Tilly Thompson: Treasures Of Lima

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ - ᴛᴀɪᴘᴇɪ ᴛʀᴏᴜʙʟᴇꜱ

ᴛᴀɪᴘᴇɪ, ᴛᴀɪᴡᴀɴ, 1972

Rain. There was no other comforting sound of water droplets raining upon windows creating shadows of warmth afterwards. Or in that case. In an open bar filled with a bunch of locals. Bright on the inside-outside was a white corner filled with loud music camouflaged by people bashing glasses on heads for 'good luck' that clashed like two cymbals crashing each other. The noise echoed inside-out. Very loud compared to the people arguing over a drama. The lights inside were bright enough to let everyone know that they were 'that' bar. The bright neon pink, green and blue colours alongside the many neon lights that were hanged on the wall shone through the glass-like disco balls on Fridays and Saturdays. People were dancing, prancing and throwing their money at the performers in the front. People faded into the background, watching some telenovela on the television about a woman stereotypically slapping a man for supposedly cheating on her. Pathetic. Then the television changed into Casablanca. Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. Classic but boring to most.

Three figures came out of a car, a jeep more like it. Three male figures came bolting out of the jeep only to be quickly drenched from the pouring waters above them. Two whites whilst the other was black. He stood out since he was the tallest out of the bunch. They weren't prepared for the storm because of their clothing and not wearing their raincoats like most people. They brought in two suitcases, one brown the other was sealed shut matte black. The men all ran in before the loud thunderstorms hit them, cascading over the flying plastic bags and the dark gray sky. Avoiding the sudden eye contacts locals were making. The younger blonde boy looked everywhere to find the thing he was so adamant on, finally finding the person he was looking for. Eyes adverted after he alerted them. Finding a girl taking out a new cigarette and lightning it. She wore a white high neck tank top and grey sweats. She wasn't clean that's for sure. Her hair was in a loose low bun and looked drunk. She was the only foreigner there, minding her own business drinking a few beers. The oldest turns to the two and they all followed his lead and walked towards the girl dripping wet. The girl hides her lighter and turns her head to them. Tilly Thompson. New Zealand's number one secret and youngest archaeologist out there. She was not what they expected. Said in the files she was friendlier, kinder and a smooth talker to the men. Maybe not this year or decade. They were playing their Chinese cover of 'Fly me to the moon' from Frank Sinatra so they would need to speak a bit louder than usual.

'Whatever you men are selling. I'm not interested in buying boy-scout cookies from you.'

She says in her cold New Zealand accent, taking a puff and stares at the television of Vietnamese women dancing shirtless making her laugh a bit and made her smoke. The oldest man slicked his hair back and continued to stay. She was definitely the girl that they were looking for but not what they expected.

'Miss, I am Taron Cabrera. This is my younger brother, Luke. We are here from the Hemlock Archeological Conservation Centre in London and we need to talk to you.'

The girl froze in her spot and turns to the men. Luke and he took a seat in front of her and the other man took his step back since he was their bodyguard. Head of the company. CEO. She thought. She kept her composure and stared at them and looked tough. The oldest man was probably around thirty years old. Tall, brown hair and light brown eyes as for his brother who had dark blue eyes, blonde hair and pouty lips, probably from all the whining.

'I already said this once and I'll say it again. Not interested, now get out of here, you're drenching the floors and the owner of this pub isn't one of the nicest men on the planet here.'