Authors: Pamela Hegarty
“
The sardius is the ruby, the Urim,” said Braydon, “from the Hebrew, to see light, flame.” She snugged the Urim into the first empty setting. It fit perfectly. Braydon helped her bend the gold bezel around the stone, locking it into place. Her fingers tingled again, as if electrified. “The golden topaz is the Thummim, for completion, integrity.” As she set the Thummim into the next setting, the ethereal voices grew louder, more realistic. It wasn’t wind through a crack in the wall. It sounded like a cross between a human’s wail and an animal’s howl. The sound was wafting into the chamber like the beam of light from the opening above them. Monkeys? The spat of gunfire echoed through the passageway from the clearing. She quickly placed the Tear of the Moon Emerald.
Braydon handed her the
Yikaisidahi Turquoise.
“The second row
shall be
a Turquoise, a sapphire, and a diamond,”
he said.
She placed the Turquoise. As he fitted the gold setting around it,
she drank in one last look at the Kohinoor Diamond sparkling in her palm. She didn’t want to let it go. She fit it into its mount, and quickly did the same with the Sapphire.
He handed her the Abraxas.
“The third row, a jacinth, an agate, and an amethyst; and the fourth row, a beryl, an onyx, and a jasper. They shall be set in gold settings.
The Abraxas has got to be the jacinth. The rest of the stones are still intact.”
The voices grew louder, an edge of terror and might to the glory. “Braydon, do you hear them?”
“
I’m more concerned about what I don’t hear.” He was shouting, over the voices. He had to hear them, too. “The shooting has stopped. Might not be a good sign,” he said. “The Breastplate had better work the way I think it will.
“
Stand on the platform wearing the Breastplate,” she pointed up, “and the gemstones will focus the sunlight coming through that skylight to the far wall.”
“
The beam will ignite the sulfur, and, with any luck, blow a hole through to the hidden canyon.”
“
State of the art technology, for the sixteenth century,” she said. She fit the Abraxas into its setting, wrapped the gold around its perimeter to hold it in place. She grasped his hand, pulled him close. “We’ve done it, Braydon. We’ve restored the Breastplate of Aaron.”
He embraced her, tight. Before she realized it, they kissed. She was infused with love and joy, drunk, giddy. From Heaven? From more earthly desires? She didn’t give a damn. The room grew brighter, the air clearer. The golden Breastplate, alive with the twelve precious stones, emitted a light and energy that blocked out the world outside the two of them.
He leaned back, unbuttoned the top button on her camouflage shirt. His fingers touched her neck, emitting a tingle like she felt from the gems. He lifted the El Dorado pendant, made sure it was visible. “I’m not one to believe in ghost tribes,” he said, “but a man in my position, restoring a lost Biblical artifact with legendary, mystical gems, shouldn’t question matters of faith and history.”
“
El Dorado changed the fate of the world before,” she said.
A gunshot blasted through the chamber, gashing the wall behind them. Braydon drew his his Glock from his hip holster. Rambitskov spun Braydon away from her, shoving him across the chamber. Contreras grabbed her by the collar, yanked her up against him. He pressed a knife to her throat, the pilot survival knife Donohue had given her. Somehow, her twenty-two pistol was gone, too. Rambitskov backed away to the entrance, his pistol smoking.
CHAPTER
66
Braydon stopped himself from drilling Rambitskov through the forehead with his Glock. Contreras could retaliate by piercing Christa’s carotid artery with the knife he held against her throat. She was still alive. He had to work with that. The ethereal voices had vanished, sucked out of the chamber like light into a black hole. He’d been a fool, mesmerized by the Breastplate while Contreras infiltrated the chamber without resistance. Braydon didn’t need God’s choir to tell him that Rambitskov wanted nothing more than to do unto Braydon what Braydon wanted to do unto him, except the man’s overkill M16 semi-automatic assault rifle would obliterate his brain in seconds. Same result, just messier.
Rambitskov was outfitted in U.S. military issue jungle fatigues. It was a disgrace to Donohue’s strike force, each one a proven war hero, who, by the sound of the spattering gunfire, still engaged in a fierce fight in the clearing against Contreras’s guerillas. Contreras was head to toe in some crazy Old Testament getup, a long white gown beneath a multi-hued, brocade, short sleeve tunic. Sandals on his feet. The man was clearly insane, but that didn’t make him any less deadly.
Christa looked small against Contreras’s bulk, but she didn’t look scared. If anything, she looked angry, on the verge of trying something very brave, and probably fatal. Contreras tightened his grip on her. “Agent Fox,” he said. “Let’s not start off with a cliché. You know what to do.”
“
Kill them,” Christa said, her hands clawing at Contreras’s arm crushing her chest. “Get the antidote.”
Contreras grinned. “This is your chance at redemption, Fox,” he said. “Or will you be responsible for this partner’s death as well?” He pressed the tip of his knife against Christa’s skin. She grimaced. A drop of blood trickled down her neck.
Braydon crouched, laid his Glock on the ground, raised his hands. He mentally placed the weapons in the room. The swords and halberds were his best bet, but only if he could get the jump on Rambitskov’s M16. Even then, the bastard had a good fifty pounds and four inches on him and the cold blood of a gang fighter.
Rambitskov kept his weapon trained on Braydon’s chest. “Kick over the Glock,” he said. Braydon complied. It skidded across the gravel on the pounded earth floor. “And the Ka-Bar.” Braydon expected that, too. He unsheathed the survival knife and, denying the impulse to throw it into the fleshy part of the bastard’s throat, he tossed it just in front of his army boots.
Rambitskov shifted the M16 to his left hand, crouched and picked up the Glock with his right. He stood, licked his lips, and smiled. They had nicknamed him Rambo. He certainly looked the part. He stuck the Glock in his belt, pulled a device from his shirt pocket. A C4 remote detonator.
“
We would not want any interruptions,” said Contreras, “and your little strike force is putting up more of a fight than expected. We lost four of our bodyguard detail just getting us to the entrance of the passageway. The only way out of here,” he grunted as Christa squirmed, “will be through the Oculto Canyon.” Without taking his eyes off Braydon, he nodded.
Rambitskov flipped open the yellow safety at the top of the black box. He placed his thumb over the red button, and pressed down.
The explosion blasted into the inner chamber with a deafening roar. The concussion knocked Contreras off balance. Christa gouged her elbow into his middle. Braydon lunged forward, tackling Rambitskov with all his might. The man’s M16 fired wildly as he flailed back. Braydon snatched the weapon from his grasp. He barely had purchase on it as Rambitskov swung around, slamming into his side with doubled fists. The M16 clattered into the tunnel as a cloud of smoke and dust billowed out of it into the chamber. Braydon quickly closed his mouth and narrowed his eyes against the onslaught of debris.
Rambitskov, gasping for breath, convulsed in a fit of choking coughs. He cried out as one hand flew up, too late, to shield his eyes from the stinging smoke. He reached blindly for Braydon’s Glock. As he pulled the pistol from his belt, Braydon kicked it away.
The dust cloud billowed through the chamber, snuffing out the daylight coming from the hole in the ceiling. The M16 was unreachable, buried in the black smoke of the tunnel. His Glock had clattered a few feet to his right. Contreras pushed Christa aside to grab for it. Braydon dove for the Glock. A force bowled him backwards, pounding him against the wall. Rambitskov. Braydon tumbled away as Rambitskov’s fist pounded into the air where his face had been. With the survival reflexes of a streetfighter, Rambitskov pulled back before slamming his knuckles into rock. Braydon tucked and rolled towards the nearest skeleton. He grabbed the hilt of the conquistador’s sword. Its leather scabbard disintegrated as he snatched it away from the skeleton. The weapon was heavy, its blade dulled and jagged with rust.
Rambitskov was quick to respond, grabbing a halberd and swinging it around, slicing through the air. Braydon ducked and rolled. Only his agility and training would save him. Christa was in trouble. Contreras shoved her mightily into the far wall. She banged her head on the granite, staggered.
Contreras swept up a sword from the nearest skeleton. He advanced towards Christa. “Live by the sword! Die by the sword!” he screamed.
“
Christa!” Braydon yelled. He tossed her the sword. She caught it by the hilt, parried Contreras’s thrust.
Rambitskov’s halberd came at his ribs from the side. He leaped back. The point of the halberd slashed across his torso. It tore through the fatigues, and sliced his skin. It hurt like hell, but he blanked out the pain. Christa had taken the advantage, slashing, thrusting, their sword clangs echoing against the granite walls. Contreras, surprised, was on the retreat. But it wouldn’t be long before his strength outmatched her agility.
The smoke was dissipating. The sunbeam, thick with dust, penetrated the chamber. Its light glinted on the golden Breastplate, flat on the stone platform. The sun was moving past its zenith. Soon, the beam would not be focused on the platform. Salvatierra wrote that the sun had to be shining on the Breastplate for it to reveal its power, including the secret to finding the canyon.
Braydon doubled over. He clutched at his wound, grimacing in pain. A man like Rambitskov would relish the chance to take advantage of an opponent’s weakness. Rambitskov raised the halberd above his head, building up energy for the final, decapitating blow.
Braydon grabbed the knife from the skeleton at his feet. He propelled himself forward, lunging blade first, straight for Rambitskov’s gut. Rambitskov twisted away. Braydon pushed off the halberd’s fierce metal ax. Rambitskov slammed its wooden shaft down on his shoulder, the crippling force of it dashing him to his knees. Braydon angled the knife upwards and sliced into Rambitskov’s soft belly with a sickening slurp. He could barely keep his grip on the hilt as the man’s massive weight collapsed onto the rusty blade.
Braydon crouched and staggered out from under Rambitskov as the giant thumped to the ground. The fight, the slash across his torso, the agony of his shoulder, he had to shake off their dizzying effect. He was breathing too hard and fast. The loud clang of a sword clattering to the ground gripped his attention. Christa had knocked away Contreras’s sword! “Finish Contreras off!” he yelled. He pointed towards the skylight. “The sun! We’re out of time.”
But her eyes weren’t on Contreras. She was focused on the Breastplate. As if it was going to judge her. This was no time to get religion. Contreras pulled something from the pocket beneath his tunic. Not a gun. A cylindrical object. Some kind of weapon? Contreras brought the cylinder to his lips, aimed it at Christa. A blow gun! She twisted her grip on the sword, held it over her shoulder like a spear, recoiled her arm, aiming straight for Contreras. Contreras puffed out his cheeks, and blew into the gun.
Braydon dove in front of Christa. She let loose her sword. A sharp needle stung him in the side of his throat. He grabbed at it and yanked it out of his skin. A blow dart, bright yellow, two inches long. Animal tranquilizer? No. Poison. A searing pain burned into his brain like knives in his eyes. His knees buckled. The musky, primeval odor of the chamber intensified with the sinister smoke of modern day explosives. The sounds of a scream and spat of gunfire grew muted, distant. He heard a shout. Christa? He hit the ground, hard, vaguely aware that his shoulder was twisted in agony. He felt a force roll him onto his back, and a soft caress of Christa’s fingertips on his cheek as everything in his vision turned a crimson, bloody red.
CHAPTER
67
“
Braydon!” Christa screamed at him.
He couldn’t be dead, not here, not now, not like this.
She shook his good shoulder. His chest was gashed, oozing blood. The point on the side of his neck where the dart had hit was turning a viral red. He fought for each breath. “Get the antidote,” he said, his voice slurred. “Forget about me.”
“
Not a chance,” she said. “That blow dart, Contreras must have tipped it with the poison.” She pressed her cheek to his. It was hot, feverish. “The antidote is just beyond that wall. I know it is. Hang on.” He grabbed her closer. He gasped, trembled violently. His hand dropped to the ground. She leaned back. His eyes were open, but unseeing. She pressed her fingers to neck. No pulse. She shifted her fingers, pressed deeper. Nothing. This couldn’t be happening. “It’s not supposed to end this way, Braydon.” Hot tears burned her eyes. She swiped them away. “I will not let it end this way.”
Contreras was sprawled against the far wall, bloodied and unconscious. The point of the sword she had thrown had penetrated his thigh, but not deep. He had tripped backwards, hit his head. It lolled over his left shoulder, blood dripping from his temple.