Still, Scopes did not speak. Half-lost in an overwhelming sense of relief, Levine saw Scopes’s hand twitching and realized—a split second before it happened—that the GeneDyne CEO would never give up his deadly virus. Twenty years ago, when Levine had lost at their ultimate round of the Game, he’d stuck to his word. He’d signed the corn patent and let Scopes grow rich on the discovery, rather than giving the marvelous secret to the world. Now, Scopes had lost, on an even grander scale. ...
Levine grabbed for the ampule just as Scopes’s hands flashed out. Two hands closed around it at once. There was a brief struggle as each man tried to claim it for his own.
“Brent!” Levine cried. “Brent, you gave your word—”
There was a sudden, dull popping sound. Levine felt a sharp sting; then a dampness spread across his palms.
He forced himself to look down.
The viral transport medium, with its deadly suspension of X-FLU II, was spreading in a puddle over the signed contract and running off the table onto the floor, staining the gray carpet black. Levine opened his hand: shards of glass were embedded in his palm, lines of blood diluted by the hot medium running down his wrist. His palm hurt as he flexed it.
He looked up again, watching as Scopes slowly opened his own hand. It, too, was torn and bloody.
Their eyes met.
Carson was tugging at her arm, trying to say something. “Mondragon’s gold,” he gasped at last.
“What about it?” de Vaca whispered.
“Use it.” A spasm of pain crossed his face and he fell back into the sand, where he remained, motionless.
As Nye’s footsteps came closer, she suddenly understood what Carson meant. Digging into her pocket, she pulled out the four coins she’d taken from the cave.
“Nye!” she called. “Here’s something that ought to interest you.”
She lobbed the coins over the rock. The footsteps ceased. Then there was a sharp intake of breath, a whispered curse. The footsteps approached again, and then she could hear his heavy breathing, coming up between the rocks, and she crouched with her head bowed, waiting. Something she knew must be the barrel of Nye’s big rifle was suddenly pressed hard against the base of her skull.
“Count of three,” she heard Nye say, “to tell me where you got these.”
She waited, saying nothing.
“One.”.
She waited.
“Two.”
She sucked in her breath, squeezed her eyes tightly closed.
“Three.”
Nothing happened.
“Look at me,” Nye said at last.
Slowly opening her eyes, she turned around. Nye was standing above her, one booted foot balanced on a rock, his tall form silhouetted against the setting sun. The safari hat and long English coat that before had always seemed so ridiculous to her now seemed utterly terrifying, a strange specter of death in this remote desert. He was holding the gold coin in one hand. His bloodshot eyes dropped to her naked breasts a moment, then moved up again, his face expressionless. He shifted the barrel to her temple. More seconds passed. Turning on his heel, Nye strode back out into the sand. De Vaca waited a moment, then jerked spasmodically at the sound of another shot. There was a deep, wet sighing sound.
In a moment, Nye returned. Quickly, he reached down and grabbed de Vaca’s hair, yanking her rudely to her feet. She felt her roots ripping as he jerked her head hard to one side. Then, with a brutal shove, he threw her back against the rocks that rose at the end of the cul-de-sac. He swung the rifle around and jabbed it deep into her stomach. She bent forward, crying out, and he yanked her up again by the hair.
“Listen to me very carefully now. I want to know where you got this coin.”
She dropped her eyes and gestured with her chin to the sand at her feet. He glanced down, saw the dagger, and reached for it. He looked closely at the handle.
“Diego de Mondragon,” he whispered. Then he stepped closer. She had never before seen eyes so bloodshot; the edges of the whites were crimson, almost black.
“You found the treasure,” he hissed.
She nodded.
He swiveled the rifle back toward her face. “Where?”
She looked into his eyes. “If I tell you, you’ll kill me. If I don’t tell you, you’ll kill me. Either way, I’m dead.”
“Bitch. I won’t kill you. I’ll torture you to death.”
“Try it.”
He balled his fist and struck her directly in the face. She felt the shock of impact; then a terrific buzz sounded in her ears and a strange heat rushed into her head. She tipped forward, feeling faint, but he pushed her back against the sharp rock.
“It won’t work,” she said again. “Look at me, Nye.”
He struck her again. The landscape around her turned white and featureless for a moment, and she felt blood gush from her mouth. Her sight returned and she raised a hand to her face, realizing she had lost a tooth.
“Where,” he said again.
She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and remained silent, stiffening for the next blow.
The footsteps moved away, and she heard Nye speaking in a low tone. She could hear the pauses as he waited for somebody else to answer. Who was he talking to? Singer, probably, or one of the Mount Dragon security guards. She felt the slender thread of hope inside her begin to part;, they had been so certain Nye was alone.
The footsteps came back and she slitted open her eyes. Nye was pointing his rifle at Carson’s head.
“Tell me or he dies.”
She took a deep breath now, steadying herself. This, she knew, was going to be the hardest part. “Go ahead and shoot the
He swiveled the gun toward her. “Except what?”
“A trade,” she croaked.
She did not feel the blow as the butt of the rifle swung toward her head, but a pool of blackness rushed suddenly up to meet her. Consciousness returned, and with it a searing pain across one side of her skull. She kept her eyes closed. Again, a voice: Nye was still talking to someone. She listened for an answering voice, but it did not come. At last she cracked open her eyes. The sun had set, and it was much darker now, but she was still reasonably certain that he was speaking to no one.
Despite the pain, relief coursed through her. PurBlood was doing its terrible work.
Nye turned toward her, noticed she was conscious. “What kind of trade?” he asked.
She turned away, closing her eyes and bracing for another blow.
“What kind of trade,” she heard him repeat.
“My life,” she said.
There was a silence. “Your life,” he repeated. “I accept.”
“My life isn’t worth shit without a horse, that gun, and water.”
There was a silence, and then another terrible blow came. This time, consciousness returned slowly. Her body felt heavy and full of sleep. Breathing was difficult, and she knew her nose must be broken. She tried to speak without success, and felt herself falling back into the sweet black pool of unconsciousness.
When she came to again, she was lying on soft sand. She tried to raise herself, but white-hot pain flashed through her skull and down her spine. Nye was standing over her, flashlight in hand. He looked worried.
“One more blow like that,” she whispered, “and you’ll kill me, you bastard. Then you’ll never learn where the
