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Dr. Souza claimed that a culture far older than the Lenape carved the henge and worshiped in the caves riddling Darkmans Mountain, which was a sister geographical feature to Mystery Mountain in Washington State and a peculiar obsession of numerous esoterically-minded scientists.
    Cassius Labrador and a pair of subordinates awaited them atop the outer retaining wall of the henge. Labrador hadn’t grown any prettier since last the brothers saw him during an altercation aboard a cargo ship as it sank into the depths of the Yellow Sea. Blond hair hacked short, pock-marked cheeks from a bad childhood in South America, and long, angular limbs. He dressed the part of an urbane explorer in a bomber jacket and khakis.
    Young Dr. Howard Campbell stood to his left. A gangling, buck-toothed man not long graduated from university, the scientist wore a tweed suit and horn-rimmed glasses. The third member of the Zircon contingent lurked just within earshot, a Winchester 70 with a scope slung over his shoulder and the butt of a revolver jutting from its armpit holster. Errol Whalen acted as Labrador’s latest bodyguard. Small and sallow, yet dangerous as any true predator, the Marine Lieutenant of distinction had plied the mercenary trade in a score of international theaters of war prior to signing the dotted line for Zircon’s dirty work. He dressed in a slouch hat, black glasses, and a dark, loose coat.
    “Good afternoon, boys. We meet again.” Labrador gave the brothers a jaunty wave. “This is Howard Campbell.”
    “I’ve read your thesis,” Mac said to Dr. Campbell. “Impressive stuff with antediluvian mounds in New Guinea. You’re working for the wrong company.”
    “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Dr. Campbell smiled awkwardly and patted his sweaty forehead with a cloth.
    “Be at ease, Howard,” Labrador said. “This is hallowed soil. Nobody’s shooting anybody for the moment.”
    “Mr. Labrador, don’t jinx it,” Whalen called in a raspy, nasally voice. The book on Whalen was that he craved the frequent bloodletting his occupation required and at which he excelled. The boys had yet to see him in action, although neither doubted the rumors as they watched him creep around the perimeter, hunched and sniffing the earth like a hound. He peered through a set of binoculars. “No enemy movement along the road. I don’t like it, though. Somebody was moving around in the woods at the base of the mountain earlier. The kids are being tracked, guaranteed.”
    “Mr. Craven died aboard the Night Gaunt ,” Mac said, recalling the bald, musclebound Englishman who’d valiantly tried to take his head off with a fireman’s axe moments before the boilers blew and water flooded the hold of the ship and all was darkness and chaos split by bursts of flame from the muzzles of Sten guns and the shrieks of men in extremis. Exciting times. “I’d hoped he made it.”
    “Thanks, Macbeth. Civil of you.”
    “Ain’t that a bite?” Dred said, rolling his eyes. “Enough butterin’ up. The limey was an ape and I bet my bottom dollar your new stooge is more of the same. Who are these goons you speak of, and how much should we thank Zircon for our troubles?”
    “The lad takes after his father,” Labrador said behind his hand to Campbell. He cleared his throat and nodded to Dred. “Let us set aside the detail that during our previous encounter, you boys were hijacking a ship under a Zircon flag. Matters escalated as they are wont to do in this cutthroat business climate. Let us not hold petty grudges over spilt milk or spilt blood. Obviously, the cultists are interested in acquiring data from NCY-93. Especially the flight recorder, which I trust you’ve either destroyed or secured. I’m betting on secured. Mom and Dad are on vacation and Granddad Tooms is a frightful proposition. You haven’t decided what to do with the material and now cultists are after your hides, and here we are.”
    Mac was far too wary to admit one