Excavation

Another groan flowed from Sam.



The guard stared into the temple, mouth gaped open in surprise. He crossed himself hurriedly.



“He’s breathing,” Henry said. He stepped toward the entrance.



Maggie grabbed his elbow. “Be careful. I don’t know if we should interfere yet.” Her words were strained, speaking while holding her breath. Dare she hope…?



Sam pushed to one elbow. His eyes were unfocused. His other arm rose to swipe at his face, as if brushing away cobwebs. He moaned slightly, wincing.



Henry reached a hand out. “Sam?”



He seemed to focus on the voice, coughing to clear his lungs. “Un… Uncle Hank?” Sam shoved up, weaving slightly. His eyes finally seemed to focus. “God… my head.”



“Move slowly, Sam,” Maggie urged. “Take it easy.”



Sam swung his feet to the floor with another groan. “I could use a bucketful of aspirin.” He finally seemed to realize where he was. He craned his neck and stared up at the twined ball of golden strands. “What am I doing here?”



“You don’t remember?” Maggie asked, concerned. He sounded lucid, but was there some sustained damage?



Sam frowned at his chest. The fingers of his right hand trailed to his bullet-torn vest. He stuck a finger through the hole, then pulled open his vest. There was no wound. “I was shot.” His statement had the edge of a question.



Maggie nodded. “You died, but the temple cured you.”



“Died?”



Both Maggie and Henry nodded.



Sam pushed to his feet, stumbled a step, then caught himself. “Whoa.” He moved more slowly, deliberately, concentrating. “For a dead man, I guess I shouldn’t complain about a few aches and pains.” He crossed toward them.



Henry met Sam at the entrance and pulled his nephew to him. Their embrace was awkward due to the pistol in the professor’s right hand. “Oh, God, Sam, I thought I lost you,” he said, his eyes welling with tears.



Sam hugged his uncle fiercely, deeply.



Maggie smiled. She wiped at her own cheeks, then knelt by the stretcher and retrieved Sam’s Stetson.



Henry pulled away, rubbing at his eyes. “I couldn’t face losing you, too.”



“And you don’t have to,” Sam said, swiping a hand through his hair.



Maggie held out his hat. “Here. You dropped something.”



He took it, wearing a crooked smile, awkward, half-embarrassed. He slipped it to his head. “Thanks.”



“Just don’t die again,” she warned, reaching and straightening the brim.



“I’ll try not to.” He leaned toward her as she adjusted his hat, staring into her eyes.



She didn’t pull away from him, but she didn’t move closer either. She was too conscious of the professor’s presence and the weight of the rifle over her left shoulder. They stared for too long, and the moment began slipping away. Maggie gritted her teeth. To hell with her fears! She reached toward him—but Sam suddenly turned away.



A new voice suddenly barked from the darkness behind them, “Drop your weapons!” A figure stepped into the edge of the torchlight. He held Denal in his arms. The boy’s mouth was clamped tightly shut, a long military dagger at his throat. The stainless-steel blade reflected the glow of the torches. The boy’s eyes were wide with terror.



“Otera!” Henry hissed.



Norman fled through the jungle, crashing through the underbrush. His vision was blurred by tears. He attempted halfheartedly to keep his flight quiet, but branches snapped and dried leaves crunched underfoot. Still, he stumbled on—in truth, he did not care who heard him any longer.



Again he pictured the friar leaping to his feet from the grassy meadow. The bastard had been playing possum, lying in wait for Norman and Denal as the pair had crossed toward the helicopter. The friar had grabbed the boy before Norman could react, twin blades flashing out from wrist sheaths. Norman’s response was pure animal instinct. He had leaped away from his attacker, diving into the jungle and racing away.



Only after his panicked heart had slowed a few beats did Norman recognize the cowardice of his act. He had abandoned Denal. And then he’d not even attempted to free the boy.



Logically, in his mind, Norman could justify his action. He had no weapons. Any attempt at rescue would surely have gotten them both killed. But in his heart, Norman knew better. His flight had been pure cowardice. He recalled the terror in Denal’s wide eyes. What had he done?



Fresh tears flowed, almost blinding him.



Suddenly the jungle fell away around him. The gloom of the forest broke into brightness. Norman stumbled to a stop, brushing at his eyes. When his vision cleared, he gasped in horror at the sight.



A small clearing had been blasted into the jungle by grenade and gunfire. Bodies lay strewn all around, torn and broken. Both men and women. All Inca. The smell gagged him as he stumbled back: blood and excrement and fear.



“Oh, God…” Norman moaned.



Flies already lay thick among the corpses, buzzing and flitting around the clearing.



Then suddenly on his left, a huge shape rose up, looming over him, the dead coming to claim him. Norman spun to face the new threat. He would no longer flee. He could no longer flee. Exhausted and hopeless, he fell to his knees.



He raised his face as a huge spear was lifted in threat, its golden blade shining in the brightness overhead.



Norman didn’t flinch.



I’m sorry, Denal.



Henry stepped toward Otera, gun raised. “Let him go!”



The trapped boy’s limbs trembled as the knife was pressed harder to his tender throat. A trickle of blood ran down his neck. “Don’t try it, Professor. Get back! Or I cut this boy open from neck to belly.”



Fighting back a curse, Henry retreated a step.



The friar’s eyes were wild and fierce. “Do as I say, and everyone lives! I don’t care about you or the boy. All I care about is the gold. I take it with me, and you all stay here. A fair bargain, yes?”



They hesitated. Henry glanced to Maggie, then to Sam. “Maybe we should do as he says,” he whispered.



Maggie’s eyes narrowed. She stepped to the side and spoke to the friar, her voice fierce. “Swear on it! Swear on your cross that you’ll let us go.”



Scowling, Otera touched his silver crucifix. “I swear.”



Maggie studied the man for a long breath, then carefully placed down her weapon. Henry did the same. The group then backed a few steps away.



Otera crossed to their abandoned weapons, then shoved Denal toward them.



The boy gasped and flew to Maggie’s side.



The friar returned his long dagger to a hidden wrist sheath. Henry now understood how the man had managed to escape his ropes. He mentally kicked himself. None of them had thought to search the unconscious man.



Grinning, Otera crouched and retrieved his pistol. He passed the rifle to the guard who still knelt to the side of the passage. But the man refused to take it. He just stared numbly into the temple, lips moving in silent prayer.



Otera stood and finally swung to face the room himself. He froze, then stumbled back, overwhelmed. His face glowed in the golden light. A wide smile stretched his lips. “Dios mio…!” When he turned back to them, his eyes were huge.



“Impressive, isn’t it?” Sam said.



The friar squinted against the torches’ glare. He finally seemed to recognize the Texan. “I… I thought I killed you,” he said with a frown.



Sam shrugged. “It didn’t take.”



Otera glanced to the cave of gold, then back to them. He leveled his gun. “I don’t know how you survived. But this time, I’ll make sure you die. All of you!”



Maggie stepped between the gunman and Sam. “You swore an oath! On your cross!”



Otera reached with his free hand and ripped off the silver crucifix. He tossed it behind him. “The abbot was a fool,” he snarled at them. “Like you all. All this talk of touching the mind of God… pious shit! He never understood the gold’s true potential.”



“Which is what?” Henry asked, stepping beside Maggie.



“To make me rich! For years, I have endured the abbot’s superior airs as he promoted others of pure Spanish blood above me. With this gold, I will no longer be half-Indian, half-Spanish. I will no longer have to bow my head and play the role of the lowly mestizo. I will be reborn a new man.” Otera’s eyes shone brightly with his dream.



Henry moved nearer. “And who do you think you’ll become?”



Otera leveled his pistol at Henry. “Someone everyone respects—a rich man!” He laughed harshly and pulled the trigger.



Henry cringed, gasping and falling back.



But the shot went suddenly awry, striking the roof and casting blue sparks.



As the gun’s blast died away, a new noise was heard. “Aack…” Otera choked and reached for his chest. A bloody spearhead sprouted from between his ribs. The friar was lifted off his feet. Gouts of blood poured from his mouth as he moaned, mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish. His pistol fell with a clatter from his fingers.



Then his head slumped, lolling atop his neck, dead.



His limp body was tossed aside by the spear-bearer.



From behind him, a large figure stepped into view. He wore singed and torn robes.



“Pachacutec!” Sam cried.



The man suddenly stumbled forward, falling to his knees before the Incan temple. Tears streaked his soot-stained face. “My people…” he mumbled in English. “Gone.”



A second figure appeared out of the darkness behind the man.



“Norman!” Maggie ran up to the photographer. “What happened?”



Norman shook his head, staring at the impaled form of the friar. “I ran into Pachacutec on the trail, amid the slaughter. He was coming to the temple, chasing after those who would violate his god. I convinced him to help.” But there was no satisfaction in the photographer’s voice; his face was ashen.



Norman’s eyes flicked toward Denal. The photographer wore a look of shame. But the boy crossed to Norman and hugged him tightly. “You saved us,” he mumbled into the tall man’s chest.