Текст книги "Inca Gold"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 31 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

    "You're all getting well paid for your services."

    "What is the term you use in your country?" said Amaru, breathing heavily. "Fringe benefits?"

    "I don't have time for prolonged sex games," Samson said.

    "You will make the time," Amaru hissed, baring his teeth like a coiled snake about to strike. "Or my men will become most unhappy. And then I may not be able to control them."

    One look at the five toughs backing up the Peruvian killer and Samson shrugged. "She is of no interest to me." He stared at Loren for a moment. "Do with her what you will, but get it over with. We still have work to do and I don't want to keep my brothers waiting."

    Loren was on the verge of throwing up. She looked at Sarason, her eyes imploring. "You're not one of them. You know who I am, whom I represent. How can you stand by and allow this to happen?"

    "Barbaric cruelty is a fact of life where they come from," Sarason replied indifferently. "Every one of these vicious misfits would cut a child's throat as casually as you or I would slice a filet mignon."

    "So you'll do nothing while they do their perverted work?"

    Sarason gave a detached shrug. "It might be rather entertaining."

    "You're no better than they are."

    Amaru leered. "I find great enjoyment in bringing haughty women like you to their knees."

    That was the signal to end the talk. Amaru made a gesture to one of his men. "You may have the honor of going first, Julio."

    The others looked disappointed at not being chosen. The lucky one stepped forward, his mouth stretched in a lustful grin, and grabbed Loren by the arm.

    Little Rudi Gunn, grievously injured and barely able to stand, suddenly crouched, launched himself forward, and rammed his head into the belly of the man about to assault Loren. His charge had all the impact of a broomstick against the gate of a fortress. The big Peruvian barely grunted before delivering a passionless backhand that sent Gunn sprawling across the floor of the cavern.

    "Throw the little bastard in the river," ordered Amaru.

    "No!" Loren cried. "For God's sake, don't kill him."

    One of Amaru's men took Gunn by the ankle and began dragging him toward the water.

    "You may be making a mistake," cautioned Sarason.

    Amaru looked at him queerly. "Why?"

    "This river probably enters the Gulf. Instead of providing a floating body for identification, perhaps it might be wiser if they disappear forever."

    Amaru paused thoughtfully for a moment. Then he laughed. "An underground river that carries them into the Sea of Cortez. I like that. American investigators will never suspect that they were killed a hundred kilometers away from where they're found. The idea appeals to me." He made a motion to the man holding Gunn to continue. "Heave him as far as you can into the current."

    "No, please," Loren begged. "Let him live and I'll do whatever you demand."

    "You'll do that anyway," Amaru said impassively.

    The guard hurled Gunn into the river with the ease of an athlete throwing the shotput. There was a splash, and Gunn vanished beneath tire black water without a word.

    Amaru turned back to Loren and nodded at Julio. "Let the show begin."

    Loren screamed and moved like a cat. She sprang at the man who gripped her arm and rammed the long nails of her thumbs deeply into his eyes.

    An agonized cry echoed through the treasure cavern. The man given the go-ahead to ravage Loren clutched his hands to his eyes and squealed like a stuck pig. Amaru and Sarason and the other men were momentarily paralyzed with surprise as they saw blood flow through his fingers.

    "Oh, Mother of Christ!" Julio cried. "The bitch has blinded me!"

    Amaru walked up to Loren and slapped her hard across the face. She staggered back but did not fall. "You will pay for, that," he said with icy calm. "When you have served your purpose, you shall receive the same treatment before you die."

    The fear in Loren's eyes had been replaced with raging anger. If she'd had the strength, she would have fought them tooth and nail like a tiger before being overpowered. But the days of ill-treatment and starvation had left her too weak. She kicked out at Amaru. He took the blows as if they were no more annoying than an attack by a mosquito.

    He caught her flailing hands and twisted them behind her. Thinking he had her helpless, he tried to kiss her. But she spit in his face.

    Infuriated, he punched her in her soft belly.

    Loren doubled up, choking in agony and at the same time gasping for breath. She sank to her knees and slowly fell on her side, still doubled up and clutching her stomach with her arms.

    "Since Julio is no longer able to function," said Amaru, "the rest of you help yourselves."

    The outstretched arms of his men, thick and strong, with their fingers hooked like claws, reached out and seized her. They rolled her over on her back and pinned down her arms and legs. Held down in a spread-eagled position by the combined strength of three men, including One-Eye, Loren cried out in defenseless terror.

    The tattered remains of her clothing were torn away. The smooth, creamy skin shone under the artificial lights left by the army engineers. The sight of her exposed body aroused the attackers' level of excitement even higher.

    The one-eyed Quasimodo knelt down and leaned over her, his breath coming in short pants, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a grimace of animal lust. He pressed his mouth against hers. Her screams were suddenly muffled as he bit her lower lip and she could taste the blood. Loren felt as if she were suffocating in a nightmare. He pulled back and moved rough callused hands over her breasts. They felt like sandpaper to her sensitive skin. Her deep violet eyes were sick with abhorrence. She screamed again.

    "Fight me!" the hulk whispered huskily. "I like a woman who fights me."

    Loren plunged into the depths of humiliation and horror as One-Eye lowered himself onto her. Her screams of terror turned into a shriek of pain.

    Then abruptly, her hands were free and she clawed her attacker across the face. He sat back stunned, parallel streaks of red blooming on both cheeks, and stared dumbly at the two men who had suddenly released her arms and hands. "You idiots, what are you doing?" he hissed.

    The men who were facing the river fell backward in open-mouthed shock. They crossed themselves as if warding off the devil. Their eyes were not on the rapist or Loren. They were staring into the river beyond. Confused, Amaru turned and peered into the dark waters. What he saw was enough to turn a sane man mad. His mouth dropped open in shock at the sight of an eerie light moving under the water toward him. They all gaped as if hypnotized as the light surfaced and became part of a helmeted head.

    Like some hideous wraith rising from the murky abyss of a watery hell, a human form slowly arose from the black depths of the river and moved toward the shore. The apparition, with black seaweedlike shreds hanging from its body, looked like something that belonged not to this world but to the deepest reaches of an alien planet. The effect was made even more shocking by the reappearance of the dead.

    Clenched under the right arm, as a father might carry his child, was the inert body of Rudi Gunn.

    Sarason's face looked like a white plaster death mask. Sweat poured down his forehead. For a man who did not excite easily, his eyes were near-crazed with shock. He stood silent, as the monstrosity left him too stunned to speak.

    Amaru leaped to his feet and tried to speak, but only a whispered croak came out. His lips quivered as he rasped, "Go back, diablo, go back to infierno."

    The phantom gently lowered Gunn to the ground. He removed his helmet with one hand. Then he unzipped the front of his wet suit and reached inside. The. green eyes could be seen now, cast on Loren's exposed position on the cold, hard rock. They glinted under the artificial lights with a terrible anger.

    The two men who were still pinning Loren's legs stared dumbly as the Colt thundered once, twice in the cavern Their faces went wildly distorted as their heads snapped back and exploded. They collapsed and fell across Loren's knees.

    The others bolted away from Loren as if she had suddenly acquired the black plague. Julio moaned in a far corner unable to see, his hands still over his injured eyes.

    Loren was beyond screaming. She stared at the man from the river, recognizing him but convinced she was seeing a hallucination.

    The shock of disbelief, then horror at the realization of who the apparition was, made Amaru's heart turn cold. "You!" he gasped in a strangled voice.

     "You seem surprised to see me, Tupac," said Pitt easily. "Cyrus looks a little green around the gills too."

    "You're dead. I killed you."

    "Do a sloppy job, get sloppy results." Pitt cycled the Colt from man to man and spoke to Loren without looking at her. "Are you badly hurt?"

    For a moment she was too stunned to answer. Then finally, she stammered, "Dirk. . . is it really you?"

    "If there's another one, I hope they catch him before he signs our name to a lot of checks. I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner."

    She nodded gamely. "Thanks to you I'll survive to see these beasts pay."

    "You won't have to wait long," Pitt said with a voice of stone. "Are you strong  enough to make it up the passageway?"

    "Yes"yes," Loren murmured as the reality of her salvation began to sink in. She shuddered as she pushed the dead men away from her and rose unsteadily to her feet, indifferent to her nakedness. She pointed down at Gunn. "Rudi is in a bad way."

    "These sadistic scum did this to the two of you?"

    Loren nodded silently.

    Pitt's teeth were bared, murder glaring out of his opaline green eyes. "Cyrus here just volunteered to carry Rudi topside." Pitt casually waved the gun in the direction of Sarason. "Give her your shirt."

    Loren shook her head. "I'd rather go nude than wear his sweaty old shirt."

    Sarason knew he could expect a bullet, and fright was slowly replaced by self-preservation. His scheming mind began to focus on a plan to save himself. He sagged to the rock floor as if overcome with shock, his right hand resting on a knee only centimeters away from a .38-caliber derringer strapped to his leg just inside his boot. "How did you get here?" he asked, stalling.

    Pitt was not taken in by the mundane question. "We came on an underground cruise ship."

    "We?"

    "The rest of the team should be surfacing at any moment," Pitt bluffed.

    Amaru suddenly shouted at his two sound, remaining men. "Rush him!"

    They were hardened killers but they had no wish to die. They made no effort to reach for the automatic rifles they had laid aside during the attempt to rape Loren. One look down the barrel of Pitt's .45 beneath the burning eyes was enough to deter anyone who did not cherish suicidal tendencies.

    "You yellow dogs!" Amaru snarled.

    "Still ordering others to do your dirty work, I see," said Pitt. "It appears I made a mistake not killing you in Peru."

    "I vowed then you would suffer as you made me."

    "Don't bet your Solpemachaco pension on it."

    "You intend to murder us in cold blood," said Sarason flatly.

    "Not at all. Cold-blooded murder is what you did to Dr. Miller and God only knows how many other innocent people who stood in your path. As their avenging angel, I'm here to execute you."

    "Without the decency of a fair trial," protested Sarason as his hand crept past his knee toward the concealed derringer. Only then did he notice that Pitt's injuries went beyond the bloody gash across the forehead. There was a fatigued droop to the shoulders, an unsteadiness to his stance. The skewed left hand was pressed against his chest. Broken wrist and ribs, Samson surmised. His hopes rose as he realized that Pitt was on the thin edge of collapse.

    "You're hardly one to demand justice," said Pitt, biting scorn in his tone. "A pity our great American court system doesn't hand out the same punishment to killers they gave to their victims."

    "And you are not one to judge my actions. If not for my brothers and me, thousands of artifacts would be rotting away in the basements of museums around the world. We preserved the antiquities and redistributed them to people who appreciate their value."

    Pitt stopped his roving gaze and focused on Sarason. "You call that an excuse? You justify theft and murder on a grand scale so you and your criminal relatives can make fat profits. The magic words for you, pal, are charlatan and hypocrite."

    "Shooting me won't put my family out of business."

    "Haven't you heard?" Pitt grimly smiled. "Zolar International just went down the toilet. Federal agents raided your facilities in Galveston. They found enough loot to fill a hundred galleries."

    Sarason tilted his head back and laughed. "Our headquarters in Galveston is a legitimate operation. All merchandise is lawfully bought and sold."

    "I'm talking about the second facility," Pitt said casually.

    A flicker of apprehension showed in Sarason's tan face. "There is only one building."

    "No, there are two. The storage warehouse separated by a tunnel to transport illegal goods to the Zolar building with a subterranean basement housing smuggled antiquities, an art forgery operation, and a vast collection of stolen art."

    Sarason looked as if he'd been struck across the face with a club. "Damn you to hell, Pitt. How could you know any of this?"

    "A pair of federal agents, one from Customs, the other from the FBI, described the raid to me in vivid terms. I should also mention that they'll be waiting with open arms when you attempt to smuggle Huascar's treasure into the United States."

    Sarason's fingers were a centimeter (less than half an inch) away from the little twin-barreled gun. "Then the joke's on them," he said, resurrecting his blasé facade. "The gold isn't going to the United States."

    "No matter," Pitt said with quiet reserve. "You won't be around to spend it."

    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.

    Giordino shook his head. "He can't return. The current is too strong."

    "Where does the river go?" demanded Loren with rising panic.

    Giordino pounded his fist in futility and despair against the solid rock. "The Gulf. Dirk has been swept toward the Sea of Cortez a hundred kilometers away."

    Loren sagged to the limestone floor of the cavern, her hands covering her face as she unashamedly wept. "He saved me only to die."

    Billy Yuma knelt beside Loren and gently patted her bare shoulder. "If no one else can, perhaps God will help."

    Giordino was heartsick. No longer feeling his own injuries, he stared into the darkness, his eyes unseeing. "A hundred kilometers," he repeated slowly. "Even God can't keep a man alive with a broken wrist, cracked ribs, and a bullet hole in the shoulder through a hundred kilometers of raging water in total darkness."

    After making everyone as comfortable as he could, Yuma hurried back up to the summit where he told his story. It shamed his relatives into entering the mountain. They fabricated stretchers out of material left by the army engineers and tenderly carried Gunn and Giordino from the river cavern up the passageway. An older man kindly offered a grateful Loren a blanket woven by his wife.

    On Giordino's instructions, Gunn and his stretcher were strapped down in the narrow cargo compartment of the stolen NUMA helicopter abandoned by the Zolars. Loren climbed into the copilot's seat as Giordino, his face contorted in torment, was lifted and maneuvered behind the pilot's controls.

    "We'll have to fly this eggbeater together," Giordino told Loren as the pain in his legs subsided from sheer agony to a throbbing ache. "You'll have to work the pedals that control the tail rotors."

    "I hope I can do it," Loren replied nervously.

    "Use a gentle touch with your bare feet and we'll be okay."

    Over the helicopter's radio, they alerted Sandecker, who was pacing Starger's office in the Customs Service headquarters, that they were on their way. Giordino and Loren expressed their gratitude to Billy Yuma, his family, and friends, and bid them a warm goodbye. Then Giordino started the turbine engine and let it warm for a minute while he scanned the instruments. With the cyclic stick in neutral, he eased the collective pitch stick to full down and curled the throttle as he gently pushed the stick forward. Then he turned to Loren.

    "As soon as we begin to rise in the air, the torque effect will cause our tail to swing left and our nose to the right. Lightly press the left foot pedal to compensate."

    Loren nodded gamely. "I'll do my best, but I wish I didn't have to do this."

    "We have no choice but to fly out. Rudi would be dead before he could be manhandled down the side of the mountain."

    The helicopter rose very slowly less than a meter off the ground. Giordino let it hang there while Loren learned the feel of the tail rotor control pedals. At first she had a tendency to over control, but she soon got the hang of it and nodded.

    "I think I'm ready."

    "Then we're off," acknowledged Giordino.

    Twenty minutes later, working in unison, they made a perfect landing beside the Customs headquarters building in Calexico where Admiral Sandecker was standing beside a waiting ambulance, anxiously puffing a cigar.

    In that first moment when Amaru forced him beneath the water and he could feel the jaws of the current surround his wrecked body, Pitt knew instantly that there was no returning to the treasure cavern. He was doubly trapped– by a killer who hung on to him like a vise and a river determined to carry him to hell.

    Even if both men had been uninjured, it would have been no contest. Cutthroat killer that he was, Amaru was no match for Pitt's experience underwater. Pitt took a deep breath before the river closed over his head, wrapped his good right arm around his chest to protect his fractured ribs and relaxed amid the pain without wasting his strength in fighting off his attacker.

    Amazingly, he still kept his grip on the gun, although to fire it underwater would probably have shattered every bone in his hand. He felt Amaru's encircling hold slide from his waist to his hips. The murderer was strong as iron. He clawed at Pitt furiously, still trying for the gun as they spun around in the current like toy dolls caught in a whirlpool.

    Neither man could see the other as they swirled into utter darkness. Without the slightest suggestion of light, Pitt felt as though he was submerged in ink.

    Amaru's wrath was all that kept him alive in the next forty-five seconds. It did not sink into his crazed mind that he was drowning twice– his bullet-punctured lung was filling with blood while at the same time he was sucking in water. The last of his strength was fading when his thrashing feet made contact with a shoal that was built up from sand accumulating on the outer curve of the river. He came up choking blood and water in a small open gallery and made a blind lunge for Pitt's neck.

    But Amaru had nothing left. All fight had ebbed away. Once out of the water he could feel the blood pumping from the wound in his chest.

    Pitt found he was able, by a slight effort, to shove Amaru back into the mainstream of the current. He could not see the Peruvian drift away in the pitch blackness, observe the face drained of color, the eyes glazed in hate and approaching death. But he heard the malevolent voice slowly moving into the distance away from him.

    "I said you would suffer," came the words slightly above a hoarse murmur. "Now you will languish and die in tormented black solitude."

    "Nothing like being swept up in an orgy of poetic grandeur," said Pitt icily. "Enjoy your trip to the Gulf."

    His reply was a cough and a gurgling sound and finally silence.

    The pain returned to Pitt with a vengeance. The fire spread from his broken wrist to the bullet wound in his shoulder to his cracked ribs. He was not sure he had the strength left to fight it. Exhaustion slightly softened the agony. He felt more tired than he had ever felt in his life. He crawled onto a dry area of the shoal and slowly crumpled face forward into the soft sand and fell unconscious.

    "I don't like leaving without Cyrus," said Oxley as he scanned the desert sky to the southwest.

    "Our brother has been in tougher scrapes before," said Zolar impassively. "A few Indians from a local village shouldn't present much of a threat to Amaru's hired killers."

    "I expected him long before now."

    "Not to worry. Cyrus will probably show up in Morocco with a girl on each arm."

    They stood on the end of a narrow asphalt airstrip that had been grooved between the countless dunes of the Altar Desert so Mexican Air Force pilots could hold training exercises under primitive conditions. Behind them, with its tail section jutting over the edge of the sand-swept strip, a Boeing 747-400 jetliner, painted in the colors of a large national air carrier, sat poised for takeoff.

    Zolar moved under the shade of the starboard wing and checked off the artifacts inventoried by Henry and Micki Moore as the Mexican army engineers loaded the final piece on board the aircraft. He nodded at the golden sculpture of a monkey that was being hoisted by a large forklift into the cargo hatch nearly 7 meters (23 feet) from the ground. "That's the last of it."

    Oxley stared at the barrenness surrounding the airstrip. "You couldn't have picked a more isolated spot to transship the treasure."

    "We can thank the late Colonel Campos for suggesting it."

    "Any problem with Campos's men since his untimely death?" Oxley asked with more cynicism than sense of loss.

    Zolar laughed. "Certainly not after I gave each of them a one-hundred-ounce bar of gold."

    "You were generous."

    "Hard not to be with so much wealth sitting around."

    "A pity Matos will miss spending his share," said Oxley.

    "Yes, I cried all the way from Cerro el Capirote."