Excavation

Oh, God. She turned her face away.

Carlos, unharmed, was already on his feet. He crossed to a telephone on the wall and barked in Spanish. A call for help. Once done, he slammed the receiver down and stepped over the wounded man. The monk clutched at Carlos’s pant leg, but the friar shook him loose and crossed to Joan.

He pointed his gun. “Get up.”

Joan pulled to her feet, gasping as her singed shirt peeled from her back. Carlos frowned and forced Joan around so he could view her injuries. “You’ll live,” he said.

“But for how long?” Joan asked with a sour look. “Until the next time you decide to kill me?” Joan waved a hand around the room. “What just happened?”

Carlos scowled at the man still moaning on the floor. “An apprentice. It seems he has much to learn still.”

Joan bowed her head, hiding her grim satisfaction. Carlos blamed the monk for the explosion. Good. Now for the next step in her plan. At her collar, she scraped a second dollop of gold under a fingernail, then reached to her pocket. She fingered out the cigarette Carlos had given her yesterday. With trembling fingers, she brought it to her lips. “Do you mind?” she asked, raising her face.

He frowned harshly at the moaning monk. “Go ahead. We’ve got a few minutes until someone comes for him.” He reached out, and a lighter appeared in his fingers.

Bending, she lit the cigarette, then nodded her thanks. She took a long drag, sighing appreciatively and loudly. “That’s better,” she said heavily, exhaling in Carlos’s direction.

Joan saw him eye the glowing tip of her cigarette. His pupils dilated at the scent of nicotine.

She took a second drag, then passed him the cigarette, sighing out the smoke languidly. “Here. Thanks. But that’s enough for me.”

He accepted her offering with a tight smile. “Afraid for your health?”

She shrugged, too tense to trust her voice. She spotted the glint of gold on the underside of the cigarette, a quarter inch from its glowing tip. “Enjoy,” she finally said.

Carlos held up the cigarette in a salute of thanks. Then he grinned and drew it to his lips. Joan took a small step away, turning her shoulders slightly.

She watched the friar take a long drag on the cigarette. Its end grew red hot as it burned toward the filter. Joan swung away as the white paper flamed toward the smear of gold.

The explosion this time was not as severe.

Still, it threw her to her knees.

Joan twisted around, her head ringing with the blast. Carlos still stood, but his face was a cratered, smoking ruin. He fell backward, landing atop the burned monk, who now screamed in horror.

Joan rolled to her feet and recovered the friar’s Glock from the floor. She crossed to the wailing monk. Crouching, she roughly checked his burns. Third degree over sixty percent of his body. He thrashed from her touch, crying out. She stood. He was a dead man, but didn’t know it yet. He would not survive these burns. “Not so fun playing with fire, is it?” she mumbled.

She raised her pistol and aimed between his eyes. The monk stared at her in terror, then fainted away. Sighing, she lowered the Glock. She couldn’t do it, not even to give him a quick end. She moved away.

Time was crucial. She had a gun and a remaining sliver of gold. Nothing must stop her from escaping. She hefted the pistol and stepped clear of the two prone bodies. She eyed the friar’s corpse for a moment.

“You were right, Carlos,” she said, turning to the door. “Smoking kills.”

Maggie touched Henry’s shoulder as he knelt over his nephew’s body. His shoulders were wracked with painful sobs. Maggie knew no words could ease his pain. Her years in Belfast had taught her that much. On both sides of the fighting, Irish and English, Catholic and Protestant, there were just grieving mothers and fathers. It was all so stupid. So insane.

Behind her, gunfire continued to bark throughout the jungle, though by now it had died to sporadic fits. The most intense fighting had already ended. The Incas had no prayer against such armament.

She stared at Sam, unable to look at the ragged wound, the blood. She found her gaze resting on his face. His Stetson had been knocked off when he fell. He seemed almost naked without it. His tousled sandy hair was mussed and unkempt, like he was just sleeping. She reached and touched a lanky lock, tucking it behind an ear. Tears she had been holding back finally began to flow. Her vision blurred.

Henry reached to her hand, sensing her pain, needing support himself. His cold fingers wrapped around hers. Where words failed, simple human contact soothed. She leaned into the professor’s side. “Oh, Sam…” her voice cracked.

Norman knelt across from Sam’s body. Behind him, Denal stood quietly. The naked boy was now covered in Norman’s poncho, leaving the photographer only a pair of knee-length breeches. Norman cleared his throat. “Maggie, what about the temple?” he said softly. “Maybe… maybe it could…” He shrugged.

Maggie raised her teary eyes. “What?”

Norman nodded to Sam’s body. “Remember Pachacutec’s story.”

Horror replaced sorrow. Her eyes widened. She pictured the Sapa Inca’s pale body and remembered what lay in the neighboring valley. She slowly shook her head. The temple held no salvation. She could not imagine giving Sam’s body over to it.

Henry spoke, his voice coarse with tears. “Wh… what temple?”

Norman pointed toward the volcanic wall. “Up there! Something the Incas found. A structure that heals.” Norman stood and exposed his knee. He told of the injury he sustained.

The professor’s face grew incredulous. He turned to Maggie for confirmation.

She slowly nodded her head.

“But Sam’s d… dead,” Henry said.

“And the king was beheaded,” Norman countered. He looked to Maggie for support. “We owe it to Sam at least to try.”

Henry stood as another grenade exploded, and gunfire grew heated again. The weapons fire sounded much closer. “We can’t risk it,” he said sternly. “I need to get you all into hiding. It’s our only hope of surviving.”

Maggie had stopped listening after the word hiding. A part of her wanted to agree with the professor. Yes, run, hide, don’t let them catch you. But something new in her heart would not let her. She stared at Sam’s still face. A single tear sat on his cheek. She reached with a finger and brushed it off. Patrick Dugan, Ralph, her parents… and now Sam. She was done hiding from death.