he had missed the opportunity to arm himself in case Pachac and his men were still around. He was about to turn back to retrieve one of the fallen rifles when a holster on the dead mercenary slumped over the roof beam caught his eye. He pulled out the pistol, a Steyr M9-A1 automatic, and quickly checked that it was loaded with its full fifteen rounds before continuing.
Nina entered the temple to find Osterhagen looking out through the broken wall. ‘Leonard! Are you okay?’
The German nodded. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m fine. Where’s Eddie?’
‘He shot some of the mercenaries – but he just fell off a wall!’
Nina ran to the opening, ignoring the gold as she searched for her husband. ‘Where?’ Osterhagen pointed at a lower row of buildings. She saw Kit picking his way along a wall, arms held out for balance like a tightrope walker, but there was no sign of Eddie. ‘Dammit!’ She ran from the temple, hurrying down the steps.
Macy gingerly lowered herself from her perch. ‘Oh, gross . . . ’ she whispered as cold, muddy water sluiced into her boots. It was now only about ankle deep, the flow like that of a brisk stream, but she was still worried about keeping her footing.
One hand on a wall for support, she started to make her way downhill.
‘Kit! Over here!’
The Indian looked round to see Mac emerging from a building. The Scot was carrying the RPG-7 – which was now loaded with the last of the olive-green warheads. ‘Mac! I’m glad to see you,’ Kit said, relieved.
‘You too.’ Mac noticed the gun. ‘You’re armed, good. Come on, get down here. Nina and Macy are okay – have you seen any of the others?’
Kit jumped from the wall and splashed to him. ‘Eddie rescued me from Stikes and his men.’
An approving nod. ‘Good lad. Where is he now?’
‘He went after Stikes.’
Approval turned to a frown. ‘Sod it! If he’s too close . . .’
‘Too close for what?’
Mac held up the rocket launcher. ‘I won’t be able to use this.’
‘You’re going to blow up the helicopter? But Stikes has the statues.’
‘That’s the least of my worries.’ He indicated the tower the expedition had passed on their way to the plaza. ‘I should be able to get a good shot from there before he takes off. Come on!’ He started a limping jog towards it.
Kit followed, his face betraying his secret concern.
Stikes and Voeker reached the Hind and jumped through the open rear hatch. The mercenary leader grabbed a headset. ‘Gurov! Take off, now!’
‘I can’t!’ came the reply. ‘There’s a problem with the port engine, oil pressure. I need to bring it up to speed slowly.’
‘How long?’
‘A minute. What about the others?’
‘There’s no one left to wait for,’ said Stikes coldly. He put the case down in the empty seat beside him and secured it with the harness straps. ‘Besides, I’ve got what I came for.’
The steep alley ended where it met a wider, shallower pathway, the rush of water bowling Eddie into one of the small tombs. Tightly wrapped mummies, now sodden and waterlogged, crunched underneath him. Bruised and winded by his uncontrollable trip down the hard-sided waterslide, he stood—
Baine slithered into the tomb in a burst of spray and slammed a boot into Eddie’s stomach. ‘All right, Yorkie?’ he cried as Eddie doubled over. He jumped to his feet, delivering another kick to his former comrade’s midsection. ‘Yeah, ’ave some of that! You broke one of my fucking teeth in Caracas – you know how shit the dentists are down here?’ More kicks. Eddie collapsed in a corner, scattering bones and ritual items. Baine moved closer. ‘Gonna break your fucking neck—’
Eddie whipped up a length of cloth like a slingshot – with a skeletal arm folded inside it. It smashed against the side of Baine’s head. Eddie followed up with a punch. From his awkward position it didn’t have much power behind it, but was hard enough to make the bigger man retreat. Eddie held in a groan as he pushed himself upright. ‘You couldn’t break a fucking pencil, you southern ponce.’
Baine balled his fists. ‘Always ’ad some fucking smart-arse comment, didn’t you? Now me, I stick to—’
He broke off abruptly, driving a fearsome punch at Eddie’s head. The Yorkshireman barely managed to dodge, Baine’s knuckles clipping his ear. His military training had taught him that the mere act of speaking demanded a surprisingly large part of the brain’s processing power, detracting from its ability to react to