They exit the truck. Mick climbs into the back of the pickup and unhooks the scuba tanks from the storage racks. He hands Dominique a buoyancy-control vest with an air tank and regulator already attached. “Have you ever done any night diving?”

“About two years ago. How long a walk is it to the cenote?”

“A good mile. You’ll probably be more comfortable wearing your tank.”

She puts on the vest and tank, then takes the neoprene wet suits from him as he climbs down. Mick secures his own BCD vest, then tosses the equipment bag over his shoulder and picks up the two spare tanks of air. “Follow me.”

He tramples forward into the thicket, Dominique trudging in after him. Within minutes, swarms of mosquitoes are buzzing past their ears, feeding off their sweat. Following the remains of an overgrown footpath, they push their way through the dense jungle foliage while insects and thorns tear at their skin. The vegetation eventually yields to a heavily wooded area, the marshy soil becoming more rocky. They struggle up a five-foot rise, and suddenly the stars reappear above their heads.

They are standing on a fifteen-foot-wide compressed-stone pathway, an ancient sacbe constructed a thousand years ago by the Maya.

Mick lowers the air tanks, rubbing his aching shoulders. “To the left is the sacred cenote, to the right the Kukulcan pyramid. You okay?”

“I feel like a pack mule. How much farther?”

“Two hundred yards. Come on.”

They continue to the left, arriving five minutes later at the rim of the immense limestone pit, its silent, dark waters reflecting the lunar light.

Dominique looks down, estimating the drop to be a good fifty feet. Her heart races. Why the hell am I doing this? She turns as five dark-skinned Mayan elders emerge from the woods.

“These are friends,” Mick says. “H’Menes, Mayan wise men. They are descendants of the Sh’Tol brethren, a sacred society that escaped the wrath of the Spaniards over five centuries ago. They’re here to help us.”

As he climbs into his wet suit, Mick speaks to a white-haired Mayan in an ancient tongue. The other elders remove a length of rope and several underwater flashlights from the equipment bag.

Dominique turns her back to the group and slips out of her sweatshirt, quickly pulling the tight wet suit over her one-piece bathing suit.

Mick calls her over, a concerned look on his face. “Dom, this is Ocelo, a Mayan priest. Ocelo says a man has been seen in Chichén Itza, asking questions about our whereabouts. He describes the stranger as an American, with red hair and a muscular build.”

“Raymond? Oh, shit—”

“Dom, tell me the truth. Did you—”

“Mick, I swear, I haven’t contacted Foletta or Borgia or anyone else since I’ve been here.”