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

    Hidden by a knee crossed over one leg, Sarason's fingers met and cautiously began slipping the two-shot derringer from his boot. He reckoned that Pitt's injuries would slow any reaction time by a split second, but decided against attempting a snap, wildly aimed shot. If he missed with the first bullet, Samson well knew that despite Pitt's painful injuries there wouldn't be a chance to fire the second. He hesitated as his mind engineered a diversion. He looked over at Amaru and the two men eyeing Pitt with implacable black anger. Julio was of no use to him.

    "You are the one who doesn't have long to live," he said. "The Mexican military who assisted us in removing the treasure will have heard your shots and will come bursting in here any minute to cut you down."

    Pitt shrugged. "They must be on siesta or they'd have been here by now."

    "If we all attacked him at the same time," Sarason said as conversationally as if they were all seated around a dining table, "he might kill two or even three of us before the survivor killed him."

    Pitt's expression turned cold and remote. "The question is, who will be the survivor?"

    Amaru did not care who would live or die. His dark mind saw no future without his manhood. He had nothing to lose. His hatred for the man who emasculated him triggered a rage fueled by the memory of pain and mental agony. Without a word, he launched himself at Pitt.

    In a muscled flash of speed, Amaru closed like a snarling dog, reaching out for Pitt's gun hand. The shot took the Peruvian in the chest and through a lung, the report coming like a booming crack. The impact would have stopped the average man, but Amaru was a force beyond himself, driven like a maddened pit bull. He gave an audible grunt as the air was forced from his lungs, and then he crashed into Pitt, sending him reeling backward toward the river.

    A groan burst from Pitt's lips as his cracked ribs protested the collision in a burst of pain. He desperately spun around, throwing off Amaru's encircling grip around his gun hand and hurling him aside. He brought the butt of the Colt down on his assailant's head, but stopped short of a second blow when he spotted the two healthy guards going for their weapons at the edge of his vision.

    Through his pain, Pitt's hand instinctively held steady on the Colt. His next bullet dropped the grotesque one eyed guard with a quick shot to the neck. He ignored the blind Julio and shot the remaining henchman in the center of his chest.

    Pitt heard Loren's scream of warning as if it were far off in the distance. Too late he saw Sarason pointing the derringer at him. His body lagged behind his mind and moved a fraction slow.

    He saw the fire from the muzzle and felt a terrible hammer blow in his left shoulder before he heard the blast. It flung him around, and he went down sprawling in the water with Amaru crawling after him like a wounded bear intent on shredding a disabled fox. The current caught him in its grasp and pulled him from shore. He grabbed desperately at the bottom stones to impede the surge.

    Sarason slowly walked to the water's edge and stared at the struggle going on in the river. Amaru had clenched his arms around Pitt's waist and was trying to drag him under the surface. With a callous grin, Sarason took careful aim at Pitt's head. "A commendable effort, Mr. Pitt. You are a very durable man. Odd as it sounds, I will miss you."

    But the coup de grace never came. Like black tentacles, a pair of arms circled around Sarason's legs and gripped his ankles. He looked down wildly at the unspeakable thing that was gripping him and began frantically beating at the head that rose between the arms.

    Giordino had followed Pitt, drifting down the river. The current had not been as strong as he'd expected upstream from the treasure island and he had been able to painfully drag himself into the shallows unnoticed. He had cursed his helplessness at not being physically able to assist Pitt in fighting off Amaru, but when Sarason unknowingly stepped within reach, Giordino made his move and snagged him.

    He ignored the brutal blows to his head. He looked up at Sarason and spoke in a voice that was thick and deep. "Greetings from hell, butthead."

    Sarason recovered quickly at the sight of Giordino and jerked one foot free to maintain his balance. Because Giordino made no attempt to rise to his feet, Sarason immediately perceived that his enemy was somehow badly injured from the hips down. He viciously kicked Giordino, hitting one thigh. He was rewarded by a sharp groan as Giordino's body jumped in a tormented spasm and he released Sarason's other ankle.

    "From past experience," Sarason said, regaining his composure, "I should have known you'd be close by."

    He stared briefly at the derringer, knowing he had only one bullet left, but aware there were four or five automatic weapons lying nearby. Then he glanced at Pitt and Amaru who were locked in a death struggle. No need to waste the bullet on Pitt. The river had taken the deadly enemies in its grip and was relentlessly sweeping them downstream. If Pitt somehow survived and staggered from the water, Sarason had an arsenal to deal with him.

    Sarason made his choice. He stooped down and aimed the gun's twin barrels between Giordino's eyes.

    Loren threw herself at Sarason's back, flinging her arms around him, trying to stop him. Sarason broke her grip as if it were string and shoved her aside without so much as a glance.

    She fell heavily on one of the weapons that had been cast aside, lifted it and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. She didn't know enough about guns to remove the safety. She gave a weak yelp as Sarason reached over and cracked her on the head with the butt of the derringer.

    Suddenly he spun around. Gunn, remarkably come to life, had tossed a river stone at Sarason that bounced off his hip with the feeble force of a weakly hit tennis ball.

    Sarason shook his head in wonder at the fortitude and courage of people who resisted with such fervor. He almost felt sorry they would all have to die. He turned back to Giordino.

    "It seems your reprieve was only temporary," he said with a sneer, as he held the gun at arm's length straight at Giordino's face.

    In spite of the agony of his broken legs and the specter of death staring him in the face, Giordino looked up at Sarason and grinned venomously. "Screw you."

    The shot came like a blast from a cannon inside the cavern, followed by the thump sound of lead bursting through living flesh. Giordino's expression went blank as Sarason's eyes gazed at him with a strange confused look. Then Sarason turned and mechanically took two steps onto shore, slowly pitched forward and struck the stone floor in a lifeless heap.

    Giordino couldn't believe he was still alive. He looked up and gaped at a little man, dressed like a ranch hand and casually holding a Winchester rifle, who walked into the circle of light.

    "Who are you?" asked Giordino.

    "Billy Yuma. I came to help my friend."

    Loren, a hand held against her bleeding head, stared at him. "Friend?"

    "The man called Pitt."

    At the mention of his name, Loren pushed herself to her feet and ran unsteadily to the river's edge. "I don't see him!" she cried fearfully.

    Giordino suddenly felt his heart squeeze. He shouted Pitt's name but his voice only echoed in the cavern. "Oh, God, no," he muttered fearfully. "He's gone."

    Gunn grimaced as he sat up and peered downriver into the ominous blackness. Like the others who had calmly faced death only minutes before, he was stricken to find that his old friend had been carried away to his death. "Maybe Dirk can swim back," he said hopefully.