38
Nina skidded the Patrol to a desperate emergency stop
as the seething wave crashed down the hillside ahead. ‘Holy
shit!’
‘Over there!’ said
Macy, pointing down the steep slope on the far side of the deluge.
Nina saw the yellow Hummer skittering down the hill – and the
pickup truck following it over the edge of the road.
The truck Eddie was
driving.
She wanted to look
away, but couldn’t.
Pachac and his driver
screamed as the H3 picked up speed down the steepening slope. The
only thing between them and the clouds filling the valley below was
a rocky outcrop, a gnarled tree jutting sidelong from
it—
The Hummer hit the
protruding rock nose-first. The airbags fired, but with neither man
wearing a seatbelt they were still slammed brutally forward.
Another impact followed as the H3 tipped back and hit the cliff,
ending up wedged against the rockface.
Even through his pain
and disorientation, Pachac knew he had to get clear as quickly as
possible. He swatted away the airbag’s flaccid remains and opened
the door. The thin build-up of dirt in which the tree had taken
root was already being washed away by the water flowing down the
cliff – and with over two tons of automobile on top of it, the rock
would probably soon go the same way.
He dragged himself
out. ‘Come on,’ he rasped. ‘We’ve got—’
Noise above. Not
water, not rock. Metal. He looked up.
Something rushed down
the hillside towards him—
Even as the F-150
went over the edge, Eddie was turning the wheel, trying to aim the
truck at a tree he had glimpsed below. His chances of reaching it
were almost zero, but a minuscule hope of survival was better than
no hope at all. He leaned out of the open door as the abused
vehicle rushed down the slope—
The Hummer was
perched on the rock supporting the tree - off to the
side.
He wasn’t going to
make it.
Not in the
truck—
Eddie dived out,
twisting in freefall to land on his back . . .
He hit the Hummer’s
roof with such force that all its windows exploded, the expanse of
sheet metal crumpling beneath him as the F-150 shot past, missing
the rock by inches. The pain was so intense it overwhelmed his
senses.
Taste returned first,
the metallic sting of blood in his mouth. Other pains reported in
throughout his body as he tried to move. His spine was ablaze –
broken? No, he realised as his limbs achingly responded, but it
could hardly hurt much more.
He forced his eyes
open. The tree was a wavering blur, the light from the sky beyond
its branches almost painful. All his body wanted to do was lie
still and fade away . . .
Pachac.
The thought of the
Peruvian pulled him back. Where was Pachac? He had been in the
Hummer, and Eddie was now on the
Hummer. He had a mission. Make him pay for what he had done to Mac.
Catch him. Kill him.
The pain made the
cold, ruthless detachment of his pursuit impossible to maintain,
animal rage sawing at the clinical parts of his mind. He channelled
it, controlled it, used it as fuel as he slowly rolled on his
side.
Pachac lay on the
rock below.
Their gazes locked on
to each other. Disbelief filled the rebel’s eyes, fury Eddie’s. The
pain vanished as the Englishman threw himself at the revolutionary
leader—
The mangled Hummer
tipped into the abyss behind him with a grind of metal and the
driver’s petrified scream, but Eddie didn’t even notice, fixated on
Pachac. The Peruvian managed to scramble aside as he landed, the
desperation of self-preservation overcoming his own pain. He jumped
up and backed towards the tree, fumbling in his wet clothing as
Eddie advanced. ‘The rock is going to fall!’ Pachac cried as stones
clattered down around him, dislodged from their homes by the muddy
deluge. The waterfall’s full force was already fading, the bulk of
the flood released in a single great burst, but it would be some
time before all the escaped water found its way down to the bottom
of the valley. ‘If we fight here, we both die!’
‘So long as you go
first,’ Eddie growled.
Pachac flinched as he
backed against the tree. His search became more panicked as Eddie
drew closer – then he found what he wanted.
His
knife.
The savage blade
snapped out. Eddie stopped, eyes fixed on the weapon, waiting for
Pachac to make his move.
The Peruvian
misinterpreted his hesitation as fear, a sneering smile creeping on
to his face. ‘Yeah, you should be scared,’ he hissed, stepping
forward. ‘You know how many I have gutted with this knife?’ The
smile widened into a twisted, demonic grin. ‘I don’t know myself. I
stopped counting at twenty.’ Another step, the knife sweeping from
side to side like a cobra assessing its prey.
Eddie held his
ground, still watching the weapon. The blade kept moving, left, to
right, to left . . .
Forward—
The knife jerked at
his stomach, but Eddie’s hands were already in motion, grabbing
Pachac’s wrist and deflecting the attack. Even so, the Peruvian’s
brute strength almost caught him, the blade stabbing through the
sodden lining of his jacket.
Still clutching the
rebel’s arm with his left hand, he lashed out with his right to
chop at Pachac’s throat. Pachac jerked back, but still took the
edge of Eddie’s palm to his larynx. He gasped,
choking.
Eddie smashed
Pachac’s knife hand down against his knee, trying to force him to
drop the blade. Another hit, but the Peruvian’s fingers were still
clenched tightly round the hilt. A third blow, and it
slipped—
The knife clattered
on to the rock just as Pachac recovered his breath and lashed out
with his other arm, the muscular limb thudding against the base of
Eddie’s neck like a club. Eddie struck back, trying to crush
Pachac’s nose, but only hit his chin. Another blow dropped the
Englishman to his knees. Pachac’s own knee crashed against his
head. Eddie fell on his back, struggling to get up—
Pachac’s hands locked
around Eddie’s throat and squeezed.
The strength of the
Peruvian’s fingers was incredible. Eddie clawed at them, but they
were as unyielding as steel. ‘Capacocha,’ the revolutionary leader snarled.
‘This is what happens to all enemies of the Inkarrí!’
Eddie tried to bend
back and snap one of his little fingers, but even that was too
strong for him to move. He shifted his hands to the rock, groping
for a weapon – afallen stone, a piece of wood . . .
But his fingers found
nothing. He flailed, writhing along the outcrop in a last desperate
attempt to break free. Pachac moved with him, mouth widening into a
triumphant grin—
Eddie felt a spike of
pain in his hand. Something very sharp.
He grabbed it,
striking with the last of his strength—
The knife stabbed
into Pachac’s arm, tearing between the bones to burst out from the
inside of his wrist in a spray of blood. He screamed, releasing his
hold and stumbling away.
Still clutching the
bloodied knife, Eddie sat up, straining to draw air through his
bruised throat—
The rock
jolted.
A split opened up
where it jutted from the cliff, flowing water eagerly rushing into
the new space and washing out the earth acting as natural mortar.
The outcrop dropped a couple of inches, halting with a crunch. The
rebel fell on his back.
Eddie jumped up and
hurdled Pachac, making a flying leap at the tree—
The rock dropped away
from under him, ripping out of the cliff like a tooth from a
diseased gum. He hit the tree, grabbed it – and
slipped.
Falling—
He caught a
protruding root with one hand – and slammed the knife into the wood
with the other, arresting his fall.
Then was almost torn
loose.
Pachac’s hand was
locked round his ankle.
Some of the roots had
wound their way into the cliff’s cracks, holding the tree in place,
but the men’s combined weight was pulling them out. Eddie kicked at
the Peruvian’s fingers, hearing a cry from below, but before he
could strike again Pachac managed to grab his boot with his other
hand. Even with an injured wrist, his grip was still fiercely
strong.
Another snap of
roots. ‘Pull us up!’ Pachac cried. ‘The tree is going to fall –
pull us up!’
Eddie looked down at
him . . . and the anger returned. Not taking his eyes off the
revolutionary, he jerked his hand from side to side, working the
knife out of the root.
Pachac saw the
movement. ‘What – what are you doing? No! You’ll kill us
both!’
Eddie said nothing,
still tugging at the knife. The wood creaked, splintering – then
the blade pulled free.
Both men swung away
from the cliff, Eddie supporting them with only one hand. The tree
swayed sharply. Pachac stifled a shriek, toes scrabbling at the
rock. He knew that if he risked finding a handhold, his other hand
would be kicked until his fingers broke.
Straining, Eddie
reached down as far as he could, and slowly, painfully, pulled up
his legs to bring Pachac into range of the knife. The Peruvian
realised what he was about to do, and his face filled with helpless
horror. ‘No! Don’t do it! Please!’
Jaw clenched, Eddie
held the knife poised above the other man’s hand. ‘This is for what
you did to Mac.’
Pachac tried again to
find a foothold, failed. ‘Who? Who is Mac?’
‘My friend. You
killed him.’
‘The government
man?’
Disgust rose inside
Eddie. The bastard didn’t even remember! He dug the knife’s point
into the back of Pachac’s hand, making him gasp. ‘Grey hair! Beard!
Know who I mean now, you fucking piece of shit?’
‘The old man?’ There
was genuine confusion behind the fear. ‘But – I never touched
him!’
‘No. You shot him. In
the back.’ He slowly turned the knife. Blood ran from the wound,
oozing down Pachac’s arm. ‘But I want to look you in the face . . .
when I do this.’
He stabbed the knife
through the Peruvian’s hand and twisted it, hard. There was a sharp
crack of bone. Pachac screamed in agony and terror as he lost his
grip. He hung for a moment on his injured arm – then Eddie smashed
his heel down and snapped two of his fingers. Pachac dropped away,
Eddie watching coldly as he vanished into the clouds below. The
scream continued after he disappeared, fading to
nothing.
The tree shook
violently with the release of weight. Eddie stabbed the knife back
into the root, pulling himself up. Dirt and grit showered over him.
At any moment, it would rip away from the cliff—
He lunged for a solid
nub of rock to one side, clawing at the stone as the tree plunged
into the valley. Branches slashed at him as the tree fell, trying
to drag him down with it. He yelled, battling to keep his grip –
then it was gone, tumbling down the cliff to be swallowed by the
blankness beneath.
Eddie dangled,
recovering his breath. His anger receded as the reality of his
situation sank in. The road was sixty or seventy feet above. How
the hell was he going to get up there? He scraped his boots against
the rock, but only found enough purchase to support the tip of one
foot. Bracing himself, he experimentally reached higher for a
handhold. All his fingertips found was slick, treacherous wet mud
caking every surface. Unclimbable.
‘Well,’ he muttered,
‘buggeration and f—’
Clank!
A noise above. Metal
on stone. He looked up – and saw a hook scraping down the cliff
towards him.
Nina! It had to be.
He waited until the hook, at the end of a steel winch cable, was
within reach, then grabbed it with one hand and tugged repeatedly
to signal that he had a firm hold. It stopped. He locked his other
hand over the first, then pushed himself out from the rockface with
his feet.
The cable retracted.
He rose with it, boots rasping over the rock. Before long he saw
the expedition’s Nissan Patrol at the edge of the road – and a
familiar face gazing anxiously down at him.
‘Eddie!’ Nina
shouted. ‘Oh, thank God, thank God!’
‘Are you okay?’ he
called.
Macy was at the 4×4’s
winch, relief plain on her face. ‘Are we okay?’ she said in disbelief. ‘You just went
over a cliff, and you’re worried about us? We didn’t even know if
you were still down there!’
‘Then why’d you throw
down the cable?’
‘Because I was sure
that you were,’ said Nina, pulling the line to help him up the last
few feet. He scrambled on to the muddy road, looked into her eyes .
. . then, wordlessly, they embraced.
Macy eventually broke
the silence. ‘What happened to Pachac?’
Eddie’s voice was
flat. ‘He’s dead.’
Nina eased her hold
and leaned back. ‘What about you? How . . . how are you
feeling?’
It took a few seconds
for him to provide an answer. ‘I’m okay.’ In truth, he didn’t know
what he was feeling – or even if he felt anything at all. He had
expected some sort of catharsis at Pachac’s death, a release of
anger or satisfaction or a sense that justice had been done . . .
but there was nothing, just an empty numbness.
‘You sure?’ There was
concern in her voice.
‘Yeah.’ He looked
away, at the Patrol. ‘Get the satphone. We need to call this
in.’
The chatter of rotor
blades echoed off the cliffs around the entrance to El Dorado. This
time, though, the helicopters were not gunships but transport
aircraft, both civil and military. Nina’s call to the Peruvian
government, telling them what had happened – and what she had found
– brought a rapid response, the first soldiers arriving to secure
the area within an hour.
More troops soon
followed, accompanied by civilian officials. Taking charge of the
operation was Felipe Alvarado, Zender’s superior and head of the
Ministry of Culture. In his late fifties, he had a weary, cynical
face that suggested he’d seen it all – but his astounded expression
when he emerged from the cave proved that that was not the case.
‘Dr Wilde!’ he cried. ‘This is amazing, incredible! El Dorado, real
– and in my country!’
Nina was too
exhausted to respond with similar enthusiasm. ‘Yeah. It’s a hell of
a thing.’
‘The lost city of
gold – it is almost too much to believe. I admit, when the IHA
first asked permission to search for it, I did not believe it.’
‘Is that why you sent
Zender instead of coming yourself?’
Alvarado’s gaze moved
to the edge of the drained pool, where several forms lay beneath
sheets: some of those killed inside the cave, recovered by the
soldiers. ‘Oh, Diego,’ he said with a tinge of sadness. ‘He wanted
to be in the news, for everyone to know his name. But not like
this.’
‘Nobody wants to be
remembered like this,’ Nina said.
‘No.’ He gazed at the
bodies for a moment, then looked back at the cavern. Several
soldiers were making their way down the collapsed wall, bearing
more corpses on stretchers. The first was dressed in dirty and
mismatched camouflage gear; one of the revolutionaries. ‘But
something good has come from this,’ Alvarado continued. ‘Pachac and
his butchers are dead. You have done my country a great favour by
killing them.’
‘I’m sure my
husband’ll be thrilled to hear that,’ said Nina bitterly, eyes
fixed on another of the bodies being brought out.
Mac.
‘He should be,’ said
Alvarado. ‘But I am sorry for the loss of your
friends.’
‘Thank
you.’
He was about to add
something when an official called out to him. ‘Excuse me,’ he said,
moving away to speak to his subordinate. On the way he passed
Eddie, returning from having his injuries treated by a Peruvian
army medic. The Englishman stopped when he saw Mac, watching as he
was placed alongside the other corpses. A soldier prepared to pull
a sheet over the unmoving figure.
‘No!’ Eddie snapped,
hurrying over. ‘I’ll do it.’ He crouched and took hold of the sheet
. . . but didn’t pull it up. Instead, he stared down at his
friend’s still, pale face.
Nina joined him.
Seconds passed, Eddie still holding the sheet in silence. Finally,
she spoke. ‘Eddie?’
He twitched, as if
surprised to hear her voice, then abruptly pulled the sheet over
Mac’s head and stood. ‘What?’
‘I’m so sorry. Are .
. . are you okay?’ She gently touched his arm.
He pulled away – only
slightly, but enough to give her a shock of dismay, rejection. ‘No.
I’m not.’
‘What can I do? Do
you want anything?’
‘I just need to
think.’ Face set and unreadable, he turned away and limped towards
the nearby trees.
‘Eddie . . .’ Nina
said quietly, her voice tailing off with the hopeless feeling that
nothing she could say would help.
‘Nina?’ Macy,
approaching with Kit and Osterhagen. ‘Is everything
okay?’
‘Not really,’ Nina
replied, still watching Eddie’s retreat.
Macy’s lips quivered
as she realised who was under the sheet. ‘Oh, that’s . . . Mr
McCrimmon. Oh . . .’ Tears welled in her eyes.
Kit, looking equally
stricken, put a hand on her shoulder. His sleeve had been cut away,
the bullet wound to his arm bandaged. ‘It shouldn’t have happened,’
he said quietly, as much to himself as to her.
Osterhagen was also
solemn as he regarded the bodies. ‘None of this should. So many
deaths. All because of gold, the greed for gold.’
‘Five centuries, and
nothing’s changed,’ Nina said sadly.
‘Maybe some day it
will,’ said Kit.
‘I wish it could. But
I doubt it. People never change.’ She looked back at her husband,
seeing him standing at the edge of the clearing, head bowed. ‘I
need to be with Eddie,’ she said, starting after him. But she had
no idea what she could possibly say to comfort him.
A Peruvian official
bustled past her, holding a satellite phone. ‘Mr Jindal! A call for
you. From Interpol.’
Kit took the phone.
‘Yes, this is Jindal.’
‘This is Alexander
Stikes,’ said the crisp English voice from the other end of the
line. Kit froze. ‘I’d like to offer you a deal . . . ’