Inca Gold - Cussler Clive (читать онлайн полную книгу .TXT) 📗

    At that instant the helicopter lurched sharply upward. Campos's upraised hands caught empty air. His momentum carried him under the helicopter and off the edge of the cliff as if he'd taken a running dive into water. Oxley watched the colonel's body grow smaller and smaller as it turned end over end before smashing onto the rocks far below.

    "Good Christ," gasped Oxley.

    Zolar, grimly hanging on to a strap inside the cargo bay, did not witness Campos's plunge to the base of the mountain. His concerns were elsewhere. "Cyrus is still down in the cavern."

    "He's with Amaru and his men. Not to worry. Their automatic weapons are more than a match for a few Indians carrying hunting rifles and shotguns. They'll leave in the last helicopter still on the mountain."

    Only then did it occur to Zolar that someone was missing. "Where's Matos and the colonel?"

    "The Indians shot Matos and Campos made his move too late."

    "He stayed on Cerro el Capirote?"

    "No, he fell off Cerro el Capirote. He's dead."

    Zolar's reaction was a psychiatrist's dream. His expression went thoughtful for a moment, and then he broke out laughing. "Matos shot and the good colonel dead. More profits for the family."

    Yuma's prearranged plan with Pitt was accomplished. He and his people had secured the summit and forced the evil ones from the sacred mountain of the dead. He watched as two of his nephews led Lieutenant Ramos and his army engineers down the steep trail to the desert floor below.

    There was no way to carry Matos. His knee was tightly bandaged and he was forced to hobble along as best he could, assisted by a pair of engineers.

    Curiosity drew Yuma to the enlarged opening to the interior passageway. He had a nagging ache to explore the cavern and see with his own eyes the river described by Pitt. The water he saw in his dreams. But the older men were too frightened to enter the bowels of the sacred mountain, and the gold created a problem with the younger men. They wanted to drop everything and carry it off before armed troops returned.

    "This is our mountain," said one young man, the son of Yuma's neighboring rancher. "The little golden people belong to us."

    "First we must see the river inside the mountain," countered Yuma.

    "It is forbidden for the living to enter the land of the dead," warned Yuma's older brother.

    A nephew stared at Yuma doubtfully. "There is no river that runs beneath the desert."

    "I believe the man who told me."

    "You cannot trust the gringo, no more than those with Spanish blood in their veins."

    Yuma shook his head and pointed to the gold. "This proves he did not lie."

    "The soldiers will come back and kill us if we do not leave," protested another villager.

    "The golden people are too heavy to carry down the steep trail," the young man argued. "They must be lowered by rope down the rock walls. That will take time."

    "Let us offer prayers to the demon and be on our way," said the brother.

    The young man persisted. "Not until the golden people are safely below."

    Yuma reluctantly gave in. "So it is, my family, my friends. I will keep my promise and enter the mountain alone. Take the men of gold, but hurry. You do not have much daylight left."

    As he turned and walked through the enlarged opening leading to the passageway, Yuma felt little fear.

    Good had come from the climb to the top of the mountain. The evil men were cast down. The demon was at peace again. Now, with the blessing of the demon, Billy Yuma felt confident he could safely enter the land of the dead. And maybe find a trail leading to the lost sacred idols of his people.

    Loren sat huddled in the cramped rock cell, sinking into the quicksand of self-pity. She had no more fight left in her. The hours had merged until time lost all sense of meaning. She could not remember when she had last eaten. She tried to recall what it felt like to be warm and dry, but that memory seemed like an event that occurred ages ago.

    Her self-confidence, the independence, the satisfaction of being a respected legislator in the world's only superpower, meant nothing in that damp little cave. Standing on the floor of the House of Representatives seemed a million light-years away. She had come to the end, and she had fought as long as she could. Now she accepted the end. Better to die and get it over with.

    She looked over at Rudi Gunn. He had hardly moved at all in the last hour. She didn't have to be a doctor to see that he had slipped, badly in that time. Tupac Amaru, in a storm of sadistic wrath, had broken several of Gunn's fingers by stomping them. Amaru had also injured Gunn severely by kicking him repeatedly in the stomach and head. If Rudi didn't receive medical attention very soon, he might die.

    Loren's mind turned to Pitt. Every conceivable road to freedom was blocked unless he could ride to their rescue at the head of the U.S. Cavalry. Not a likely prospect.

    She recalled the other times he had saved her. The first was on board the Russian cruise ship where she was held captive by agents of the old Soviet government. Pitt had shown up and rescued her from a savage beating. The second time was when she was held hostage by the fanatic Hideki Suma in his underwater city off the coast of Japan. Pitt and Giordino had risked their lives to free her and a fellow congressman.

    She had no right to give up. But Pitt was dead, crushed by concussion grenades in the sea. If her countrymen could have sent a group of Special Forces over the border to save her, they would have done so by now.

    She had watched through the cave opening as the golden treasure was hauled past her cell and through the guardians' chamber up to the peak of the hollow mountain. When all the gold was gone, she knew it would be time for her and Rudi to die.

    They did not have to wait long. One of Amaru's foul-smelling henchman walked up to their guard and gave him an order. The ugly slug turned and motioned them out of the cave. "Salga, salga," he commanded them.

    Loren shook Gunn awake and helped him rise to his feet. "They want to move us," she told him softly.

    Gunn looked at her dazedly, and then incredibly, he forced a tight smile. "About time they upgraded us to a better room."

    With Gunn shuffling alongside Loren, her arm around his waist, his over her shoulders, they were led to a flat area between the stalagmites near the shoreline of the river. Amaru was joking with four of his men who were grouped around him. Another man she recognized from the ferryboat as Cyrus Sarason. The Latin Americans appeared cool and relaxed, but Sarason was sweating heavily and his shirt beneath his armpits was stained.

    Their one-eyed guard pushed them roughly forward and moved slightly apart from the others. Sarason reminded Loren of a high school coach who was pressed into service as a chaperon at a prom, seeing out a dull and boring duty.

    In contrast, Amaru looked as if he were bursting at the seams with nervous energy. Excitement gleamed in his eyes. He stared at Loren with the same intensity as a man crawling through the desert who suddenly sights a saloon advertising cold beer. He came over and roughly cupped Loren's chin with one hand.

    "Are you ready to entertain us?"

    "Leave her be," said Samson. "There is no need to prolong our stay here."

    Something cold and slimy moved through Loren's stomach. Not this, she thought, God not this. "If you're going to kill us, get it over with."