Drake fought to free himself, but it was no good – the one tribesman pinned his shoulders to the altar while the second man gripped his feet, and the bindings on his wrists combined with his head wound and broken ribs had effectively immobilized his upper body. Drake turned his head to where Palenko was standing with the knife and called out to him.
“If you’re going to kill me, tell me where the treasure is. So I know my journey wasn’t in vain.”
“Where? Why…beneath our feet. In cool water…where it remains. Holiest of holies, riches of lost time. And my own…contribution. The world…is unfit…for any of it. If there is…a world…outside of this place. I am…not so sure. Maybe it was…all…dreams. As are you…as am I. All…invention. Of…pretention.” He looked up at the sky. “They’re destroying the rainforest…you know? Eighty percent…the world’s oxygen…comes from…plants. And they’re cutting…they’re cutting down…the trees. Idiots. Unfit to survive…killing my planet.”
“What about your technology?” Drake asked over the drumming, trying to engage the madman and pull him back to reality long enough to survive a few more minutes.
“Mine? Ha. They would use it…to destroy. I demonstrated…potential to create…and all they wanted…was to make death. They are unfit. Unfit to…rule…”
The drumming stopped and Palenko returned his focus to Drake, the Russian’s bloodshot eyes crimson gashes in his skeletal face. Palenko nodded at the tribesman standing by the head of the altar, and held the knife aloft, as he had with the machete. The native moved forward, took it from him, and turned to Drake. He stepped to the altar and, after saying a few soft words, perhaps a prayer or a curse, held the knife overhead and tore Drake’s shirt open.
The man gasped and murmured something as he reached out with a trembling hand to touch the jaguar amulet on Drake’s neck – the carving the shaman had given him, still on the leather lanyard. He turned to Palenko, fear in his eyes, and shook his head.
Palenko barked at him, but the man remained frozen. Palenko took the knife away from him, seeing that he wasn’t going to carry out the execution. He backhanded the native across the face and spit on him, and the man cringed like a child. Palenko held up his hand and pressed the knife blade against it, and sliced his palm with a swift cut. Blood welled and pooled from the gash. He rubbed it first on his own face, then on the cowering native, and then finally on Drake’s forehead. Drake tried to pull away, but couldn’t, and pain again shot through his skull as his head wound ground against the stone.
Chastised, the native moved back to the altar and accepted the knife, and this time his eyes held a trancelike quality, as though he were sleepwalking. He held the blade over Drake’s chest with both arms extended over his head, and Drake winced as he saw the man’s muscles tense.
Drake heard a thwack followed by a gurgle, and a warm gush of blood splattered his cheek and neck. The knife-wielding native’s face was distorted by puzzled pain, his mouth opening and closing like a carp’s, the brightly colored feathered tufts of a crossbow bolt sticking out of the center of his naked chest. He coughed and more blood sprayed from his mouth, and then he slumped to his knees. The knife fell with a clatter on the altar next to Drake.
The tribesmen stood frozen, bewildered, and before they could react, another crossbow bolt streaked from the jungle and impaled the native holding Drake’s shoulders with a thwack, dead in the center of his forehead. He tumbled to the ground, and the other natives sprang into action, their blowguns and bows brought to bear on the invisible threat.
Palenko ducked behind the altar as an automatic rifle opened fire from the perimeter, its lethal chatter hurling burst after burst of rounds into the natives, the slugs shredding through them as they fired futilely at the jungle with their bows.
Twenty seconds after it started, it was over, Palenko’s followers dead or dying on the ground. Palenko had slunk away into the undergrowth when the shooting started, and there was nobody left alive in the clearing when Spencer and Allie stepped from the brush with their weapons. Allie ran to the altar and stopped when she saw Drake, his shirt crusted with drying blood. Drake took in the vision of Allie, gripping her AK like a seasoned fighter, eyes wide with adrenaline, and managed a weak smile.
“For a minute there I was getting worried.”
“How badly are you hurt?” she asked.
“They knocked me out, but I’ll live. Cut me loose, would you? I can’t feel my hands anymore.”
She scooped up the big knife and leaned the rifle against the altar as Spencer moved among the dead natives, ensuring there was no further threat. She pushed Drake onto his side and sliced the bindings, freeing his wrists. He flexed his fingers as circulation returned, and she handed him the knife. Drake sat up, leaned forward and cut the cord around his ankles, and then sheathed the blade as he slid off the rough stone surface. Everything tilted and faded for a moment, and he grabbed the altar for support as he got his bearings.
Allie eyed his shirt and whispered to him, “You’ve lost a lot of blood. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Just give me a second. Don’t worry, most of this blood isn’t mine.”
Spencer approached the altar, and giving the two tribesmen killed by the crossbow bolts a once-over, he inspected Drake’s head.
“Looks like you got yourself a nice gash there.”
“Yeah. Seems like my head’s a popular spot for those lately.”
“At least it’s clotted. How weak are you?”
“So-so. Like I told Allie, I’ll live.” He looked around. “Where’s Palenko?”
“The mud-covered nut’s definitely Palenko?” Spencer asked.
“None other. Seems like he went round the bend a long time ago. He was babbling all kinds of nonsense about being an Inca god.”
“I thought I saw him duck through there,” Allie said, pointing to a dense thicket of bushes behind the altar.
“Do you see my pistol anywhere?” Drake asked, alarmed.
“Your pistol? Where was it?”
“In my bag. He dumped it out,” Drake said, pointing at his things.
Allie kneeled down and double-checked the backpack before stuffing his gear back inside and standing with it. “Nope. Now what?”
Drake shouldered the backpack on with a wince, and Allie handed him his rifle. He caught Spencer’s eye. “We follow Palenko. He’s out there with my pistol, and he probably still remembers how to use one.”
Spencer frowned and nodded. “Agreed. Let’s finish this.”
He ducked below the vines hanging across the faint trail and eyed the ground. Satisfied with whatever he’d seen, he moved deeper into the jungle, Drake behind him, Allie in the rear. They passed a ruin on the right, and Spencer slowed as he studied the muddy track in front of him.
Birds flapped overhead, and Drake followed their flight with his gun barrel. Spencer’s gaze never left the trail as he edged forward, his rifle gripped in both hands.
They entered another clearing, this one encircled by large overgrown structures that had collapsed at some point in the distant past, and Spencer stopped. Palenko stood thirty yards away, Drake’s pistol in his hand, the weapon pointed at them.
“Spread out,” Spencer whispered. Drake moved from behind Spencer to his right, and Allie to his left. When they had ten yards between them, Drake called out to the Russian.
“It’s over. Drop the gun. We’re not going to hurt you.”
Palenko howled his laugh to the trees. “Hurt me? You can’t hurt me. I’m god!”
Spencer shot Drake a warning look. “Yeah? Then you don’t need the gun, do you?” he said.
“Do you…not understand? I rule here. This is…my kingdom. You…you are insects. Unworthy.”
“Sure thing, buddy. Put down the gun. You can tell me all about how you’re a god,” Spencer replied.
“You…know…nothing. Nothing. I will return, stronger than ever,” Palenko screamed, and before any of them could react, swung the pistol at A
llie and fired twice.
Spencer’s rifle barked and Palenko tumbled to the ground as the shots reverberated through the clearing. More birds took flight, terrified by the unfamiliar sound. Spencer moved cautiously toward the Russian. When he reached him, Palenko was gasping for breath, two entry wounds in his chest the only eulogy he was going to get, the pistol lying harmlessly by his side.
“You…are…nothing…” Palenko hissed, blood running from the grinning corners of his mouth.
Drake screamed from behind him. “Allie.”
Spencer turned to see Allie crumpling as Drake ran toward her. He heard a groan from Palenko and twisted as the Russian raised the pistol to shoot him. Spencer didn’t hesitate, firing two short bursts from the hip, shredding Palenko’s sternum and extinguishing his life.
He watched the Russian shudder and lie still. Spencer ejected the spent magazine and slapped another into place as he moved to where Drake was cradling Allie’s head. When he arrived, her blue eyes connected with his, their beauty shining through the pain, and a tear rolled down her face. Spencer knelt and gently pulled her hand away from her shoulder. After inspecting the wounds, he caught Drake’s eye and gave him a dark look.
Spencer shrugged off his backpack and dug into a pocket for the first aid kit and, after opening it, removed one of the syringes. He clenched the cap in his teeth and pulled the needle free and, after another look at Allie’s contorted face, slid it into one of the veins in her forearm. Her eyes began to glass over even before he’d finished emptying it, and when he was done, he stood and threw the needle away, defeated.
Drake wiped dirt and sweat from Allie’s forehead as her eyelids drooped. She reached up and clutched at his arm with a weak grip.
“Oh…Drake…”
“Shhh.”
She coughed and grimaced, then relaxed; the spasm of pain passed as the morphine took effect.
“Save your strength. We’ll call a helicopter. We’ll get help. You’ll make it.”
“You’re so sweet. It almost makes me wish we’d…” She trailed off, her voice dreamy.
“You’re going to be all right, Allie.” Drake looked up at where Spencer was standing, gazing off into the jungle. “Spencer, call someone. The sat phone’s in her backpack. Come get it.”
Spencer turned, a vicious expression clouding his face, and began trotting toward them, raising the ugly snout of the AK-47 as he neared.
“No. What are you doing–” Drake screamed, and then the clearing was shattered by the eruption of gunfire as Spencer pulled the trigger.
The jungle behind Drake exploded as rounds shredded the vegetation. Spencer threw himself sideways onto the ground as he continued firing. Drake reacted instantly, rolling away from Allie and grabbing his rifle before shooting at the gunmen firing at them from the jungle. The closest of the three natives near the tree line dropped his rifle with a groan as Drake’s rounds punched into his torso, and the man next to him fell backwards as the top of his head tore off from one of Spencer’s volleys.
Spencer continued to squeeze off measured bursts at the attackers as he crawled to a nearby ruin for cover. The ground in front of him churned as bullets sprayed into the damp earth, and he fired blind at a third assailant just as he made it behind an outcropping of rock – the remnants of an ancient wall.
Drake saw a muzzle flash from deeper in the brush. He loosed three bursts at it and was rewarded with a scream of pain. He was shaking as he pulled himself behind a slight rise, scanning the jungle for more gunmen. Spencer’s rifle burped from Drake’s left at targets in the dense foliage. A divot of wet dirt ripped out of the ground near Drake’s head. He squeezed off a shot at the shooter, praying as he did so that none of the rounds would hit Allie, who was lying exposed, out in the open.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Spencer sprint for the far tree line. Drake did what he could to lay down covering fire, emptying the gun. He grabbed at his backpack for another magazine, and swallowed hard when his hands felt the pocket the spares had been in – empty, dumped out by Palenko when he’d been rummaging through it.
Drake ejected the magazine in frustration and looked around for anything else he could use as a weapon. His trusty knife might have been large enough to row a boat with, but it wouldn’t be much good against automatic rifles. He peered over the rise and saw Allie’s AK lying where she’d dropped it when she’d been hit by Palenko’s rounds. It was only ten feet away, and he could make it if he was fast – but it would be the longest ten feet of his life.
His head pounded, each throb of his pulse delivering a starburst of pain. He tried to ignore it as he listened to the sporadic distant gunfire from where Spencer had disappeared. After a deep breath, he launched himself to his feet and bolted for the rifle.
His lower leg shrieked in white-hot torment as a round caught his calf, and he landed hard, wincing as his ribs radiated agony – too far to reach the gun. Another round sprayed dirt and leaves on his face, and then a voice called out from the trees.
“It is over, Mr. Ramsey. One more move and I will shoot you.” The Russian accent was as thick as maple syrup.
Drake froze, the few feet between his hand and the rifle a cruel joke. The two Russians emerged from the brush, Sasha limping badly from where one of Drake’s slugs had hit him in the thigh. Vadim held his machine pistol almost casually as they neared to within fifteen feet of Drake, who was still trying to gauge whether he could make it to the rifle before they cut him in two.
“Do not even think about it. I will blow your head off and enjoy it,” Vadim snarled. “Move away from the gun. Now.”
Drake glared daggers at him but did as instructed, retracting his arm and pulling himself a few more feet from Allie’s rifle. Vadim chuckled, his barrel never leaving Drake, and moved to the weapon before toeing it out of reach. He gave Allie’s comatose, pale form a once-over and issued a terse command to Sasha before he returned to Drake. Sasha focused on the jungle where Spencer had disappeared, in case he’d survived and tried a surprise attack.
Vadim sneered at Drake. “So. Thank you for leading us straight to Paititi. Something your father was not willing to do.”
“You killed him, didn’t you?” Drake growled.
“Your father? Of course. In the end he cried like a baby. As he begged for his life, he whimpered like a little girl.”
Drake closed his eyes, his leg on fire. “You’re lying. I can tell. You killed him because he wouldn’t give you what you wanted.”
Vadim laughed, a dry, ugly sound. Sasha took the opportunity to unfasten his belt and fashion a tourniquet around his wounded leg, which was streaming blood, his attention still on the tree line.
“I owe you thanks for exterminating our little group. You saved us the inconvenience. Now, tell me – where is the treasure?”
“I don’t know. We just got here.”
Vadim eyed him suspiciously. “Never mind. We will find it. We have all the time in the world. But not you, perhaps, or the whore.” Vadim grinned, his features contorting into those of a gargoyle.
Drake spit at Vadim and gritted his teeth. “You’re a miserable bastard, aren’t you? This is a big area. I hope you never find it. And with most of your men dead, you’ll be easy pickings for the other tribes.”
“This is such big talk for a boy with only seconds left to live. You are about to meet your idiot father in hell. Say hello from me when you get there.” Vadim raised his gun and pointed it at Drake’s head.
Drake didn’t blink, didn’t flinch.
A shot rang out. Vadim’s shirt blossomed with a crimson stain from an exit wound. He stood, frozen, staring at Drake unbelievingly, his eyes uncomprehending.
Drake wrenched his knife free and hurled it at Sasha, who was whipping his gun around to fire. The handle struck him in the face, buying Drake the time to dive for Allie’s rifle and fire six rounds. Sasha jerked like a marionette from the bullets pummeling him before he collapsed in a heap.
Vadim seemed to m
ove in slow motion as he brought his weapon to bear. Drake squeezed off a burst that knocked Vadim off his feet and slammed him backward. The Russian groaned as he hit the ground, his gun tumbling harmlessly beside him, and then he shuddered and lay still.
Allie still clutched her SIG Sauer in a bloody hand, the barrel shaking as it pointed at Vadim’s inert form. Drake dragged himself over to Allie and took the pistol from her.
“You did it. You saved my ass again. That’s twice in an hour,” he said softly.
Her eyes searched his face. “Drake…I…”
“We’ll get a helicopter to haul you out of here,” Drake said.
“Have…Spencer…look at the…wound. He’ll know what…to…do.” Allie’s eyes drifted shut, the morphine hitting full force, carrying her with it to a warm, welcome numbness.
Drake pulled closer and took Allie’s hand, the jungle around them now quiet. He looked at his calf. The bullet had seared through the muscle and exited cleanly. But he knew that infection would be only a matter of time. For them both.
They had to get out of there.
Allie shifted next to him, her breathing slow and steady, her top soaked with her blood. Drake considered trying to do something, but realized he might cause more harm than good. He felt so helpless and impotent as he moved closer to her and pulled a shirt out of his backpack, which he held against the wound, trying to keep pressure on it. He stayed like that for several long minutes, mind working over their alternatives, and then jolted back to reality when he heard a rustle from the brush – a heavy body moving through the undergrowth.
“I see you didn’t need much help here. How’s she doing?” Spencer’s voice called from the jungle behind him.
“You kill everyone?” Drake asked, his tone flat.
“Pretty much. I see you did the same.”
“Allie got one of them. Saved my life.”
Spencer walked over to the Russians and turned them over, confirming that they were dead. He picked up Drake’s knife and handed it to him, his eyes on Drake’s wounded leg. “Looks like you got nicked there.”
Ramsey's Gold (Drake Ramsey Book 1) Page 28