Burial Ground (35 page)

After what they'd found buried inside the
odd sculptures, he had hoped they would discover enough treasure
here to allow them to call it good and get the hell out of the
jungle. Maybe the blasted pottery would have been worth something,
but how many clay bowls would they have needed to sell to justify
the kind of effort it would have taken to ship them downriver?
Besides, right now, destroying them served as a productive way of
venting his fury.

He eyed the closest of the opened bundles
they had exhumed from the shelf in the base of the statuary, then
quickly looked away.

Images of the three slaughtered bodies they
had discovered on the trail flashed across his mind, but he chased
them away, only to have a vision of Jones's bloody remains rise to
the forefront. The man had been a trained soldier---a
Marine
for God's sake---and still he hadn't been able to defend himself.

Tasker ground his teeth with an audible
screech and forced down the memories. He refused to allow fear to
take root. It would only weaken him when now it was imperative to
be strong. He allowed rage to supplant any possible feelings of
doubt. They had a job to do, and they would execute their plan to
perfection even if it killed them. There was nothing left for them
back in Lima. There was no way they would be able to explain the
deaths of Jones, Reubens, and Telford to a military tribunal. The
only option now was to press on, and either they accomplished their
goal and lived the rest of their lives in the lap of luxury, or
died trying.

"Get up," he said. When McMasters didn't
immediately snap to attention, he shouted again so loudly that it
reverberated through the cavern and the valley beyond. "Get
up!"

McMasters raised his cold stare to meet
Tasker's and slowly screwed the cap back into place on his canteen.
His eyes never left Tasker's as he returned the water to his
rucksack, leisurely rose from where he sat, and walked toward his
former commanding officer until their faces were only inches
apart.

Tasker wanted nothing more than to grab the
man by the throat, press his fingertips into the soft spots over
the carotids, and rip out his trachea. He was so furious that his
hands shook, forcing him to curl them into fists.

"Yes...
sir
," McMasters said, and
brushed past him toward where they had shed their camouflaged
jackets and rain gear.

Tasker's hand found the grip of the pistol
in the holster beneath his left arm.

Not yet. He still needed the soldier's help,
but once McMasters outlived his usefulness...

He reluctantly released his sidearm and
followed McMasters toward the outside world. The sheeting rain
filled the mouth of the cavern, the droplets whipping from side to
side at the behest of the howling wind. A churning mist had settled
into the valley, obscuring the view of everything but the siege of
raindrops and the occasional diffuse strobe of lightning. He
couldn't have asked for better weather. The storm would mask their
presence and wash away their tracks. Their prey wouldn't know they
were coming until it was too late. And maybe not even then.

The golden skull was sealed within one of
the waterproof plastic sacks and stashed in a small alcove just
inside the cave's mouth for rapid retrieval on the return trip
should speed be of the essence, which he feared it would.

He donned his jacket and poncho, and smeared
a liberal helping of black, grease-based paint over his face. Even
the rain wouldn't be able to wash it away.

"You ready to do this?" McMasters asked.

"I was born ready."

Tasker hefted his backpack onto his
shoulders and slung his assault rifle across his chest. He glanced
back at the mummified face leering out of the torn bundle.

Low-set, recessed orbital sockets.

Skin the consistency of a long-dead carp's
scales.

Rows of wicked teeth.

He unslung his rifle and carried it so that
he could feel its weight and power in his bare hands.

Bracing himself against the storm, Tasker
struck off into the gloom, mentally readying himself for the
massacre to come.

3:36 p.m.

Eldon Monahan sat at his antique dining room
table, half a bottle of Pisco-Tabernero to his left, the broken
shell of his cell phone, which he had crushed in frustration, to
his right. The photographs curled as they burned in the ashtray,
scattering ashes that descended like snow onto the pristine
surface. He drew another long swig from the bottle and poured a
touch into the ashtray to fuel the blue flames. His housekeeper had
taken the rest of the day off at his request, leaving him alone
with his shattered dreams and the specter of his future.

He had left his office shortly before noon,
claiming to have a severe stomach ache, which hadn't required the
slightest bit of embellishment. Everyone had been telling him how
pale he looked all morning. He hadn't been able to focus on his
work at all, nor had he been able to carry on simple conversations
in passing without his thoughts reverting to the train wreck that
was now his life.

It wasn't as though all hope was lost.
Plenty of Senators had survived sex scandals and illegal business
dealings. Many were drunks, others cheats. None of them were
innocent by anyone's definition. They all owed portions of their
souls to various clandestine dealings that secured the campaign
contributions that had bought them their seats. Favors were owed,
and were collected at the cost of the welfare of their
constituency.

But what he had done was far worse, wasn't
it?

He had cut a deal with the devil in the
flesh. Plundering the heritage of the Peruvian people was a
despicable act, but it was nothing compared to the atrocity he had
implicitly authorized. He had given Tasker his blessings to follow
Leonard Gearhardt's party to the source of the treasure, and then
kill them all. Perhaps one could be forgiven, but there was no way
the other could.

Every time he so much as blinked, he saw the
piranha-chewed face of Hunter Gearhardt on that cold steel slab
staring up at him with an expression of accusation.

There was only one way out of this
predicament.

He watched the last picture burn until there
was absolutely nothing left, then drained the bottle. His head spun
and his insides burned as he shuffled toward his den. The bottle
fell from his hand and clattered to the floor. The hallway canted
from one side to the other, forcing him to lean against the wall
for balance. He fell across the threshold into his private sanctum,
crawled to the desk chair, and pulled himself up into its leather
embrace.

It had been nearly two full days since
Tasker had phoned. Not that he really expected the man to call
again, but he had secretly hoped he would have been granted one
last chance to talk the man out of what he had planned.

He supposed he didn't have the right to pray
for the opportunity, especially when he'd been given so many others
along the way. This was the bed he had made. The time had come to
lie in it.

The headdress rested on the desk in front of
him next to his best calfskin belt. He had shoved the computer onto
the ground to make room. It was now nothing more than a pile of
fractured components. Another object sat on the blotter, positioned
perfectly for an easy right-handed grab.

He raised the headdress and held it against
his forehead while he cinched the belt tightly around his head.

Tears flowed down his cheeks from beneath
the golden fangs.

A mewling sound crossed his lips.

He grabbed the other object from the desk
and gripped it in his fist.

A Smith & Wesson .38 Special.

Chest heaving, he pressed the barrel against
the metal arch over his forehead.

He caught his reflection in the mirror on
the wall across from him.

Only the bluish-green eyes of a monster
looked back.

Andes Mountains, Peru

October 30
^th

3:25 p.m. PET

Galen was furious. How had he allowed them
to talk him into keeping his mouth shut when all of their lives
hung in the balance? They could no longer dance around the issue.
The more he thought about it, the more evidence amassed, the more
he became convinced that his theory was correct.

Something had survived in these mountains
that had never been meant to, and it was something far more
dangerous than simply an unclassified species of condor.

He needed to convince the others to forsake
their quest and get the hell out of there before it was too
late.

If it wasn't already.

Through the maze of trees, he saw Morton and
Webber milling around an especially crooked tree. They stiffened
when they noticed him coming and stood side by side across the path
as though in an attempt to block it. A sheer wall of stone rose
behind them to a series of terraced gardens built onto the summit.
Winding staircases connected them like trails of tears down the
rugged face.

It wasn't until he was upon the two men that
he noticed the cut in the rock wall behind the tree, a crevice of
shadows that radiated the coldness of the tomb, from which the
buzzing sound originated. But right now even that was preferable to
the rain that chilled him to the marrow.

The men seemed to swell in stature as he
approached. Or maybe it was the fact that their pistols had been
replaced by seriously intimidating assault rifles.

They knew.

"Where's Leo?" Galen asked.

"Mr. Gearhardt doesn't wish be disturbed,"
Webber said. "He asked that we help afford him some privacy."

"You don't understand. I need to speak with
him right now." Galen veered to the right to pass them, but Webber
matched his movement to bar his passage.

"As I said, Dr. Russell, Mr. Gearhardt
insisted that he not be interrupted."

Galen threw up his arms in exasperation.
This was maddening. He was going to have to try a different
tact.

"What did you find in there?" he asked in
little more than a whisper. He didn't need to see the men share an
almost imperceptible glance to know he had struck a chord. "I know
what's going on here. And whether Leo likes it or not, the time has
come to lay all of our cards on the table. We're in serious danger
here, and the sooner we face that reality and devise a plan to
return to Pomacochas, the better our chances of survival."

"You're being overly dramatic," Morton
said.

"Am I? Tell me then, what did you discover
inside that cave?"

When neither man replied, Galen attempted to
shove between them, but it was like trying to shoulder his way
through a pair of redwoods. They looked through him as though he
were an insignificant gnat.

"Fine," Galen said. He readjusted his poncho
and slicked his wet hair back. "The moment Leo is available to talk
about the prospect of living through this, you tell him to come
find me."

Galen turned and stormed off. He had never
felt so angry and helpless in his entire life, and, worse still, he
had never been so afraid. They were beginning to comprehend the
threat surrounding them, but they were hiding something at the same
time. Had they made a discovery in that cave worth jeopardizing all
of their lives? What could possibly justify that cost?

For not the first time, he debated gathering
whoever would listen and making a run for civilization, but he knew
their chances diminished in smaller groups, especially if one of
the groups had all of the weapons and the skill to wield them. For
now, he needed to focus on convincing everyone that their lives
were in jeopardy, and the easiest way to accomplish that goal was
through Leo. Galen had to find a way to reach him.

As soon as he was out of sight, he ducked
off the path into the ruins. He wound around the remnants of huts
that now served as planters for massive kapoks and shrubs of all
kinds. The flat basalt that had been used to form the paths between
buildings had been ground to gravel by time and the cruel
usurpation by the forest. He stayed low, keeping the crumbled rings
of the dwellings between him and where Morton and Webber guarded
the mouth of the tunnel. With any luck, he would be able to use the
cover to reach the abrupt hillside, then sneak along the face of
the cliff and slip into the cave behind them. It was a long shot
for sure, but if he somehow managed to use the broad, warped tree
that concealed the cave as a screen...

The northern fortification rose into view,
the crumbled section they had ascended not far to his right.
Beyond, the waterfall roared through the mist, sporadically
appearing in cascades of blue and white as it plummeted down the
vertical rocks. Suddenly, he felt isolated from everyone else,
alone in another world where even the sound of his legs thrashing
through the underbrush was more than he could bear. There were
blind corners and leafy barriers all around him. Anything could be
lurking behind them, watching him, waiting for him to walk just a
little bit closer so it could leap out of hiding and set upon him
with snapping teeth and slashing claws.

He was on the verge of hyperventilation. The
time had come to double back. Whether he managed to slip past the
guards or not, he needed to be in the company of other people.

The wind shifted with a scream, assaulting
him with raindrops from his left. He instinctively turned away as
he approached the base of the cliff, and to his right, past the lip
of the obsidian wall, he clearly saw the falls for the first time
through the parted clouds. It wasn't a straight deadfall, but
rather numerous steps that created half a dozen smaller falls, some
much longer than others. A ledge crept along the stone face and
terminated in a dark recess that he glimpsed only momentarily
before the gust waned and allowed the mist to again coalesce.