“Plans have changed slightly,” Kaufman said. “The natives might come back and I’ll need you for that.”
“Well, maybe I don’t want to be here if they come back,” Devers said, more loudly than he should have.
Kaufman stood up, glaring at Devers, but it was not enough to stop the complaints.
“It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” Devers insisted. “No one was supposed to get hurt.”
The temptation to have one of his men beat a lesson of humility into Devers coursed through Kaufman’s veins, but he decided it would be more important to straighten Devers out himself, rather than give the man something else to sulk about.
Kaufman glared at him. “You are embroiled in a web of self-deception, Mr. Devers. You have no rights here. I own you. Not just because of the money I paid you but because you’re now an accomplice to multiple homicides. What did you think was going to happen when two groups of armed men went after the same thing?”
Devers was silent. The first silence Kaufman had heard out of him since the day they’d met, since the day Devers and another member of the NRI, a man who had died with the first team, had volunteered to funnel information to Kaufman on various NRI initiatives, culminating in a project Devers had been asked to interpret for: the Brazil project. Even then, it was not until Kaufman had hacked the NRI’s files that he’d realized the importance of what they were looking for.
“This was more than I expected to do,” Devers said. “It was just supposed to be information.”
Kaufman understood his thinking; it was always the same. As if a little traitorous behavior was somehow less offensive than a lot. “In for a penny,” he explained, “in for a pound.”
Devers stared at him.
“Now get out of my sight until I need you again.”
Devers skulked away just as the mercenaries began to emerge from the temple. “Where’s Lang?” Kaufman asked as they reached him. “Where are the others?”
“They were killed,” the group’s leader told him. “Attacked. The animal you were told about is real. It’s down in the cave. I heard it.”
Kaufman had made the soldiers aware of Dixon’s ranting out of prudence, but he’d been more worried about the natives than anything else. “Are you sure?”
“Tracks in their blood,” the mercenary told him. “Two claws.”
Just as Dixon had described. “Dixon saw them in the forest,” Kaufman said. “Not the temple.”
“Then there must be more of them,” the head mercenary said, holding up his weapon. “We should get ready.”
Kaufman was momentarily shocked. Not only by the loss of Lang, but by the attack itself. It had happened inside the temple, a place he’d assumed would be safe. It had been safe for Dixon. It had been safe for the NRI group.
“We should seal the tunnel,” Vogel said.
Kaufman wasn’t listening. He had come to the error in his thinking.
He turned back to the soldiers and spoke to their leader. “The real danger is out here,” he said, meaning the forest. “Dixon said there was more than one, even then. He heard them calling to one another, running with the natives. They came after nightfall.”
Kaufman looked out over the trees; dusk was almost upon them. “Seal the tunnel,” he said. “And get ready for a fight.”
CHAPTER 31
Darkness returned to the Amazon basin. In the Mayan view of things the spirit world had inverted itself, the heavens of the daytime and their powerful lords had fallen beneath the earth, replaced in influence and position by the spiritual forces of the underworld: the Xibalbans and the Nine Lords of the Night.
For the members of the NRI team, however, night arrived with no discernable change from that which preceded it. They remained chained to the tree at the edge of the clearing, watched casually from a distance but mostly unguarded and ignored.
They had struggled and schemed through half a dozen hopeless plans of escape. Verhoven and Danielle had worked the cuffs until their wrists bled, trying desperately to slip their hands free. Whenever one of Kaufman’s soldiers approached, their emotions surged with hope and fear, hope that they might be released and fear that they would be shot and left for dead. But neither event occurred, and as the night arrived they fell into various forms of fitful, uncomfortable sleep.
After dozing for an hour or so, Professor McCarter awoke with a cramp in his leg, tight like twisted bands of steel. He shifted his weight and tried to stretch it, grunting in pain and waiting for the pins and needles.
The air around him was cool and still, the clearing quiet and the skies as lucid as any he’d ever seen. The unseasonably dry air meant hotter days and cooler evenings, and it left the night skies brilliantly clear. The camp ahead of him was black. And as he looked around, the others appeared to be asleep, except for Danielle and Verhoven, who were talking quietly.
As he watched them, a sense of anger welled up inside. They’d led Susan and him here under false pretenses, endangering them without their knowledge or consent.
It seemed so obvious now: armed security, guard dogs, coded satellite transmissions. Of course they’d been in jeopardy, right from the very beginning. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t noticed, but he’d written it off to a general sense of prudence and a healthy fear of the Chollokwan. He stared at Danielle.
“Anything happening?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
Verhoven added, “Not yet anyway.”
There was something ominous about Verhoven’s statement, but before McCarter could say anything he heard voices: the disembodied shouts of hidden soldiers. In the distance, a flashlight came on and then went off again. There was hurried movement, more commands and metallic noises like guns being loaded and readied. In the stillness of the air, it seemed as if he could hear every footfall. “God, it’s quiet.”
“Too quiet,” Verhoven said. “Too quiet, for too long.”
McCarter glanced at the South African. “What do you mean?”
There was a sliver of a grin on Verhoven’s face. “Trouble’s coming.”
McCarter’s hands tingled. He didn’t like the sound of that. “What kind of trouble?”
“Visitors,” Verhoven said, nodding toward the trees. “Been around for a while, but these fools are only just figuring it out.”
McCarter craned his head around and looked out into the darker void beneath the trees. He sensed something, though he wondered if it was a result of Verhoven’s suggestion. “The Chollokwan?”
“They came for us after we went into the temple,” Danielle reminded him. “They’ve left us alone ever since. But these guys have been banging around in there all day long. I fear they may have struck a nerve.”
Staying out of the temple hadn’t been a conscious decision, but the timing of the two events had escaped no one. McCarter looked back to the forest. The thought of being chained to a tree when an attack came horrified him. He remembered the chanting and the fires.
“Where does that leave us?”
“Stuck at the table,” Verhoven said. “With a very bad hand.”
McCarter’s face wrinkled.
Danielle looked over at him; her eyes suggested defiance. “We’re not done yet,” she said. “Stay sharp. We might get a chance, somewhere in all the madness.”
McCarter understood the situation. He’d questioned their odds before, but now he knew what it meant to cling to even the thinnest ray of hope. They couldn’t hold out for a good chance or for even a fair one. It seemed prayers would be wasted on such grand requests. But a hundred-to-one shot, the smallest mistake by their captors, perhaps it was less foolish to ask fate for that, perhaps they’d get that type of chance before it was over.
McCarter tried to stretch his legs. He stared up at the night sky once more. The stars were so ridiculously bright that they seemed to be mocking him.
