Pulse

FIVE

King smiled as the dry desert air whipping past pulled the moisture away from his body as quick as he could sweat it out. The intensely flat plains made driving an open-air jeep at ninety-five miles an hour irresistible, and he found himself enjoying what he thought would be a very boring trip. The same could not be said for his skittish passenger, his driver, Atahualpa — the man who was supposed to be behind the wheel of the old brown jeep.

Atahualpa now wished he hadn't accepted King's twenty dollars, but work for people of Incan descent was in short supply these days. He typically ferried tourists out into the desert on sightseeing tours, but they didn't pay well because fierce competition drove the prices down. The occasional science expedition paid better, and still other, less savory clients, paid even more handsomely. But work during the summer months slowed to a trickle drier than the sands, and twenty dollars extra, just to sit in the passenger seat, had been impossible to pass up. The only other benefit he saw to King driving is that they would arrive at their destination in half the time, though he knew arriving too early sometimes created complications as well, and his fare was already a full day ahead of schedule. He'd been assured the accelerated timing wouldn't be a problem, but King struck him as a dangerous man to cross, and that made him more nervous than the jeep's speed.

Glancing down at the GPS guide attached to the dashboard — the only hint of modern technology in the jeep — King could see they were approaching the heritage site base camp. He eased up on the gas and laughed when Atahualpa's body relaxed. The old Incan had probably never driven so fast. Try a HALO jump, he thought, then you'll really understand speed.

They'd been able to see the lone hill from miles away, but as it grew taller, King could make out a line of white, U.N.-emblazoned tents atop the mesalike hilltop. How anyone could be so brazen as to try looting such an obviously large operation was beyond him. Of course, they were an hour's drive from the nearest village and help would be a long time coming. But really, how valuable could Nazcan artifacts be?

If not for King's trust in Pierce's judgment, he'd never have agreed to spend his leave-time in the middle of nowhere. His ideal break included a cross-country motorcycle trek, the occasional hangover, and at least the potential for a romantic fling. Protecting a bunch of history geeks in a dry, windless desert had never been high on his list of things to do. Still, he'd left a day early, eager to see his old friend. If not for the accident that took his sister's life, this visit would have been a family occasion, not just two old friends reuniting.

The jeep slowed considerably as King drove it up the hill's steep incline, making sure to stay within the tire tracks of the vehicles that had preceded them. Pierce had briefed him on all the protocols for protecting the delicate environment surrounding the new World-Heritage site. At the top of the list: minimal human impact. That included keeping tire tracks to a minimum. The origins of most lines crisscrossing the plains could be traced back to modern vehicles, which often cut through the original ancient geoglyphs, sometimes before the glyphs had been discovered, sometimes long afterward.

He drove between a pair of tents and parked in the center of camp, far away from the other parked vehicles. Not a single person came to greet them or find out why they were there. They really have no security, he thought. He shut the jeep off and listened.

Nothing.

No people. No wind. No life.

The place was as still and quiet as the moon's surface.

King jumped out of the jeep, unzipped his backpack, and pulled out his .45 caliber Sig Sauer p220 handgun. He snuck the gun into Peru by taking an army flight headed to one of the three radar stations the U.S. manned. He'd had to rush to make the flight, but it'd been worth it. If he was walking into a fight with armed looters, his raised palms wouldn't intimidate them much. The handgun clip held only seven bullets, but the .45 caliber rounds had massive stopping power. If the target still stood with seven rounds in him, a wooden stake and holy water might be the next best weapons of choice. He slapped in a clip and chambered the first round.

He held an open hand at Atahualpa, who nodded vigorously, never taking his eyes off the ominous handgun. The empty base camp combined with his suddenly raised hackles frightened the man. He'd seen enough people shot in the desert to know that help never arrived soon enough.

Moving methodically, letting his weapon lead the way, King worked his way through the small camp, peeking into tents, checking out cars, and looking for signs of a struggle. He found nothing.

An organic murmur tickled his ears. He spun, searching for the source, but found nothing more than Atahualpa's frightened eyes. He pointed to his ear and made a quizzical expression.

Atahualpa cocked his head to the side, listening. He began shaking his head, no, but then stopped as the odd noise rose in volume. He nodded and ducked lower in the seat.

The noise sounded human, but more like a group of people buried beneath the sand. Atahualpa sat up suddenly and pointed over the far side of the hill, opposite from where they had come. The man had good ears.

King headed for the side of the hill, using a pickup truck for cover. He still couldn't see anyone, but the sound came much clearer now. Definitely a lot of people, but were they in pain? Several voices were high-pitched, almost frantic. He rounded the pickup and spun over the edge of the hill, still leading with his weapon, which came to a stop right between the eyes of a chubby local woman. "jOh Dios! No disparen!"

King lowered the weapon quickly. Twenty-odd people were gathered on the hillside, all looking down. Several looked back because of the woman's shouting, but he had tucked the gun into his pants at the small of his back. "Lo siento,"he apologized in Spanish. Delta operators were required to speak several languages. As Spanish was the fourth most spoken language in the world, learning it made sense. He could also speak Arabic and Mandarin. "Pense que estaba en peligro. Saqueadores. Soy amigo del Doctor Pierce. Por favor, idonde esta el?"

The shaken woman didn't reply. He took her gently by the shoulders and smiled at her. "Please," he said, switching back to English. "Where is Dr. Pierce? I am Jack Sigler. His friend. He was expecting me."

"Jack Sigler." The woman nodded, recognition filling her eyes and pointed down the hill, past the sitting workers, and said, "La cabeza del dragon."

The dragon's head?

King began to wonder if the woman had heatstroke, but then he followed her shaky extended finger, looked past the sitting workers and saw the dragon. Even upside down, the massive drawing in the sand looked intimidating. Far in the distance he could make out its sharp, pointed toes and thick body. Rising out of the body were nine necks, each jutting out at a slightly varied angle, four on each side and one up the middle, like a neatly arranged vase of flowers. At staggering heights, the necks bent ninety degrees and ended with serpentine heads. The central neck shot straight toward the hill, ending at a large domed stone. This was the object that held the group's attention.

The earth around the base of the large stone was covered in small piles of sand. A large tunnel had been dug beneath the stone. Though the hole was cast in darkness, a shifting light moved within. Pierce was under the dragon's head, looking for the artifact he thought might cause looters to descend on the site.

"Gracias," he said to the woman.

She just turned and walked quickly away, mumbling to herself.

Moving like he belonged among the waiting workers, King strode down the hill, doing his best not to frighten anyone else. But he saw the sideways glances cast in his direction and heard the nervous chatter after he passed. Seeing the dusty, outdoorsy garb the workers wore, both locals and imported, he realized just how out of place he looked. His scruffy black hair that stuck up like Hugh Jackman's portrayal of Wolverine on a bad hair day coupled with his black cargo pants and tight, black Elvis T-shirt was apparently not hip fashion for archaeology sites.

As a cumulative murmur of concern rose up behind him, he shouted for Pierce in his best playful voice. "Hey, George, you in there?"

King stopped at the tunnel entrance, noticing the odd-looking inscription carved into the stone above the hole. He put his face over the hole and shouted, "Hello. Anybody ho—"

Pierce shot out of the hole, his face only inches from King's. King jumped back, earnestly startled.

"Thought you military types didn't scare so easily," Pierce said with a smile, but the smile struck King as odd, almost forced. Something had shaken Pierce up.

"I've looked into a lot of dark holes and seen a lot of awful things, but your ugly mug has them all beat," King said, trying to keep the mood light. But when Pierce's rigid smile disappeared he could see the mood in the excavated space would be as heavy as the stone atop it looked.

Pierce waved him down. "I guarantee you; you've never seen anything as gruesome as this." He slid back into the tunnel. "We just entered a few minutes ago."

With a last glance at the group of onlookers, King felt a twinge of apprehension. Whatever had been buried beneath the stone was long since dead. Dead things didn't bother him. It was the people outside he didn't trust. He looked over the crowd and saw only kind and interested eyes. Atop the hill he saw Atahualpa watching. He gave him a wave. Atahualpa gave a halfhearted wave back, then turned and walked away.

Probably still shaken up from my driving, King thought with a grin. After a tour-foot crawl he entered a small chamber lit by a single battery-powered lantern.

As King's eyes adjusted to the dim light, the scene resolved around him like a Polaroid picture. His mouth opened along with his dilating pupils.

"What… happened to them?"