Ramsey's Gold

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Drake came to slowly, his skull throbbing, his shirt wet with blood from his head wound. The tribesman who’d whacked him with a club stood over him as he gradually regained consciousness — and was the first thing Drake registered when his eyes opened, the lids heavy, reluctant to cooperate. Drake peered around the native and saw that he’d been carried to the clearing, near the altar, and laid on the ground there. The clay-covered man was rooting through Drake’s backpack as the natives stood guard over him. The man held up Drake’s pistol and studied it with interest before dropping it on the ground next to Drake’s rifle and continuing to remove gear from the pack.

Drake’s bindings cut into his wrists, but he knew better than to struggle — an exercise in futility, given that he was outnumbered over twenty to one. Pain seared down his neck as he tried to turn his head, and he cursed silently. This was the second time in a week he’d been tied up by natives, suffering from a head wound. And something told him that this time his experience wouldn’t end with him being led to safety by a shaman’s comely daughter.

His blurry gaze drifted to the altar, still stained rust-colored from the blood of the sacrificed boy, and locked with the clay-smeared man’s, who’d spread out Drake’s meager possessions in front of him. The man approached and Drake could see that his eyes were bloodshot, with a crazed, manic look. Some kind of drug, perhaps from a hallucinogenic plant, Drake thought…and something more. Something deeper than a chemical reality, more akin to barely controlled blind fury.

The man spoke in halting Spanish, watching Drake for a reaction, and when he didn’t get one, he moved closer. Drake could smell him now — a dank, primitive stink, like an animal used to sleeping in filth. The man barked the same words, this time more clearly, but they meant nothing to Drake.

He felt a tug at his belt. The man had his knife and was staring at it as if possessed, his grin displaying diseased gums with only a few teeth left. Drake watched as he keened an atonal hum and then did a little dance to music only he could hear, brandishing the knife like a trophy. For some reason, the display frightened Drake more than anything so far, and his breath froze in his chest as he watched the bizarre performance.

The man seemed oblivious to Drake now, completely entranced by the play of light on the oversized blade. Just as suddenly as his focus had shifted to the knife, he whirled with a cry and moved back to where Drake lay. He screamed, his voice a shriek, holding the knife above Drake’s throat, repeating the gibberish.

Drake clenched his eyes shut and cried out, “I don’t speak Spanish!”

The man stopped, the wicked blade only inches from Drake’s neck. His smell was overpowering, and for a moment Drake thought he would pass out again. Then he sensed the man moving away, and he opened his eyes. The mud-smeared figure was grinning demonically, the boy’s blood still caked on his face as he regarded Drake, the knife hanging loosely at his side, his arms only bone, thin to the point of being emaciated.

“You…speak…English.” The words sounded unfamiliar on the man’s tongue, heavily accented and coarse, as if he was just learning them, the notes different than those he was familiar with — than his native Russian.

“Yes.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Ah. American.”

“Yes.”

The man nodded as though he’d discovered a great secret, and the tribesmen around him watched with interest as their leader communicated with the captive.

“Why…are you…here?”

“I’m looking for Paititi,” Drake said, seeing no point in lying.

“Paititi? Paititi! Paititi!” the man cried, and then sang the word over and over in his eerie falsetto. He began his shambling jig again, and Drake saw that his toenails were long, yellow, and cracked, like a wild animal’s. The odd song faded as he seemed to lose steam, ending with a wet cough before he stared at Drake again. “This…is lucky day, then…for you. You…found…Paititi.”

“Who are you?” Drake asked, playing for time, praying that Spencer and Allie had registered his absence and returned for him.

“Me? I…I am…called…many names. They mean…nothing…to you. For I…I am ruler…of Paititi. The lost city, da? I am king. A god…here…in earth’s womb.”

“Grigor Palenko?” Drake tried.

Something shifted behind the man’s eyes, and a look of sly cunning returned to them as he licked his lips. “Da. That…was…one of my…names. But he…he is dead. Reborn as…as a god. Risen like phoenix, yes?”

Drake didn’t know how to respond. Palenko had obviously crossed an important line beyond which reason had been abandoned, and now inhabited a dark world of shadows where he was a deity, with the power of life and death in his grasp, worshipped by the men around him. Drake waited for him to continue, wary of saying anything that would set him off.

Palenko shambled to the backpack, knife still clenched in his hand, and picked up Drake’s flashlight. When he clicked the light on, the tribesmen gasped in astonishment as he played the beam into the darkness of the brush.

“See? I am bringer of light. I rule this city…of the dead. Of riches…beyond…imagination…” Palenko seemed to deflate, his train of thought lost. He stopped, defeated; a tired, old, sick man. Turning to his followers, he flicked the light off and raised it over his head, like a high priest preparing to sprinkle holy water upon a crowd.

Drake tried to recapture the Russian’s attention. “Then you found the treasure?”

Palenko’s cackle was maniacal, a half shriek, deranged beyond imagination. “Treasure? Oh, foolish boy. Da, I found. But…real treasure…is in my head…in city of the dead…encased in lead…while rivers run red…” His voice rambled off until Drake couldn’t make out his words any more. Palenko shifted from bare foot to bare foot, his leg muscles also wasted to nothing, and Drake began working his wrists around, trying to free himself.

Palenko seemed departed for another plane, but returned to the present as he tossed the flashlight on the ground near the rest of Drake’s things. He cocked his head from side to side like a bird of prey, the light glinting off the knife blade as he moved it slightly, enraptured by the reflection. Then, without warning, he hurled it at Drake. The blade plunged into the ground barely six inches from Drake’s head. Palenko’s laugh rang through the trees, and then he called out to the assembly in a native dialect.

The same tribesman who had dragged the boy to the altar approached Drake and grabbed him under his arms. He said something to one of the others, and a second native hefted Drake’s feet. They carried him squirming to the altar and set him on top, facing the sky, as Palenko hummed tunelessly to himself, mumbling nonsense as he shuffled his feet in the wet leaves.

The pounding of the nearby drum sounded like cannon fire to Drake as the nightmare performance he’d just watched played out again, only with him as the intended victim this time.

Drake fought to free himself, but it was no good — the one tribesman pinned his shoulders to the altar while the second man gripped his feet, and the bindings on his wrists combined with his head wound and broken ribs had effectively immobilized his upper body. Drake turned his head to where Palenko was standing with the knife and called out to him.

“If you’re going to kill me, tell me where the treasure is. So I know my journey wasn’t in vain.”

“Where? Why…beneath our feet. In cool water…where it remains. Holiest of holies, riches of lost time. And my own…contribution. The world…is unfit…for any of it. If there is…a world…outside of this place. I am…not so sure. Maybe it was…all…dreams. As are you…as am I. All…invention. Of…pretention.” He looked up at the sky. “They’re destroying the rainforest…you know? Eighty percent…the world’s oxygen…comes from…plants. And they’re cutting…they’re cutting down…the trees. Idiots. Unfit to survive…killing my planet.”

“What about your technology?” Drake asked over the drumming, trying to engage the madman and pull him back to reality long enough to survive a few more minutes.

“Mine? Ha. They would use it…to destroy. I demonstrated…potential to create…and all they wanted…was to make death. They are unfit. Unfit to…rule…”

The drumming stopped and Palenko returned his focus to Drake, the Russian’s bloodshot eyes crimson gashes in his skeletal face. Palenko nodded at the tribesman standing by the head of the altar, and held the knife aloft, as he had with the machete. The native moved forward, took it from him, and turned to Drake. He stepped to the altar and, after saying a few soft words, perhaps a prayer or a curse, held the knife overhead and tore Drake’s shirt open.

The man gasped and murmured something as he reached out with a trembling hand to touch the jaguar amulet on Drake’s neck — the carving the shaman had given him, still on the leather lanyard. He turned to Palenko, fear in his eyes, and shook his head.

Palenko barked at him, but the man remained frozen. Palenko took the knife away from him, seeing that he wasn’t going to carry out the execution. He backhanded the native across the face and spit on him, and the man cringed like a child. Palenko held up his hand and pressed the knife blade against it, and sliced his palm with a swift cut. Blood welled and pooled from the gash. He rubbed it first on his own face, then on the cowering native, and then finally on Drake’s forehead. Drake tried to pull away, but couldn’t, and pain again shot through his skull as his head wound ground against the stone.

Chastised, the native moved back to the altar and accepted the knife, and this time his eyes held a trancelike quality, as though he were sleepwalking. He held the blade over Drake’s chest with both arms extended over his head, and Drake winced as he saw the man’s muscles tense.

Drake heard a thwack followed by a gurgle, and a warm gush of blood splattered his cheek and neck. The knife-wielding native’s face was distorted by puzzled pain, his mouth opening and closing like a carp’s, the brightly colored feathered tufts of a crossbow bolt sticking out of the center of his naked chest. He coughed and more blood sprayed from his mouth, and then he slumped to his knees. The knife fell with a clatter on the altar next to Drake.

The tribesmen stood frozen, bewildered, and before they could react, another crossbow bolt streaked from the jungle and impaled the native holding Drake’s shoulders with a thwack, dead in the center of his forehead. He tumbled to the ground, and the other natives sprang into action, their blowguns and bows brought to bear on the invisible threat.

Palenko ducked behind the altar as an automatic rifle opened fire from the perimeter, its lethal chatter hurling burst after burst of rounds into the natives, the slugs shredding through them as they fired futilely at the jungle with their bows.

Twenty seconds after it started, it was over, Palenko’s followers dead or dying on the ground. Palenko had slunk away into the undergrowth when the shooting started, and there was nobody left alive in the clearing when Spencer and Allie stepped from the brush with their weapons. Allie ran to the altar and stopped when she saw Drake, his shirt crusted with drying blood. Drake took in the vision of Allie, gripping her AK like a seasoned fighter, eyes wide with adrenaline, and managed a weak smile.

“For a minute there I was getting worried.”

“How badly are you hurt?” she asked.

“They knocked me out, but I’ll live. Cut me loose, would you? I can’t feel my hands anymore.”

She scooped up the big knife and leaned the rifle against the altar as Spencer moved among the dead natives, ensuring there was no further threat. She pushed Drake onto his side and sliced the bindings, freeing his wrists. He flexed his fingers as circulation returned, and she handed him the knife. Drake sat up, leaned forward and cut the cord around his ankles, and then sheathed the blade as he slid off the rough stone surface. Everything tilted and faded for a moment, and he grabbed the altar for support as he got his bearings.

Allie eyed his shirt and whispered to him, “You’ve lost a lot of blood. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Just give me a second. Don’t worry, most of this blood isn’t mine.”

Spencer approached the altar, and giving the two tribesmen killed by the crossbow bolts a once-over, he inspected Drake’s head.

“Looks like you got yourself a nice gash there.”

“Yeah. Seems like my head’s a popular spot for those lately.”

“At least it’s clotted. How weak are you?”

“So-so. Like I told Allie, I’ll live.” He looked around. “Where’s Palenko?”

“The mud-covered nut’s definitely Palenko?” Spencer asked.

“None other. Seems like he went round the bend a long time ago. He was babbling all kinds of nonsense about being an Inca god.”

“I thought I saw him duck through there,” Allie said, pointing to a dense thicket of bushes behind the altar.

“Do you see my pistol anywhere?” Drake asked, alarmed.

“Your pistol? Where was it?”

“In my bag. He dumped it out,” Drake said, pointing at his things.

Allie kneeled down and double-checked the backpack before stuffing his gear back inside and standing with it. “Nope. Now what?”

Drake shouldered the backpack on with a wince, and Allie handed him his rifle. He caught Spencer’s eye. “We follow Palenko. He’s out there with my pistol, and he probably still remembers how to use one.”

Spencer frowned and nodded. “Agreed. Let’s finish this.”

He ducked below the vines hanging across the faint trail and eyed the ground. Satisfied with whatever he’d seen, he moved deeper into the jungle, Drake behind him, Allie in the rear. They passed a ruin on the right, and Spencer slowed as he studied the muddy track in front of him.

Birds flapped overhead, and Drake followed their flight with his gun barrel. Spencer’s gaze never left the trail as he edged forward, his rifle gripped in both hands.

They entered another clearing, this one encircled by large overgrown structures that had collapsed at some point in the distant past, and Spencer stopped. Palenko stood thirty yards away, Drake’s pistol in his hand, the weapon pointed at them.

“Spread out,” Spencer whispered. Drake moved from behind Spencer to his right, and Allie to his left. When they had ten yards between them, Drake called out to the Russian.

“It’s over. Drop the gun. We’re not going to hurt you.”

Palenko howled his laugh to the trees. “Hurt me? You can’t hurt me. I’m god!”

Spencer shot Drake a warning look. “Yeah? Then you don’t need the gun, do you?” he said.

“Do you…not understand? I rule here. This is…my kingdom. You…you are insects. Unworthy.”

“Sure thing, buddy. Put down the gun. You can tell me all about how you’re a god,” Spencer replied.

“You…know…nothing. Nothing. I will return, stronger than ever,” Palenko screamed, and before any of them could react, swung the pistol at Allie and fired twice.

Spencer’s rifle barked and Palenko tumbled to the ground as the shots reverberated through the clearing. More birds took flight, terrified by the unfamiliar sound. Spencer moved cautiously toward the Russian. When he reached him, Palenko was gasping for breath, two entry wounds in his chest the only eulogy he was going to get, the pistol lying harmlessly by his side.

“You…are…nothing…” Palenko hissed, blood running from the grinning corners of his mouth.

Drake screamed from behind him. “Allie.”

Spencer turned to see Allie crumpling as Drake ran toward her. He heard a groan from Palenko and twisted as the Russian raised the pistol to shoot him. Spencer didn’t hesitate, firing two short bursts from the hip, shredding Palenko’s sternum and extinguishing his life.

He watched the Russian shudder and lie still. Spencer ejected the spent magazine and slapped another into place as he moved to where Drake was cradling Allie’s head. When he arrived, her blue eyes connected with his, their beauty shining through the pain, and a tear rolled down her face. Spencer knelt and gently pulled her hand away from her shoulder. After inspecting the wounds, he caught Drake’s eye and gave him a dark look.

Spencer shrugged off his backpack and dug into a pocket for the first aid kit and, after opening it, removed one of the syringes. He clenched the cap in his teeth and pulled the needle free and, after another look at Allie’s contorted face, slid it into one of the veins in her forearm. Her eyes began to glass over even before he’d finished emptying it, and when he was done, he stood and threw the needle away, defeated.

Drake wiped dirt and sweat from Allie’s forehead as her eyelids drooped. She reached up and clutched at his arm with a weak grip.

“Oh…Drake…”

“Shhh.”

She coughed and grimaced, then relaxed; the spasm of pain passed as the morphine took effect.

“Save your strength. We’ll call a helicopter. We’ll get help. You’ll make it.”

“You’re so sweet. It almost makes me wish we’d…” She trailed off, her voice dreamy.

“You’re going to be all right, Allie.” Drake looked up at where Spencer was standing, gazing off into the jungle. “Spencer, call someone. The sat phone’s in her backpack. Come get it.”

Spencer turned, a vicious expression clouding his face, and began trotting toward them, raising the ugly snout of the AK-47 as he neared.

“No. What are you doing—” Drake screamed, and then the clearing was shattered by the eruption of gunfire as Spencer pulled the trigger.

The jungle behind Drake exploded as rounds shredded the vegetation. Spencer threw himself sideways onto the ground as he continued firing. Drake reacted instantly, rolling away from Allie and grabbing his rifle before shooting at the gunmen firing at them from the jungle. The closest of the three natives near the tree line dropped his rifle with a groan as Drake’s rounds punched into his torso, and the man next to him fell backwards as the top of his head tore off from one of Spencer’s volleys.

Spencer continued to squeeze off measured bursts at the attackers as he crawled to a nearby ruin for cover. The ground in front of him churned as bullets sprayed into the damp earth, and he fired blind at a third assailant just as he made it behind an outcropping of rock — the remnants of an ancient wall.

Drake saw a muzzle flash from deeper in the brush. He loosed three bursts at it and was rewarded with a scream of pain. He was shaking as he pulled himself behind a slight rise, scanning the jungle for more gunmen. Spencer’s rifle burped from Drake’s left at targets in the dense foliage. A divot of wet dirt ripped out of the ground near Drake’s head. He squeezed off a shot at the shooter, praying as he did so that none of the rounds would hit Allie, who was lying exposed, out in the open.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Spencer sprint for the far tree line. Drake did what he could to lay down covering fire, emptying the gun. He grabbed at his backpack for another magazine, and swallowed hard when his hands felt the pocket the spares had been in — empty, dumped out by Palenko when he’d been rummaging through it.

Drake ejected the magazine in frustration and looked around for anything else he could use as a weapon. His trusty knife might have been large enough to row a boat with, but it wouldn’t be much good against automatic rifles. He peered over the rise and saw Allie’s AK lying where she’d dropped it when she’d been hit by Palenko’s rounds. It was only ten feet away, and he could make it if he was fast — but it would be the longest ten feet of his life.

His head pounded, each throb of his pulse delivering a starburst of pain. He tried to ignore it as he listened to the sporadic distant gunfire from where Spencer had disappeared. After a deep breath, he launched himself to his feet and bolted for the rifle.

His lower leg shrieked in white-hot torment as a round caught his calf, and he landed hard, wincing as his ribs radiated agony — too far to reach the gun. Another round sprayed dirt and leaves on his face, and then a voice called out from the trees.

“It is over, Mr. Ramsey. One more move and I will shoot you.” The Russian accent was as thick as maple syrup.

Drake froze, the few feet between his hand and the rifle a cruel joke. The two Russians emerged from the brush, Sasha limping badly from where one of Drake’s slugs had hit him in the thigh. Vadim held his machine pistol almost casually as they neared to within fifteen feet of Drake, who was still trying to gauge whether he could make it to the rifle before they cut him in two.

“Do not even think about it. I will blow your head off and enjoy it,” Vadim snarled. “Move away from the gun. Now.”

Drake glared daggers at him but did as instructed, retracting his arm and pulling himself a few more feet from Allie’s rifle. Vadim chuckled, his barrel never leaving Drake, and moved to the weapon before toeing it out of reach. He gave Allie’s comatose, pale form a once-over and issued a terse command to Sasha before he returned to Drake. Sasha focused on the jungle where Spencer had disappeared, in case he’d survived and tried a surprise attack.

Vadim sneered at Drake. “So. Thank you for leading us straight to Paititi. Something your father was not willing to do.”

“You killed him, didn’t you?” Drake growled.

“Your father? Of course. In the end he cried like a baby. As he begged for his life, he whimpered like a little girl.”

Drake closed his eyes, his leg on fire. “You’re lying. I can tell. You killed him because he wouldn’t give you what you wanted.”

Vadim laughed, a dry, ugly sound. Sasha took the opportunity to unfasten his belt and fashion a tourniquet around his wounded leg, which was streaming blood, his attention still on the tree line.

“I owe you thanks for exterminating our little group. You saved us the inconvenience. Now, tell me — where is the treasure?”

“I don’t know. We just got here.”

Vadim eyed him suspiciously. “Never mind. We will find it. We have all the time in the world. But not you, perhaps, or the whore.” Vadim grinned, his features contorting into those of a gargoyle.

Drake spit at Vadim and gritted his teeth. “You’re a miserable bastard, aren’t you? This is a big area. I hope you never find it. And with most of your men dead, you’ll be easy pickings for the other tribes.”

“This is such big talk for a boy with only seconds left to live. You are about to meet your idiot father in hell. Say hello from me when you get there.” Vadim raised his gun and pointed it at Drake’s head.

Drake didn’t blink, didn’t flinch.

A shot rang out. Vadim’s shirt blossomed with a crimson stain from an exit wound. He stood, frozen, staring at Drake unbelievingly, his eyes uncomprehending.

Drake wrenched his knife free and hurled it at Sasha, who was whipping his gun around to fire. The handle struck him in the face, buying Drake the time to dive for Allie’s rifle and fire six rounds. Sasha jerked like a marionette from the bullets pummeling him before he collapsed in a heap.

Vadim seemed to move in slow motion as he brought his weapon to bear. Drake squeezed off a burst that knocked Vadim off his feet and slammed him backward. The Russian groaned as he hit the ground, his gun tumbling harmlessly beside him, and then he shuddered and lay still.

Allie still clutched her SIG Sauer in a bloody hand, the barrel shaking as it pointed at Vadim’s inert form. Drake dragged himself over to Allie and took the pistol from her.

“You did it. You saved my ass again. That’s twice in an hour,” he said softly.

Her eyes searched his face. “Drake…I…”

“We’ll get a helicopter to haul you out of here,” Drake said.

“Have…Spencer…look at the…wound. He’ll know what…to…do.” Allie’s eyes drifted shut, the morphine hitting full force, carrying her with it to a warm, welcome numbness.

Drake pulled closer and took Allie’s hand, the jungle around them now quiet. He looked at his calf. The bullet had seared through the muscle and exited cleanly. But he knew that infection would be only a matter of time. For them both.

They had to get out of there.

Allie shifted next to him, her breathing slow and steady, her top soaked with her blood. Drake considered trying to do something, but realized he might cause more harm than good. He felt so helpless and impotent as he moved closer to her and pulled a shirt out of his backpack, which he held against the wound, trying to keep pressure on it. He stayed like that for several long minutes, mind working over their alternatives, and then jolted back to reality when he heard a rustle from the brush — a heavy body moving through the undergrowth.

“I see you didn’t need much help here. How’s she doing?” Spencer’s voice called from the jungle behind him.

“You kill everyone?” Drake asked, his tone flat.

“Pretty much. I see you did the same.”

“Allie got one of them. Saved my life.”

Spencer walked over to the Russians and turned them over, confirming that they were dead. He picked up Drake’s knife and handed it to him, his eyes on Drake’s wounded leg. “Looks like you got nicked there.”

“Yeah. Hurts like a bitch.”

“They’ll do that. How is she?” Spencer repeated.

“Out cold. And bleeding a lot. You need to look at the wound and see if there’s anything we can do.”

Spencer moved to Allie and Drake rolled away, wincing at the pain in his leg. Spencer removed Drake’s bloody shirt and studied the entry, and then lifted her gently and looked at her back.

“That’s a little bit of luck. The slug looks like it ricocheted off her shoulder blade and exited there, on the side.”

“But all the blood…”

“I can deal with that. I need to clean the wound and stitch it up after making sure no arteries were hit. I’ve dealt with worse.”

Drake’s voice sounded strangled. “We need to get a helicopter here.”

“Sure. And set down where?” Spencer looked up at the canopy over the clearing, the sky only visible in patches overhead.

“They can lower a stretcher or something.”

“Maybe so,” Spencer said, not wanting to argue. “But we’re hundreds of miles from the nearest chopper, assuming we can get one to fly into this area. I still have to work on her, or she’ll be dead by the time it could get here. She’ll have bled out.” He sat down heavily next to Drake. “What a frigging mess.”

“You said it.”

“Palenko, dead. Jack, dead. Enough natives to fill a small town. Dead.”

Drake shrugged. “Those ‘noble savages’ were child murderers and hired killers.”

“I’m not mourning them. I’m just saying it’s a mess.”

“That it is.” Drake hesitated, dizzy. “When you’re done with Allie, think you could do something about the scratch I got?”

Spencer sighed. “Gonna be a busy evening, I see.”

“Work on Allie first.”

Spencer nodded, glanced at her, and then back at Drake. “It’s gonna hurt, you know.”

“Yeah. I guessed.” He paused. “Maybe you can stitch up my head while you’re at it, too?” Drake was about to say something else, something important, when the sky spun and he blacked out. He never felt Spencer catch his shoulders as he fell back, keeping his battered skull from hitting the ground.