What to do with the guy in the hole?
Catching a scent of ashy decay, Tommy edged toward the rim and looked down. The high walls were too smooth to climb. Too wide to crab-walk up.
The man stared back, then moved to a corner, folded his hands, and bowed his head in prayer.
Tommy’s hands and feet tingled. The ground tilted. He stepped back from the edge and drew a long breath. He ran his fingers through his hair, locking them behind his head.
Of all days.
Blood trickled down his forearm. He pushed up his guayabera’s cuff and found a fresh gash.
He walked through the mist to where the guy had been. A neat row of quarter-sized holes punctured the ground. Tommy crouched, poked a finger into one, and scooped out dark soil. He rolled the dirt between his fingers and brought it to his nose, breathing in the smell of a struck match.
A splotch of yellow lay in a bush. Tommy pulled out a pistol-shaped device with an electronic screen on top. He turned it over. The glass lens at the muzzle was smeared with soil.
A prayer rose from the hole.

A half hour earlier, down at the hotel, Tommy rounded a corner into reception. He almost bumped into a gringa and tried to slip past her. She matched him, holding up a finger.

“Thank God, someone who speaks English.”

“Hi,” Tommy said. “Can I help you?”

“I sure hope so.”

She unfolded a creased sheet of paper on a café table. “I’m planning a hike, but I’ve heard some concerning things.”

He looked at the worn page. A map with graphs and numbers along its borders, dated May 1976. At the top, it read “Grupo Abundancia.”

She planted a manicured finger and traced a line, her slim gold ring flashing. “I’ve heard there might be thieves up there.”

Tommy leaned in. The mountain was unmistakable—the curve of the stream at its base was his. It could’ve been a map from the Internet, printed on scrap paper.

She leaned closer. “Maybe we could take a quick walk up there together?”

“That’s private property. Just an old building up there. Real safety hazard.” He gestured off. “Reception can help you with plenty of hiking options.”

Tommy gave his standard smile and walked away. But, he couldn’t have this lady—or anyone—wandering up to the old hotel. Lawsuit waiting to happen.

Ten minutes later, Tommy walked down the main road with a handmade Private Property sign under his arm and a coil of clothesline.

At the turnoff where the red-brown lane veered up into the trees, he strung the sign between two trunks. Not much of a barrier, but enough to deter.

A buzzing sound.

Tommy looked up, straining for direction: East—beyond his property line.

He checked his phone; there was still over an hour until the call.

Ducking under the rope, he followed the sound up the red road.

The buzzing came and went as he climbed through pines and oaks, along grasses and ferns reclaiming the old track. The road showed its age—cracks, potholes, nature having its say. Mist thickened, obscuring the town of San Jacinto and the Honduran border beyond the billowy grey-white.

Then—a new sound. Close: a chik-chik-chik, something striking rock.

Tommy moved toward it. Higher. Near the top, beneath the old hotel veiled in mist, a red blur moved, bobbing with the rhythm of the metallic chik-chik-chik.

Tommy neared. The blur sharpened: a man in a red shirt twisted a handled rod into the ground, scraped soil from the tip, and dropped it into a plastic bag.

As Tommy was about to call out, the man spun around. He was slight and olive-skinned.

Their eyes locked.

The man raised the metal rod like a spear. His eyes flicked down.

Tommy followed his gaze to the labeled bags of soil inches from Tommy’s feet.

The man charged. Tommy backpedaled. The man barreled at him and whipped the rod back and forth, its pointy end slicing inches from his face. Tommy blocked the rod with a forearm and gripped the shaft. The man yanked it free and thrust it forward, tearing the tip along Tommy’s forearm.

Pain surged up his arm; he reeled back.

The man scooped the soil bags and ran. Tommy chased and tackled him. The man wriggled free, clawing at Tommy’s neck, scrambling to his feet. Tommy lunged up and took him back to the ground, flipping him over, getting him into a headlock. Smelling alcohol.

The guy writhed and kicked.

Tommy got a firmer grip and squeezed harder, his forearm throbbing.

The small man twisted, gasping for air.

Tommy pressed a fist into the strained neck. “It’s over, buddy.”

After futile elbows to Tommy’s ribs, the man went slack.

Tommy released him and stood, stepping back, heart hammering.

He pushed up on all fours, dragging in deep breaths. Rose, staggered forward, grabbed the stick, and ran blind into the brush.

Branches snapped.

A crack of plastic.

A dull thud.