through the gateway and into the courtyard. For a moment, Matt assumed it must belong to Salamanda, another of his men cutting off their last way of escape. But at the same time he knew that something was wrong. The guards had stopped in their tracks. Rodriguez had taken out his gun and was shouting orders.
The car slid to a halt.
“Get in!” a voice called out through the window, first in English, then in Spanish. “Suba al coche!”
There was a burst of gunfire and suddenly it was as though Matt was back in Lima, on his way from the airport. He had never been shot at in his life. Now it had happened twice in the space of a week. Two shots had been fired from the watchtower that he had seen earlier. One bullet hit the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust. The other hit the bonnet of the car. That told him everything he needed to know. Whoever was in the car was on his side.
Matt ran forward. There were more shots. The guards seemed to be shooting at the car rather than at Pedro and himself. Were they obeying instructions from Salamanda? It seemed they were wanted alive. Then he saw that the dogs had been released. They were bounding forward, their eyes aflame, their jaws wide open to reveal white, vicious teeth. He and Pedro might not get shot, but if they didn’t reach the car soon they would be torn apart.
“Faster!” the driver shouted.
Pedro got there first. He opened the back door and threw himself onto the seat. Matt dashed for the passenger door. And despite the guns still firing all around him, despite the dogs bounding ever closer through the brilliant, electric light – he froze.
He knew the driver of the car.
The slightly feminine face. Long eyelashes. A thin face with sculpted cheeks, covered by the beginnings of a beard. A half-moon scar next to one eye.
It was one of the men who had kidnapped Richard.
“Get into the car or you will die!” the man shouted.
Two more bullets slammed into the metalwork. A third smashed one of the mirrors. Matt didn’t need any more telling. He dived forward and at the same time, the man slammed the car into reverse, skidding backwards and taking Matt with him. Matt was half in and half out, the door still open. Pedro was sitting, surprisingly calm, on the back seat. The car continued backwards. Matt saw a guard raising his gun. There was a terrible thump and the guard disappeared.
“The door…!” the man began.
There was a hideous snarling and Matt turned just in time to see one of the Alsatians leap at him. It half landed on his leg and he felt its teeth snapping, inches away from his thigh. With a cry, he drew back his other leg and then kicked out. His foot slammed into the dog’s head. It howled and fell back. Matt drew himself into the car and pulled the door shut. The driver had already changed gear. The car shot forward.
But it wasn’t over yet. As if afraid of losing them, the remaining guards all fired at once and Matt yelled as glass and bullets exploded over his head. Next to him, the driver jerked in his seat and Matt felt something wet splatter across his face. He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand and looked down. His fingers were covered in blood.
He hadn’t been shot. It was the driver. It was Lima all over again except that this time the roles had been reversed. The man with the scar wasn’t firing at them, he was helping him. And he was wounded. He had been hit twice: in the shoulder and the side of the neck. There was blood on the seat and on the dashboard. More blood was spreading rapidly down his shirt. But he was still gripping the wheel, his foot pressed on the accelerator. The car swerved round the courtyard and into the darkness. The driver reached out and turned on the headlamps. The car bounced and rattled back down the track.
“They’ll follow us!” Matt said. He expected to see Salamanda’s men already following in cars or trucks.
“I don’t think so.” The man was trying to keep the pain out of his voice, but Matt could see he had been badly hurt. The blood had spread all the way down to his chest. Soon the whole shirt would be red. He muttered a few words in Spanish. Pedro leant down. When he sat up again, he was holding a handful of wires and fuses. Matt smiled. Somehow the man had reached the hacienda ahead of them. And he had disabled all the vehicles he could find.
“Who are you?” Matt demanded.
“My name is Micos.”
“How did you find us? Where’s Richard?” There were a dozen more questions Matt wanted to ask.
“Not now. Later.”
Matt fell silent. He understood. Micos didn’t have the strength to drive and talk at the same time.
It seemed to take them for ever to reach the end of the dirt track. It was completely dark and the headlights illuminated only a small area ahead. Matt knew they were back on the main road only when the wheels began to turn smoothly, on an asphalt surface. A few moments later, Micos pulled over to the side and stopped.
“Listen to me,” he said, and with a jolt of alarm Matt saw that he had been wounded even more badly than he had feared, that he had very little time left. “You must go to Cuzco.” Micos coughed and swallowed with difficulty. More blood appeared, on his lower lip. “On Friday… the temple of Coricancha. In Cuzco. At sunset.”
He seemed to take a deep breath, as if preparing to tell them more.
“Please, tell Atoc…” he began. But that was all. He was still, his eyes fixed on something in the distance. Matt realized he had just died.
In the back seat, Pedro whimpered.
“We can’t stay here,” Matt said. He didn’t care if the other boy understood or not. “Salamanda will come after us eventually. We have to go.”
The two of them got out. The car was parked right on the edge of the road beside a slope leading into brushwood. Matt turned off the headlamps and released the hand brake. He gestured to Pedro and the two of them began to push the car. It rolled off the road, out of sight.
If anyone did drive out of the hacienda, they would think Matt and Pedro had driven away. They wouldn’t know they were once again on foot.
The moon had come out, lighting the way ahead. Ica couldn’t be more than half a mile away.
“Are you ready?” Matt asked.
“Yes.” Pedro had understood. And he had replied in English.
Together, they set off along the road.
THE HOLY CITY
Once again, Matt found himself in the main square at Ica, and this time they were even more nervous than they had been before. It was half past five in the morning but there were plenty of people around. It seemed to him that life began early in Peru. Even so, everything was quiet. There were no tourists yet. The money changers hadn’t come out. If anyone came searching for them, they wouldn’t be too hard to find.
Matt was fairly sure that Salamanda wouldn’t look for them here. As far as the man knew, they could be a hundred miles down the Pan-American Highway – the single road that ran the full length of the country. But Matt wasn’t taking any chances. He had left Pedro to buy the bus tickets for the next leg of their journey while he squatted in the shadows. He was crouching on the edge of the pavement, his arms wrapped around himself, pretending to be asleep. It wasn’t all pretence. He was exhausted. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep going.
Pedro returned with the tickets and sat down next to him.
“Cuzco,” Matt said.
“Cuzco,” Pedro agreed and showed him the two slips of paper.
Matt hadn’t been certain that he would really buy them. He knew that Pedro would have preferred to continue south to the city of Ayacucho – where Sebastian and his friends would be waiting. As he took the tickets, Matt glanced at the other boy. Pedro didn’t look pleased by what he had done but he had evidently come to a decision. He was going to stay with Matt.
The two of them ate a quick breakfast of rolls and coffee, bought from a stall, then crept on board the bus at the last moment. By this time, almost every seat was taken and they had to sit apart. Not that it mattered, Matt
