Riga’s arm and shoulder ached from the exertion of gripping the handrail, but he jumped onto the ground, casting a glance back at the pilot, who sat slumped over his controls. Maybe the man had snapped his neck on impact. But then Riga saw him shudder. He was crying, sobbing with relief at surviving the hell of the journey.
The gunman threw the flare to one side and began to jabber at Riga, hoping his failure to stop Max and the others would not cause him to be punished. Riga ignored him and clipped the earpiece of his satellite phone in place as he
turned for the forest. He had studied the maps and photographs and knew exactly where to go, but first he was going to tell Cazamind. Whatever lay inside those no-go mountains was dangerous enough to scare everybody. Riga needed to be prepared to face that threat if he was going in after Max.
They went farther into the labyrinth. Climbing across obstacles of rock and crumbling crevasses, they became increasingly exhausted, but Max knew they had to push on as far as they could for as long as they could. The others wanted to stop and sleep for a few hours, but Max argued that they had to keep moving while they still had torchlight.
The cave became a twisting tunnel, a corkscrew whose smooth-sided rock face became more and more treacherous. If they slipped, the steep gradient would hurtle them down to the unknown. Max felt a gust of air on his face, and the torch flared as he reached the edge of a black hole, no wider than a man’s body. Somewhere below he could hear water. Xavier and Flint caught up with him and knelt, looking into the abyss. Max leaned forward, holding the torch as far down as he could, and they saw the funnel curve out of sight. It was probably climbable, like a smooth chimney, but at some point that shaft would give way to a drop. How big a drop was the unknown factor.
“I think we have to sacrifice one of the torches—mine hasn’t got long to go anyway.” The worried look on Flint’s and Xavier’s faces reflected his own trepidation at slithering down the last curve of the Stone Serpent’s belly.
He dropped his torch. It flared and reflected the twisting
chimney. They could hear it clattering as its light reflected upward for a few seconds. And then it went quiet. Max counted in his head: a thousand and one, a thousand and two, a thousand and three, a thousand and four—then they heard a splash. Max had counted four seconds exactly. He didn’t know how to work it out, but he guessed that that had to be about a fifteen- to twenty-meter drop. Into what? Shallow water that would smash their legs or deep pools with currents that could suck them under and drown them?
There had to be another way down. He just didn’t believe his mother would have come this way and taken such an un-calculated risk as to drop down this chimney into the unknown, no matter how brave she was. And there was also the skeleton that had been crawling toward the cave’s entrance. That person could not have suddenly got from river to cave by levitation. There had to be another way down.
“We have to backtrack,” Max told them. “We can’t risk jumping through there. Flint, you lead the way. If we’re above an underground river, there might be some kind of pathway down to it.”
No one had wanted to drop through the hole in the floor, so Flint and Xavier nodded. Xavier licked his lips. “
Chico
, you know I don’ float so good. Maybe we should go back the way we came—back to the forest. At least we have a chance out there.”
“That’s up to you,” Max said as Flint moved away toward the cave’s walls. There was nothing he could do if Xavier wanted to make his own decisions. He kept his eyes on Flint, who made cautious progress through jagged stalagmites.
The soft light from Flint’s torch cast its shadows. Xavier studied the boy next to him. His knuckles were scraped, there were scratches on his face, he was smeared with dirt and grime, his hair was matted and he gripped the spear like a prehistoric hunter. Max Gordon did not look like any schoolboy Xavier Garcia had ever known. He looked dangerous.
“That was some snake you kill, eh?”
Max nodded. He didn’t want to talk about it. He would never be able to erase the horrible image from his mind.
“OK. Maybe I stick with you. You’re gonna get us out of here.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Max said.
“I would,” Xavier said. “You gotta have faith in your angels, cousin.”
Flint yelled. “Over here. There’s a way down.”
Xavier smiled. “I could make money on you, Max Gordon.”
They moved quickly to where Flint held the torchlight above what looked like a huge open stairwell. At some stage, perhaps thousands of years ago, someone had hacked rough handholds and steps into the cave’s walls leading downward.
The steps were just about wide enough to accommodate the width of a body. Max took Flint’s torch. “All right, let’s see what’s down here.”
They took no more than a couple dozen steps, twisting down, when Max stopped them. Something was wrong. The rising air was suddenly acrid. Their eyes stung and ammonia fumes choked them.
Max felt the shock wave of air. A surge of energy ascending from the bowels of the cave. And then he heard them. It
was nothing like the fluttering sounds he had experienced in the river cave. These squealing screams were as if someone had taken the lids from the coffins of the undead.
Vampire bats.
Cazamind drew blood. It hurt and he winced, sucking his finger, hoping the pressure of his tongue would ease the insignificant wound. It was the small things that seemed to hurt the most—a rose thorn, a stubbed toe and this, a torn fingernail. Riga’s crazy cuckoo-clock control freak had developed a bad habit. He bit his nails. It was unsightly, it was unhygienic and, as in this case, painful. It had started when Max Gordon had evaded all attempts at assassination. Then the private hospital had been compromised by someone hacking into the security system, and that had to have something to do with the Gordon boy as well. And now MI5 had taken it upon themselves to examine every inch of the place. Luckily his own cleanup crew had effectively destroyed or altered evidence. His friends in government would soon stop them investigating any further, but it was all getting dangerously close to secrets being exposed. Who could have imagined when that interfering eco-scientist Helen Gordon had stumbled upon his secret in the rain forest all those years ago that her son would now be posing as big a threat? If Cazamind failed his masters, he would bear the full responsibility—and he did not wish to die. Now the situation had just worsened. He listened to the satellite link from Riga. He was on the boy’s trail, right behind him, and was convinced he could finish the job. He
was asking for information about what lay in the amphitheater of mountains that for years had remained of no concern to anyone. Cazamind paid gangsters and former drug runners to be his mobile guards; he had stripped back the rain forest, sheltered illegal loggers, dissuaded and even killed environmentalists, all to disguise what lay in those forested mountains. Riga wanted information. Wanted to know what was in there.
Death was what lay hidden there.
“Leave him,” Cazamind told Riga as he fumbled a Band-Aid onto his torn nail.
“Let him go?” Riga answered, his voice crystal clear on the satellite phone.
“Yes. He can’t survive in there. He can’t do us any more harm.”
“He hasn’t done too badly so far,” Riga said.
“I don’t want you going in there,” Cazamind said. It was an order. He could not risk any outsider getting inside, especially not one like Riga, who had the skills to get out. No outsiders—that was the golden rule. You go in, you stay in.
There was a moment’s pause. Riga was obviously considering what to say next, which surprised Cazamind. His brain focused, the finger forgotten. Why was Riga hesitating? Why wasn’t it a quick
Yes, sir
? End of story. Paid. Money in the bank. Mission terminated.
“All right,” Riga said. “Understood.”
Cazamind ended the call. The man’s inflection was wrong. Another fear tugged at his nervous system. He had not believed Riga’s compliance. His assassin was going to ignore his
orders—he was convinced of it. Riga was going in alone to satisfy some irrational professional desire to complete the kill against an elusive enemy.
Cazamind was being driven to ever more desperate measures to ensure that one of the world’s biggest cover-ups stayed covered up. He had to ensure that it all ended now. He needed to be in absolute control. He would have to make very definite assurances that all was as it should be. He could be in Central America in under twelve hours. His finger hurt when he pressed the button on his phone console.
“Eliminate Riga,” he said coldly.
Dense clouds of bats, their bodies no longer than Max’s thumb, with twenty-five-centimeter wings, unfurled from the darkness and smothered Flint and the two boys. It was a frenzied attack. Unlike legend, the bats did not suck a victim’s blood; their razor-sharp incisors slashed skin while an anticoagulant in their saliva kept the blood flowing as their tongues lapped it up.
Max pushed his back against the rock, swinging the flaming torch back and forth, trying to beat them off to allow the others to move lower down the rock-hewn steps. But everyone was trying to cover their face with their arms to stop the painful attacks from the pug-faced creatures.
Torchlight shadows leapt, creating their own monsters in the mayhem, and then, screaming, Xavier fell. Max watched as he tumbled into the swirling mass. He immediately tossed the burning torch after him, desperate to see the boy. As the torch fell, Max’s gaze followed it down. Xavier’s legs bicycled
in the air, his arms flailed and he still screamed. There was no choice. Max leapt into the darkness, following the diminishing light. Not knowing if Flint had seen him jump, he yelled the plant thief’s name as he plummeted downward.
A couple of seconds later, he heard Xavier’s body splash into water, followed rapidly by the hissing torch as it was extinguished by the river. His mind told him he had a couple of seconds before he, too, hit.
And then he was underwater, all the air pounded from his lungs. He kicked hard and quickly broke through the surface. Within moments he could see light glimmering in the distance. “Xavier!” His voice echoed across the smooth surface of the river, reverberating around the cold rock face. No sooner had he called the boy’s name than he heard a mighty splash a few meters behind him. Orsino Flint had jumped into the void to follow him. Max cried out again, “Xavier!” And this time he heard the boy’s cry for help.
Max was surprised to find he still gripped the sturdy spear shaft, and within moments used it for support in the silted riverbed as it grew shallower. Then he saw Xavier’s bedraggled figure clinging to a boulder in the slow-moving water. He had been lucky. The deep pool had broken his fall, and the gentle current had washed him quickly into shallow water. But his foot had become wedged beneath a rock, and even though the water was shallow, he was forced to raise himself on his elbows to keep his face from slipping below the current.
The light was brighter now; they were near the river’s exit into daylight. Max heard splashing behind him. It was Flint, his straw hat soaked but still firmly in place.
Max could see that, despite being dunked in the river, blood still flowed from Xavier’s face and neck, and he knew that he, too, was still bleeding. But his main concern was for Xavier. He could see that his leg was not broken, but the awkward position of his ankle meant that if he tried to drag the boy free, he could damage it. Ramming the spear shaft under the rock, he levered his weight down.
“Pull yourself free!”
It wasn’t enough. “Grab his shoulders, Flint. Ready?”
Max grunted with effort, found a rock to push his legs against and levered downward. In a slush of water and silt, Xavier was yanked free a moment before the spear shaft snapped. Max fell back into the water, but he was unhurt.
Released from the underwater trap, Xavier hugged Max like a long-lost brother. He gabbled something furiously in Spanish. Max eased him away from the embrace. Flint wiped his face with his hands and looked at the smears of blood.
“He said …” Flint sighed. “You don’t want to know what he said. It’s embarrassing.” Then he pointed at Xavier and said something to him that made the boy look guilty. “I told him you jumped after him. To save him, again. And I told him he wasn’t worth it. Now let’s get out of here and get rid of all this blood.”
“Check his leg first. I’m going to look outside,” Max told him.
He trudged through the shallows toward the gaping entrance where the river spilled out. A sheet of rock like a huge split tongue jutted out from the cave’s mouth. The gently flowing water spilled over in a gossamer waterfall. Max stood on the rock’s edge, with water swirling past his ankles, high
enough above the tree canopy to look across the vast expanse of encircled rain forest. Wisps of cloud and mist were being tugged from the treetops by the breeze, and the amphitheater’s mountaintop was ringed in a circle of fire from the rays of the sinking sun. Piercing a cleft of rock, a laser beam of sunlight etched across the craggy peaks, broadened into a spotlight and washed the waterfall beneath Max’s feet into a crimson veil.
Max felt as though he had stepped into an unknown paradise: trees and flowering plants swayed in a gentle breeze, the silence broken only by the whisper of the waterfall. The mist was lifting, and in the far distance, as if revealed by a giant hand, the volcano’s smoke drifted lazily away.
He was in the forbidden land.
The warrior’s eyes watched him from the jungle below. It was his duty to guard the Cave of the Stone Serpent—a portal to the underworld, the place of death. But now he gazed with increasing fear.
In the legend of time, the Spearthrower clans had been defeated in great jungle battles because they could not throw their lances in the dense undergrowth. A new clan had emerged carrying shorter, flint-headed stabbing spears. They were brutally effective in close-quarter battle.
He saw a figure step out of the Serpent’s jaws and stand on its tongue. He carried the weapons of a jungle warrior: a blowpipe, a knife and a stabbing spear. Blood streamed from his head and face, washing into the river, causing the waterfall to turn red. Blood was sacred to Mayan life and war. Seized by a
primal fear rooted in thousands of years of memory and legend, the warrior ran into the jungle. He must report what he had seen.