takes the prompt.
“Archibald—Archie—Hill,” he says, with a grin that promises nothing good. I know him too well; he’s already trying to impress the lady. Tall, blond, bearded, and with piercing blue eyes, he usually doesn’t have to try too hard in that department. “Topographer, aerial drone controller, and human bullshit detector.”
Winter laughs, a light and bubbly sound. “We have a drone?” she asks with a big smile.
“Yup,” Archie confirms, smug.
“You’ll have to show me how to handle it.”
He grins. “I’m sure we can make that happen.”
Then my best friend and trusted companion of many past expeditions turns away from Winter and wiggles his eyebrows at me, as if saying he’d be more than happy to teach her how to handle it. I resist the urge to slap my hand over my face and groan.
This is a disaster.
Eager to move on, I stare at the next guy in our circle until he takes the hint.
“Dr. Rune Boonjan,” the short man says in heavily accented English. “Head archeologist at the Thai Fine Arts Department, local expert, and interpreter.”
Dr. Boonjan and I met in person for the first time on the plane from Bangkok to Trat, and he impressed me with his knowledge of the history of the Kingdom of Siam. No worries about him; we clicked right away.
Dr. Boonjan bends in a slight bow, his palms pressed together in a prayer-like fashion, and salutes us in Thai, “Sawatdee khrap.”
We all bow back, mimicking his salutation except for the military guys, who remain upright.
Rude.
Then, the group’s focus shifts to the other Thai member of our team. About the same height as Dr. Boonjan, he’s leaner, and his brown skin looks more weathered even though he’s younger.
