mouth of the tunnel. Zavala would do the actual exploration. At no time would one diver be out of sight of the other’s light.
Zavala struck out into the darkness, keeping close to the wall.
“Far enough. I’m losing you,” Gamay cautioned.
Zavala stopped.
“Okay. I’m swimming away from the wall. The floor is smooth. This room may have seen a lot of traffic. Nothing to indicate what it was used for.”
Gamay issued another warning. He turned back and homed in on her light. He followed a zigzag pattern that would cover the maximum about of ground.
“See anything yet?” Gamay said.
“Noth—wait!”
He swam toward an amorphous shape.
“You’re moving out of sight,” Gamay said.
Gamay’s beacon had become a smudged pinpoint. It would be suicide to proceed much farther, but Zavala couldn’t stop now.
“A couple more feet.”
Then silence.
“Joe. I can barely see you. Are you all right?”
Zavala’s excited voice came over the communicator. “Gamay, you’ve got to see this! Leave the torch to mark the tunnel and follow my light. I’ll wave it.”
Gamay estimated they had just enough air to navigate the tunnel, rise up the shaft, and make their way to the surface. “We don’t have much time, Joe.”
“This will only take a minute.”
Gamay was known to use salty language, but she kept her thoughts to herself. She placed the flashlight on the floor and swam toward the moving light. She found Zavala next to a circular stone dais about three feet high and around six feet in diameter. The surface of the platform was covered with rotten wood and pieces of yellow metal.
“Is that gold?” she said.
Zavala held a yellow piece of metal close to her mask. “Could be. But this caught my attention.”
In brushing away the wood, Zavala had exposed a metal box around a foot long and eight inches wide. Raised lettering on the top of the box was partially obscured by a black film, which came off with a wipe of Zavala’s glove. He murmured an exclamation in Spanish.
Gamay shook her head. “It
But there was no denying the evidence of their eyes. A name was embossed on the box lid:
THOMAS JEFFERSON
Chapter 48
THE HORSE THUNDERED TOWARD the gorge like a runaway battle tank. Austin fought to stay in the saddle. He was top-heavy from his weapons and armor. One foot had slipped from a stirrup. His steel-encased head bounced like a bobble-head doll’s. His shield was sliding off his arm. The long lance pointed everywhere except where he wanted.
Val’s hooves clattered onto the metal bridge. Through the eye slits, Austin caught a blurred glimpse of a gleaming spear tip and the bull’s-head emblem on Baltazar’s tunic. Then the horses were off the bridge and back on the grassy turf.
Austin let out the breath he’d been holding and tightened the reins. He slowed the horse and brought it around to face Baltazar, who was on the other side of the gorge calmly watching Austin’s disarray. Baltazar lifted the helmet from his head and held it in front of his chest.
He shouted: “Good joust, Austin. But you seem to be having some trouble keeping things together.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd of onlookers.
Austin removed his helmet and wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his mailed glove. He ignored the pain from his half-healed rib wound and called back in defiance. “I was distracted by thoughts of my new Bentley.”
Baltazar plucked the car key from the helmet and held it high above his head. “Don’t count your Bentleys before they hatch,” he taunted.
Austin reached into his helmet for the folded paper and held it in a Statue of Liberty pose. “Don’t spend your gold before you find it.”
Maintaining his frozen grin, Baltazar hooked the key back onto the horn and lowered the helmet onto his head.
Austin turned in his saddle and glanced at the lone figure in white sitting in the Bentley. He waved and the figure waved back. The gesture gave him renewed encouragement. He stuffed the paper into his helmet and lowered the steel pot onto his shoulders.
The trumpet blew its warning clarion.
Austin balanced his shield against the saddle and elevated the spear a few times to get a feel for its balance. He tilted his head forward and watched through the eye slits as Baltazar called Adriano over and bent down from the saddle to speak to him.
The second trumpet blast shattered the air.
Austin angled the lance to his left so the point would be in the path of the oncoming rider.
The trumpet sounded for a third time.
Austin apologized to Val and dug his spurs in. Baltazar’s figure grew larger in the vision vents. Austin crouched low behind the shield, keeping his lance aimed at Baltazar’s chest as Squire had advised. His hard breathing sounded like a steam engine inside the helmet.
At the last second, Baltazar raised his lance. The point caught Austin’s helmet under the eye slits and levered the steel pot off his head.
Then they were over the bridge.
Austin wheeled his horse around in time to see his helmet hit the ground near where the bridge joined the edge of the gorge. Adriano ran out and snatched up the helmet. He handed the helmet to Baltazar, who extracted the paper with a flourish. He read the words Austin had written and gave the paper to his hired killer. Adriano headed for an SUV, but before he drove off he handed off the helmet to a jouster, who ran over and tossed it up to Austin.
“Bad luck, Austin,” Baltazar yelled. “But you can still save the woman.”
The trumpet drowned out Austin’s suggestion that Baltazar jump off the bridge.
Both men barely had time to get their helmets back on when the herald sounded the signal to lower lances.
Squire had called the third tilt the money shot.
Austin was rattled at the ease with which Baltazar had placed the lance point. At the same time, the metal- cored spear would give him an advantage. Austin intended to use it. He gritted his teeth and lowered his head.
The trumpet sounded again.
The horses charged. Baltazar was hunkered behind his shield so that only the helmet horns were visible. Austin aimed directly for the shield. Baltazar’s lance hit Austin’s shield dead center. As Squire had predicted, the shaft broke behind the point.
Austin’s lance penetrated Baltazar’s shield as if it were made of air. The sharp point would have neatly skewered Baltazar if Austin’s aim had been better. The point caught a corner of the shield, tore through the leather-and-wood frame, and levered Baltazar out of his stirrups.
He crashed down on the steel bridge and disappeared over the edge.
Austin cursed as only a sailor can. He had zero sympathy for Baltazar. But Baltazar had taken the car key with him.
Then Austin swore again, this time with joy. The twin horns on Baltazar’s helmet were rising above the bridge. Baltazar was trying to pull himself up. The weight of his chain mail and helmet compounded the difficulty.
