That horrifying sound was almost inhuman. It froze the blood and rooted Xavier and his guard to the spot. The fight in the forest had played back to them in all its heart-clenching terror. Xavier reacted first. Breaking free from the man’s grip, he sprinted down the path looking neither right nor left, determined never to run into the jungle again. He zigzagged, but he was an easy target. The man raised his weapon.
“Stop!” Orsino Flint yelled, bursting through the edge of the forest.
The gunman turned and fired. Flint dived into cover.
Xavier stopped, turned and shouted in surprise. “Flint!”
The gunman twisted back and fired at the boy, who forgot his fear of the jungle and plunged into the undergrowth.
“Don’t shoot!” Flint shouted again as he ducked into the open, and back again, getting ever closer to Xavier.
The gunman could not cover both at the same time. He waited, the AK-47 sweeping left to right, ready to fire again. He was scared. The scream from the forest, the failure of his companions to return, all brought home the fact that he was alone and vulnerable. There was a sudden flurry at the edge of the jungle. He fired, the bullets chopping the leaves, but Flint had moved farther down the forest edge and run across the strip.
He gripped Xavier’s neck as he pinned him to the ground, the bullets snapping the air above them. “Stupid! You’re so damned stupid!”
“You said you were leaving!”
“I saw your dumb stunt, and I couldn’t believe it! Come on! He’s reloading.”
Xavier was dragged to his feet. He saw the gunman fumbling for another magazine, but Flint had already yanked him into the trees.
Which was worse? The gunman or whatever lay in the jungle?
Max burst from the muddy water, powering himself upward, his mouth still wide open from the scream, but now he was snarling as he attacked. He held the spear in both hands and lunged.
The gunman’s bulging eyes were glazing over, the breath had been sucked from him like vacuum-packed meat as the snake still twisted round him. His swollen tongue protruded, and in the last few moments of consciousness, he saw the blurred movement of a mud-streaked demon lunging at his head with a spear. Max thrust the spear into the snake’s jaws and shoved with all his might. He felt the recoil as the snake’s muscles spasmed and swirled, lashing in ferocious death throes. Max leaned on the spear, pinning the snake to the ground, jamming one foot onto its writhing coils. Dripping with sweat, he desperately sucked in air as he overcame his fear. He closed his eyes, gripping the shaft of the spear, concentrating all his strength and energy, making sure that the terrifying snake could not survive and attack him.
Light faded as thunder ricocheted across the mountains from the low-lying clouds. Max was oblivious. He hunched over the writhing snake, clasping it with foot and fist, the flint blade like a big cat’s claw. Max’s teeth were bared with exertion as he growled with primitive savagery against the thrashing snake.
Finally, he knew the snake was dead and sank to his knees. He gazed at the magnificent creature and for a brief moment regretted its death. The man who had tried to kill him lay on his back in the dirt. Max tried to find a pulse, but there was none. His effort to save the man had come too late.
A steady pattering beat the forest leaves as a rainstorm broke. Max tilted back his head and let the fresh water wash the grime and sweat away, tasting the sweet liquid that his adrenaline-scoured body so desperately needed. Nothing else moved. A distant, muted bird trill and a gentle plopping call of another was all that could be heard.
The downpour ended almost as quickly as it had begun.
The rapid beating of the rain gave way to the steady sound of dripping leaves. A small movement caught his eye-a blue morpho butterfly opened its wings, its deep iridescence startling against the greenery. A brief moment of beauty in a place of death.
Max yanked out the spear and turned for the ravine. He had fought one snake; ahead lay another unknown peril-the Cave of the Stone Serpent. Like a jungle cat, he bent his body and sought a path beneath the low foliage. Some of the big leaves reflected the dull glint of rain, but a mottled form shifted in the shadows, and Max could smell the dank odor of wet fur. Without another thought, he chased the shadow. His senses altered, and like radar, his sense of smell and hearing took over. He ran bent low, ducking beneath curved branches as he found the animal path opening ahead of him. The rustling branches and the sound of paws on the ground led him through a dim, twisting labyrinth where light barely reached the forest floor. His feet hit mud, and he slithered onto his side, brought to a halt by a rotten log across the path. His shoulder slammed into the crumbling bark, and as he reached up to pull himself clear, he gazed into the eyes of the creature that had led him this far. Four meters away, smudged in camouflage, the jaguar gazed at him; its panting breath reached his nostrils. Max blinked. The jaguar was gone. Had he imagined it? He saw tracks in the mud. Surely it could not have been an illusion? The big cat had guided him here. Max looked to one side; the cliff had turned into a steep, muddy descent. Imaginary or not, he had reached a place where he could get down to the river.
Max could hear the sound of a waterfall. Using vines as ropes, he slithered his way down to the river sixty or so meters below him. It was broad but shallow, and he could see that, with care, he should be able to cross without being swept away. But what held his attention was the gaping hole in the rock face on the opposite mountainside. It looked as though someone had carved a mask into the mountain, and the cave gave the appearance of snarling jaws with jagged pinnacles of rock as teeth. Fetid, breathlike mist eased out of the opening. From where Max stood, there could be no doubt that it resembled the head of a snake. This was it. He had to enter the Stone Serpent’s gaping jaws.
Another ragged rain cloud curled down the mountainside at the far end of the valley, snagging on forest limbs like sheep’s wool on barbed wire. Max felt the first gust of wind and sting of rain as it urged him across the shallow water and onto the lower slopes of the mountainside. It seemed insistent on pushing him into the unknown.
Something splashed out of the mist into the stream behind him. He spun round. It was the driver of the bush-cutting machine. Blood streaked his clothes. Somehow he had survived the fall-maybe the cab’s roll cage had saved him. He staggered toward Max, pulled back the action on the shotgun he carried and brought it up to waist height. Max was exposed. There was no cover. There were one or two deep pools, but how far underwater could he dive to escape those lethal blasts? How long could he hold his breath until the man gave up? It was not an option.
In that moment of hesitation, the man stumbled into deeper water. He raised the shotgun, but it was more for balance than for aiming at Max.
A cry of pain ripped from the man’s throat. He had dropped the shotgun, beating the water with his fists. He screamed when the surface fluttered as if struck by hailstones, then fell facedown into the turmoil. Max was rooted to the spot. In less than a minute, the man was shredded. His blood had attracted the most ferocious of predatory fish-piranhas.
A stupid thought flashed through Max’s horror. He hadn’t known there were piranhas in Central America.
He did now.
Fragments of the man’s shirt floated past him.
Max gazed up into the huge, frightening cave that awaited him, but after the punishing terror he had experienced, it offered the illusion of a place of safety.
Could his mother and father have traversed this very route? Somewhere in the amphitheater of these mountains, on the other side of this cave, had they faced danger and death? His mother had died; his father had run. There was only one way to find out the truth.
Max stepped into the darkness and let the serpent’s breath smother him.
21
Riga was not the kind of man to sit idly by as events unfolded around him. He had studied maps and satellite
