Blood Sun

answer!

“You think I know what’s going on here and how to get my hands on that secret,” Max said.

“Maybe.”

“Not maybe. Definitely. Otherwise you would have killed me by now. Well, I do know that there’s something going on.…” He hesitated. This wasn’t good enough. He had to convince Riga. “My mother left me clues,” he lied. If he could stay alive long enough to reach that satellite dish, he might find a way of calling for help.

“What kind of clues?”

“Photographs.”

Max saw something cross Riga’s eyes. Recognition? Understanding? Belief? “You know my mother was here.”

“OK,” Riga said, “he told me that.”

Max nearly winced. This Cazamind knew his mother had been out here. Had he been the man who’d refused to airlift her to safety? “You need me. I know where to go,” he bluffed.

Riga studied him. Max stared back, desperately hoping his lies would not flicker through his eyes.

“Through here?” Riga asked, nodding toward the blades lurking in the darkness.

“Yes. It’s the only way.”

Riga thought about it. “All right. You take me there.”

“What happens then-between you and me?”

“A contract is a contract. But when the time comes, I’ll give you a chance. You have my word. You deserve that.” Riga smiled. “You remind me of myself when I was a kid.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Max said. “And if I get out of here, I’ll do everything I can to make sure you’re caught.”

“It’s a deal,” Riga said. “Now get over here and help me with this lever or we’ll never get through those blades.”

Max moved cautiously, but he knew he had no choice. Riga could have killed him then and there and hadn’t. So now the assassin and his quarry would work together to reveal a secret whose keeper had tried to kill them both.

The wooden handle quivered under the weight of the water that was building up. The lever had to be jammed into position. Riga leaned his weight down onto it and shoved his rifle into Max’s hands. Max could see exactly what needed to be done. He settled the butt of the rifle onto the lever and its barrel into the wall so that the pressure of water could not force it upward and start the blades spinning.

Riga took his weight off the lever; the rifle took the strain. “OK. Go,” Riga said.

Max looked at the vicious obstacle course and then at the manhunter. “You first,” Max said.

Riga laughed. The kid had guts, but was he a killer? Would he yank the rifle away and unleash the water pressure when Riga was in the middle of all those blades? He had answered that question once before; nothing had changed. Max Gordon was no killer. He shook his backpack free and pulled out half a dozen small flares. He ripped the tabs clear and threw each one as far as he could, clattering them through the blades and poles into the darkness. Their crimson glow dabbed the blades’ tips.

He moved into the labyrinth. Max gave him a couple of seconds’ head start and then followed. His eyes quickly adjusted to the flickering light, and he bent and twisted his body like a contortionist through the sharpened flesh shredders. He could see a couple of the points had nicked Riga’s skin as he bent and stooped his way around the lethal obstacles. Riga had made no sound, as if impervious to pain. Max winced; his concentration had flagged watching Riga’s movement, and one of the blades had scraped into his back. He felt the warm trickle of blood ooze like sweat. But he knew they were almost through, because he could see light seeping through from the other end of the building. Another four or five meters and they would be clear.

He wanted to move more quickly, but the blades snagged his shirt and trousers like barbed wire. He had to pick his way clear. Riga seemed to be making better progress and was almost through.

And then Max’s legs trembled. He felt the panic rise quickly and almost reached out to grasp one of the blade-tipped arms for support. He twisted his upper body to balance the movement under his boots. Another earth tremor.

Riga was nearly out of the deadly traps, but one of the poles twisted from the vibration, and like a cog in a wheel, it shifted into its normal stationary position. The bladed arm swung in a lethal curve from behind Riga’s right shoulder down toward his left leg.

“Behind you! Look out!” Max yelled, desperately keeping his own balance, eyes darting left and right, hoping none of the blades was shifting toward him.

Riga’s reactions were remarkable. Keeping his feet firmly planted, he twisted from the waist, raised his left arm above his head and turned himself clear of the cutting blade. The tip caught his shirt, ran beneath his ribs and bit into the shoulder holster. Max heard the clean ripping cut as the blade severed it from the shoulder strap. Max’s warning, Riga’s fast reaction and the shoulder holster had saved the killer from a lethal wound. The chrome-plated semiautomatic tumbled away beneath the blades.

Riga was clear. He caught his balance and turned back to watch Max’s progress through the last few meters. “Come on, kid, that lever might not hold. Hurry!”

Max could hear the poles creaking and saw the blades quivering. Another earth tremor snaked beneath his feet. He almost fell. And then he heard a sound from the other end of the building. It was metal scraping against rock. The rifle was being forced along the rock wall under pressure.

Riga watched Max trying to move more quickly. It was like observing a fly trying to escape from a spiderweb. Sometimes the fly got lucky.

“Come on! Do it!”

And then they both heard the crash of the lever breaking free of the rifle’s restraint; the sound of rushing water echoed through the chamber. The poles groaned back to life. Behind him the blades were already turning, and Max felt the exertion force itself out of his lungs. He gasped as he tried to get through the last couple of meters before the teeth around him spun into life and devoured him.

He was not going to make it. And he knew it. He raised his head to look into Riga’s eyes less than a meter away-but the blades spun. Riga snatched at one of the moving arms, jammed his foot onto another and threw his weight backward. The sudden counterbalance on one of the poles slowed the blades that had not yet reached full speed.

Max saw the narrow space between the blades, like a gap through a bramble hedge. Throwing himself forward, he felt them nick his clothing. He hit the earth floor, rolled and came quickly to his feet. Even Riga’s strength could not have held back the blades any longer, and Max saw them wrench free of the assassin’s grip.

Max looked at him. How did you thank a killer who had just saved your life but had promised to kill you later? You didn’t. It was already a debt repaid.

“Where now?” Riga demanded.

Max saw the location of the satellite dish in his mind’s eye. He turned and ran for the opening that led into a green umbrella covering of forest. “This way!”

They were no sooner clear of the claustrophobic building than they could hear the muted staccato of what sounded like firecrackers somewhere in the distance, the harsh sounds swallowed by the dense jungle.

“Gunfire,” Riga said. “AKs, M16s, others. Two or three clicks away.”

Max kept running and noticed Riga kept pace despite his injured leg. He was one of those unstoppable guys, Max thought. People like him will keep coming for you until they die. Max had never wished anyone dead before, but Riga was different.

It was a world away from the stark, heat-seared ball court. No blue sky penetrated the overhanging tree branches and vines.

It seemed like an artificial corridor of foliage, as if a gardener had created a massive tunnel out of the greenery.

“Camouflage,” Riga said. “Deliberate. This whole area is hidden from view.”

“There has to be another way in here,” Max said. “The Razor House kept everyone out from that side.”

The ongoing gun battle came no closer, but one or two echoes became more dominant. Who was doing the