Empire of Gold_A Novel

  Once it was done, the explorers were forced to help move the trolley and its weighty cargo to the top of the steps. Other soldiers assembled a makeshift ramp from stout planks so that it could be lowered to the plaza, where the overhanging jungle canopy was thin enough for it to be airlifted out without risking damage. Callas stood nearby, watching the disk’s slow progress from behind his sunglasses.

  Stikes, meanwhile, disappeared into the palace. When he returned, Loretta’s camera in hand, his expression was more calculating than ever. “I think Chase really was telling the truth,” he told Callas. “There’s a painting on the wall, an account of what I assume is the Incas fleeing the Spanish—I’m hardly an expert on Inca history. But,” he added, gesturing at Nina, “I know someone who is.”

  “She can tell us how to find El Dorado?” Callas asked.

  “I’m sure she can, yes. Given the right kind of encouragement.”

  Callas nodded. “She will have it. But after the operation. That must come first.”

  “Well, of course. That’s why I’m here, after all.”

  “Why are you here, Stikes?” Eddie demanded as he strained with the others to push the cart to the ramp. “You’ve got your knockoff SAS beret on, so I’m guessing you’re pretending to be a soldier.”

  “Actually, I’m in the same line of work as you used to be, from what I heard on the grapevine. A private military contractor.”

  “You’re a mercenary?” said Nina disapprovingly.

  “Aren’t we all, ultimately? We provide our skills to those who need them, in return for money. Mine happen to be in the field of conflict resolution. My company—3S, for Stikes Security Solutions—”

  “Not Stupid Southern Shitehawk?” Eddie cut in.

  Stikes kicked him hard, dropping him to his knees. The guards quickly moved in, AKs raised to deter Eddie from retaliating as he painfully stood back up. “As I was saying,” Stikes continued, as if nothing had happened, “my company has been rather successful, what with all the opportunities in Afghanistan and Iraq. But things are tailing off now, so it’s time to look for new markets.” A nod to Callas. “And new clients.”

  “There are no conflicts inside Venezuela,” said Valero. “Only the fight against imperialist aggression.”

  Callas laughed sarcastically. “The voice of the new convert! What were you before you put on that joke of a uniform? A farmhand? A dog from the barrios? You have no idea what is really going on in this country.”

  “He’s right, though,” said Stikes. “There certainly won’t be any conflicts in Venezuela—once we’re finished.”

  Another laugh from the general. “That is true.”

  “Finished what?” Eddie asked.

  But no answer was forthcoming, Callas instead walking to the steps in response to a call from below. The ramp was complete. The general issued more orders, and chains were attached to the cart and looped around thick stone pillars at the top of the stairs so the workforce could lower the sun disk slowly to the plaza. It was made very clear to the unwilling members of the group that if the cart broke free and its cargo was damaged, they would all be shot.

  After ten minutes of straining, sixteen people struggling to hold the great weight of the Inca treasure on the incline, the sun disk was safely off the foot of the ramp. Arms aching, Eddie nevertheless kept a close watch on Stikes and Callas. Once the golden artifact had been wheeled to the clearing and crated up ready to be lifted by helicopter, the only expedition member they needed to keep alive was Nina. Any opportunity to escape, however slim, would have to be taken.

  But even with the majority of the soldiers helping move the sun disk, there were still four guards with AKs, and both Callas and Stikes were armed; the mercenary carried a gleaming nickel-plated Jericho 941 automatic, an Israeli weapon styled to resemble its larger and more famous Desert Eagle cousin, in a hip holster. And the crate was not far away; it would take just a few minutes to reach.

  Not much time. There had to be some way they could break loose.

  Maybe there was.

  The mud near the tent was still churned up from where Eddie had fought the soldier. The cart would be pushed right past it …

  “Move!” barked Callas, pointing across the plaza.

  Everyone resumed their positions: Kit, Osterhagen, Becker, and Loretta holding the chains to pull the sun disk; Eddie, Nina, and Macy pushing the cart; both groups joined by soldiers. The cart’s fat tires squeaked, bulging under the great weight as it rolled inch by inch across the uneven stone flags.

  It drew closer to the patch of sludge. Eddie whispered to Nina, “I’m going to try something in a minute. If it works, run.”

  “What about the others?”

  He couldn’t speak any louder without risking being overheard. “Just hope they’re quick on the uptake. This mud, coming up—get ready.”

  The group pulling the chains were already angling to avoid the obstacle. Eddie checked the mud as the trolley skirted it.

  The knife he had knocked from the soldier’s hand was still where it had fallen, almost submerged in the thick brown ooze.

  He shifted position, moving his feet farther from the trolley. Only another couple of steps now. A sidelong glance at the nearest guard. If he saw what he was doing …

  Last step—

  He planted his right foot into the mud—and felt the knife under his sole.

  Now!

  Eddie pretended to slip, his other foot slithering in the mud. He brought his right sharply forward to regain his balance, dragging the knife with it.

  The guard would see if he tried to pick up the blade. Instead he shoved it forward again and pressed the edge of his boot down hard on the hilt, forcing the blade upward—

  Into one of the tires.

  The point stabbed through the rubber as the cart rolled over it. The tire exploded with a bang as loud as a gunshot, the sudden extra strain on the two neighboring wheels causing them to compress.

  Top-heavy, unbalanced, the cart tipped over.

  Eddie and Nina jumped back—

  One of the soldiers tripped, landing beside the cart. His panicked scream was abruptly cut off as the sun disk fell on top of him, two tons of dense metal flattening him with a splatter of blood and mud.

  “Run!” Eddie yelled. He punched out a guard and broke into a sprint for the nearest alley.

  Nina started to run after him, but another soldier blocked her way. She tried to swerve past—only to slip in the mud, knocking them both to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

  Macy fared even less well. She had instinctively leapt back as the sun disk fell, colliding with the soldier behind. Before she could twist away, he tackled her.

  Of the other team members, both Osterhagen and Loretta were too surprised to think of fleeing, turning in startled confusion. Kit, sandwiched between two soldiers, got just a couple of feet before he was grabbed. Only Becker managed to break away, barging another soldier out of his path and running for the main gate—

  Callas bellowed in Spanish: “Stop him!” The guards hurriedly brought up their weapons and tracked the gangling German. He weaved desperately as the shots closed in.

  One tore a thumb-sized chunk of flesh from his thigh. He fell.

  Stikes was hunting another target, snapping the Jericho from his holster and whirling to track Eddie as he ran. He fired—but his target had already ducked behind a tree, the 9mm round smacking into the trunk. Stikes cursed and moved to get a better firing angle.

  Too late. Eddie disappeared between two buildings, a second bullet hitting only his shadow. Stikes hissed in frustration and ran after him.

  Eddie realized he was heading back toward where he had emerged from the pit. That gave him the advantage, however small, of knowing the terrain. Was there anywhere he could stage an ambush?

  Yes. If he could reach it before being shot in the back.

  He swatted branches aside, following his footprints in the dirt. He could hear Stikes pounding after him, boots th
udding rhythmically down the narrow alleyway. Gaining. The taller, leaner officer had always been faster, and while both men had stayed fit after leaving the SAS, Eddie had spent the better part of five years in an office. Another bullet cracked against the wall behind him, the Jericho’s bark echoing through the ancient city. From somewhere deep inside he dredged up an extra burst of speed, swinging around the next corner—

  The collapsed section of battlement was ahead—but Eddie was only interested in the vines and ivy hanging from the wall a few yards away, the entrance to the lower level all but invisible behind them.

  He dived through, rolling and taking up position at the squat opening. His passage had ripped away some of the creepers—if Stikes spotted the gap and guessed his plan, a few bullets fired through the green curtain would end it instantly.

  Footsteps. Stikes had reached the corner. They got closer.

  Slowed.

  Eddie peered through the leaves. Stikes drew nearer, moving at a cautious walking pace. Eddie tensed, waiting for the best moment to attack—or run. Had Stikes seen the archway, or …

  The mercenary went past. He hadn’t spotted the entrance, instead heading for the doorway of a nearby ruined building. But it would only take him a second to see that there was nobody inside—

  Eddie burst out through the vines.

  Stikes spun at the crackle of branches—and Eddie slammed him against a wall. He fired, muzzle flame scorching the sleeve of Eddie’s leather jacket. Eddie responded by grabbing his wrist and smashing it against the edge of a stone block. Stikes barely held in a grunt of pain as the gun was jolted from his grasp. Eddie shoulder-barged him against the wall, then reached for the fallen Jericho—

  Stikes whipped up one knee, catching him in the side and making him stumble. He twisted away from Eddie, then lunged, trying to catch him in a headlock.

  Eddie lashed out with a foot, catching his kneecap. Stikes grunted again, reeling—then let out a full-blown groan as Eddie drove a solid punch into his stomach. The Yorkshireman pressed home the attack, delivering another blow to his midsection before landing an uppercut on his jaw. Stikes fell against the wall, blood around his mouth. “Always knew you were just a fucking Rupert!” Eddie snarled: army slang for a useless upper-class officer. He pulled back his fist for a knockout blow. “Can’t win in a proper fight—”

  Two of Callas’s men ran around the corner, raising their AK-103s—

  Eddie hauled Stikes away from the wall and shoved him back at the two soldiers. In the confines of the alley they couldn’t fire without hitting him, giving Eddie the chance to sprint in the other direction.

  Stikes shook off his dizziness. “What are you waiting for?” he shouted in Spanish, moving aside to give them a clear shot. “Shoot him!”

  They opened fire—just as Eddie reached the collapsed wall and made a running jump into the jungle beyond.

  He was over forty feet above the ground, nothing to stop his fall except the branches of a nearby tree. Leaves smacked at his face as he arced through the foliage, arms thrown wide …

  He hit the damp wood hard, a bough thumping against his chest. Winded, he grabbed it. There was a sudden explosion of movement around him—dozens of small, brightly colored birds in the tree took to the air in alarm, shrilling and chittering. The branch bounced as if trying to shake him off, but he kept his hold.

  He looked for a way to the ground—but the tree chose one for him. The branch snapped. Eddie dropped—and was caught in a knot of creepers, swinging at the trunk.

  He braced himself—

  Smaller branches absorbed some of the impact, but they also ripped through his clothes, cutting him in several places. He jerked his head sideways just in time to avoid being blinded by one stub, the wood slashing a line across his cheek.

  Crackles from above. The creepers were tearing apart. He tried to find a secure handhold, but the branches he clutched all broke under his weight.

  He fell again—and hit a twist in the crooked trunk, bouncing off and landing in the overgrown marsh with a thick splash. Despite the pain, he crawled back toward the tree, pushing through the undergrowth.

  Above, the two soldiers reached the broken wall and looked into the jungle. Birds whirled madly through the branches, leaves dropping like green snowflakes from the still-shaking tree. No sign of the escaped prisoner.

  Stikes pushed them aside. “Give me that!” he barked, snatching the AK from one of the men. He aimed it into the tree, seeing no sign of his former subordinate, then down at the ground.

  Movement in the bushes—

  Stikes opened fire as Eddie scrambled for cover. Bullets thunked into the tree, bark and splinters spitting from each impact. But his target was now hunched against the other side of the trunk, shielded by over two feet of wood. Stikes fired the last rounds in the magazine, then irritably thrust the AK into its owner’s hands. “Get back to Callas.”

  The other soldier still had his weapon fixed on the tree. “We can climb down and get him.”

  “No,” Stikes said. “We need to get the sun disk out of here. Come on.” He headed back down the alley, retrieving his Jericho. The soldiers followed.

  Eddie sat breathlessly behind the tree, wondering if his pursuers had their weapons trained on his hiding place, waiting for him to emerge. After a minute, he risked a peek. Nobody above. They had gone.

  Aching, he stood, trying to work out the quickest way to get back into the ruins. Scaling the cliff was out; from here, he would have to go almost halfway around the entire perimeter. He limped away, hearing the rumble of the helicopter drawing closer to the lost city.

  “Did you kill him?” Callas called as Stikes and the soldiers returned to the plaza.

  “No. He got away,” the Englishman replied.

  “You let him escape?”

  “He won’t go far, not as long as we have them.” Stikes gestured at the prisoners, who apart from the wounded Becker had been forced back to work. “He’ll try to rescue them. I’d advise that we leave before then.”

  A faintly dismissive sneer crossed Callas’s lips. “You’re afraid of him?”

  “Not in the slightest,” Stikes snapped, wiping the blood from his mouth. “But if we leave him behind, there are only two towns he can reach from here—and you can have men waiting for him at both.” He regarded the blood-spattered sun disk, which had been lifted back upright on the cart. “How long before the chopper can pick it up?”

  “A few minutes.”

  “Good. Send two men to guard the trucks—he might try to hijack or sabotage them. The rest, tell them to help load the sun disk as quickly as they can. The moment it leaves the ground, we’ll evacuate.”

  The Venezuelan stiffened slightly at being given orders by his employee, but nevertheless called out instructions. Two of his men ran for the main gate, the others doing what they could to speed the golden disk’s laborious progress. Before long, it reached the waiting crate; a few more minutes of straining, and it was safely in the container. By now, the Mil was hovering directly over the clearing, lowering cables. Soldiers attached the steel lines to the crate as the others forced the prisoners back at gunpoint. Another minute, and a man signaled to Callas that it was ready.

  “Take it up!” the general shouted impatiently, waving to the helicopter.

  The Mi-17 increased power to full, engines screaming as they took the extra load. The crate lurched from the ground. For a moment it seemed as though it would get no higher, swaying pendulously a few inches above the flagstones; then it slowly began to rise.

  Callas watched in satisfaction as the helicopter lifted its precious cargo higher. The crate cleared the trees, then the Mil turned lethargically northwest, heading for the military base. Aircraft and cargo disappeared from view behind the jungle canopy.

  It was now Stikes’s turn to be impatient. “Time to go,” he said. His gaze fell on the prisoners. “What about them?”

  “We take them with us,” said Callas. “I don’t want anyone
to know we were here.”

  “All the bullet holes you’ve left in the place might give it away,” Nina said scathingly. “And all the gear you’ve left behind—as well as Flat Stanley there.” She nodded toward the gory spot where the luckless soldier had been squashed beneath the sun disk.

  “I will send more men to collect them later,” the general replied as he started for the gate, signaling his men to bring the explorers. Becker was half-carried, half-dragged by two soldiers. “And a bullet hole is a bullet hole. Anyone could have made them at any time. But the bodies of archaeologists known to be in the country on a particular date … that would be harder to explain if they were found here.” A sadistic hardness entered his voice. “But where you are going, you will never be found.”

  Despite her outward defiance, a chill of fear ran through Nina’s soul.

  Eddie climbed back up the outer wall where he had first entered the city, warily surveying the buildings below before scrambling down the ruined stairway and heading for the plaza. He was on full alert, certain that Callas’s men would be searching for him—which made the absence of any guards all the more disconcerting as he crept through the alleys.

  He peered over a wall at the plaza. Nobody was there. The soldiers, Callas, and Stikes were gone. So were Nina and the other expedition members.

  And the sun disk.

  Callas had what he came for—the golden god-image had been taken away by the helicopter. He vaulted the wall and hurried across the plaza. Tracks in the dirt led to the main gate—and the smaller prints of women’s boots among them showed that Nina, Macy, and Loretta were still alive. Callas presumably had some reason for not wanting their bodies to be found at Paititi, but Eddie was certain that he still intended to kill them. He would be taking them somewhere he could be sure they wouldn’t be found. Where?

  The military base. A restricted area in the depths of the jungle, what few visitors it might get deterred by barbed wire and bullets. Once Nina and the others entered, they would never leave.

  He ran for the gate. As he cleared the ancient walls, he heard something over the noise of birds and insects: a low grumble. Engines.