Cortés’s reactions were immediate. Leaving Ben, he jogged, almost sprinting, along the path, oblivious to the possibility of losing his footing. He followed it all the way to the statue.
There he examined it, his eyes taken with this and this alone. The figure was of a male, a warrior carrying a large spear in his right hand, pointing down rather than up. In his left hand was a rounded shield, patterned with three circles, each layer becoming slightly thicker towards the centre. He wore robes around his shoulders and waist, leaving his torso, legs and stomach visible, exposing the gold surface.
Surrounding the figure’s head was his crowning glory, not quite a crown but something even more notable: a headdress, large and thick, its feathers a plethora of colour; to the Spaniard it was like a magical peacock. What started off as green ended as purple; separating the feathers from the head were five layers of patterns, creating an image like a bridge over water. Again, the colours dazzled him: green, red, yellow, cyan. It was a scene from mythology, history split apart at the seam.
Montezuma II. In all his glory.
Cortés didn’t know how to feel. As the descendant of Montezuma’s, possible, killer, his presence was almost sacrilege.
Yet sacrilege didn’t really apply when it came to the heathen religions; so went the logic. The man was a friend of his ancestor; that was the other school of thought. Cortés wept for his friend, his daughter’s grandfather, his worthy adversary.
As the initial shock at last began to wear off, Cortés studied its other features. Something else had caught his attention, not the man but what he held. It was in Montezuma’s right hand, loose, but secure.
Again, Cortés failed to believe his eyes.
“The Stone of Fire,” Cortés said, his eyes alight.
Ben was confused. His attention had been so wrapped up with the headdress he had missed it.
“The Stone—”
Pizarro pushed past him, taking a look for himself. Pizarro freed the stone from the statue’s grasp, held it, looked at it, confused by what secrets it held.
Cortés took it, immediately taken with the purple object. It was like a bar of gold, only not gold.
“The Stone of Fire,” Cortés repeated. “Brought to earth by Quetzalcoatl in the first visit. 1,000 carat.”
Ben was stunned. “Did you just say 1,000 carat?”
Cortés was too busy to reply. His eyes were full of greed, his tongue quivering, his mouth wide open.
“You honestly believe that’s the real deal?” Ben asked.
Pizarro pushed Ben to one side, causing him to lose his balance and fall to the floor. “You ask too many questions.” He gestured to Alvarez standing beside him with the gun. “You have seen. And you have liked.”
He took the gun and aimed it at Ben.
*
Colts had been less concerned with the statue. Instead, as soon as Pizarro and the other two had followed Ben and Cortés, he’d made directly for the nearest gap in the rocks.
Valeria followed, both now hidden from sight. “What are we going to do?”
Colts removed his revolver from his pocket and checked it for bullets. “I’ll think of something.”
He edged closer to the side of the mine, still close to the beginning of the pathway that led up to the statue and the gold pit. As he did, he noticed a second path heading upwards, beyond the disused boxes and flanking the heart of the mine. He moved towards it, scanning the area to see what was there. Going up, the path widened noticeably, enough to fit a vehicle along. There were marks on the floor, symmetrical and straight.
It looked like the tracks of a forklift truck.
The path led upwards, hiding Colts and Valeria from the Spaniards further still. The area was brighter, suggesting to Colts they were nearing some kind of power supply. The area showed more signs of recent usage: boxes everywhere, but different.
It was like being in the cellar of a pub.
Higher up, the pathway separated into two, the left option turning into a tunnel lined with even more pub-related articles. There was food in crates, cheeses, seafood . . . anything that kept. There was a logo along the side; Colts recognised the name immediately.
“The Godolphin Cross,” he said.
Valeria was confused. “What is it?” she asked, worried. “Mr Colts?”
Colts wandered aimlessly along the tunnel, stopping on coming to a heavy door. The way led to civilisation; he guessed the pub itself.
“Mr Colts?”
Colts turned, placing his finger to his lips, concern evident from the expression on his face. He looked at Valeria, moving towards her, not stopping until their faces were almost touching.
Valeria had never felt so panicked. Here she was, wherever she was, her only protection the man in front of her, a man she was still to trust. All throughout the day she had known only one way of working: trusting herself and putting her faith in others. It had won her many things; answers to many questions, riddles solved . . .
Only to be taken away.
She looked at Colts, her slender frame shaking before his. He saw her look at him, confused and concerned.
Then they heard gunfire.
51
Ben thought he was a goner. The barrel of the gun, lined up from Pizarro’s hand to his own forehead, was set up for the kill. The weapon was loaded, the semi-automatic function ready and waiting . . . even the sound was as expected.
Only he heard it. He was still hearing it.
And he was alive.
Pizarro held his expression, eyeing Ben with contempt. Seconds later Ben saw his jaw squeeze tightly, then more so, before relaxing inexplicably. His eyes crossed, his arms lowered, all without firing the trigger. Finally he crashed forward.
And hit the floor.
Dead.
Ben was shell-shocked. It was impossible to hide his surprise. The Spaniard’s eyes were open wide, a lifeless expression centred somewhere between the path and the gold. Incredibly his expression didn’t alter.
In death he remained angry.
Cortés fell to his knees, devastated.
“Fernando,” he said, quivering. Unquestionably, the Spaniard was shaking, his eyes blinking, his head incapable of staying still. He placed his hands beneath his cousin’s upper torso and held him closely. Finally Ben saw a tear, just one, only one. Cortés’s eyes closed tight, as if they were closing up forever.
Ben could see what had happened. The bullet had penetrated Pizarro’s upper body, perhaps entering one of his lungs from the back. Whether deliberate or not, he was unsure.
Cortés had also found the wound. He rubbed it, his palms moving gently across the hole, his fingers now messy with blood. Ben saw it cross his fingers, his palm, spreading all the way to his wrist. Cortés’s eyes were still closed, his face suggesting he had lost control of conscious thought. He seemed indifferent to the sound of the second gunshot.
Metres away, Alvarez hit the deck, then Busquets, a third gunshot, unmistakable. Both lay lifeless, their strong bodies lying close in a heap.
Ben was in a fit of panic. He looked around frantically in all directions but saw nothing, only gold and emeralds, sapphires, and rubies. And rock.
Everywhere surrounding them was rock.
He wanted to move but where? Where? Where? Three bullets had been fired; he guessed more could come. There was no shelter, aside from the gold, and that was not enough.
They were sitting ducks.
Cortés had risen to his feet, eyes on Ben. He had a worried look in his eye, though different to before. The tears had disappeared, as had the despair.
Instead he harboured only concern.
*
Even in the corridor, Colts heard it too. It sounded like it came from nearby.
Valeria was a nervous wreck; she fell into his arms and held him. He could feel her heavy breath on his chest, whimpering rather than sobbing. He grabbed her face, looked her in the eye and put his index finger to his lips in a gesture of silence. She looked
up, puppy faced, wiped her eyes and understood.
Colts let her go and left the box-lined tunnel, heading back in the direction of the main pathway. The gunshot sounded as though it had come from his left, but he realised that the acoustics could be misleading. The ceiling above, despite being solid earth, appeared natural, like a cave or cavern. There were ridges surrounding the path to his left, and more still to his right. Slowly he continued to his left, more and more, further and further.
What he saw was incredible. Looking beyond the ledge, he saw the majority of the mine below him. The sight was unique, almost like looking down at the main body of a cathedral from the upper storeys, its excellence mapped out, seemingly deliberately. He saw Ben, then Cortés, then, incredibly, another of the Spaniards hit the ground.
Then a third.
He ducked instinctively. The gun had been fired from nearby, further to the left. Keeping low, he moved towards it, still unsure exactly where he was going. The light was fading; he was walking into total darkness. He heard another gunshot, the fourth he counted. The sound echoed, piercing in his ear. In front of him he saw what appeared to be a figure.
The gunman was very near; he estimated less than fifty metres away. In the darkness, he thought he could make out shadows, but he was still unsure. He wanted to try the torch but knew he daren’t. The figure was hunched over, looking down at the mine below, a large rifle of some description in his hands.
Colts aimed his gun and went for the trigger.
Then he recognised him.
The sound of a fifth gunshot filled the mine.
*
Cortés was falling. His stomach was in agony, blood spewing from the right side and covering his upper body.
Ben’s reactions were immediate. He dived to his right, barely keeping his feet, and caught Cortés as he fell. The wound had already deepened, blood spreading. It had stained Cortés’s hands, run down his arms and made a sizeable blemish on his jeans. His expression was one of desperation. He tried to speak, managing only a gagging sound. Blood appeared in the corner of his mouth, dripping down across his cheek. He had a dreamy look in his eye, distant, but lost. He caught Ben’s eye, a silent communication lasting less than a second.
Then that was also lost.
Ben had lost all track of time. As he lowered the lifeless body of the last descendant of the great conquistador to the floor, he looked up at the ceiling. There were shapes he hadn’t seen before; they seemed different, as if illuminated somehow.
He walked slowly to one side, squinting. In the distance he thought he saw movement, perhaps a silhouette.
Then further movement.
Then sound.
*
Valeria held her hands tightly over her mouth, successfully suppressing a scream. The latest gunshot had been particularly close; the sound echoed in her ears, leaving her both dazed and terrified. Her immediate fear was that the sound would attract attention; that her voice would create a never-ending echo that would surely lead to her discovery and probable death.
Colts had fallen to the floor, wounded. Less than fifteen metres away, up on the winding pathway that overlooked the heart of the mine, she saw him moving erratically against the wall, as though he was shivering from extreme cold or experiencing some form of seizure. She guessed there was blood, but the light was so poor she couldn’t see where on his body the wound was located.
There was further movement up ahead, appearing so suddenly she felt her heart beating violently. Whoever it was, was coming her way; if they continued, they would head straight into her.
She knew she had to think rapidly. The pathway was flanked by a series of natural pillars, which supported the rocky ceiling like colonnades. She guessed from their strange appearance that the gaps had been taken out deliberately to provide extensive views across the mine. While the opposite side of the pathway consisted of nothing but thick granite, the areas surrounding the pillars were badly pitted with crevices, potentially offering a hiding place. Her only other option was to sprint to the bottom.
Even if the shooter didn’t hear her, she knew it was only a matter of time before he saw her.
She moved to the nearest crevice, back to the wall, holding her breath, now precariously close to the ledge. Beyond it was a sheer drop to the lower reaches of the mine; she guessed no less than sixty metres, a fall almost certainly fatal. Inside she was crying, but outwardly, she was still to shed a tear.
Her heart pounding, she strained to keep out of sight as the man with the gun passed, heading down below, into the heart of the mine.
He passed.
She watched.
As the figure came close, she caught a glimpse. Light on the side of his face revealed something. Was it a scar? An injury? Perhaps something more defined, like a birthmark.
No.
She recognised it straightaway. It was indeed a scar, thick, its redness hindered by elements of a white beard.
A beard she knew.
Had come to adore, as though it covered the face of her father.
*
Nicholl stopped close to the statue, distracted by the sights close to his feet. The bodies were mangled; he counted five in total. As he stepped over the two largest, he judged that they were of Spanish origin and had had little or no forewarning of their deaths. He lowered his rifle and unloaded it, emptying the barrel. He looked down at the fifth body, seeing nothing but stillness. Too bad, he thought.
I kinda liked the American.
He moved on, his attention again taken by the statue, every aspect of its appearance a source of delight. The shiny surface, the exquisite pattern on the shield, the false embroidery on the cloaks, the way the spear was pointing down instead of up.
All the signs pointed to an emperor standing over a vanquished foe.
It still seemed incredible he was looking at something so real.
He heard a noise coming from nearby, loud but not unfamiliar. The coinage was slipping again. There was so much of it, he accepted such things as nothing out of the ordinary. Anything could cause it: a slight tremor, the movement of an animal or insect, sound vibrations.
As he wiped his face and head with a handkerchief, he heard the sound again, this time louder. Confused, he moved away from the statue, passing once more over the bodies of the deceased. Something was nearby, moving.
“Hello?”
He heard nothing, silence except for the sound of the moving coins. Heading towards the summit of the ridge, he thought he saw something, a shadow maybe. Were his eyes deceiving him? His mind playing tricks?
“Hello?” he called again, again receiving no reply. Slightly anxious, he moved faster, looking to reach the top, reloading the rifle as he moved. He heard something, footsteps, unmistakable, not loud but clearly audible. In a mine, sounds echoed, and the slightest noise could be distorted. This was different, unlike anything he had heard previously in the mine. Before today he had been the only person who knew of its existence.
He rushed to the summit, gun aimed, cocked, at the ready.
Nothing.
Darkness.
He kept the gun at eye level, keeping himself covered. The sound had started again, this time down below. He walked without watching his feet, concerned one moment of weakness would be critical.
The end was near – that was the fear. The fear was growing.
He heard something from behind him, then another sound, this time to his left. Yet as far as he could see, there was no movement. He moved to where the sound had come from, closer, closer.
The gun was fired from behind him.
Epilogue
Chris was at his wits’ end. The room was not meant for human occupation; that much had been obvious from the very start. The walls were wet from sea mist and water that had leaked in from the storm. For all he knew there were other reasons, causes that his messed-up mind simply couldn’t think about or comprehend.
Hours had passed since his last nourishment. Was it longer? A day perhaps? In
truth, part of him was relieved. The face he had seen continued to haunt him, almost like a recurring nightmare. It wasn’t just the face, but the similarities, the things it reminded him of. The grandmother was like the granddaughter; it was the same face only older.
And evil.
He opened his eyes, not because it was an easy thing to do, but anything was better than seeing that face. It was the first thing he saw when he closed his eyes, the only thing. Those eyes, once fiery and hazel, now cold and lifeless; that nose, wrinkled and pointed like a witch from a Roald Dahl book; those lips, thin and mean, a bringer of that same evil. It was a face of age.
And a face the beauty of youth would surely one day become.
At the top of the stairs he saw movement, then light, painful on the back of his eyes. After two days shut away in the room, he was no longer accustomed to light. It was becoming brighter, white and ever more intense.
The door at the top of the stairs had opened, though at present he was still to see who was responsible. There were footsteps on the stairs. The sound was strange, not quite a bang but similarly loud. He reasoned that high-heeled shoes were almost certainly responsible, but what possible motivation could she have for wearing them here? And tonight? The steps were old and dilapidated. The area at the bottom was equally bad. Whatever he had been lying against had surely never been used for such a purpose. The lighthouse was there to save lives. Not to be an oubliette.
The room was not meant for humans.
As the figure approached, he made out features. They were different from the last time; this woman was slender, younger. She had been attractive once. Her features hadn’t changed physically, only her characteristics. Her jaw was tighter, meaner; her chest harder; her hair dirtied, as if it hadn’t been washed for a couple of days. There was sound coming out of her mouth but not words: just breathing, heavy breathing.
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 30