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little reckless, considering what he had encountered in Ecuador.
    Those same reckless souls who wanted Cutter and his team to take this mission were the same ones at the table. They consisted of one man in a suit, and one flunky Cutter had worked with before. The flunky he respected about as much as he respected television evangelists and product pitchmen, who were just slightly more respectable than network TV news anchors.
    “Mr. Cutter,” the flunky across from him, said.
    The man was called John Wayland. He was the same guy who had hired Cutter to take on the failed the mission in Ecuador. Cutter had to admit to himself that it took guts for Wayland to face him again, and he let him know it with the way that he sat with his arms folded across his chest, thumbs pointing upward, chin lowered.
    Wayland laced his fingers together on the tabletop and began rubbing his thumbs against one another. A bead of oily sweat had formed just under the hairline of his slicked-back hair. It sparkled in the harsh light from the spotlights above and did not want to roll off his forehead. It seemed glued in place. The man wet his lips and cast a quick glance at the woman sitting next to him.
    The woman was a chiseled-faced beauty about thirty-five years old, Cutter guessed. She could have easily passed for being in her late twenties, though. His guess to the higher side came from the tiny crow’s feet surrounding her eyes that she’d attempted to hide behind a pair of oversized, dark-framed glasses. She had rich, well-toned skin and did not seem the type to let vanity drive her to hide behind a painted-up face. That gave her a natural beauty which made Cutter very much wish to see her completely naked one day. I’ve seen her before. He was certain he had, but couldn’t place where that had been. And unfortunately, when he had seen her then, she had not been naked at the time. He was fairly sure of it. He would have remembered. But he couldn’t recall where it was that he’d seen her, which bothered him to the point of distraction.
    “This is Dr. Reyna Martinez,” John Wayland said. “She teaches graduate classes at Columbia University and is the best there is in the field of speculative biology and evolution. And she has… Well, she will be accompanying you on this expedition.”
    Like hell she will . It was then that his brain connected all the dots. He knew her by reputation and by a single photograph. He’d seen her profile picture on the dust jacket of a book he’d once noticed lying open on his wife’s desk. It was all about evolution and the future of mankind, that sort of bullshit, but he could not recall what the title was. Sharon was always reading one textbook or another, and he still had not cleared them out of the home they once shared. The task still waited for him back in Texas. Whether or not he would ever go back there, he did not know. Nor did he care. Sharon was an anthropologist by trade, specifically an expert in the field of Bronze-Age man. And it was something, of which, she constantly reminded him just how well he fit in with her chosen subject matter’s knuckle-dragging ways. She used to tease him about being a direct descendant of the missing link in the chain of evolution. He rather enjoyed proving her right, too, and he continued to prove her right by licking his lips and giving Dr. Martinez a leering wink.
    She glanced away with the subtle wrinkling of her nose showing her disgust.
    “We work alone,” Cutter said, hiding a private smile. He interlocked his fingers behind his head and tilted back in his chair.
    “That is not at all possible,” Wayland said as he scratched his neck, just under his jawline.
    Leaning forward, Cutter pulled back his hair and let his hands slip off his head and come crashing down hard on the tabletop. Water in the tall glass next to him splashed out and spattered on the conference room table. He glanced down at the mess and wiped the stippled droplets with his middle