I Hear Voices Read Online Free PDF Page A

into the deep canyons and rocky spires.
    Those who dare enter the sacred grounds of the Apache Thunder God to hunt for the legendary gold usually found death instead.
    Hundreds of men have vanished in this desert wilderness only a short drive from Phoenix. They were later found with their bodies mutilated and their heads cut off. Was the Thunder God responsible? Do Apache warriors still guard the gold? Or did gold fever make crazy men out of ordinary folks. Only the dead know. To this day hikers still find skeletal remains of the unlucky treasure hunters who got lost and ran out of water.
    Me? I was heading into the heart of the sacred grounds. Was I worried about the Apache Thunder God? You betcha. The spirit world is real. I should know.
    Some say the Lost Dutchman’s mine lies within the shadows of the forbidding rock called Weaver’s Needle. Would I search for it? Hell, no. Poor Ted North was the last psychic treasure hunter who tried. He had been found a week later half-dead and mad as a hatter.
    The sun seeped over the mountains turning the morning sky from lavender to pink. It was a good five mile hike to Hieroglyphic Canyon and I wanted to get an early start before it hit a friggin’
    degrees. But, hey, it’s a dry heat.
    A hot wind rose with the sun. A newspaper tumbled across the parking lot and slapped against my legs. I picked it up. Emblazoned in bold print across the front page the headline exclaimed; Priceless Artifact Stolen. The Mexican government is outraged that the museum allowed a brazen thief to snatch the medallion in front of hundreds of witness.
    Outraged? They were a bunch of thieves themselves and besides, it’s not like I’m going to keep the medallion forever. As soon as I find the gold, I’ll return it.
    I searched the paper and snorted. The society bitch’s arrest merited two measly lines on the society page. The snooty reporter wanted to know if Margie Goldberg’s arrest for drunk and disorderly had aided the thief. Uh, yeah, it certainly had. I stuffed the paper into a trash can, shouldered my backpack and started down the path for fame and glory.
     
    The path to fame and glory sucked big time.
     
    Heat waves shimmered off the sweltering rocks and added to the feeling of being baked alive. My chocolate had melted an hour ago and the water in
    my canteen was actually hot. Even the poor cactus looked wilted.
    Using the edge of my camouflage t-shirt to wipe the sweat out of my eyes, I checked my map again and groaned. Hieroglyphic Canyon was another friggin’ mile down this rocky obstacle course called a path. Where were Granny Annabel and her arctic freeze when I needed them?
    My satellite phone chirped loudly and the hair on the back of my neck sprang to attention. How in the hell had the Tomb Raider gotten this number?
    The image of Sloan decked out like a commando, face paint and all, firing a rocket launcher at what had to be a convoy of terrorists’
    vehicles flashed across my mind.
    I yanked the phone out of my backpack and gasped, “You work for the CIA!?”
    There was a long silence. “You’ve been out in the sun too long, sweetheart.”
    “You’re the only man I know who makes sweetheart sound like a cuss word.”
    He dropped his voice an octave and purred, “How about I call you ‘Angel’ instead?”
    I shivered as a shocking heat clenched my lower muscles. Omigod, he was actually trying to seduce me.
    “First thing I want to do to you, Angel, is strip you bare. Then I’m gonna spread your hot, naked body across my bed like a banquet and eat you until you scream.”
    Hoo boy! He was definitely a pro at seduction.
    Shaking off the urge to yell, ‘take me I’m yours,’ I snorted rudely instead. “Nice try asshole.
    Does the Logar Province in Afghanistan ring a bell?”
    With a low, aggressive growl, he snapped, “Let’s get one thing straight, Zelda, that gold is mine.”
    “And how exactly do you plan on finding it, Derek? Got a CIA psychic on tap?” I