Quartz glinted from the walls, which were stratified with long black streaks.
Colton smiled.
They'd found their gold.
He appreciated the width of the black veins of gold ore, which surrounded him as he walked. Lord only knew how far they extended into the mountain. His first impression was that the extraction wouldn't be nearly as difficult as he had originally estimated. The gold showed through in several spots where the vein had been tapped.
A small cave had been formed at the end of the tunnel. It was approximately the size of a half-bath, but at least it was tall enough for him to stand fully erect. Slightly to his right, a thin, angular crevice led away into the dark heart of the earth, barely large enough for a man to wriggle through. He knelt and peered inside. The sides were smooth, the level floor thick with congealed guano. It was a natural formation. Had the rest of the tunnel been widened from this narrow channel? The beam of his headlamp terminated against a bend twenty feet away.
"Hello," he called, listening as his voice echoed away into oblivion.
Based on the intonation and duration of the echo, this small tunnel led much deeper into the mountain. If this area was riddled with passages and hollows, the mining might prove challenging after all.
He started to rise again, but something caught his eye.
A subtle green shimmer.
He flattened to his stomach and reached as far as he could into the hole until his fingertips grazed something soft. After a moment of fumbling with it, he pinched it between his fingers, withdrew his arm, and held the object beneath the lamp on his forehead.
It was a feather.
VIII
3:18 p.m.
Tasker wiped the paste of sweat and dust from his brow. He had stripped to his undershirt, which was now thoroughly soaked, and his body odor probably rivaled that of the stiffs around him. They had ripped open every single mummified bundle, exposing the contents and dumping the brittle, desiccated corpses. There were enough feathers to stuff a thousand pillows and enough dry grain to sow a field the size of Texas, but outside of the hundreds of ceramic bowls he had shattered in frustration, there hadn't been a single grave good of any real value.
Where was all the gold?
He bellowed in frustration and turned to find McMasters sitting on a mound of rubble, sipping contentedly from his water bladder. The mere fact that he could be so collected under the circumstances grated on Tasker's nerves.
After what they'd found buried inside the odd sculptures, he had hoped they would discover enough treasure here to allow them to call it good and get the hell out of the jungle. Maybe the blasted pottery would have been worth something, but how many clay bowls would they have needed to sell to justify the kind of effort it would have taken to ship them downriver? Besides, right now, destroying them served as a productive way of venting his fury.
He eyed the closest of the opened bundles they had exhumed from the shelf in the base of the statuary, then quickly looked away.
Images of the three slaughtered bodies they had discovered on the trail flashed across his mind, but he chased them away, only to have a vision of Jones's bloody remains rise to the forefront. The man had been a trained soldier---a Marine for God's sake---and still he hadn't been able to defend himself.
Tasker ground his teeth with an audible screech and forced down the memories. He refused to allow fear to take root. It would only weaken him when now it was imperative to be strong. He allowed rage to supplant any possible feelings of doubt. They had a job to do, and they would execute their plan to perfection even if it killed them. There was nothing left for them back in Lima. There was no way they would be able to explain the deaths of Jones, Reubens, and Telford to a military tribunal. The only option now was to press on, and either they accomplished their goal and lived the rest of their lives in the lap of luxury, or died trying.
"Get up," he said. When McMasters didn't immediately snap to attention, he shouted again so loudly that it reverberated through the cavern and the valley beyond. "Get up!"
McMasters raised his cold stare to meet Tasker's and slowly screwed the cap back into place on his canteen. His eyes never left Tasker's as he returned the water to his rucksack, leisurely rose from where he sat, and walked toward his former commanding officer until their faces were only inches apart.
Tasker wanted nothing more than to grab the man by the throat, press his fingertips into the soft spots over the carotids, and rip out his trachea. He was so furious that his hands shook, forcing him to curl them into fists.
"Yes...sir," McMasters said, and brushed past him toward where they had shed their camouflaged jackets and rain gear.
Tasker's hand found the grip of the pistol in the holster beneath his left arm.
Not yet. He still needed the soldier's help, but once McMasters outlived his usefulness...
He reluctantly released his sidearm and followed McMasters toward the outside world. The sheeting rain filled the mouth of the cavern, the droplets whipping from side to side at the behest of the howling wind. A churning mist had settled into the valley, obscuring the view of everything but the siege of raindrops and the occasional diffuse strobe of lightning. He couldn't have asked for better weather. The storm would mask their presence and wash away their tracks. Their prey wouldn't know they were coming until it was too late. And maybe not even then.
The golden skull was sealed within one of the waterproof plastic sacks and stashed in a small alcove just inside the cave's mouth for rapid retrieval on the return trip should speed be of the essence, which he feared it would.
He donned his jacket and poncho, and smeared a liberal helping of black, grease-based paint over his face. Even the rain wouldn't be able to wash it away.
"You ready to do this?" McMasters asked.
"I was born ready."
Tasker hefted his backpack onto his shoulders and slung his assault rifle across his chest. He glanced back at the mummified face leering out of the torn bundle.
Low-set, recessed orbital sockets.
Skin the consistency of a long-dead carp's scales.
Rows of wicked teeth.
He unslung his rifle and carried it so that he could feel its weight and power in his bare hands.
Bracing himself against the storm, Tasker struck off into the gloom, mentally readying himself for the massacre to come.
IX
3:36 p.m.
Eldon Monahan sat at his antique dining room table, half a bottle of Pisco-Tabernero to his left, the broken shell of his cell phone, which he had crushed in frustration, to his right. The photographs curled as they burned in the ashtray, scattering ashes that descended like snow onto the pristine surface. He drew another long swig from the bottle and poured a touch into the ashtray to fuel the blue flames. His housekeeper had taken the rest of the day off at his request, leaving him alone with his shattered dreams and the specter of his future.
He had left his office shortly before noon, claiming to have a severe stomach ache, which hadn't required the slightest bit of embellishment. Everyone had been telling him how pale he looked all morning. He hadn't been able to focus on his work at all, nor had he been able to carry on simple conversations in passing without his thoughts reverting to the train wreck that was now his life.
It wasn't as though all hope was lost. Plenty of Senators had survived sex scandals and illegal business dealings. Many were drunks, others cheats. None of them were innocent by anyone's definition. They all owed portions of their souls to various clandestine dealings that secured the campaign contributions that had bought them their seats. Favors were owed, and were collected at the cost of the welfare of their constituency.
But what he had done was far worse, wasn't it?
He had cut a deal with the devil in the flesh. Plundering the heritage of the Peruvian people was a despicable act, but it was nothing compared to the atrocity he had implicitly authorized. He had given Tasker his blessings to follow Leonard Gearhardt's party to t
he source of the treasure, and then kill them all. Perhaps one could be forgiven, but there was no way the other could.
Every time he so much as blinked, he saw the piranha-chewed face of Hunter Gearhardt on that cold steel slab staring up at him with an expression of accusation.
There was only one way out of this predicament.
He watched the last picture burn until there was absolutely nothing left, then drained the bottle. His head spun and his insides burned as he shuffled toward his den. The bottle fell from his hand and clattered to the floor. The hallway canted from one side to the other, forcing him to lean against the wall for balance. He fell across the threshold into his private sanctum, crawled to the desk chair, and pulled himself up into its leather embrace.
It had been nearly two full days since Tasker had phoned. Not that he really expected the man to call again, but he had secretly hoped he would have been granted one last chance to talk the man out of what he had planned.
He supposed he didn't have the right to pray for the opportunity, especially when he'd been given so many others along the way. This was the bed he had made. The time had come to lie in it.
The headdress rested on the desk in front of him next to his best calfskin belt. He had shoved the computer onto the ground to make room. It was now nothing more than a pile of fractured components. Another object sat on the blotter, positioned perfectly for an easy right-handed grab.
He raised the headdress and held it against his forehead while he cinched the belt tightly around his head.
Tears flowed down his cheeks from beneath the golden fangs.
A mewling sound crossed his lips.
He grabbed the other object from the desk and gripped it in his fist.
A Smith & Wesson .38 Special.
Chest heaving, he pressed the barrel against the metal arch over his forehead.
He caught his reflection in the mirror on the wall across from him.
Only the bluish-green eyes of a monster looked back.
Chapter Eight
I
Andes Mountains, Peru
October 30th
3:25 p.m. PET
Galen was furious. How had he allowed them to talk him into keeping his mouth shut when all of their lives hung in the balance? They could no longer dance around the issue. The more he thought about it, the more evidence amassed, the more he became convinced that his theory was correct.
Something had survived in these mountains that had never been meant to, and it was something far more dangerous than simply an unclassified species of condor.
He needed to convince the others to forsake their quest and get the hell out of there before it was too late.
If it wasn't already.
Through the maze of trees, he saw Morton and Webber milling around an especially crooked tree. They stiffened when they noticed him coming and stood side by side across the path as though in an attempt to block it. A sheer wall of stone rose behind them to a series of terraced gardens built onto the summit. Winding staircases connected them like trails of tears down the rugged face.
It wasn't until he was upon the two men that he noticed the cut in the rock wall behind the tree, a crevice of shadows that radiated the coldness of the tomb, from which the buzzing sound originated. But right now even that was preferable to the rain that chilled him to the marrow.
The men seemed to swell in stature as he approached. Or maybe it was the fact that their pistols had been replaced by seriously intimidating assault rifles.
They knew.
"Where's Leo?" Galen asked.
"Mr. Gearhardt doesn't wish be disturbed," Webber said. "He asked that we help afford him some privacy."
"You don't understand. I need to speak with him right now." Galen veered to the right to pass them, but Webber matched his movement to bar his passage.
"As I said, Dr. Russell, Mr. Gearhardt insisted that he not be interrupted."
Galen threw up his arms in exasperation. This was maddening. He was going to have to try a different tact.
"What did you find in there?" he asked in little more than a whisper. He didn't need to see the men share an almost imperceptible glance to know he had struck a chord. "I know what's going on here. And whether Leo likes it or not, the time has come to lay all of our cards on the table. We're in serious danger here, and the sooner we face that reality and devise a plan to return to Pomacochas, the better our chances of survival."
"You're being overly dramatic," Morton said.
"Am I? Tell me then, what did you discover inside that cave?"
When neither man replied, Galen attempted to shove between them, but it was like trying to shoulder his way through a pair of redwoods. They looked through him as though he were an insignificant gnat.
"Fine," Galen said. He readjusted his poncho and slicked his wet hair back. "The moment Leo is available to talk about the prospect of living through this, you tell him to come find me."
Galen turned and stormed off. He had never felt so angry and helpless in his entire life, and, worse still, he had never been so afraid. They were beginning to comprehend the threat surrounding them, but they were hiding something at the same time. Had they made a discovery in that cave worth jeopardizing all of their lives? What could possibly justify that cost?
For not the first time, he debated gathering whoever would listen and making a run for civilization, but he knew their chances diminished in smaller groups, especially if one of the groups had all of the weapons and the skill to wield them. For now, he needed to focus on convincing everyone that their lives were in jeopardy, and the easiest way to accomplish that goal was through Leo. Galen had to find a way to reach him.
As soon as he was out of sight, he ducked off the path into the ruins. He wound around the remnants of huts that now served as planters for massive kapoks and shrubs of all kinds. The flat basalt that had been used to form the paths between buildings had been ground to gravel by time and the cruel usurpation by the forest. He stayed low, keeping the crumbled rings of the dwellings between him and where Morton and Webber guarded the mouth of the tunnel. With any luck, he would be able to use the cover to reach the abrupt hillside, then sneak along the face of the cliff and slip into the cave behind them. It was a long shot for sure, but if he somehow managed to use the broad, warped tree that concealed the cave as a screen...
The northern fortification rose into view, the crumbled section they had ascended not far to his right. Beyond, the waterfall roared through the mist, sporadically appearing in cascades of blue and white as it plummeted down the vertical rocks. Suddenly, he felt isolated from everyone else, alone in another world where even the sound of his legs thrashing through the underbrush was more than he could bear. There were blind corners and leafy barriers all around him. Anything could be lurking behind them, watching him, waiting for him to walk just a little bit closer so it could leap out of hiding and set upon him with snapping teeth and slashing claws.
He was on the verge of hyperventilation. The time had come to double back. Whether he managed to slip past the guards or not, he needed to be in the company of other people.
The wind shifted with a scream, assaulting him with raindrops from his left. He instinctively turned away as he approached the base of the cliff, and to his right, past the lip of the obsidian wall, he clearly saw the falls for the first time through the parted clouds. It wasn't a straight deadfall, but rather numerous steps that created half a dozen smaller falls, some much longer than others. A ledge crept along the stone face and terminated in a dark recess that he glimpsed only momentarily before the gust waned and allowed the mist to again coalesce.
He debated the prospect that the tunnels through the mountain might intersect somewhere underground for a nanosecond before deciding against it. The last thing he wanted was to further separate himself from the rest of the party, especially by entering a dark warren of caves where no one would think to search for him if anything happened. Instead, he headed south, staying hunched
and close to the ruins. As he neared the main path, he slowed and continued at a crouch, careful to keep his tread light and silent. The crooked tree appeared through the jungle, beyond the fallen wall of one of the circular huts, which itself was nearly invisible under a wild cluster of foliage. He couldn't see either of the men, but they would have had to have been standing in the mouth of the tunnel for him to have been able to anyway.
Slowly, he advanced, gingerly placing each footfall so as not to make a single twig snap. He sorted through the patter of rainfall on the canopy and the whistle of the wind, listening for even the slightest sound to betray the location of the men. The first whisper of voices reached him when he was nearly upon the tree. He pressed aside a tangle of ferns, and craned his neck to see where Morton and Webber now stood, facing east along the trail as Sam strode toward them with the pilot and the documentary crew in tow. Webber raised a palm to signal Sam to stop, presumably so he could recite the same spiel about not disturbing Leo.
This was Galen's chance.
He dashed out from behind the cover, passed the tree, and ducked into the crevice. Not once did he so much as risk a glance back over his shoulder.
Skulls leered at him from the shelves to either side before vanishing as the darkness swallowed him whole. A coarse scraping sound echoed from ahead. After several interminable minutes of walking, during which he struggled to stave off panic and felt the smothering weight of thousands of tons of rock above his head, a faint glow blossomed in the corridor in front of him. The pale light expanded with each step. A handheld halogen lamp lay on its side, its beam directed at the wall. A dark form knelt in the center, the source of the grating noise. Details emerged as he neared. It was a man, laboring to chisel something from the earthen floor.
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