I watch as the American examines his map, his vivid eyes never leaving the browned paper.
The map. The only thing I am here for. I grip the handle of my pistol for reassurance. I stare at Satipo, his eyes fixed hungrily on the fragment of paper.
As he straightens, I brush off the worry and anxiety bottled inside me and draw out the yellowed parchment, handing it to him.
The few fragments of information on it I haven't been able to decifer. I know that they are written in a language beyond my field of understanding.
Jones takes the parchment, and I see him lean forward. He too looks excited.
Soon we set off again. I peer through the trees, and see a shape taking place. The temple. Jones' work is done. I curl my hand around the pistol and cock the gun towards his head. He turns, and suddenly there is a bullwhip in his hand. He reaches out, and I gasp as he flicks the gun out of my grip with sickening ease. Shaking away the pain, I turn and flee, running with no hope of stopping.
Ten minutes later.
I briefly wonder what happened to Satipo. I don't think Jones would have killed him- so one of the Chachapoyans traps must have got him. I feel little grief at his death.
The Hovitos on either side of me lift their hands away. I feel the little pain from the sting of their blowguns as I am thrown forward, dead before I hit the ground.