15th February, 11:30 p.m.
Somewhere in the Andes mountains,

Gunshots rang. A bullet pierced thin armor and lodged itself into the right thigh of Gunther. He grunted, surprisingly resistant for a man his age; the soldier kept returning fire while running backwards with his limp.

The enemies had arrived just moments ago when the team was just about to stop – Professor Downing was lagging behind again. Now he was forced to run, for his life. Snow and storm didn't matter now for the old man, he ran fast with Langston, hoping to get away far enough while Chloe and Gunther provided cover.

"Guther! Can you keep on moving?" Chloe shouted across the blazing symphony of gunfire and snowstorm.
"Does it look like I have a choice?"
Gunter was still moving across the knee-deep snow, thigh burning with the pain of an open wound, ice scraping his bare flesh every step he took.

Their enemies – blood-thirsty mercenaries, undisciplined by all means, chased them down like bloodhounds on the hunt. The mercenaries were just foot soldiers and frontline dummies for an elite troop of soldiers that followed behind them, only about twenty or so.

Hollis Randock, the pack leader of the mercenary sat shotgun to one of his goons in a small copter, covering miles of snowy grounds in a matter of minutes from the raided camp. Along with the other ring leaders, he rode from the previous excavation site, delayed by about five hours from where Chloe was now.

He sent a search team, or more exactly, he sent his hunting packahead, set to capture or kill whoever they're told to find. Now that Chloe is pinned and outgunned, Hollis can speed down the way towards them, anticipating an easy capture and reward.

Gunther kept his fingers tight around the trigger, his machine guns shooting out short bursts of rounds from both his hands. Three mercenaries dropped dead just a few meters in front of him. Lucky shot.He thought, quickly reloading both of his guns without wasting a second.

They didn't have much to go – the mountain range didn't provide a lot of travelling road, throwing in jagged cliffs and unstable snow-covered platforms. It's tough enough to traverse the hazardous terrain, and it's overkill when a rally of mercenaries come attacking with heavy gear and weaponry.

"Chloe, where're we headin' to?"
Gunther shouted out, realizing that he was loading his last clip. Professor Downing and Langston were somewhere behind them, far away from the fire, he hoped.

Out of the blurry blizzard, Chloe suddenly fell beside Gunther with a loud crash into the snow, whipping up large chunks of cold ice. A figure appeared from where Chloe was 'thrown'; the creature was huge, probably about six and a half foot tall, maybe even more, with bulging muscles and steroid-induced pumping veins.

Stepping into Gunther's visibility range, it was clear that the thing was no creature, but a mercenary three times the size and badass-ness of the normal kind. He wore thick equipment – snow gears and webbing, but the most prominent thing of all was the gun he was holding.

That psycho of a human held a PKM heavy machine gun, a freaking gun meant to be fired from a pod on the ground, clearly too heavy for a soldier to carry. The man was walking around with it as if it were a pump-action shotgun.

"What the hell?"
Before Gunther could finish taking in the immense size of the mercenary, he was hit hard on his chin by an uppercut from the elbow. Falling hard onto the snow, Gunther shot up his gun in reflex and let loose a short burst of rounds at the mercenary.

The shots were futile, and he was hit again, in the gut, by the man before he even fell flat to the ground. Blood spewed in chunks from his mouth, coughing out bits of red and warm red liquid that tasted metallic when it touched his tongue. He squinted in pain and saw his snow-white suit all covered in blood, with a dark black shadow on top of him. "D-damn it, Ch-Chloe?" was all that he could ask before the final blow came onto his forehead – a devastating smash from the butt of the gun that came down with a sickening 'crack'.

Gunther was gone, and it was Chloe's turn as she slowly woke up from her fall, seeing nothing but a blur of a huge creature with a large, bloody gun on his hands.

17th February, 5:00 a.m.
An airport somewhere in Colorado

Nate packed up the last of the equipments the team needed for the long journey ahead. The cargo plane was more than enough to carry a load of equipments that were by far puny compared to the tank-sized crates that lined the cargo hold.

He was just about to secure the ropes to the floor when a loud booming voice called out from behind, at the plane's cargo door.

"Draky! How's it goin', man?" the guy walked into the plane with loud strides, his steel-sole boots clanking with every step. Nate turned around slowly and gave a worried smile, surprised by the visitor.

"Luther! Man! ...what're you doing here?" he said, nervously glancing back and forth between Luther and the cargo hold. "Aren't you suppose to be...up there working up the pilot's cabin? Or something?" he sounded pitchy like the time he got caught red-handed by Elena when he lied to her about going somewhere else on the night of their supposed date.

Luther Point walked up to his old pal and patted, or more likely slapped, grabbed and squeezed Nate's shoulders happily to which Nate replied with a squeal and a painful smile.

"Lutherrrrrr..." he squeaked, trying hard to pry off the hands of a pro-wrestler turned pilot off his aching shoulders. The guy made it a habit of doing that whenever he met Nate, and that was exactly the reason why Nate wanted to keep their conversation on the phone, not face to face in a fit of pain.

The pilot laughed and stepped aside as Sully came on board, just in time to see Nate wince in pain. "Where've you been?" Nate asked, still wincing from his pain, rolling his shoulders as he talked. Sully took his cigar from his mouth and held it by his side, laughing in his usual deep voice.

"What did I tell ya? He's still a Nancy after all these years."
Luther remarked, shoving his elbow lightly at Sully's arm. The old man took out a ten-dollar bill and gave it over to Luther, then the pilot left with a wide grin on his wrinkled face.
"Sully!"
Nate yelled in annoyance.

"You had me going there kid, I really thought that you could take that hit. Now you owe me ten dollars for that!"
Sully said in a tone of genuine disappointment.

"You're a real pal, you know that?"
"Only the best one, kid."
Sully chuckled. "Only the best one."

After much shoulder-rolling, Nate locked the final clamps of the equipments to the floor; Sully was strapping himself on the seat, ready for takeoff when he was suddenly reminded of something. He held back his cigar and yelled at Nate, who was on the other end of the hold,
"Hey, Nate! You sure Elena's fine by herself?"

A reply came from across, less loud compared to Sully, but still audible. Nate was adjusting his straps when he yelled back,

"Damnit, Sully, you don't have to shout in here, I can hear you! She'll be okay, just reaching for a couple of contacts in South America about the expedition! I saw her off yesterday morning at the airport on a flight to Jamaica! Ah, don't worry about her."

Sully pulled his cigar to his mouth and hesitated again,
"I don't know, Nate. Something tells me that the place's...hinky."
"It's not a Nazi u-boat, Sully. Relax."

Sully said to himself,
"I got a girl back there in Rio, a pretty looker. Stole all my money and left me an empty wallet and my pants!"
"Seriously. A hooker stole your clothes?" Nate said, pathetically.
"A girlfriend, Nate. There's a big difference."
"You sure, Sully? I think your eyesight's blurry."

Sully just waved his hand in dismissal and smoked his cigar, not before giving a soft chuckle. The cargo ramp closed and Luther's voice crackled through the intercom,
"Hold on tight, ladies, it's gonna be a long ride from here to Brazil!" the word 'Brazil' being given a heavier importance in tone.

And just like that, after a day of research, Nate and Sully packed up their bags and set flight for the search and rescue of Chloe. Sully looked around and asked,
"You think we're gonna find the treasure, Nate?"

Unfortunately for Sully, his friend was deep in thoughts in the new leather-bound notebook he got the day before, scouring through pages and words of information he noted.

Nate stopped flipping pages and stared, transfixed, at the last page of the book, containing a small piece of old paper with a picture of an intricate ornament with a circular orb in the center. The words written weren't like anything anyone have seen, but beside it was thin black words scribbled in English.

He whispered under his breath in amazement,

"Yagotipotl...the Blood of Coatl..."