then.
The golden skull was sealed within one of the waterproof plastic sacks and stashed in a small alcove just inside the cave's mouth for rapid retrieval on the return trip should speed be of the essence, which he feared it would.
He donned his jacket and poncho, and smeared a liberal helping of black, grease-based paint over his face. Even the rain wouldn't be able to wash it away.
'You ready to do this?' McMasters asked.
'I was born ready.'
Tasker hefted his backpack onto his shoulders and slung his assault rifle across his chest. He glanced back at the mummified face leering out of the torn bundle.
Low-set, recessed orbital sockets.
Skin the consistency of a long-dead carp's scales.
Rows of wicked teeth.
He unslung his rifle and carried it so that he could feel its weight and power in his bare hands.
Bracing himself against the storm, Tasker struck off into the gloom, mentally readying himself for the massacre to come.
IX
Eldon Monahan sat at his antique dining room table, half a bottle of Pisco-Tabernero to his left, the broken shell of his cell phone, which he had crushed in frustration, to his right. The photographs curled as they burned in the ashtray, scattering ashes that descended like snow onto the pristine surface. He drew another long swig from the bottle and poured a touch into the ashtray to fuel the blue flames. His housekeeper had taken the rest of the day off at his request, leaving him alone with his shattered dreams and the specter of his future.
He had left his office shortly before noon, claiming to have a severe stomach ache, which hadn't required the slightest bit of embellishment. Everyone had been telling him how pale he looked all morning. He hadn't been able to focus on his work at all, nor had he been able to carry on simple conversations in passing without his thoughts reverting to the train wreck that was now his life.
It wasn't as though all hope was lost. Plenty of Senators had survived sex scandals and illegal business dealings. Many were drunks, others cheats. None of them were innocent by anyone's definition. They all owed portions of their souls to various clandestine dealings that secured the campaign contributions that had bought them their seats. Favors were owed, and were collected at the cost of the welfare of their constituency.
But what he had done was far worse, wasn't it?
He had cut a deal with the devil in the flesh. Plundering the heritage of the Peruvian people was a despicable act, but it was nothing compared to the atrocity he had implicitly authorized. He had given Tasker his blessings to follow Leonard Gearhardt's party to the source of the treasure, and then kill them all. Perhaps one could be forgiven, but there was no way the other could.
Every time he so much as blinked, he saw the piranha-chewed face of Hunter Gearhardt on that cold steel slab staring up at him with an expression of accusation.
There was only one way out of this predicament.
He watched the last picture burn until there was absolutely nothing left, then drained the bottle. His head spun and his insides burned as he shuffled toward his den. The bottle fell from his hand and clattered to the floor. The hallway canted from one side to the other, forcing him to lean against the wall for balance. He fell across the threshold into his private sanctum, crawled to the desk chair, and pulled himself up into its leather embrace.
It had been nearly two full days since Tasker had phoned. Not that he really expected the man to call again, but he had secretly hoped he would have been granted one last chance to talk the man out of what he had planned.
He supposed he didn't have the right to pray for the opportunity, especially when he'd been given so many others along the way. This was the bed he had made. The time had come to lie in it.
The headdress rested on the desk in front of him next to his best calfskin belt. He had shoved the computer onto the ground to make room. It was now nothing more than a pile of fractured components. Another object sat on the blotter, positioned perfectly for an easy right-handed grab.
He raised the headdress and held it against his forehead while he cinched the belt tightly around his head.
Tears flowed down his cheeks from beneath the golden fangs.
A mewling sound crossed his lips.
He grabbed the other object from the desk and gripped it in his fist.
A Smith & Wesson .38 Special.
Chest heaving, he pressed the barrel against the metal arch over his forehead.
He caught his reflection in the mirror on the wall across from him.
Only the bluish-green eyes of a monster looked back.
Chapter Eight
I
Galen was furious. How had he allowed them to talk him into keeping his mouth shut when all of their lives hung in the balance? They could no longer dance around the issue. The more he thought about it, the more evidence amassed, the more he became convinced that his theory was correct.
Something had survived in these mountains that had never been meant to, and it was something far more dangerous than simply an unclassified species of condor.
He needed to convince the others to forsake their quest and get the hell out of there before it was too late.
If it wasn't already.
Through the maze of trees, he saw Morton and Webber milling around an especially crooked tree. They stiffened when they noticed him coming and stood side by side across the path as though in an attempt to block it. A sheer wall of stone rose behind them to a series of terraced gardens built onto the summit. Winding staircases connected them like trails of tears down the rugged face.
It wasn't until he was upon the two men that he noticed the cut in the rock wall behind the tree, a crevice of shadows that radiated the coldness of the tomb, from which the buzzing sound originated. But right now even that was preferable to the rain that chilled him to the marrow.
The men seemed to swell in stature as he approached. Or maybe it was the fact that their pistols had been replaced by seriously intimidating assault rifles.
They knew.
'Where's Leo?' Galen asked.
'Mr. Gearhardt doesn't wish be disturbed,' Webber said. 'He asked that we help afford him some privacy.'
'You don't understand. I need to speak with him right now.' Galen veered to the right to pass them, but Webber matched his movement to bar his passage.
'As I said, Dr. Russell, Mr. Gearhardt insisted that he not be interrupted.'
