Riga lay in the path of the young MI5 agent. How did she get here? It made no difference. Max realized that the tree under which Riga lay was an old deadfall, not a casualty of the earthquake, and that water sluiced beneath it in a shallow runoff, so the ground was gently scooped out. Max gazed at the body. Something was wrong. Riga’s head rested close to his trapped arm, so the water trickled around it; otherwise the man would have drowned were he not already dead. Riga had a breathing space. He must have seen the girl approaching and crawled beneath the tree. His face was turned in Max’s direction, away from the girl, making the situation more inviting, less threatening for her.
His eyes were open.
It was a trap. The girl was going to be dead in a minute.
It was no good shouting a warning. The waterfall would swallow the sound of his voice. Max had to make sure that Riga saw him and that when he did, Morgan would be alerted.
And that Riga did not gun him down.
Sweat stung her eyes, and the rain felt like driven sand, but she moved steadily upward, gripping the semiautomatic in her hands. She slipped and stumbled a couple of times on the slimy ground, but maintained enough balance to watch the unmoving body. Her eyes were on the briefcase a few paces away from him. What was in there that was so important? She would know soon enough. Ambition drove her on. She could almost hear Ridgeway’s praises, could see the commendation, knew her future was assured and that high rank would be hers for the taking.
She was almost there. Her hand trembled, more from anticipation than fear. She kicked the body. It did not move. She carefully took a couple of steps away, then bent forward to retrieve the case. A figure was running flat out from the top of the hillside, slipping and sliding, waving his arms, mouth wide open, screaming a silent yell. The boy was sliding down the mud bank as the mist curled in on itself, a small bloodred wave that made him look like a demonic surfer. She lost sight of him momentarily; then he reappeared, directly level with the body now. Max Gordon. He must be terrified, desperate to be rescued.
And then she realized that he was charging at her, rather than simply gaining her attention. He was warning her.
She threw herself to one side at the exact moment the man’s body twisted, coming up with a gun in his hand. He fired rapidly three times. The numbing pain crashed through her body. She fell. Riga had hit her with every shot.
He turned, leveled the weapon. Trained men don’t aim; they point and kill. He pointed at Max-a demented kid who looked like hell, cut and bleeding, blackened from fire, who swung a piece of wood like a club, who was attacking. Attacking a man holding a gun! There was something gloriously insane about it. But not something Riga would consider worth saving the boy’s life for.
Max saw the moment when Riga leveled the gun, when his eyes looked beyond the weapon and locked on to his own.
Riga fired twice-a double tap that would pierce heart and lungs.
Max fell, his body sliding, momentum carrying him into Riga. The angels were still with him-the bullets had barely missed him as he threw himself backward half a heartbeat before the killer squeezed the trigger. He kicked out at Riga’s injured leg. The heat and exertion would have taken its toll on the wound. With the massive kick and impetus from the slide, Max hit his target.
Riga cried out in pain and tumbled back across the fallen tree into the mud, the handgun slipping away into the slime.
The killer’s body had cushioned Max’s impact. He clambered across the tree trunk, swinging the piece of wood, uncertain whether the red mist in front of his eyes belonged to the forest or to his own rage. Riga was on his knees reaching for him; if he pulled Max down into the mud, he would kill him. The club connected with the side of Riga’s head, and he fell back onto his twisted, injured leg. Max stood above him panting like an ancient warrior who had brought down a beast of the forest. Danger heightened everything. Each grunting breath was confirmation of his victory as he stood over the beaten enemy, never taking his eyes off the fallen assassin.
Max was in the zone.
The rain was heavier now. Sluices of blood-colored mud exposed the bone-white limestone mountainside. It would not be long before the ground gave way and swept debris and boulders down into the valley below.
Max dropped the club and went over to look at Charlie Morgan. She lay where she had fallen, and had it not been for the splashes of blood on her rain-drenched clothes, he might have thought she slept. He carefully eased her arms down to the sides of her body, then straightened her legs. He could see the dark blood still oozing where she had been hit. He eased open her shirt. There was a wound in her side, another in her upper chest and a third in her leg, but the bone had not been broken. She was alive. He took off his tattered shirt, ripped it into bandages and then dug into his cargo-pants pockets and pulled out the herbs Orsino Flint had given him.
The downpour washed the blood from the wounds. He dabbed them dry as best he could, then, using his thumb, pushed the herbs carefully into the punctures. He bound each wound with the strips from his shirt.
He was still on his knees, wiping the flecks of dirt from her face, when he felt the forest change. The rain eased, the crimson mist shifted slightly in the wind, and the dense jungle undergrowth a hundred meters away fell silent for a moment. A shadow figure, the rosettes on its skin barely noticeable, had made the disrupted light alter. Max gazed through the foliage, into the dark patch that was unmoving. Two amber eyes gazed back. They blinked; small tufted ears twitched.
The stare was intense.
And then the jaguar bared its teeth.
Slushing rain and mud disguised the sounds behind Max.
But the vibration in the air had changed. His sixth sense was heightened, the link between jaguar and boy almost tangible. Max spun round in time to stop Riga’s lunge.
Like two beasts they grappled, rolling in the sliding mud. Neither spoke, neither yelled, both grunting in their fight for survival-and Riga was still by far the stronger. Max had a blurred memory of clawing the man’s back and trying to bite and scratch his way clear.
He reached out blindly for anything to strike Riga. His hand delved into the mud for a weapon, but all it found was tangled roots. And that saved his life.
The ground slid away, the force of the water creating a mudslide that swept Riga from him. Max clung to the roots, but he saw Riga’s face. A look of disbelief as he gazed into Max’s eyes. The killer knew he could not survive. He smiled. Max Gordon had won.
Max pulled himself clear, onto drier, firmer ground, and looked down the mud slurry to the valley thirty meters below. There was no sign of Riga’s body; it must have been swept farther away into the turmoil of the broken land.
In the end, the forces of nature had beaten the killer.
Max pulled the case to him and thumbed the beveled locks. All sixes-666. The mark of the beast. There was a handwritten notebook inside, as well as dates, numbers, names, a computer disk and a small picture clipped to an environmental-impact report. Max’s mum. This all started and ended with her. He placed the file back in the case with her picture still attached and closed the lid. Others would now know how she had triggered the unfolding events.
As the locks clicked back into place, it felt as though he was laying his mother’s memory to rest. And in this jungle hell he had found the truth about his father.
He slipped the attache case’s handcuff onto Morgan’s wrist. If she lived, she could have the glory. He eased her body onto his shoulders. Then, grabbing her arms across his chest, forced himself onto his feet. He was surprised at how light the agent’s body was, not thinking for a moment that he had gained extra strength.
He looked into the jungle.
The jaguar was gone.
Max began a slow, loping run.
The authorities declared the forbidden valley a disaster area, but as so few people were involved in the confined and protected area, it was decided to send only medical teams and a few troops to clear out the last of the Serpent Warriors. The Maya resolved to stay in their villages, away from the ruined temples where cruel men had
