He touched his flaming cheek. His skin already lay blistered and oozing.
Gil shivered at the thought of being trapped in that pit below when the shower of acid struck. His death would have been long and painful.
The burning rain ended and the silver tile slid closed over the pit. Death had come within a breath of claiming him. Trembling, he struggled to his feet.
He stared at the traitorous silver tile. Silver! He had been wrong all along. Only pure luck and chance had carried him this far.
With this horrible realization dawning, he swung to face the exit. Escape lay three rows away—about three meters. He now knew he could trust none of the tiles. He would have to risk jumping. If he dived, he might just make it.
Gil stared at his rifle. He could not chance its weight. He dropped it along with the ammunition belt slung over his chest to the floor. Taking out the heavy golden goblet, Gil stared at it a moment, then returned it to inside his vest. He would rather die than lose this treasure. He shrugged out of his boots instead. Besides, if he was barefooted, he had a better grip on the tile’s silver surface anyway.
Once ready, he backed to the far edge, giving himself as much of a running start as possible. But he had only two short steps at most. Girding himself, Gil closed his eyes, and for the first time in decades, he prayed to his God for strength and luck. Prepared, he opened his eyes and clenched his fist. “Now or never,” he mumbled.
Leaning forward, he dashed two quick steps, then flung himself headfirst with all the strength in his legs. He flew across the rows of tiles and landed hard upon the stone floor, ducking enough to take the brunt of the collision on his left side. Something snapped in his shoulder as he rolled into the short passage and came to rest against the toppled stone door.
With a grimace, Gil shoved to his feet. He ignored the shooting pain in his neck. He had made it! Fingering his shoulder, he realized he had most likely broken his collarbone. Not a big deal. He had once taken three bullets in the chest. In comparison, this was nothing more than a scratch.
Gil pulled free the precious goblet. One of its lips was slightly bent from the weight of his fall. But, like Gil, it had sustained no real harm.
Stepping to the edge of the deadly pattern, Gil raised the chalice and spat toward the distant Incan king, the gold idol bright against the black stone. “I’ll come back and rape you yet!” he cursed.
With that promise, he turned on a heel and fled.
Maggie knelt by the top of the ladder that led down to the third level of the ruins. “Someone’s coming!” she whispered, pushing Sam back from her shoulder.
An instinct told her they needed to hide. Raised on the streets of Belfast, Maggie knew to listen to that inner voice of hers. Surviving among the constant gunfire and bombings between the warring Irish factions and the British military had taught Maggie O’Donnel the value of a good hiding place.
“C’mon,” Maggie urged, pulling Sam with her. Norman and Ralph followed.
Sam resisted, raising his rifle. “Maybe it’s looters. We should stop them.”
“And get us all killed, you stupid git? You don’t know how many are down there, or how well they’re armed. Now let’s go!”
Norman agreed. “She’s right. The leftist guerrillas around here, the Shining Path, are well equipped. Russian AK-47s and the like. We should leave any investigation to the security team.”
Sam stared back to the ladder, then shook his head and followed Maggie. She led the group to a side chamber. No sodium lamps lit the room. Darkness swallowed them.
“Stay low,” Maggie warned. “But be prepared to run on my signal.”
Sam muttered as he hunkered down beside her, “Maggie O’Donnel, combat archaeologist.”
Maggie could just make out Sam’s form as a darker shadow among the others, but she could imagine his sarcastic smile.
“You know,” Ralph added in a whisper, “it’s probably just Gil or one of his men.”
“And the scream?” Maggie said.
“I’m sure that—”
Maggie reached a hand to his knee to quiet the large man. She could hear the creaking wood as someone mounted the ladder from below. Whoever climbed was in a hurry. She could hear his panting breath and his scrambled flight. Lowering herself closer to the stone floor, Maggie watched the climber’s head rise from the shaft.
She recognized the lanky black hair and the spidery white scar on his bronze cheek. Guillermo Sala. The ex-policeman frantically crawled from the ladder, his feet almost slipping. Maggie allowed a breath of relief to escape her throat. Ralph was right. It was just the camp’s guard.
She started to stand when she spotted the large burn blistered on his cheek. It cracked and bled. Gil swiped a hand to his wounded face and smeared the blood across his shirt. His eyes were wide, the whites of which almost glowed in the lantern near the ladder. His lips were thin with hatred—but she also sensed fear and shock emanating from him.
Maggie knew that expression. A childhood friend, Patrick Dugan, had worn the same shocked face when caught by a stray bullet during a firefight back in Belfast. He had raised his head too soon from their shared hiding place in a roadside drainage ditch. Maggie had known better. Even as Patrick’s body collapsed atop her, she hadn’t moved. Danger lay in haste. Having learned her lesson, Maggie stayed hidden and kept the others back with a hand.
What had happened below? What could frighten a man as hard and tough as Gil?
As on that noon day in the streets of Belfast, Maggie knew safety still lay in the shadows. She peered from the room’s edge as Gil reached to his vest and fingered an object bulging in a pocket. It seemed to center the panicked man, as a crucifix would reassure an old woman.
Then, from another pocket, he pulled free what looked like a green apple with a handle. It took Maggie a heartbeat to recognize the armament, so out of place in an ancient Incan ruin.
Bloody hell! A grenade!
With a final glance at the shaft, Gil scrabbled to his feet and raced down the tunnel.
Listening to his fading footsteps, Maggie found she could not move. In her mind’s eye, the grenade still loomed large—a familiar weapon in the war on the streets of her home. Buried childhood panic swelled, threatening to choke her. Her hands trembled. She clenched her fists, refusing to succumb to the panic attack that verged. Her vision swam slightly as her breath became stilted.
Sam must have sensed her distress. “Maggie…?” He reached to her shoulder.
His touch ignited her. She sprang to her feet. “Och, we need to get out of here,” she said, her words rushed. “Now!”