The coarse rubbing sound filled the air again. Closer.
“We should make a run for it,” Whitney said. If they left now, before it got any closer, they might make it back to the others.
Merrill shook his head. “Too many traps.”
“We’ll follow the path.”
“We can’t.”
“Why not?”
Merrill pointed to the area of jungle where the path entered the clearing. A grove of ferns shook. “We have company.”
Whitney caught sight of something in the ferns. Glossy deep green skin sporting a red stripe briefly rose and fell over the ferns. Whitney’s breath became short and fast. Her heart hammered away, trying to break through her chest. “Shit.”
Merrill glanced at her.
“Sorry,” she said, finding it almost humorous that her father was still concerned with her language when they were about to be eaten. She noticed his expression darken.
“This is unacceptable,” Merrill said.
Whitney couldn’t hide her sarcasm. “Really,” she said. “Being eaten alive isn’t how you pictured our reunion?”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
Whitney feared that her father had become schizophrenic during his days alone in the jungle. Then she remembered he was prone to talking out loud to God. She glanced at him and saw his lips moving. He was praying. “I don’t think that’s going to help,” she said.
“Have a better idea?” Merrill said. Small saplings at the border of the clearing some twenty feet down from the path swayed open for a moment; further down, the foliage quivered. There was more than one. They were being surrounded.
Whitney took Merrill’s sword and felt its considerable weight in her hands. She couldn’t picture her father even getting a swing in with the thing. In the giant’s hand it appeared small, but in her own it was massive, like a curved broad sword—it could be swung but was unwieldy. “Hey, what are you—”
Whitney thrust her 9mm into Merrill’s hands. “Shoot anything that comes out of the jungle. I do have a better idea.” She slung off her backpack, pulled out a bundle of rope, and quickly tied one end to the sword. She stood, holding the sword in her hand. “Stand back.”
The sword flew up through the air and arced over the top of the wall. Whitney saw the rope land across the eroded seam in the rock for which she had been aiming. When the clang of sword on rock rang out, she pulled on the line until it snapped tight. She put her weight on the rope and it held.
Taking the 9mm from her father, Whitney said, “You first.”
Merrill opened his mouth, but Whitney cut him off. “We don’t have time to argue, Dad, now move your ass!”
Merrill took hold of the rope and pulled himself up, hand over hand, using the wall to brace his feet. He was moving, but not quickly. Whitney trained her gun on the moving section of ferns. She’d been terrified of the XM-29 when Wright had first shown it to her, but she longed for it now. She would be lucky to take down even one of the crylos with the limited number of rounds in her 9mm; if that was in fact what they were up against.
Whitney noticed brush shaking and heard sandpaper scratches all around the clearing now. There was no escape. She looked up. Merrill neared the top.
A clatter arose from the jungle like a flock of giant birds, calling, squeaking in waves of sound. The brush shook violently. Whitney knew her only chance was to reach the top of the wall. Without firing she holstered her gun and lunged up the rope. As she climbed, she heard an explosion of vegetation—breaking branches, shredding leaves, and bending tree trunks.
They were charging.
Seconds later she heard shrieks that could only be interpreted as surprise. The whoosh of tree limbs through the air told her several of her father’s traps had been sprung. Whitney reached the top in fifteen seconds. She’d always been the first up the rope in gym class. Teachers had always told her math could save her life; she now knew that phys. ed. was the lifesaver.
Whitney shouted as something from the top of the wall gripped her arm. She looked up and saw her father, scraggly-bearded and dirty, looking like some pro wrestler and straining to pull her up. She rolled on top of the wall and for a moment felt safe. After taking three deep drags of air, she looked to the side and noticed that the rope on which she lay was still taut. It had weight on it.
Whitney drew her weapon and shouted, “Cover your ears!” She fired three shots in rapid succession until the rope snapped. A thud and shriek arose from below.
“Good thinking,” Merrill said as he pulled up the rope from the other side and retrieved the sword. He held it and surveyed the top of the wall warily. “Now what?”
Whitney listened. She heard the scratching of claw on stone as the creatures below strained to climb. She could hear the sandpaper scratches and the screech of primal communication. Above all that was a sound that gave her hope: the chopping of an approaching helicopter.
Whitney searched the sky. A helicopter flew across the sky in the distance, but the team wasn’t coming for them. They didn’t know where they were. Whitney remembered her headset. She positioned it over her head and turned it on. “Wright, this is Mirabelle, do you copy?”
“Whitney, where the hell are you?” Wright sounded angry. “The race starts in four hours!”
“We’re under attack,” Whitney said.
“Where are you?” Wright replied.
Whitney took the sword from her father and held it up, letting the bright sun glint off its surface. “Look out your left side window.”
Whitney saw the helicopter bank left and head straight for them. “Are you still under fire? Should we come in hot?”
Whitney listened and heard only the sound of the helicopter. The creatures had fled, most likely frightened by the unusual sound from above. “Negative,” Whitney said. “They’re gone.”
“Who was it?” Wright asked. “Did you see their uniforms?”
Whitney couldn’t help but chuckle nervously. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
A minute later, father and daughter were lifted into the air, secured by harnesses and pulled up by a winch. Whitney was surprised to see Wright, Cruz, Ferrell, and Vesuvius already on board and ready to go. The pilot gave them time to strap in and then they were off, cruising low over the canopy, toward the starting line and the beginning of the most daunting challenge any one of them had ever faced.
Chapter 31
The jungle closed in on Duscha Popova in a way she had not anticipated but could easily handle. She’d worked in jungles before, but the dim light filtering through the leaves still bothered her. She preferred darkness. What made this experience different from the rest was its complete unfamiliarity. The trees, the terrain, even the air smelled different, bitter.
Stepping over a large rock, Popova felt her foot sink into the mud. She lifted her foot and cursed. Her clean boots were soiled. She knew it wouldn’t be long before she was covered in dirt but preferred keeping herself clean as long as possible. It helped her move more quickly. Popova lingered above the muddy depression and saw gobs of rotten vegetation mixed in with the earth. It occurred to her that the smell in the air was caused by rapid decomposition. Whatever had been frozen in the mud for so long was now being steeped in humidity.
Popova continued, slashing at ground growth and hanging vines with her machete. Travel was slow, but she was alone and had a day’s head start. Technically, she had nothing to do with this race. If she was killed or captured, the Soviets would deny any knowledge of her presence; such a claim would hold up because she wasn’t part of any military. Her mission was simple: get ahead of the other teams and kill them one by one. Destroy morale. Impede by injury. Wipe them out. The official Russian team was composed of ten military men, all good and worthy combatants, but none could match Popova’s brutal aptitude for killing.
Only the American, Katherine Ferrell, posed a threat. Both had been trained by the same man. Assassins by trade for the highest bidder, both were now lo
yal servants of their homelands. Assassins turned patriots. That was why the Americans were her first target and chief among them, Ferrell. With her out of the picture, Popova could function without fear of reprisal.
She’d been trudging through the jungle for ten hours and had covered perhaps twenty miles. It would be another forty before she reached the American team, and she would not rest until then. The Americans would be tired from their first day of travel and wouldn’t expect an attack so soon into the race. Surprise was on her side.
Popova came to a sudden stop upon smelling the air again. The smell of decomposition was still tangy in her nose, but it had changed. She realized with some consternation that she smelled rotting flesh. Popova held her machete at the ready in her left hand and drew her side arm with the right.
She smelled the air again.
The gentle breeze tickled the blond hairs on her neck. The smell came from straight ahead. The twang of metal on wood sounded as Popova hacked through the wall of saplings blocking her path. As they fell to the ground, she took aim at the large forms standing before her and fired. She hit the foremost body with two slugs. Both ricocheted off the massive form that had little to fear from bullets.
“Damn it,” she muttered. It wasn’t like her to get spooked, and certainly not to shoot statues. A waste of ammunition.
As Popova approached the nearest statue, she found herself in a small clearing that was encircled with similar creations. Each had been fashioned from single stones and reminded her vaguely of the ancient busts discovered on Easter Island. But these were more than busts; they were full bodies from head to toe, standing like warriors frozen in time, forgotten in the jungle. Then she took note of their weapons—swords, spears, axes, and giant hammers. They were like gods and stood just as tall, perhaps twenty feet.
She was curious how the tall sculptures had survived the thawing of Antarctica as the ice and snow from across the continent slid into the ocean. She knelt down at the feet of the nearest stature and saw that the base was buried in the ground. How far the base descended she would never know, but for the statues to remain standing so straight after thousands of years, she imagined their roots descended as far down as the statues stood tall.
As interesting as the sight was, she had little time to waste in admiration of a long-dead civilization’s artistry. She started to pass through the circle when she noticed the eyes of the statues watching her. She spun around and found twelve pairs of gigantic eyes staring down at her.
No. Not at her. At where she stood, in the middle of the clearing. It was odd, she thought, that no plants grew in the clearing. Taking note of the earth beneath her feet, she noticed that the land inside the clearing was lumpy, unlike the rest of the smooth jungle floor. It was as though the thin layer of topsoil covered a field of stones.
Unable to resist, she knelt, dug into the dirt with her finger, and pulled up on one of the rocks. The stone came loose and lifted free of the earth . . . only it wasn’t a stone at all. It was a skull, minus the mandible. The size of a large dog’s head, the skull was not large, but it was imposing. The face was narrow, and the empty eye sockets cast a sinister gaze. The crest on the top of the skull, an unnatural protrusion, gave it the look of something alien. It wasn’t until she saw the top jaw lined with sharp, serrated teeth that she realized she held a dinosaur skull.
She looked around the circular clearing again and at the statues surrounding it, guarding it. She realized it was some kind of sacrificial area, perhaps once a pit. But it was obviously man-made. How could they have been sacrificing dinosaurs? Popova looked at the skull and, perhaps through some long-dormant maternal instinct, realized that these weren’t small, full-grown dinosaurs. They were babies, killed by human hands. When Antarctica was claimed, she would tell her superiors about this place. The implications were infinitely interesting, even to an assassin.
Popova dropped the skull and smiled up at the nearest gargantuan icon. She had a newfound respect for their builders. They were hunters, like her. With sword and spear they hunted and killed dinosaurs, predators the likes of which modern man had no equal. As she moved out of the clearing and into the jungle, she made a promise to the stone giants behind her.
“The hunt begins again. I will make you proud.”
Chapter 32
“I will not leave it behind!” Merrill shouted. “Leaving the other finds at my camp was bad enough. This sword is priceless and of extreme historic importance.”
After they had reached the starting line with a half hour to spare, Wright had confronted Merrill about the sword. “It’s too heavy, Dr. Clark. You’ll slow us down.”
“Then leave me behind.”
“Not an option.”
“You can’t make me go,” Merrill said, trying to sound like Wright’s elder but as the words left his lips, he knew he sounded more like an emotional fourteen-year-old kid. He had tried explaining the significance of the sword, what it could teach them about the people who made it. But the man didn’t care.
Wright drew his side arm and leveled it at Merrill’s head. “Leave the sword with the delegates. They will make sure it’s kept safe.”
Merrill was stunned. He’d never had a gun pointed at him before. He didn’t think Wright would use it, but the sensation of staring down a barrel was unnerving. “I will not let this sword out of my sight!” Merrill held his ground.
It was then that he saw a figure moving in his periphery. It was coming quick. He assumed it was Ferrell or Cruz coming to tackle him and physically remove the sword. But he never took his eyes off the gun. And Wright never looked away from Merrill’s eyes. His aim never wavered. He never saw Mirabelle coming.
She took to the air, performing some kind of flying kick. Merrill assumed she must have taken some kind of karate class along with shooting lessons. The kick wasn’t graceful, but it had the desired effect. Wright was knocked to the side but turned the fall into a roll and readjusted his aim toward Mirabelle.
She drew her weapon just as quickly and the two held their side arms pointed at each other’s skulls. Merrill fully expected Wright to take charge, but it was his daughter who made the demands.
“You ever so much as point that thing at my father again and I’ll kill you.”
Merrill wasn’t sure if the anger was an act or not, but he was convinced. Apparently, so was Wright. He lowered his weapon. “Fair enough.”
Wright stood and dusted himself off. She did not lower her weapon.
Wright smiled. “I wouldn’t have shot him.”
Mira didn’t move.
“I never took the safety off.”
The gun remained leveled.
Merrill could only imagine what Sam’s death had done to Mira. Repressed feelings toward his killer could be surfacing. Wright could be in real danger and not even realize it. Merrill stepped forward and placed his hand over Mirabelle’s gun. “Honey, put the gun away.”
She lowered the 9mm, holstered it, and gave Wright another sour look. “Never again.”
He nodded.
Cruz hustled over, his gear packed up on his back. His eyes were wide with anticipation. “Ten minutes, niños; pack up and get ready to pound dirt.”
Wright snapped his head toward Merrill. “Leave it or you’re not coming.”
“You need me,” Merrill said.
“Whitney can do your job.”
Merrill would be damned before letting them take Mira away from him. He looked at the priceless sword. He pictured the giants who had formed its blade and crafted its hilt. The Stone Age hadn’t ended until around 6000 BC, when bronze tools began to appear. But this weapon predated the Bronze Age by at least six thousand years and wasn’t bronze at all. Merrill wasn’t sure what metal it was, but it was one of a kind. A relic of some advanced civilization.
Merrill looked up and saw Mirabelle sling her equipment onto her back. And in her, he saw all that remained of Aimee, her mother. Merrill looked at the sword again.
I’m insane, he
thought, and tossed the sword aside. It clanked loudly against a stone. Merrill flinched. It sounded like it broke. Spinning around, Merrill found that indeed the large blade had become separated from the hilt. But something, some strand of metal, still connected the two. Even Wright became interested as Merrill bent down and picked up the sword. A smooth sound of metal on metal slid through the air as Merrill drew a second sword, perhaps a dagger to the giants, from the original blade. Merrill understood at once. The massive sword was both a weapon and a scabbard. An enemy could be run through and the dagger detached and withdrawn without removing the sword. It was an amazing piece of work.
Merrill inspected the newly freed blade. A design like ancient text had been etched into the blade, which was two feet long and slightly curved. “Have you even seen anything like this?” Merrill said, holding the blade up to Wright.
Wright shook his head. “It’s impressive . . . but you still can’t bring it.”
“The hell I can’t.” Merrill said, as he snatched his machete from its sheath on his belt and replaced it with the dagger.
Wright sighed. “We need to be at the wood line in five minutes, Dr. Clark. Let me help you get that backpack on.”
Merrill smiled. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” Wright said. “Just protect me from your daughter. She’s a firecracker.”
Merrill’s smile stretched even wider. “You have no idea.”
Chapter 33
Watching from the tree line where he, Abdul, and the twelve other cells had entered the jungle at the start of the race, al-Aziz prayed to Allah that Abdul would find success. The delegates were still standing in the clearing, now just five minutes after the race had begun. Most of the delegates were communicating with their superiors, letting them know that the Arab Alliance had started the race on time and without incident.
The dogs had no idea what Allah had prepared for them. Even now, Abdul was working his way around the clearing toward the coastline where he would sneak up on them from behind. Long before their transports arrived to take them home, they would be just so much blood and guts spread out across the landscape. Abdul would see to that.
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