precarious work, but there's also no reason to dwell on what I'm doing. Hand over hand, as quickly as I can.
As I get close to the helicopter's landing struts, the cable starts unspooling again. It starts slow, but picks up speed. In another second or two, it'll be unspooling faster than I can climb. My muscles aching, I move faster, my hands burning as they grip and release the cable. My first attempt at grabbing the long strut misses, my bloody hand slipping from the rounded strut. Another meter of cable plays out and I have to make up lost ground before I can try again. I climb higher, and on my second try, I get my arm wrapped around the strut. I disengage myself from the cable and get my other arm around the landing gear too.
Still not out of the woods yet.
I get my legs around the strut, and hanging upside down, I wrestle with the pistol still in my pocket. One of the spare magazines goes tumbling away as I pull the gun out. A masked face peers out of the helicopter to check on the cable, and I pull the trigger twice. The face disappears, replaced by a foot jutting out from the cabin of the helicopter. The foot doesn't move, suggesting that I hit my target. As long as it stays there, I have a chance.
I put the gun in my mouth, biting down on the back of the slide. I need both hands to pull myself onto the strut. I swing up as the helicopter pitches to the right, and I clutch at the strut, fighting to stay on. When it pitches in the other direction—a clumsy attempt to shake me off—I use that change in aspect to my advantage. Both hands on the bar, shoving my butt up, and arcing my back. I pitch forward, sliding across the strut, and I push off, throwing my hands up now, reaching for the second strut—the one that runs along the underside of the helicopter's cabin.
I haul myself up, getting one arm on the inside of the helicopter cabin. The rest is easy, even with the back and forth motion of the helicopter. I get my knees up and, caught in an awkward leaning forward position, I freeze.
Sitting in one of the seats, as calmly as if this ride is nothing more than a tourist trip around the Sacred Valley, is Alberto Montoya.
But I killed him.
He's holding a bulky gun that has two holes in the front of its barrel. It's a Taser, and he smiles briefly at my confusion as he fires both darts.
The current lights up my nervous system, and I collapse on the floor of the cabin. Phoebe is lying nearby, the sack still over her head. She's oblivious to what's going on, and a second later, I am too.
BOOK SIX
PHAËTON
FORTY-ONE
“They're pretty, aren't they?” Alberto's voice penetrates my stupor.
A Taser is just as effective against an Arcadian as it is a human, but since it isn't deadly, it gets overlooked. Though, as a temporary restraining measure, nothing works quite like a massive jolt of electrical current through a nervous system. My vision is still fucked up—I'm only seeing shades of gray with the barest hint of any color at all—and my legs continue to twitch beyond my control. But I can hear again, and I have control of my motion functions. Unfortunately, while I was insensate, Alberto bound my hands behind my back.
He's talking about something outside the helicopter. We've left Cusco behind, and spread out below us is a panorama of brown hills with scattered stands of trees and rocks. Incan ruins, presumably, judging from the regularity of some of the rock formations. What Alberto is wanting me to see is a cascade of white rectangles on a hillside, like a frozen waterfall. The rectangles are reflecting the sunlight, which only washes out my field of vision more when I look at them.
“Salt farms,” he shouts at me, making himself heard over the noise of the helicopter's rotors. “They've been tending them for generations.” He leans toward the cockpit of the helicopter, shouting instructions to the pilot, who nods and brings the helicopter down.
I'm trying to find scars or patches of new skin on him—any indicator that he's been healed—but he looks just like he did the first time I saw him at the penthouse. It's as if the parking lot beheading never happened.
Alberto grabs me and drags me toward the open