CHAPTER 56

Dad sliced through the net with his enormous knife.

Seriously. The thing is the size of Pinocchio’s nose when he’s been fibbing.

Guy Dubonnet Merck and his men spilled out of their tangled trap like limes out of a bag with a hole in the bottom.

“Merci, Dr. Kidd. Merci,” said Merck as he creaked up from the ground on wobbly legs and dusted off his khaki riding pants. “Has anyone seen my hat?”

One of his henchmen handed Merck his French Foreign Legion cap.

“Somehow, it ended up in my shoe, mon ami,” the guy said. “Je suis désolé.”

“You should be sorry!” said Merck, slapping the flapped hat against his arm to air it out. “Now it smells like fromage!”

That’s when I really missed Storm. She would’ve told me fromage meant “cheese.”

Beck and I had already done a quick survey of the scene. When the high priest and his cult buddies took off, they’d grabbed all of Merck’s crew’s weapons. Of course, all we had was Dad’s hunting knife.

Did I mention the thing is ginormous?

Advantage Kidd Family.

“Before we let you and your assorted thugs leave this rain forest—forever,” said Dad, seething with rage, “we need to know everything you know.”

“Why?” asked Merck. “I was a very bad student in school. I almost flunked French, and I am, how you say, French.”

“The only information I require from you, Monsieur Merck, has to do with my daughter Storm.” Dad’s temper was flaring hotter than a meteor that had just hit Earth’s atmosphere.

(I wonder if Beck and I got our amazing Twin Tirade talents from Dad.)

“Where did they take her?” Dad demanded.

“To the temple that she saw on the secret map,” said Merck quickly.

Dad’s face was maybe an inch from Merck’s. The knife? It was pretty close to the skeevy guy’s scrawny neck.

Merck spilled everything he knew as fast as he could. “The man in the headdress, the nasty gentleman who was going to cut out my heart and offer it to the sun god first thing tomorrow morning, he knows your daughter can take him and his followers the ‘final distance’ to the Lost City of Gold. Juan Carlos Rojas has given these cuckoo birds who call themselves the New Incas everything they need to reclaim the treasure and glory of their vanquished ancestors—your daughter with the map in her head, the jeweled staff, the sacred headpiece, and, of course, the brilliant archaeologist Nathan Collier!”

“Excuse me?” said Tommy, chuffing a laugh. “Who told them that Collier was brilliant?”

“The guy’s totally lame,” said Beck.

“He couldn’t find a watermelon in a washtub,” I said. “Once, Nathan Collier saw a sign that said ‘Disneyland, Left,’ so he turned around and went home.”

I could’ve gone on snapping Collier all day.

But Dad was glaring at me.