them.

‘Mac?’ He took a clumsy step closer, feet as heavy as lead. The figure didn’t stir. Another step. ‘Mac!’

Nina ran up behind him. ‘Eddie – oh, God.’

Kit moaned. ‘Pachac,’ he said weakly. ‘It was Pachac . . . caught us by surprise, then ran . . .’

Eddie reached Mac and stood over him, statue-like. Even through his horror, part of his mind was still functioning with trained, robotic clarity, assessing the injuries. The wounds were close together on the left side of his back. They would have hit the lung, probably also the heart. From the amount of pooled blood, there would also be a much larger exit wound in his chest. Even with immediate surgical intervention the chances of survival were extremely low.

But there would be no surgery. They were miles from any help.

He knelt, the blood soaking into the material of his jeans. Movement – slight, but definite. Mac was still breathing. He reached down, finding that his fingers were shaking. A hesitant touch on the older man’s shoulder. ‘Mac? Can you hear me?’

Silence for several seconds . . . then a faint sigh of drawing breath. Little bubbles formed in one of the bullet wounds. Mac slowly, painfully, turned his head, one half-closed eye blearily focusing on the man beside him. ‘Eddie?’ His voice was barely a whisper.

‘Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. It’s me.’

The Scot moved his hand, trying to reach up but lacking the strength. Eddie gripped it. The skin already felt cold. ‘I’m sorry . . .’

‘For what?’

‘Stikes . . . Had him right in my sights before he took off, but . . . not fast enough. I let him get away . . .’

‘No, you didn’t, it wasn’t your fault,’ said Eddie, shaking his head. ‘Look, I’m – I’m gonna try to stop the bleeding.’ He knew it was futile, but he had to do something. ‘Hold still, and I’ll—’

‘No, Eddie.’ Mac groaned, more bubbles rising from the blood-filled holes. ‘Not . . . worth it.’

‘It is worth it!’ His voice cracked as he spoke.

‘No, not going to . . .’ Mac’s whole body trembled. His hand now felt like stone. He whispered something.

Eddie leaned closer, desperate. ‘Mac, I can’t hear you. Stay with me, stay with me!’

With a last agonising effort, Mac turned his head further so he could look up at his friend with both eyes. He spoke again, forcing out the words. ‘Fight to the end . . . Eddie.’

Then nothing. The sagging of his body was so slight that it was barely noticeable, but it was all Eddie needed to know without a doubt that he was dead.

‘Mac,’ he said anyway, pleading for him to return. ‘Mac, come on. Mac!’

Tears beading in her eyes, Nina crossed to him. ‘Eddie, I . . . ’ she began, before stopping, unsure what to say. ‘I’m sorry,’ she eventually whispered, touching his shoulder.

He didn’t look up at her, instead staring silently at the man who had shaped so much of his life, the man he had respected and admired above all others. He reluctantly let go of Mac’s hand, then reached over and gently closed his eyes. ‘Fight to the end,’ he echoed, voice hoarse.

Running footsteps. Nina looked back in alarm, but it was only Macy and Osterhagen hurrying up the steps. ‘I heard shots . . .’ said Osterhagen, before tailing off at the sight of the tableau.

Macy raised her hands to her mouth, horrified. ‘Oh no. Oh, God. Is – is he okay? Is he . . .’

Eddie abruptly stood and turned. Nina almost flinched at a frighteningly unrecognisable new aspect to his familiar features. His eyes were wide, clear, intensely focused – but his face was utterly, chillingly blank, devoid of expression. Stone cold. ‘He’s dead,’ he said flatly, pushing past Nina to go to Kit. He picked up the gun from the floor beside him and ejected the magazine. Nine rounds left, plus one in the chamber. He snapped the mag back into place and headed for the stairs, almost barging Macy and Osterhagen aside.

‘Eddie, wait!’ Nina shouted. ‘There are too many of them, they’ll kill you!’

But he was gone. ‘Shit!’ she cried, rushing down the steps after him. ‘Leonard, Macy, stay with Kit!’

‘I’m coming with you,’ Macy insisted, following. Osterhagen went to the wounded Indian to examine his injury.

Eddie ran through the abandoned city, eyes sweeping like radars, hunting for threats. For targets. Nobody there; they had all evacuated the cavern. He reached the reservoir, skirting the top of the entrance shaft to the great gap where the defences had collapsed. He pressed himself against the edge and checked outside.

The jungle’s colours were muted, clouds having descended. A great pile of broken rubble was strewn across the pool. On the far bank, about fifty yards away, were two of Pachac’s men. Both held AK-47s.

The knowledge that he was outgunned didn’t cause even a fraction of a second’s hesitation. Eddie whipped round the wall, locking the Steyr on to the centre of mass of the man on the left with mechanical precision. He squeezed the trigger three times. The first shot narrowly missed, kicking up a clod of earth from the ground, but he had already compensated. The second and third bullets hit the rebel in the arm and stomach. He dropped.

The other man raised his AK. Too late. This time, all three rounds hit their target. The revolutionary fell, blood spurting from his chest.

Eddie ran down the pile of stones and splashed through the pool to the bank. The first man was still alive, writhing in agony. Without the slightest emotion, Eddie shot him in the head, then shoved the Steyr into his jacket and scooped up an AK-47 before continuing into the jungle.

Nina reached the ruined wall just in time to see him disappear into the trees. She called his name, but knew

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