The shadowy jungle grew brighter ahead. It was the forest’s edge. Sam slowed his approach. Now was not the time to be caught. He signaled the others to hang back. Sam alone crept the last of the way. Just as he was fingering away a splayed leaf of a jungle fern, a familiar voice reached him.
“Leave the boy alone, Otera! There’s no reason to hurt him.”
Uncle Hank!
Sam pulled back the leaf to view the open meadow beyond. The large military helicopter squatted like some monstrous locust upon the field of quinoa. But closer still was a sight that froze Sam’s blood. His uncle stood before a man dressed in a monk’s habit, but the man was no disciple of god. He bore in his right fist a large pistol. Sam, familiar with guns, recognized it as a .357 Spanish Astra. It was a weapon capable of stopping a charging bull—and it was pointed at his uncle’s chest.
Over his uncle’s shoulder, Sam spotted a third member of this party. It was Norman! The photographer’s face was pale with fear.
The man named Otera glared at Sam’s uncle. “Since when are you the one giving orders here?” He suddenly swung his gun and viciously struck Norman across the face. The photographer fell to his knees, blood welling from a cut on his brow.
“Leave him alone!” Uncle Hank said, stepping around to shield Norman.
Otera, his back now slightly turned to Sam, raised his pistol. “I think you’ve outlived your usefulness, old man. From the messages, these students know where the gold is hidden. So with this fellow here, I see no need to keep you around.” Sam distinctly heard the gun cock.
Oh, God! Frantic, Sam slid from his hiding place and ran across the wet field.
The motion drew his uncle’s attention. Henry’s eyes widened in surprise. Sam saw his uncle struggle to stifle any further reaction—but even this small response was noticed.
Otera pivoted around just as Sam reached him, gun at chest level. Sam yelled and leaped at him, then an explosion of gunfire stung his ears. Sam was flung backward, away from his uncle’s captor. He landed in the meadow on his back.
“No!” he heard his uncle yell.
Sam tried to push to his elbows, but he found he could not move. Not even breathe. It felt as if some huge weight sat on his chest. Pain lanced out in all directions. From the corner of his eye, he saw his uncle leap on the back of the robed gunman, tackling and crushing him to the ground.
Sam smiled at the old man’s fierceness. Good for you, Uncle Hank.
Then all went black.
From a couple meters away, Maggie had spotted Sam suddenly burst from his hiding place and out into the open. What was the damned fool doing? She hurried forward with Denal beside her. As she reached Sam’s hiding place, the crack of a single gunshot sounded from beyond the leafy fern.
Panicked, Maggie ripped away the fronds. She saw Sam collapsed in the flattened meadow, his arms twitching spastically. Even from her hiding place, she could see a gout of blood welling from a huge chest wound. Blind to all else, she ran from cover. She would no longer hide in a ditch while a friend died. “Sam!”
As she ran, she finally noticed the struggle beyond the Texan’s body. It made no sense. The professor sat on the back of a struggling monk. The gun, still smoking in the wet grass, was just beyond the man’s reach. Suddenly, as if in a dream, Norman appeared out of nowhere. He bore a huge red rock over his head. He brought it down with a resounding blow atop the pinned man’s head. The man went limp, and Professor Conklin climbed off him.
It was then a race to see who could reach Sam first.
Sam’s uncle won. He fell to his knees beside his nephew. “Oh, no… oh, God!”
Norman and Maggie reached him at the same time.
Falling to his hands and knees, Norman reached and checked for a pulse. Maggie sank more slowly. She saw the glassy way Sam stared up at the skies. She knew no one was there; his eyes were empty.
Norman just confirmed it. “He’s dead.”
At gunpoint, Joan crossed toward the wall of chains. She knew if she allowed herself to be bound to that dungeon wall that she was a dead woman; any hope of escape would be gone. Her mind spun on various plans and scenarios. Only one idea came to mind.
As she was prodded by Friar Carlos’s pistol, her fingers clutched her collar. She slipped out the plastic stay that held her collar stiff and scraped one of the soft teardrop samples of Substance Z into her palm. She had to time this right.
On the way toward the wall, she sidled near the large, bare-chested monk who still stoked the flaming brazier. He leaned over his handiwork, stirring the glowing coals with one of the iron brands. Joan noted the slight bubble of drool at the corner of his lips. The thick-limbed brute clearly lusted to test his irons on her flesh. He caught her staring and grinned, a flash of desire.
Joan suddenly felt no guilt for what she was about to do.
Nudging past him, she flicked the pebble of metal into the brazier, then turned her back and ducked—and lucky that she did. The explosion was more forceful than she had expected. She was thrown forward, crashing to the stone floor, and skidded on hands and knees. Her back burned. The smell of singed silk struck her nose. She rolled around, twisting her sore back to the cool stone.
Behind her, the brazier was a twisted ruin. The iron brands were scattered; one was even impaled through a wooden support pillar. The echo of the explosion slowly died in her ears, the ringing replaced with a pained howling. Her gaze shifted to the large monk. He lay on his back several meters away. His bare chest was charred and blistered. A hand rose and knocked a coal from his belly with a groan. The man sat up, one side of his face blackened. At first, Joan thought it was just soot; then the man cried out, and his burned skin split open, raw and red. Blood ran down his neck.
Oh, God. She turned her face away.
Carlos, unharmed, was already on his feet. He crossed to a telephone on the wall and barked in Spanish. A call for help. Once done, he slammed the receiver down and stepped over the wounded man. The monk clutched at Carlos’s pant leg, but the friar shook him loose and crossed to Joan.
He pointed his gun. “Get up.”
Joan pulled to her feet, gasping as her singed shirt peeled from her back. Carlos frowned and forced Joan around so he could view her injuries. “You’ll live,” he said.
“But for how long?” Joan asked with a sour look. “Until the next time you decide to kill me?” Joan waved a hand around the room. “What just happened?”
Carlos scowled at the man still moaning on the floor. “An apprentice. It seems he has much to learn still.”
Joan bowed her head, hiding her grim satisfaction. Carlos blamed the monk for the explosion. Good. Now for the next step in her plan. At her collar, she scraped a second dollop of gold under a fingernail, then reached to her pocket. She fingered out the cigarette Carlos had given her yesterday. With trembling fingers, she brought it to her lips. “Do you mind?” she asked, raising her face.
He frowned harshly at the moaning monk. “Go ahead. We’ve got a few minutes until someone comes for him.” He reached out, and a lighter appeared in his fingers.
Bending, she lit the cigarette, then nodded her thanks. She took a long drag, sighing appreciatively and loudly. “That’s better,” she said heavily, exhaling in Carlos’s direction.
Joan saw him eye the glowing tip of her cigarette. His pupils dilated at the scent of nicotine.
She took a second drag, then passed him the cigarette, sighing out the smoke languidly. “Here. Thanks. But that’s enough for me.”
He accepted her offering with a tight smile. “Afraid for your health?”
She shrugged, too tense to trust her voice. She spotted the glint of gold on the underside of the cigarette, a quarter inch from its glowing tip. “Enjoy,” she finally said.
Carlos held up the cigarette in a salute of thanks. Then he grinned and drew it to his lips. Joan took a small step away, turning her shoulders slightly.
She watched the friar take a long drag on the cigarette. Its end grew red hot as it burned toward the filter. Joan swung away as the white paper flamed toward the smear of gold.
The explosion this time was not as severe.
Still, it threw her to her knees.
Joan twisted around, her head ringing with the blast. Carlos still stood, but his face was a cratered, smoking ruin. He fell backward, landing atop the burned monk, who now screamed in horror.
Joan rolled to her feet and recovered the friar’s Glock from the floor. She crossed to the wailing monk. Crouching, she roughly checked his burns. Third degree over sixty percent of his body. He thrashed from her touch, crying out. She stood. He was a dead man, but didn’t know it yet. He would not survive these burns. “Not so fun playing with fire, is it?” she mumbled.
She raised her pistol and aimed between his eyes. The monk stared at her in terror, then fainted away. Sighing, she lowered the Glock. She couldn’t do it, not even to give him a quick end. She moved away.
Time was crucial. She had a gun and a remaining sliver of gold. Nothing must stop her from escaping. She hefted the pistol and stepped clear of the two prone bodies. She eyed the friar’s corpse for a moment.
“You were right, Carlos,” she said, turning to the door. “Smoking kills.”
Maggie touched Henry’s shoulder as he knelt over his nephew’s body. His shoulders were wracked with painful sobs. Maggie knew no words could ease his pain. Her years in Belfast had taught her that much. On both sides of the fighting, Irish and English, Catholic and Protestant, there were just grieving mothers and fathers. It was all so stupid. So insane.
Behind her, gunfire continued to bark throughout the jungle, though by now it had died to sporadic fits. The most intense fighting had already ended. The Incas had no prayer against such armament.
She stared at Sam, unable to look at the ragged wound, the blood. She found her gaze resting on his face. His Stetson had been knocked off when he fell. He seemed almost naked without it. His tousled sandy hair was mussed and unkempt, like he was just sleeping. She reached and touched a lanky lock, tucking it behind an ear. Tears she had been holding back finally began to flow. Her vision blurred.