Blood Sun

25

Riga lowered the rifle. No one but him was going to kill Max Gordon, and the kid deserved a better death than having his heart cut out or getting a long-range bullet through the head. The gunshot had been swallowed by the rolling thunder and torrential streams that splashed down the hillsides. Riga moved; his injured leg slowed him down, but he had figured out that Max had only one escape route.

On top of the pyramid, Max was the first to react. The shock of seeing the shaman’s blood splatter across their fine clothes stunned the group into silence. In the past, Mayan kings saw death as an honor and offered their own blood to appease their gods, but for these people to hear a shouted curse and see one of their own die threw them momentarily into disarray. Had the wayob struck the shaman down?

Max realized what had happened, but there was no time to work out who had shot the priest. Maybe Flint had broken free, found a rifle. From where? It didn’t matter. Max was alive.

The guards were the first to recover. Whatever they believed about the supernatural, they did not lack courage. They were there to defend the boy and his family. Max was already on his feet. There were no weapons to hand except the shaman’s censer. He swung it. The incense plumed and the men ducked back, shielding their eyes. He felt it connect with one of the guards’ heads. Like an ancestral killing when bodies were thrown down from the top of the pyramid, the man tumbled into space, his cry cut off abruptly as his bones shattered on the steps and his rag-doll body fell limply toward the bottom.

The rod holding the incense burner snapped. The men lunged at him, but Max sidestepped and grabbed the boy, whose look of confusion turned to fear.

Max yelled at the men. “Stay back!” He felt a pang of sympathy for picking on the boy who had tried to help him, but he was all Max had as a bargaining tool. The guards ran at him, but Max’s snarl as he half pushed the boy over the edge made his intention clear-Come for me and the boy dies. Max held him over what was almost a sheer drop. His heels slipped; he nearly fell. One of the elders raised a hand and the guards stopped. Max wasn’t sure what to do next. He would not be able to manhandle the boy down those steps, and the moment he released him, the guards would be on him.

The boy whispered fearfully, “Behind you.”

Max looked. There was a narrow arched doorway with steps inside leading down. He pulled the boy with him and entered the cool shelter of the pyramid. The stone stairway twisted downward, and he pushed the boy in front of him until light from another doorway spilled into the building. They had quickly reached the first level of the pyramid, where the kings of old would have entered and moved up to the top, showing themselves to the people, convincing them that they were descended from the gods. No more than a magician’s trick.

But there were no tricks that could make Max disappear; he would have to make a run for it on his own. He held the boy away at arm’s length, letting him feel the security of the wall against his back, then released him. The boy may have told him about his mother, but he had also been prepared to stand back and let them cut out Max’s heart.

One last question. Max pointed toward the satellite dish. “Does that belong to the men who came here, who imprisoned everybody? The man who arrived in the helicopter?”

The boy nodded. “We cannot go there; it is where they take our blood. It is protected. No one can go there.”

Max had to know if that place held any other answers to his mother’s death. He couldn’t see an obvious way in through the jungle; it seemed to be blocked by a jagged scar of a ravine.

“What sort of protection?”

“They took one of our people and sent him through that place to show us,” the boy said, pointing to the building next to the pyramid. “It is the Razor House. We heard him scream before he was cut to pieces. Go. You must run. I will tell the guards you have gone toward the jungle.”

No more questions. Max turned away and began the long run down, hoping the boy would do as he said, or he would still have to avoid the warriors on the ground.

Riga followed the turbulent water that channeled down toward the compound. Max Gordon had his wits about him. He had got this far. Did the kid know anything about this place? Cazamind wanted Riga dead because he had disobeyed him and entered this forbidden killing ground. His secret was here somewhere. Did Max Gordon know what it was?

He saw children and an old man being herded away by warriors. They had been spooked by what they’d seen on the sacrificial site. Riga could have shot a dozen of the men before they knew what hit them, but they were unimportant, and he did not have time-a shadow lengthened down the side of the pyramid. It was Max heading for the building where the water hurtled in a torrent of power through a narrow sluice. What was there? He wasn’t going to get down in time before the English boy reached the building’s entrance.

Riga flung himself into the water chute.

Max could see Flint’s feathered hat jostling amid the crowd of children. He knew Xavier would still be with him, but there was nothing he could do to help them now. The tendons and muscles in his legs screamed for rest. This was worse than any sports training he had ever done, but there was something else driving him now-something that felt like revenge. He had doubted his father. How could he have thought his dad was a coward and had abandoned his mother? So why did he feel this surge of vengeance? Who was it against? As he pounded downward, he realized it was against himself.

He hit the ground running. Sprinting through the shadowed alleyway between the pyramid and the Razor House, he felt a low rumbling in the ground beneath his feet. Another earth tremor? He braced himself against a wall, but there was no surge of power rolling through the ground. This was coming from below the building. Running to the end of the passageway, he could see that the ball court was being cleared of the prisoners, and the guards moved in the opposite direction. The Mayan boy had given him a chance. He turned the corner quickly and stepped into the gaping cold shadow of the doorway. Dust sprinkled from the ceiling; the walls trembled with a slow, grinding vibration. He moved farther into the chilled interior. The light from the entrance was too far back to penetrate this deeply. He closed his eyes, wanting the sunlight from seconds ago to seep away so he could see into the gloom. Something moved. It whispered. The air brushed his face. He stopped.

Whoosh.

Stale air wafted past his face.

He waited, caution reining in his urgency. The Razor House? Blades?

Whoosh.

Like a fan.

He took a step back, opened his eyes and concentrated on the darkness.

Wooden poles, like fallen sticks, crisscrossed the narrow passage that led through the building. It was an ancient but intricate design to obscure and obstruct any further movement. The sour taste of nausea caught his throat. It was no fan that cut the air-it was hundreds of flint blades attached to wooden arms bound to those turning poles. Razor-sharp. They were like a meat grinder. With more angles than the face of a diamond, any one of those flints would snag clothing or flesh and churn their victim into its shredding jaws-like a boa constrictor’s teeth.

Max backed away, lest the mesmerizing machinery draw him in. One more step forward and it would snare him, then slice and hack him in a terrifying and painfully slow death.

If he wanted to get through, he had to find what drove the stone-wheeled machinery and destroy it. He turned. A shadow stretched in front of him. A man, water dripping from his clothes, stood silhouetted in the entrance. His leg was tied with a sweat rag, a rifle gripped casually in one hand, his backlit face in shadow.

Max knew without a doubt that if he saw this man’s eyes, they would have the same cold, penetrating gaze of the man who had nearly killed him in the British Museum.

“Hello, Max,” he said. “My name is Riga.”

Charlie Morgan and her convoy of ex-British Army jungle fighters had pursued the men from the City of Lost Souls. The old man who drove a battered supply truck in and out of the jungle stronghold had scraped the route map into the dirt, showing there was only one entrance, which lay between rugged boulders.

She had been relegated to the back of the convoy, because the men knew the action would be ferocious. As much violence as the ex-soldiers could muster would be inflicted on the mercenary banditos, as the old man called them. The Brits had age and experience on their side, but the defenders of the jungle stronghold outnumbered them at least three or four to one. Charlie Morgan was trained to fight, but she had never seen this type of intense and determined action before. Her ex-soldiers moved in pairs, fire and maneuver, gaining ground, calling out to each other, working the terrain to their advantage.

The enemy’s heavy machine gun, mounted on the back of a pickup truck, laid down wicked fire, shattering tree trunks and flailing branches and leaves. It was slowing her men’s flanking attack. Within moments they would be forced to find dead ground beneath the killing fire, and their momentum would grind to a halt. A failed attack meant a failed result for her. And she wanted success more than anything.

She got behind the wheel of the old Land Rover, slammed it into gear and floored the accelerator pedal. The 4?4 bit into the mud and chewed undergrowth as she wrestled the wheel left and right, avoiding other vehicles, tree stumps and gullies. She was going for the gap, and the machine gun turned its attention to her speeding approach.

As the gun swung and opened fire, her men on the ground took advantage of the brief respite and moved forward. She had created a diversion that allowed the attack to regain momentum, but Charlie was now staring down the barrel of the machine gun and saw the spent cartridge cases spinning away as the line of fire tracked her approach on the red dirt road.

The last thing she remembered was throwing herself down as the windscreen shattered. The careering Land Rover plowed off into the undergrowth and immediately became ensnared like an animal in a trap.

Max stood, unable to react for a moment, his thoughts shattering against the wall like water splashing on a rock. How had this man got to him? All this way? After all this time? Had he been the one pursuing him downriver in that helicopter? It was like a dark angel standing in the entrance. And yet he made no move to raise the rifle. Clearly it had been he who’d killed the shaman. What did he want?

Even now Riga had little to say. He reached out to the wall with his free hand and hauled down a wooden lever. There was a sudden gush of water as if a small waterfall had been blocked.

“Water powers a wheel that spins all those blades. We’re both looking for answers now, Max. You’re a hard boy to kill. You’ve earned the right to live awhile longer.”

The poles creaked in the waterwheel and finally stopped. Water dripped somewhere; each drop like a small, echoing threat that the power could be unleashed again.

Max had not moved. He knew that, even with the poles unmoving behind him, he would not be able to make a quick escape. Trying to get past those blades would be like edging through razor wire. “Who sent you? Did you kill Danny Maguire? Why are you after me? Tell me!” The questions came quickly. He wanted to buy time as well as get answers.

Riga did not move from the entrance. He was not going to give Max, with his speed and agility, a chance to escape. He shrugged. “Why not? It makes no difference now. There’s a man called Cazamind, and he runs this project-whatever it is. This is his secret. Danny Maguire caught some stinking disease that chewed up his body and sucked out his brain. Blood poured out of every pore, even his eyes. When he fell on the high-voltage rail, it fried everything and stopped it spreading, but Cazamind had him cremated, just in case. And this place is connected with it. That’s why Cazamind didn’t want you getting close. In case you found things out.”

Max’s stomach lurched as he thought of his mother. Had her beauty drowned in blood? But Riga, why was he here now? Why had he not killed Max already?

Riga looked at him, sensing the question flitting through the boy’s mind. “I came here to kill you-but Cazamind tried to kill me. He didn’t want me to find out his secret either.”

Max’s mind raced. He was on the brink with Riga. In a second he could kill Max. Why hadn’t he? He knew the answer!

“You think I know what’s going on here and how to get my hands on that secret,” Max said.

“Maybe.”

“Not maybe. Definitely. Otherwise you would have killed me by now. Well, I do know that there’s something going on.…” He hesitated. This wasn’t good enough. He had to convince Riga. “My mother left me clues,” he lied. If he could stay alive long enough to reach that satellite dish, he might find a way of calling for help.

“What kind of clues?”

“Photographs.”

Max saw something cross Riga’s eyes. Recognition? Understanding? Belief? “You know my mother was here.”

“OK,” Riga said, “he told me that.”

Max nearly winced. This Cazamind knew his mother had been out here. Had he been the man who’d refused to airlift her to safety? “You need me. I know where to go,” he bluffed.

Riga studied him. Max stared back, desperately hoping his lies would not flicker through his eyes.

“Through here?” Riga asked, nodding toward the blades lurking in the darkness.

“Yes. It’s the only way.”

Riga thought about it. “All right. You take me there.”

“What happens then-between you and me?”

“A contract is a contract. But when the time comes, I’ll give you a chance. You have my word. You deserve that.” Riga smiled. “You remind me of myself when I was a kid.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Max said. “And if I get out of here, I’ll do everything I can to make sure you’re caught.”

“It’s a deal,” Riga said. “Now get over here and help me with this lever or we’ll never get through those blades.”

Max moved cautiously, but he knew he had no choice. Riga could have killed him then and there and hadn’t. So now the assassin and his quarry would work together to reveal a secret whose keeper had tried to kill them both.

The wooden handle quivered under the weight of the water that was building up. The lever had to be jammed into position. Riga leaned his weight down onto it and shoved his rifle into Max’s hands. Max could see exactly what needed to be done. He settled the butt of the rifle onto the lever and its barrel into the wall so that the pressure of water could not force it upward and start the blades spinning.

Riga took his weight off the lever; the rifle took the strain. “OK. Go,” Riga said.

Max looked at the vicious obstacle course and then at the manhunter. “You first,” Max said.

Riga laughed. The kid had guts, but was he a killer? Would he yank the rifle away and unleash the water pressure when Riga was in the middle of all those blades? He had answered that question once before; nothing had changed. Max Gordon was no killer. He shook his backpack free and pulled out half a dozen small flares. He ripped the tabs clear and threw each one as far as he could, clattering them through the blades and poles into the darkness. Their crimson glow dabbed the blades’ tips.

He moved into the labyrinth. Max gave him a couple of seconds’ head start and then followed. His eyes quickly adjusted to the flickering light, and he bent and twisted his body like a contortionist through the sharpened flesh shredders. He could see a couple of the points had nicked Riga’s skin as he bent and stooped his way around the lethal obstacles. Riga had made no sound, as if impervious to pain. Max winced; his concentration had flagged watching Riga’s movement, and one of the blades had scraped into his back. He felt the warm trickle of blood ooze like sweat. But he knew they were almost through, because he could see light seeping through from the other end of the building. Another four or five meters and they would be clear.

He wanted to move more quickly, but the blades snagged his shirt and trousers like barbed wire. He had to pick his way clear. Riga seemed to be making better progress and was almost through.

And then Max’s legs trembled. He felt the panic rise quickly and almost reached out to grasp one of the blade-tipped arms for support. He twisted his upper body to balance the movement under his boots. Another earth tremor.

Riga was nearly out of the deadly traps, but one of the poles twisted from the vibration, and like a cog in a wheel, it shifted into its normal stationary position. The bladed arm swung in a lethal curve from behind Riga’s right shoulder down toward his left leg.

“Behind you! Look out!” Max yelled, desperately keeping his own balance, eyes darting left and right, hoping none of the blades was shifting toward him.

Riga’s reactions were remarkable. Keeping his feet firmly planted, he twisted from the waist, raised his left arm above his head and turned himself clear of the cutting blade. The tip caught his shirt, ran beneath his ribs and bit into the shoulder holster. Max heard the clean ripping cut as the blade severed it from the shoulder strap. Max’s warning, Riga’s fast reaction and the shoulder holster had saved the killer from a lethal wound. The chrome-plated semiautomatic tumbled away beneath the blades.

Riga was clear. He caught his balance and turned back to watch Max’s progress through the last few meters. “Come on, kid, that lever might not hold. Hurry!”

Max could hear the poles creaking and saw the blades quivering. Another earth tremor snaked beneath his feet. He almost fell. And then he heard a sound from the other end of the building. It was metal scraping against rock. The rifle was being forced along the rock wall under pressure.

Riga watched Max trying to move more quickly. It was like observing a fly trying to escape from a spiderweb. Sometimes the fly got lucky.

“Come on! Do it!”

And then they both heard the crash of the lever breaking free of the rifle’s restraint; the sound of rushing water echoed through the chamber. The poles groaned back to life. Behind him the blades were already turning, and Max felt the exertion force itself out of his lungs. He gasped as he tried to get through the last couple of meters before the teeth around him spun into life and devoured him.

He was not going to make it. And he knew it. He raised his head to look into Riga’s eyes less than a meter away-but the blades spun. Riga snatched at one of the moving arms, jammed his foot onto another and threw his weight backward. The sudden counterbalance on one of the poles slowed the blades that had not yet reached full speed.

Max saw the narrow space between the blades, like a gap through a bramble hedge. Throwing himself forward, he felt them nick his clothing. He hit the earth floor, rolled and came quickly to his feet. Even Riga’s strength could not have held back the blades any longer, and Max saw them wrench free of the assassin’s grip.

Max looked at him. How did you thank a killer who had just saved your life but had promised to kill you later? You didn’t. It was already a debt repaid.

“Where now?” Riga demanded.

Max saw the location of the satellite dish in his mind’s eye. He turned and ran for the opening that led into a green umbrella covering of forest. “This way!”

They were no sooner clear of the claustrophobic building than they could hear the muted staccato of what sounded like firecrackers somewhere in the distance, the harsh sounds swallowed by the dense jungle.

“Gunfire,” Riga said. “AKs, M16s, others. Two or three clicks away.”

Max kept running and noticed Riga kept pace despite his injured leg. He was one of those unstoppable guys, Max thought. People like him will keep coming for you until they die. Max had never wished anyone dead before, but Riga was different.

It was a world away from the stark, heat-seared ball court. No blue sky penetrated the overhanging tree branches and vines.

It seemed like an artificial corridor of foliage, as if a gardener had created a massive tunnel out of the greenery.

“Camouflage,” Riga said. “Deliberate. This whole area is hidden from view.”

“There has to be another way in here,” Max said. “The Razor House kept everyone out from that side.”

The ongoing gun battle came no closer, but one or two echoes became more dominant. Who was doing the shooting? It wouldn’t be the warriors fighting, so it had to be police or army. Were they coming here? Max heard the roaring cries of howler monkeys moving away and sensed rather than saw birds’ alarm as the air beat somewhere above the green tunnel. He had no idea how far they had run, but the ground was clear of any major obstacles. It looked as though it had been cleared by machinery. Then it dropped away, and a vine-covered stone building, most of it below ground level, was just about visible through the undergrowth.

Riga ran his hands over the limestone blocks, then edged round to the side, trying to find the line of the building, but there was nothing else. This wall was all that existed. Anything else must be underground. Max rubbed his hands across a stone lintel. He gazed at the shapes and figures of mountain monsters that had been cut into the building, probably more than a thousand years ago. He did not have to bluff now.

“It’s a temple. An ancient temple,” he said.

“How do you know that?” Riga said.

“It’s in one of my mum’s photographs.” He looked around. “None of this camouflage was here then. There’s an entrance somewhere.” Max’s heart felt a squeeze of regret. The photographs in his pocket were his insurance against Riga killing him. He dared not look at his mother smiling in front of the old temple. She had been right here. On this spot. He could almost feel her.

Max traced his hands along the wall. Behind where his mother had stood, there should have been a small entrance. He thrust his hands into the dense undergrowth.

“Here, pull this away.”

Riga unsheathed his machete and hacked at the ropelike vines that dropped down the temple walls. A small window-sized opening was visible, recessed into the depth of the stone. It was covered in steel mesh.

“I don’t know too much about Mayan culture, but I know they didn’t have windows like that.”

Riga looked at him. “All right. So you know where you’re going. Good.”

He pulled Max out of the way and kicked hard and fast against the corners of the mesh. It gave way on three sides, and Riga pushed his weight against it. The corner snapped, the mesh window dropped, and they heard it clatter onto stone. Riga climbed in. There were steps going down. They were in a dark corridor of an ancient temple, which was obviously unused and which had been sealed to stop anyone clambering through the small window. Riga moved forward, the back of his hand running along the wall to guide him. Max followed. The fetid air made their labored breathing the only sound in the heavy atmosphere. The passageway angled left and right and then opened out into an antechamber. It would have been pitch-black this deep inside the building except for a hairline crack of light seeping around what appeared to be a door. Max reached out and his palms met the smooth texture of a wooden covering.

“Can you smell that?” Max asked.

“Chemicals,” Riga said. “OK. We’re out of options. This is where we go in.” He rammed the tip of the machete’s blade between the wood and stone, forced it back, felt the wood ease slightly. He kept the pressure on it. “Kick it!”

Max twisted his body, balanced on one leg, grunted with effort, side-kicked the door and heard wood splinter.

“Again! Come on! Harder, kid!”

Max put all his power into the kick, and, with Riga’s shoulder aiding his efforts, the wood gave way.

They gazed down three meters into what looked like a hospital laboratory. A polyethylene tent took up most of it, but Max and Riga could see the main room had a sliding metal door opening to the outside. In the enclosed area, two men in biohazard suits were loading spill-proof vials of blood-colored liquid into specially padded containers.

Half a dozen suitcase-sized boxes were being manhandled outside the tent by two men wearing jeans, T-shirts and bandannas. AK-47s were slung across their backs. This was some kind of cleanup operation. Like flash photography, it was a frozen picture of shock and fear as Riga and Max smashed through into the room and jumped down. Then the gunmen dropped the containers, and one of the men in biohazard suits screamed at him. His voice was muted by the visor, but clearly they did not want whatever was in those cases to be damaged. Their reaction was a natural response to something terrifying.

One of the gunmen leveled his AK-47. Riga shoved Max aside and pounded toward the two men. Rolling on the ground, he dived beneath the spray of gunfire. For a moment Max thought thunder was reverberating across the valley. It was no gathering storm Max had heard: the other gunman had fled outside and hauled the metal door closed behind him, trapping them all inside.

A man yelled, then screamed. By the time Max got to his feet, the remaining gunman was down on the ground and unmoving. Riga sheathed the bloodied machete and reloaded the dead man’s weapon. He yanked one of the doors-padlocked. There was no way out.

“Get out here,” Riga commanded the laboratory workers. The men stepped out of their polyethylene tent, zipped the area behind them and pulled off their head covers. The clatter of gunfire from outside grew closer as Riga grabbed one of the bareheaded men. “How toxic is this stuff?” It was obvious Riga was wary of getting too close to the containers. And it was obvious to Max that he thought it was something that demanded enormous respect.

Max lifted a line of cord off the ground. He let it slip through his fingers as he moved forward; then he saw the packed blocks of plastic explosive. “They’re going to blow the place up!” he yelled at Riga. “We have to get out of here!”

Riga threatened the men. “What is it back there?”

“Genetically modified bacteria,” one of them said nervously.

Riga looked at Max. “That’s what your friend died of; it has to be some kind of slow incubator.” He turned back to the men. “High voltage or fire destroys it, right? That’s why this place is wired.”

The men nodded. Riga raised the submachine gun.

“Don’t kill them!” Max yelled. “My mother was here! Years ago. Was she infected? Did this stuff kill her?”

The man babbled, desperate to save his life. “It’s nothing to do with us! Mr. Cazamind took everything. He has all the data.”

“Cazamind is here?” Riga demanded. He grabbed the man. “Where?”

The scientist could barely speak for fear. “Helipad. A kilometer north of here.”

Max barely listened. His attention was fixed on the metal doors as he desperately tried to yank them open. The man had barely finished speaking when a shock wave threw them all to the ground. This was the most severe yet. The unstoppable force of nature whiplashed the room. Part of the wall collapsed. The metal doors buckled and screeched as they were torn from the walls. The lab men ran for their lives. Riga let them go-he was looking at the damaged laboratory. Even high-security containers could not withstand that kind of tremor. One had fallen from its cradle and was spilling liquid. Just how lethal was it? Riga backed away. Aftershocks made the ground shudder.

Max was almost shoulder to shoulder with Riga as they made a break for the open door. Explosions followed almost immediately as a chain reaction of powerful detonations came from somewhere in the jungle, ricocheting toward them. The timed demolition ripped the forest apart. A vast area of hillside erupted, dirt exploded, trees disintegrated-the shock wave sucked the moisture from their throats, pounded their ears and flung them to the ground. A ten-meter wall of fire raced down the tree line and reached the temple, which erupted in a massive explosion. There must have been other chambers below, because as the temple disappeared in the debris, the ground collapsed and absorbed most of the shock wave. If it had not, Max and Riga would have died then and there.

Riga was getting to his feet, searching groggily for the AK-47, but it had been blown out of sight. Max choked and spat out soil; his eyes stung, and his eardrums hurt. Deafened by the blast, he staggered uncertainly for a couple of steps, then fell again. Like an old man, he managed to get himself onto his knees. They had been lucky. Ash and dirt caked their skin, and rivulets of sweat tracked through the grime on their faces, creating grotesque masks. Their shirts, already snagged and ripped by the flint blades, now snared fragments of earth and leaves. They looked like creatures from hell, and the inferno that swirled around them was the devil’s playground.

The explosive chain reaction had wrenched the ground apart, exposing a long wall of mountainside. Even Riga stood momentarily stunned at what came pouring down the sheer rockface toward them. A lava flow had erupted from beneath the surface and was incinerating everything in its path.

Max’s ears popped. His hearing came back. That was when he heard the unmistakable sound of a helicopter’s blades starting up. But he was almost too exhausted to care. The air thundered with a raging fire that swept across the edge of the forest. Smoke and dirt swirled; it felt as though the world were ending.

Riga yelled at him above the firestorm. “You want the man who let your mother die? He’s getting away. Get up!”

Max could not move. There was no strength left to fight with. The explosions had battered him. He tried to drag himself to his feet.

Riga grinned. “You know you won’t make it out of here.”

“If you don’t stop me, I will.”

“You just never give up, do you, boy? OK. It’s not over yet,” Riga said. “Here. You need a weapon.” And he tossed the machete toward Max.

Max stared at the man paid to kill him. He was giving him the final piece in the puzzle about his mother’s death. “I want him; you want him. And he’s here,” Riga said.

The assassin extended his hand to help him up. Max knocked it away and staggered to his feet unaided.

He had to see this through.

Riga looked meaner than Max had ever seen anyone look before. There was a beastlike quality to his face. It scared Max more than he thought possible. Riga nodded at Max in unspoken admiration for his determination.

“Payback time, kid.”