The Scorpion's Tail

by Douglas Preston

  In another ten minutes the opening was fully exposed—a crude black hole, about five feet in diameter, boring straight into the mountain.

  “Go,” said the general.

  Woodbridge gestured with her M16, and Nora, Skip, and Corrie went into the mine, following the four soldiers, with the general and Woodbridge behind.

  They’re not going to let us leave this place alive, thought Nora, feeling curiously detached. She glanced at Corrie and saw the same blank expression she’d noticed before. And poor Skip…her heart almost broke thinking of what they’d done to him, how they’d terrorized him. She hoped the end would be quick.

  The tunnel began to slope slightly downhill, forcing them to stoop. There was a scent of dust, and the narrow space was filled with the hollow echo of their feet.

  The soldiers in front stopped. “General?”

  Their lights illuminated an inscription scratched on the tunnel wall:

  J D Gower

  Jul 15 1945

  Nora could see, just beyond the inscription, a makeshift door made of juniper limbs lashed together with rawhide. It was ajar, and it opened into a dark chamber.

  56

  MORWOOD LAY ON his back, head swimming. Watts had continued to keep the attackers at bay, more or less—but with every shot, Morwood winced at the thought of one less round. The attackers had managed to move from cover to cover during the cross fire, and now the two were surrounded, only a short dash across open ground from their foes. But Watts was a hell of a shot, and so far that was the only thing preventing the final, inevitable rush. Morwood had his Glock in hand and—when they came over the wall—he was determined to take at least one out.

  “How’re you doing?” Watts asked.

  “In the Westerns, the odds are always worse than this,” Morwood replied.

  “This ain’t no Western,” said Watts. “But there was once a guy, one of my predecessors as sheriff of Socorro County, name of Elfego Baca. He held off forty cowboys singlehandedly for thirty-three hours, killing four and wounding eight. They made a movie out of that standoff.”

  “He must have been sitting on an arsenal. We don’t have one handy—and they’re waiting for us to run out of ammo. Where are you at?”

  “Got eight rounds left, four in each cylinder.”

  “I’m at seven.”

  A silence. “Maybe,” said Watts slowly, “we should let them think we’ve run out.”

  “How so?”

  “If I pull the trigger on an empty chamber, it makes a distinctive click. We might just fool them that way.”

  Morwood nodded slowly. “And after the last round is fired from my Glock, the slide ejects the spent round—but it makes a different sound from when the slide strips another round from the magazine and chambers it. If they know firearms, it’s a sound they might recognize.”

  “I’d say it’s a safe bet they know firearms.”

  Morwood’s concentration was interrupted by more shooting.

  “It’s worth a try,” said Watts.

  Watts opened the cylinders in both guns and took three rounds out of each. He then shifted them one place over in the cylinder so there was a single empty chamber between the next round and the last three. Morwood, for his part, ejected the Glock’s magazine, leaving a single round chambered, thumbed out the rounds, and slid the empty magazine back in.

  Watts popped up and—waiting for a moment of relative silence—fired a double shot, the second pull falling on an empty chamber, eliciting return fire. He stumbled back down. “Shit!” Blood was dribbling down the side of his head. “The fuckers got my other ear.”

  “At least you’re back in proportion.”

  Watts took off his hat, spattered with blood, a piece of the brim torn off. “And worse, they ruined my hat.”

  “My turn,” Morwood said, crawling along the adobe and—like Watts, waiting for a moment of quiet—raising his head, firing the last round with his left hand. A flurry of shots followed. He quickly pushed the rounds back into the magazine and reinserted it. He didn’t dare rack a round—the sound would tip them off.

  “We’d better wait a bit,” said Watts. “They might be thinking we’ve only got one or two rounds left. So they’ll probably do something to try to provoke us.”

  “Probably a feint, baiting us to fire.”

  Watts nodded. They waited tensely…and then Watts heard the thudding footsteps of someone running.

  He popped up and pulled the trigger twice on a figure running from one piece of cover to another. The second pull was on the empty chamber.

  He ducked back down as more shots followed.

  “Now,” said Morwood, “we engage them in negotiations. That’s what they’d expect if we’d run out of ammo.”

  Watts nodded and called out, “Hey, Fountain!”

  “Too late, Sheriff,” came the reply. “You had your chance!”

  “Look, let’s talk.”

  Silence.

  “We’ve had time to think it over. We can help you!”

  “Not with the crows pecking out your eyes, you can’t.”

  Watts’s voice took on an almost pleading tone. “There’s no need to do anything stupid like killing a sheriff and an FBI agent. That’ll bring down law enforcement on you like a ton of bricks. You know that.”

  “Not likely. We’ve got a thousand square miles of mountains and deserts where we can disappear your remains. Say adios. Maybe our next sheriff will be halfway decent—not a snot-nosed poseur who likes to show off his six-guns.”

  “Bring it on,” said Watts, feigned bravado growing genuine at this insult. “We’ll shoot your ass to pieces.”

  “Sure you will.”

  Morwood heard the rush of feet, and he instantly racked a round into the chamber.

  “This is it!” Watts muttered urgently.

  The two leapt up and began shooting. The six remaining men, who had just started to rush them, were completely stunned by the sudden outpouring of fire. They broke and scattered, heading for cover. Every last shot of Watts’s found a mark, including Fountain: Morwood saw the lawyer spin away under the bullet’s impact, a gout of crimson blossoming before he collapsed into the darkness and out of sight. Firing with his left hand, Morwood was more noisy than he was dangerous, but Watts’s shooting made up for it.

  And then, just like that, it was over. Watts was back down, crouching next to Morwood.

  “We got five, but did you see that guy—Bellingame, or whatever his name is—escape?”

  “I did. Christ, that was some shooting.” He popped out his magazine, examined it, slapped it back in. “I’m out.”

  “I’ve got one round left—for Bellingame. Let’s go get him.”

  Morwood peered over the wall. The headlights from the two trucks still illuminated most of the town, casting long shadows. There were many areas of darkness in which a man could hide.

  Morwood shook his head. “It’s going to be hell smoking him out without calling in the cavalry.”

  “The bastards shot up our car,” said Watts. “So we’ll have to take one of theirs. And I’ll bet that’s exactly what Bellingame’s anticipating. He can’t let us go. The shootout ain’t over yet.”

  And he holstered his empty Colt, then patted the other affectionately.

  57

  A SOLDIER MOVED TO the old juniper door and gave it a push. With a crackle of dry rot it swayed inward, splintered off its hinges, and fell to the ground with a dull clatter.

  “Wait,” said the general.

  The soldiers paused while the general pushed past them, his flashlight beam probing the cloud of dust disturbed by their entrance. As he stepped over the fallen gate, his light played about the room. Nora saw, between pale sheets of falling dust, dazzling flashes of gold and gemstones as the beam roved back and forth, revealing what lay within. There were audible gasps. The general stepped inside, Woodbridge following. Everyone else remained still.

  Nora watched the general move deeper into the treasure c
hamber. His face glowed golden from the light reflected off the glittering heaps. It was a fantastical sight: golden chalices, crosses, monstrances, vestments spun through with threads of precious metal, miters, reliquaries encrusted with gems—all hastily stacked together, without any organization. And surrounding it all sat rotten boxes and burst leather sacks, spilling gold doubloons and palm-size gold and silver bars.

  The general finally looked back at the group, slowly, as if emerging from a dream. “What are you doing, standing around?” he barked. “We’ve got work to do!”

  The soldiers snapped to attention and moved in, pushing Nora and the two others in with them.

  “Put them in the rear with a guard,” the general said. “Well away from the exit. We need to move all this—now!”

  A soldier ushered the three past the heap of treasure to the back of the chamber, then stood guard before them. Nora took in the almost incredible quantity of riches around them with a strange dispassion. But she would never have the chance to study any of it.

  The general and Woodbridge wasted no time organizing the soldiers. Three of them left briefly, then returned with a rack of batteries and a bank of bright lights, along with canvas stretchers to carry out the treasure. They also brought in a small wooden box with lettering stenciled on the side in military fashion. Nora could see this was a well-planned, well-rehearsed operation. They were going to empty the chamber right then and there.

  It was also clear to Nora that she, Skip, and Corrie were very soon going to be killed and their bodies left there. Something was tugging at the back of her mind, like a voice whispering over and over. She had faced death before, but never like this—cold-blooded, with no chance to fight for her own life. She looked at the stenciled box. It probably contained explosives. They would be shot sooner or later—probably sooner; the mine would be emptied; and then all traces of it, and them, would be dynamited into oblivion, never to be seen again. There was no hope of escape, no hope of rescue. She glanced at Corrie, whose eyes remained strangely empty. Skip’s head was bowed.

  The bank of lights was quickly erected and hooked up. The glittering heap of gold and silver was set ablaze in sudden light, and for a moment everyone seemed stunned all over again. Nora took advantage of the light to glance around the chamber. It was much bigger than necessary to hold the treasure. It was so large, in fact, that from where they stood—near the back of the cavern—the bright light faded off behind them into shadow and darkness.

  There it was again—that odd tugging sensation at the back of her mind.

  And then, quite suddenly, Nora recalled the text of the Spanish letter.

  We concealed the south entrance to the mine and made the mark of the cross on a stone five paces to the right…We concealed the northern entrance to the mine with no mark.

  The northern entrance to the mine. She glanced again at Corrie, then Skip, and then their guard. The guard wasn’t paying any attention to them at all; his gaze was riveted by the heaps of gold suddenly afire in the lights. The general was shouting orders to start loading the stretchers.

  Nora edged up to Corrie. “Remember the letter?” she whispered. “‘The northern entrance to the mine.’”

  Corrie looked at her blankly for a moment. Then, understanding blossomed in her face. She, too, glanced at their guard, but he remained mesmerized by the frenzied activity of loading the treasure. He wasn’t considering the possibility of another exit behind him.

  Nobody had considered it.

  Nora nudged Skip, then started slowly edging backward, into the shadows. The other two followed suit.

  “Go!” whispered Nora.

  They turned and slipped into the darkness, moving as silently as possible, and then running. Once it became too dark to see, Skip pulled out his lighter and briefly flicked it on. In the wavering light, Nora could now make out the rear of the chamber: a blank wall of stone. She felt a sudden despair. But no; about eight feet up was a single small opening. They rushed toward it and, noiselessly, Nora helped Corrie up first, then Skip. They grasped her hands and pulled her up behind them. Skip flicked the lighter on again, and they ran at a crouch down a low stone passageway. There were no branching tunnels. In a few minutes they saw, looming up before them, a sloping heap of rocks—the tunnel ahead was blocked.

  And now shouts echoed down the passageway, the voices distorted. These were followed by shots. Their escape had been discovered.

  “Move these rocks!” Nora cried.

  They scrambled to the top of the pile and began shifting rocks, pulling them from the top and sending them rolling down. Behind them, there was more shouting, growing closer now.

  Suddenly, Nora felt a rush of cool air, and a patch of stars appeared above the rock pile. Pulling out several more rocks created an opening large enough for them to wriggle through. Nora went first, then helped pull Corrie and Skip out onto a steep hillside.

  Gunfire erupted again, and Nora could hear rounds smacking and ricocheting off the rocks.

  “We have to block it!” she said.

  As she picked up a nearby rock, intent on jamming it into the hole, Nora noticed a much larger boulder, perched on the hillside half a dozen feet above the hole. Corrie saw it at the same time. “Let’s use that!” she cried, climbing up and positioning herself, feet first, to push. Nora and Skip grappled with it, trying desperately to keep it from moving in the wrong direction, and at last the boulder shifted, then rolled, thudding to rest in the hole and filling it like a countersunk screw.

  They could hear more gunfire and shouting filtering up through the stone.

  “Let’s go!” Nora cried, and the others followed her down the hill. There was no moon, but the starlight was so bright in the high desert air they could see just enough to navigate. At the bottom of the hill they paused.

  “Where now?” Corrie asked.

  “Into the mountains,” said Skip. “They’ve got soldiers. They’re going to be sending up drones. Out in the desert, exposed, we’ll be dead meat.”

  He led the way from the base of the hill, across a hollow, to the opening of a ravine that headed into the mountains, now and then using his lighter to help illuminate their way. As they moved into the ravine, Nora glanced back and could see several lights dancing along the base of the treasure hill.

  “They’re coming after us,” Nora said.

  “Of course,” said Skip. “All that gold is useless to them if we survive to talk about it.”

  “We’d better lose the tail, do something unforeseen,” Corrie said, looking around. “Like…climb up this cliff.”

  “Are you kidding?” Skip said. “I can’t even see the top.”

  Nora looked up. The cliff was black as night, no detail at all. They’d have to feel their way up it. It seemed crazy—but they were short of options.

  “I’ll go first,” Nora said, and before she could think better of it she laid a hand on the rough rock, found a handhold, then a second, secured a foothold, and pulled herself up. “Skip, you follow me. Do what I do.”

  “I’m not going up that,” said Skip. “No way. Not doing it.”

  She pulled herself up another step, and another. “Corrie will help you.”

  “Get going,” said Corrie in an unfriendly tone.

  “Jesus, just give me a moment.”

  Nora glanced over her shoulder. Corrie was bending down, murmuring and helping Skip place his hands on handholds, then one foot, then another. He hoisted himself up with a grunt.

  “Go slow,” warned Nora.

  She turned and continued climbing, waiting between each move for Skip to catch up. It was a horrible sensation: clinging to a sheer wall of darkness, feeling around for each handhold, unable to see how high the cliff was—or where this nightmare would end.

  58

  WATTS TOOK A deep breath, as if consciously enjoying the sensation of inhaling sweet, fresh air. Morwood realized that was exactly what he was doing—in case it was destined to be his last. Then he vaulted out from
their place of cover and sprinted to the next building, scooping up one of the dead men’s firearms as he went. Morwood followed a moment later, grabbing a weapon as well. No shots were fired, and they peered out. The old main street was deserted, with no sign of Bellingame. The two pickup trucks were still in position, headlights pointing at right angles.

  “We’ve got to cover those trucks,” said Morwood. “And I’m sure he’s doing the same.”

  Watts checked the gun, a Beretta 9mm. He ejected the magazine, then swore. “One round in the mag, one in the chamber.” He reinserted it.

  Morwood tossed away his empty Glock and examined the gun he’d grabbed, a Ruger .357 Mag. He opened the cylinder. “Four rounds. We’ve got to move closer, cover both vehicles. You move first, I’ll cover.”

  “Thanks.”

  Watts bolted from behind the building and ran across the alleyway to a stone wall. A shot rang out; Morwood saw the flash and fired back at it. Watts gave him a thumbs-up and positioned himself to cover Morwood as he made his move.

  Morwood decided he’d better go in a different direction. He crouched, moved to the other side of cover, then broke, running across the main street. This time a pair of shots rang out, but he managed to dive down behind the corner of a ruin without further injury.

  Recovering his breath, he crouched, peering around the edge, trying to forget his throbbing hand. He now knew approximately where Bellingame was. Despite his gun hand being out of commission, it was still two against one, and Bellingame’s odds were not good.

  “We’re closing in,” Watts called out. “There’s two of us, with fresh guns and ammo. You can surrender, or we can kill you. Your choice.”

  The silence stretched out for a long moment. Then Bellingame called out: “Or I kill the both of you.”

  “Tell that to your dead pals. All six of them. Or was it seven? I’ve lost count.”

  A bitter laugh. “Then come get me, asshole.”

  “I’ll bet you fancy yourself quite a shot,” called Watts.