Empire of Gold_A Novel

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 air bags fired, but with neither man wearing a seat belt they were still slammed brutally forward. Another impact followed as the H3 tipped back and hit the cliff, ending up wedged against the rock face.

  Even through his pain and disorientation, Pachac knew he had to get clear as quickly as possible. He swatted away the air bag’s flaccid remains and opened the door. The thin buildup 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 toward 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 free fall 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 realized 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 channeled it, controlled it, used it as fuel as he slowly rolled on his side.

  Pachac lay on the rock below.

  Their gazes locked onto 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 as he was 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 toward 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 onto 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 around the hilt. A third blow, and it slipped—

  The knife clattered onto 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—a fallen 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 around 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 realized 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. “Gray 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 toward 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 rock face 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 sat-phone. 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 favor 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 toward 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 Ki
t and Osterhagen. “Is everything okay?”

  “Not really,” Nina replied, still watching Eddie’s retreat.

  Macy’s lips quivered as she realized 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 someday 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 …”

  THIRTY-NINE

  The panoramic windows of the villa in which the Peruvian government had housed the surviving explorers looked out across Lima from the city’s southeastern hills, but even though he was facing the view Eddie’s eyes weren’t taking in the spectacular burning sky of a Pacific sunset beyond the darkening capital. His focus was directed inward.

  Kit hesitated at the door before steeling himself and entering. He stood beside Eddie’s chair, gazing in silence at the vista outside for a long moment, then finally summoned the courage to speak. “Eddie?”

  Eddie didn’t seem to have registered his presence, until a fractional tilt of his head brought the Indian into his eye line. “Eddie,” Kit repeated, “I just wanted to say that … I’m sorry. I’m sorry about Mac. It shouldn’t have happened.”