Burial Ground

was thrown backward into the trees under a crimson rainbow of his own blood.

Tasker swung the barrel to the right, firing the whole time. Another black figure dove for cover. The bullets were faster. They chewed through the man's knee and sent his lower leg flopping end over end in the opposite direction.

Screams erupted from the bedlam.

Tasker launched himself forward at a crouch, and raced toward where the wailing native had fallen. An arrow sang from behind him. Its song was cut short as searing pain blossomed in his right shoulder. He whirled and fired. Bullets tore apart the shrubs and climbed up the painted man as he notched another arrow, lifting him from his feet and tossing him into the underbrush in a wash of blood.

Warmth flowed down Tasker's upper arm. He was peripherally aware of the sharp arrowhead poking out from the meat of his shoulder. The rifle grew exponentially heavier in his grasp as he staggered through the waist-high shrubs until he encountered the severed lower leg. He followed the trail of blood and matted ferns to where the man struggled to crawl deeper into the jungle.

From behind him, he heard the whispered puffs of gunfire begin to slow.

The rifle fell from his hand and clattered to the ground. Spurred by the sound behind him, the wounded man clawed at the loam, gouging his fingers into the mud to gain any sort of traction. Tasker unsheathed his knife, grabbed the man by the braid, and jerked his head back. In one swift motion, he leaned around and plunged the blade into the man's throat. A rush of blood flooded over Tasker's hand. The arterial spray painted the forest in pulsing arcs. He jerked the knife to the side and tore through the tendons and trachea, nearly decapitating the man were it not for his spine.

Tasker rose and swiped the blade on his pants before returning it to its scabbard. Turning, he found his rifle and hefted it in his left hand. His right arm hung limply at his side. Blood dripped from his fingertips and pattered on the ground.

All was quiet now.

Tasker shuffled back to the path, passing the crumpled carcass of another native before reaching the leader's remains. The man gurgled and wheezed through the foam of blood bubbling past his lips. Tasker stood over him and surveyed the area. McMasters tromped through the weeds on the far side of the path, kicking aside branches and vines. Three arrows stood at angles from his backpack, the broken shaft of another from his left thigh. He looked up and met Tasker's stare.

'All clear,' he said, 'but I don't think Reubens is going to make it.'

Reubens was sprawled facedown in the middle of the path, arms pinned beneath him. The feathered ends of arrow shafts protruded from his backpack and shoulders like the quills of a porcupine. His rifle lay abandoned at his side.

Tasker walked closer and noticed the arrowhead poking from the side of Reubens's neck beneath his ear. He nudged the body with his toe. A rasping sound came from under the man. Tasker rolled Reubens over. The man's eyes were wide with fright, his cheeks stained with mud and tears. The broken shaft of an arrow stood from the left corner of his mouth, where it had torn away his lips. He bit down on it with a clicking sound as he tried to swallow back the blood. He looked up at Tasker like a beaten dog pleading for its master's forgiveness.

Tasker lowered his smoldering barrel to the soldier's forehead. A tendril of smoke spiraled up from the sizzling union. With a single squeeze of the trigger, he put Reubens out of his misery.

'Seven bodies,' McMasters said. He reached the path, stood beside Tasker, and glanced down. 'Make that eight.'

One of the savages must have managed to escape.

Tasker nodded and returned to the leader of the natives, who gazed up at him through glassy eyes narrowed by agony.

The man's lips twitched and blood dribbled over his cheeks.

After several attempts, the man finally forced an epithet through the burbling blood.

'Kuntur...'

The muscles in his face relaxed and the last hiss of air escaped through one of the bullet wounds in his chest.

'What's that supposed to mean?' McMasters asked.

'Does it matter?' Tasker raised his boot and drove it down onto the man's face with a crack, then set about prying the arrow out of his deltoid muscle.

A bellow of rage and pain echoed through the still rainforest.

Chapter Seven

I

Andes Mountains, Peru

October 30^th

1:16 p.m. PET

The words poured out of Galen's mouth so fast that even he could barely keep up with them. He knew how fantastic his theory sounded, but he became increasingly convinced each time it played through his head. Sam had said that the golden skull was far too precisely crafted for the Chachapoya, whose metallurgical skills were historically limited. Heck, just looking at the abstract faces of the six purunmachus verified their artistic style and shortcomings. The skull had been anatomically perfect, from the seating of the gold teeth in the alveolar sockets to the positioning of the orbital housings, and the irregular sutures between the cranial bones to the hollow concavities of the system of sinuses. Even the way the mandible articulated into the temporomandibular joints reflected an almost medical understanding of the skeleton. If it were simply a sculpture, then it had to be based on something the creator could physically see while he was sculpting it, but Galen didn't think it was anything as mundane as that. Then there were the feathers incapable of flight, the avian-hybrid, snake-faced deity carved into the stone walls in the village, and the immense fortifications and impregnable alpaca pen. Combined, they painted a picture that was impossible to ignore.

Something had survived in these mountains, hidden in the dense jungle, something capable of running down and butchering a jaguar, the crowned king of the Amazonian food chain.

He didn't vocalize the summation of his theory. Colton and Leo needed to reach that conclusion on their own. All he said was that it was a species of raptor, though not the modern kind that nested high on the cliff-sides and feasted upon carrion.

From the questions the men posed and the way they communicated silently in glances while he spoke, he could tell they didn't necessarily disbelieve him. But they didn't quite believe him, either.

After Galen finished, he drew a deep breath and waited for either of them to speak. The crackle of dead branches and leaves announced the approach of the rest of their party.

'Have you shared this theory with anyone else?' Colton finally asked. The hard look in his eyes and firm set of his jaw indicated that the question was heavily loaded, but for the life of him, Galen couldn't imagine why. He grew uncomfortable under the man's scrutiny, and paused to formulate his reply.

'No,' he lied.

Leo nodded. 'Let's just keep this between us for the time being. Even if you're right, there's no point in alarming the others just yet.'

'If I'm right? We shouldn't even be here. Lord only knows what these creatures are capable of. Think about the alpaca bones around that tree. That could easily be us.'

Colton took a step toward him and Galen instinctively cringed. Even the man's posture radiated menace.

'You will keep your mouth shut until given clearance to open it,' Colton whispered. Voices filtered through the underbrush behind them. Colton's stare ticked toward the sound, then returned to meet his. 'Do you understand?'

Galen could only nod. No threat had been uttered, but the implication hung in the air between them.