"As you can see, they are not here."
Kowalski punched Miller in the face, and the billionaire fell on one knee, his nose broken, and blood spurted on the dusty floor. Kowalski pointed his torch on the drops. He crouched by Miller and said in his ear, "There's going to be a lot of blood flowing tonight. We might as well call it blood-gold."
He turned to his men. "Search the place, find them. Find the woman and the others."
One of the men, who seem to be leading this breakaway team, spoke into the radio on his wrist.
"B-team, come in."
He tried again. "B-team, what's your status? Come in."
The man pulled his tactical ski mask over his head and said, "B-team is not responding, sir."
"Well, then find them too, will you? Maybe they got caught up. It's only a woman for God's sake."
The black-clad men trudged off. Kowalski called after them, "I want the woman alive. You can shoot anyone else but her and Rodriguez."
He turned back to Miller. "Yes, where were we?"
—
Pietro Oscar achieved clarity about midnight.
He had wondered if he made the right choice. Trusting a stranger, a new guy in town was something alien to his character. Yet, his circle of friends—or enemies who feared him—had dwindled since he first took that piece of gold from Leno at the auto shop.
Now his investment was in the hands of a total outsider. This outsider appeared very competent, though. He couldn't say that for that snake called Kowalski.
Then it occurred to him that if you wanted to protect your friend, you watched your shared enemies. So, where is Kowalski?
In fact, what was everyone up to? This was how to stay in the game. By knowing what every player was doing at every point in the contest. Pietro lost Rodriguez and the woman. He mustn't lose the man who has them too.
He dialed Police Chief Alvarez but stopped halfway through.
If you wanted to know your enemy well, you joined him at the table. He took a truck and six armed thugs and drove into the street.
—
The police chief's house was a glassed-in house on a small hill of flowers and plastic flamingoes. The driveway was lined up to the house itself with trees of a resinous type only found in the low hills of Machu Picchu. It had spruce bark and conical leaves like ferns.
Pietro drove the truck himself. He fired it up to the foot of the metal steps under which a tributary from Urubamba flowed. Four of his guards followed. The house was quiet. Alvarez's family lives in a bigger house in Cusco, a luxury made possible by corruption.
Sometimes, the police chief brought whores here, but this night all seemed quiet. Lights were on in the house, but all was quiet except for the brook nearby, making its gentle way out to meet a meandering branch of the Urubamba.
From out here, Pietro could see the TV was on, but the volume turned down. They were showing a commercial. He saw an ashtray; a stub smoked in it. Then where is Alvarez?
He signaled his boys to go around the back. He turned the handle of the door and stepped into a fresh, airy foyer. Before him, he saw a small step. He went down it and stopped suddenly. Alvarez was on the floor behind a couch, bleeding on the carpet. Pietro checked the surrounding, his gun pointed at every corner and shadow, before calling the chief's name. "Alvarez?"
He went over to the body. There was no pulse in the neck.
Alvarez was gone.
"Shit."
Pietro scuttled down the steps. He almost left the boys he sent to check out.
"Kowalski!"
—
On the dictates of good judgment, Andrew went ahead with his signal when he heard the footfalls approaching his position.
"Andrew?"
"It's me," he said when he heard the voice.
He was with Rodriguez and Tami Capaldi. He embraced Olivia and shook hands with Diggs; Tami gave Olivia a wan smile and patted her on the arm.
Quickly, they shared information.
Olivia looked at old Roddy and Tami. And then at Detective José Hanna.
Andrew introduced the detective. José bowed at Olivia. "Your reputation I have heard of."
"I didn't know I had one worthy of report."
"None of us ever do."
Olivia glanced at Rodriguez and Tami Capaldi again.
"What a reunion."
Roddy laughed. "I waited for you, but they got to me before you could make it. I'm sorry."
"It's okay, pops."
"You said you have a map?" Andrew asked her.
"Yes, but we made a discovery that shows our map is wrong. We found a wall back there, according to the map, it wasn't supposed to be there. And I think there is a hallway in there."
Andrew glanced at Rodriguez.
"We have to go out of here now if we want to make it before Pietro or that small American comes," said Rodriguez.
The old man's legs were surprisingly quick for his age. He turned abruptly and started up the rubble and up the hole. Olivia asked Andrew as they went up who the small American was.
"I have a feeling you were supposed to have met him already. He's CIA. Rogue."
It clicked. The men that died in the trap, that was not all of them. Olivia stopped halfway up the rubble. She grabbed Andrew's hand.
"Miller and the others, they must be in danger. We have to get them!"
"No, Olivia. We can't go back now. Kowalski wants Rodriguez and Tami. They'll be safe as long as they don't have these two, especially Rodriguez."
It had gotten bitingly cold outside. A dark blue dome of a night studded with stars greeted them as they stepped on the dewy grass. To the east flowed some of the Urubamba River. On it, inches in the air, sailed a big old moon the color of candle wax.
Andrew looked at the guns Olivia and Diggs carried.
"You robbed the dead."
"To save the living," Diggs replied with a chuckle.
Rodriguez struck off across the grass. Downhill he went, stumbling once when he kicked a stray stone. Olivia and Andrew tried to catch up on each other's lives since they last spoke. He told her about his crash in Sicily. Olivia told him about the hit-and-run guy. And about the others’ escape from death. Olivia gasped when she heard about Victor Borodin's fall.
Rodriguez stopped where the hill tipped down to a fall. He pointed south, towards a hillock with grass growing around the base. Beyond the hill, moonlight glinted on the river.
"That’s the rock entrance for the Gerente in an emergency," the old man said.
Olivia frowned. "How did you know that?"
"My great-grandfather was a Gerente, for a short period that is, but before he died, he passed the knowledge to his father. It is an Inca tradition to pass knowledge. It is not American to pass knowledge?"
"Not so much, I guess."
Olivia turned around, getting herself to orient with the environment, but there were too many deep shadows below.
Rodriguez glanced at Andrew and Detective José Hanna.
"After you, Rodriguez," José said.
It was apparent that the rock did not naturally occur but was constructed. Under the torchlights, Olivia saw the craftsmanship was impeccable and unlike anything that she had ever seen. There were symbols on the top of it, hieroglyphs like she had seen on the doors down under. In the middle of the rock, there was a flat surface, smooth and bare of any symbols. It felt gritty to touch, as though the builders spray painted it with a mixture of grey paint and sand.
She asked Rodriguez, "What does it say?"
Rodriguez read: “Here is the mouth of the crocodile, he smiles when he drinks, the crocodile yawns when he sings.”
"Do you what that means?"
Old Rodriguez pursed dry lips and shook his head; his rheumy eyes rolled at Olivia like a pleading puppy. A sudden fear had crept into those eyes.
Olivia touched his shoulder. "Don't worry, Rodriguez. You have done enough already. We'll figure it out as we go."
"But…"
Rodriguez wen
t back to the symbols. He ran the tips of his geriatric fingers over the characters. Then down the sides of the rock. "There should be an entrance here. A doorway, in the…oh no—"
"What is it?" Olivia leaned closer.
"It says here"—Rodriguez touched a group of writings on the top—"that if you put your hand out to this stone of sand and water, you will fall."
"What do you think?" she asked him.
"I don't know what it means. It could be literally something like—a puzzle. Ancient Inca loved puzzles very much."
The men gathered around the duo. A debate started between José, who was also a local, and Andrew Gilmore, a former priest acquainted with medieval puzzles. Olivia's eyes followed back and forth as both men theorized.
Rodriguez, on the other hand, stared at that wall in the middle of the rock. The wall had a rough but smooth surface. He glanced at the words again.
Sand and fire.
He touched the surface of the stone. It was smooth—his eyes widened—like water, yet grainy, like sand.
If you put your hand…
"Wait!" Rodriguez shouted.
The argument stopped. The duo looked at the old man. His palms were flat on that bare surface. He said, "If you put your hand out, it means to push this stone because it is smooth like water but rough like sand when you touch it."
The old man rose and looked at Olivia. "Touch it. It is like touching water and sand. The Incas built it by the river Urubamba, the river of the snake god. The god that eats sand and sleeps on the water."
Olivia went down to the stone and touched it.
"Amazing."
"Yes, it is," Rodriguez whispered, with bright eyes.
Olivia put her palms to the stone surface. She applied all the strength on her shoulder and diaphragm. She pushed, and just as though she was in a dream, she felt the earth move beneath her feet. The grass popped as the stems tore from the soil, and blades of leaves ripped apart. The mass of land measuring ten feet alone and six feet in width tilted down against the manmade rock, which remained stationary.
Andrew and Diggs reached out and grabbed Olivia and Rodriguez, respectively. Yet, they slipped down the wet carpet of green grass and the sticky blackness of the earth underneath.
Darkness swallowed them. The team hit hard floor seconds after. Diggs and Andrew were the only ones with the presence of mind to go for their torches.
Diggs spread his torchlight out in front to reveal a long hallway with large, red brick walls covered with crawling plants and fresh algae. Cool air blew at them from the throat of the hallway and a faint smell of decay.
Old Rodriguez rose from his crouch. He grunted at the pain in his knees. "Welcome to the Inca Temple."
—
Seth Kowalski's men came back with the news that all seven men that went to reconnoiter the other end of the hallway were dead.
Kowalski looked like he'd just been punched in the balls. His face lost all its colors except the ones on his thin lips.
"And the woman?"
"No sign of her, sir."
He cast hateful eyes at Miller and the other men. Even in the semi lighted place of the temple, Kowalski still managed to exude treachery in bright colors.
He said to the man leading the tactical team, "Round these men up and bring them. We'll find the woman. First, show me the bodies."
—
Pietro Oscar went from the chief's home to the police station. He'd half expected detective José Hanna to be in his office doodling over some papers or something. Detectives were always on hand, weren't they?
When he was told the detective was gone, he knew where he might be. Then he wondered too if he, the two women, and the other Americans were still alive.
He was stupid to have trusted Kowalski. He realized now that if the rogue CIA man got hold of the gold in the Temple, he'd likely have Pietro killed too.
I need some information.
He made several calls to his contacts. One of them, a bounty hunter who worked for Pietro but whom he had set up in wine business, had heard something. His name was Fish.
Fish told him about a particular crook who went by the name of Patel.
Now Patel was a sly motherfucker who ran a skinny club in Cusco. Four nights ago, one of his girls had been beaten raw by a customer. A midget, an American with the face of a rat, and the demeanor of a snake. This American drank too much in the course of the night, fell asleep while the girls, three of them, helped themselves to his wallet. But since when did snakes or rats ever sleep with all their senses?
Midget waited for the girls to complete their mission with his wallet before pouncing, like a cobra, said Patel. He caught just one of the girls; the others bailed. One of the bouncers at the door saw two girls hot-footing it and grabbed them.
Patel met the midget who’d been rough handled by his bouncer.
Midget threatened fire and megrims for the insult. Then he said he was coming in with a tactical team the next day or so, and he was going to kill everyone in the club, then kill everyone at the temple.
Patel asked if Pietro knew what temple the midget was talking about.
Pietro told him to forget it.
"Yeah, homeboy was drunk. It was all drunk talk," Patel murmured.
Patel swore though he never wanted to have anything to do with the midget.
After that call, Pietro knew Seth Kowalski was the midget. And his tactical team killed the Chief of Police Alvarez before moving on to the hills.
But why kill the cop? Was he, Pietro, next?
No, he thought, maybe he'd be killed last. Or else the foolish midget would have come after him. If Kowalski brought in a tactical team, it means that stranger—he called himself Andrew Gilmore—would be needing a lot of help.
But something was off about the man. He felt they would be the ones needing protection from Andrew Gilmore, Olivia Newton, and her people.
—
As Kowalski was finding out every inch of the way, everyone was now at the mercy of the Inca temple.
He stopped short when he saw what was before him on the floor. The light from his torch was unable to cover the butchery.
"What the fuck…"
He pulled one more torch out of someone's hand and bunched the two. He stepped forward slowly. What he saw now, he had never experienced before. He shined the torch around the wall, up the roof and back to the bodies. He braced himself and gave the extra torch back.
He knelt on the ground and examined the punctured holes. The deep lacerated face of another body roiled his gut.
This is worse than the Texas chainsaw massacre.
He stumbled away. "What is this place?" he said. He was back to flashing his torch everywhere on the wall. The holes in the roof caught his eyes.
He squinted at them.
He shined the light of his torch on Miller.
"You know anything about this?"
"Nope."
One of the mercenaries said, "Sir, we found another group of bodies."
"You don't say."
A short walk brought them upon the stiff bodies of Pietro's men. Kowalski asked if Miller or the other men knew anything about these, too.
Miller said they didn't.
Kowalski pulled his gun out and pointed it at Miller's head.
Anabia stepped forward. "Do you even know who you're talking to?"
"What? I know who he is; he is Frank Miller, a billionaire. Yeah, and I'd say he's damn so far away from home among his millions and pent fucking house! And I'd advice you shut up—"
Then Kowalski moved the gun from Miller's face to Dr. Anabia Nassif's shocked own. The doctor pushed his glasses up as if to get a better look at the Luger in Kowalski's hand.
"Maybe you'd better answer the question then. Or I'll bust the billionaire's knee caps open. He'll never walk again in his life. Now, I know you lot know what happened to these people. You were here before anyone of us." His voice dropped to a monotone.
"You saw something, I can see i
t in your eyes, all of you. You saw these men die; all I want to know is how did they die? What killed them? What did you see?"
He pulled the safety off. It made a pregnant click. Anabia cocked his head to the side.
"If we told you, I doubt you'd believe it."
"Try me," Kowalski said in a flat tone.
"The temple killed them."
Kowalski wheeled around at the voice from the darkness behind him. The mercenaries all shone their torches around and their guns too.
Pietro Oscar was standing there with about twenty AK-bearing, tough-looking thugs. He was dressed in brown and green army camouflage. Two big guns, a Lupo, and a regular shotgun dangled from his hands. His hair was combed back, oiled. His face looked like he had scrubbed himself before coming out. He stared at Kowalski with a passive roll of his eyes.
"Pietro," Kowalski routed lustily. "You always have an amazing entrance, don't you? What the hell are you doing here?"
Pietro ignored the show. He said, "These men had nothing to with the deaths. The temple will kill anyone who tries to take from it."
"My men weren't trying to take from it. And how come these men and their bitch journalist are still alive if what you are saying is true?"
Pietro shrugged, still staring at Kowalski with that vacant look, like a man who's found his lost pet, and is angry with the animal, exceedingly so.
"Maybe they are just lucky."
"Lucky? You think so?" Kowalski shoved his gone in Miller's face again. "Let's see how lucky the billionaire is. What if I shoot him right in the face?"
"Boss?" said the nearest mercenary.
"What!"
"We are supposed to take them alive—"
"No! Just the woman!"
Pietro stepped forward in the glare of his men's torches. "I will kill you, Kowalski, if you touch them."
The CIA man turned sharply. "Are you crazy?"
"Yes."
Kowalski counted how many men were with Pietro. He made out about ten that he could see. That was against his own eleven trained men. What are the odds, huh?
He dropped his hand, tapped the gun on his thigh, and considered his position. It was not a good place he was in. Pietro was backing him up. But why?
As if Pietro could read his mind, the syndicate leader said, "You killed Chief Alvarez—"
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