Fly sighed. “So, who’s gone?”
“Lechuza and Flash. The Reavers, Bondo, Twister, and Easy.”
“And the rest of the team?”
“Sleeping. You and that pair have drained the energy out of all of us. I’ve never been this tired in my life, not even after Hell Week. Those visions were brutal. It’s hard to wrap my mind around this stuff. But I will do anything, fight anything to protect my family and my sweet Maddy.”
Fly nodded, some of his foul mood dissipating after Shark framed why they were here, and there was the envy again, the kind he’d felt on the balcony. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“So, what’s up? You deduced anything or are you down here to just simply work out?”
“I’m frustrated as hell. So, no, smart ass, no deductions. Keep poking.”
Shark laughed softly, deep water in the sound. “Instead of swinging at me, punching a bag might help you loosen up those stuck mind muscles.”
“It’s called Default Mode Network.”
Shark just stared at him.
“The mindless act unlocks your brain and helps with creative incubation, allowing your subconscious to piece together problems without the stress of actively thinking.”
“Yeah, I know what it is, brainiac, but I just call it letting-my-mind-wander.” He crossed to a rack, grabbing at supplies. “Let’s get you taped and gloved. I’ll spot you.”
Moments later, Fly punched the bag. A sharp left hook.
Fact One: She had the Tumi.
“Your bio-electric field is spiking like a dying battery. You're thinking too hard. Stop hunting the fish and just let it swim into your mouth.”
Fly reset his stance, breathing through his nose. His mind was a hyper-threaded processor running too hot. He forced himself to stop hunting for the answer, letting his gaze go soft on the black vinyl. He released a flurry of rapid-fire punches until he was breathing hard. The heavy leather absorbed each strike, but the shockwaves traveled straight into Shark’s braced chest.
“Ooh, baby Lieutenant, I felt those,” Shark said, his eyes gleaming with that unsettling, predatory focus. “You said you need a sounding board, and man, I know turbulence when I feel it. My skin is practically buzzing. You’re thrashing enough water to get my lateral lines tingling.”
“Shut up.”
“You didn’t bring me down here for me to shut my toothy mouth.” Shark grinned, leaning into the bag to steady it. “Your heart is hammering, Fly. I can hear the valves snapping from here. But there's no blood in the water yet. Stop teasing me. Fucking let go of your brain, work the bag, and let your body find the rhythm.”
He stopped trying to think about the Tumi. Instead, he let his mind drift to the smell of old paper from the books he’d fallen asleep on. He thought about the phantom blood of Cisco’s scar, red and ancient.Thud. Thud.He thought about the primordial, humid air of the Andes and how magnificent that white owl encased in silver had looked while dropping the effigy into Lechuza’s waiting hand.
Fly glared at Shark, then decided he was the one being a dick. He hit the bag like his life depended on it, combinations, jabs, cross punches.Crack. Crack. Thud.The shockwave rippled through the heavy vinyl, and Shark rolled his shoulders as if shaking off a wake.
“Better,” Shark murmured, his eyes tracking the micro-movements of Fly’s muscles. Fly ignored the banter, letting his focus dissolve entirely. The room blurred. The trapdoor to his deeper consciousness swung wide, and his endemic pattern-recognition began operating in the dark. Behind his shoulder blades, the air grew heavy, static-charged. A faint, ghostly rustle of feathers echoed in the small room as incorporeal wings unfurled, their ethereal down catching an invisible updraft.
Fly threw a brutal body blow. The physical exertion was a chisel, scraping away the useless historical noise. The Veil. The lost metal still called to the mortal wound.
“Oh, yeah, the bird’s waking up,” Shark taunted playfully, his head tilting as if listening to the rustle of the lucent wings. “I can feel the air pressure dropping in the room. You’re building a storm, Lieutenant. Work it out.”
Another combination. Left, right, slip, hook. The rhythm was pure geometry now. Fly’s Visionary mind mapped the ancient font of power, the one Lechuza described to him when it had opened. He saw the basin. He saw the pedestal. The whirling chakana glyphs, the blue light, the portal opening. He saw the font as it was now, solid, impenetrable rock to lock the conquistadors out forever.
Fly paused, gloves resting against the sweating vinyl of the bag, his chest heaving. The wings behind him flared, wide and restless, casting long, impossible shadows against the wall.
“Why did you stop?” Shark complained, tapping the bag. “The vibrations were just getting sweet. You were finally flowing.”
“Everything else survived,” Fly whispered, his eyes wide, staring right through Shark. His mind pieced the negative space of history together. “The quipu survived. The owl survived. The sacred bundle survived. Every single artifact from that day is accounted for. The Tumi has no notation in any texts. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”
Shark lowered his hands from the bag, his playful demeanor sharpening into genuine curiosity. “So someone stole it before the dust settled?”
Fact One: She had the Tumi.
