Temple

The caiman came up too, surging out of the water after him, snapping wildly, catching the grappling hook's rope in its jaws, slicing through it in an instant. As the rope was cut, Race lost his balance and fell clumsily away from the reptile into shallower water.

He turned quickly, at exactly the same moment as he saw the caiman come rushing in at him from the side, its jaws wide, its tooth-filled mouth filling his field of vision, and with nothing else left to call on, Race just jammed the grappling hook—together with his entire right arm—into the caiman's wide-open mouth!

The big reptile's jaws came crashing down on his arm——just as Race hit the release button on the grappling hook's handle.

At that moment, a nanosecond before the caiman's razor- sharp teeth clamped down on his right bicep, the grappling hook's pointed steel claws sprang outwards with monumental force.

The caiman's head just exploded.

Two of the pointed steel claws burst out from its eye sockets, and in that Single disgusting instant, both of the caiman's eyes were blasted out of its head—from the inside— replaced by the razor-sharp tips of the two steel claws.

The grappling hook's other two claws exploded out from the underside of the caiman's head, ripping through the softer skin there, puncturing it with ease.

The two claws that had shot through the big reptile's eye sockets must have penetrated its brain on their journey through the caiman's skull. As such, they'd killed the massive animal in an instant—freezing its jaws in mid- chomp—and now Race sat on the floor of the pit, with an enormous eighteen-foot caiman attached to his right arm, its long triangular mouth poised over his exposed arm—its teeth millimetres away from his skin, its immense black body stretching out into the pit, motionless.

The crowd of natives standing on the rim of the pit just stood there aghast, stunned.

And then, slowly, they started clapping.

Race emerged from the pit to the adulation of the Indians.

They slapped him on the back, smiled at him through crooked yellow teeth.

The cage holding Nash and the others was opened immediately and a few moments later they joined Race in the centre of the village.

Van Lewen shook his head as he came up to Race. 'What the hell did you just do? We couldn't see a thing from that cage.'

'I just killed a great lizard,' Race said simply.

The anthropologist, Marquez, came over and smiled at Race. 'Well done, sir! Well done! What did you say your name was?'

'William Race.'

'Rejoice, Mister Race. You just made yourself a god.'

John-Paul Demonaco's cellular rang.

Demonaco and the Navy investigator, Mitchell, were still at DARPA headquarters in Virginia. Mitchell was taking another call himself.

'You say it came from Bittiker…' Demonaco said into the phone. Suddenly his face went ashen white. 'Call the Baltimore PD and get them to send the bomb squad over there right now. I'll be there as soon as I can.'

Mitchell came over as Demonaco hung up.

'That was Aaronson,' the Navy man said. 'They just raided the Freedom Fighter locations. Nothing in any of them. Empty.'

'Never mind,' Demonaco said, heading for the door.

'What is it?' Mitchell said as he hurried after him.

'I just got a call from one of my guys in Baltimore. He's at the apartment of one of our Texan informants. Says he's got something big.'

Ninety minutes later, Demonaco and Mitchell arrived at a decrepit old warehouse in the industrial sector of Baltimore.

Three police cruisers, a couple of nondescript beige Buicks—FBI cars—and a large navy blue van with 'BOMB SQUAD“ painted on its side were already parked out in front of the building.

Demonaco and Mitchell entered the warehouse, ascended some stairs.

“This place belongs to a guy named Wilbur Francis James, better known as “Bluey'.' Demonaco said. “He used to be a radio operator in the Army, but he got discharged for stealing equipment from the office frequency scanners, M-16s. Now he's a small-time crook who acts as a liaison between the Tex ans and certain criminal elements who supply them with guns and intelligence. A couple of months ago, we caught him with three stolen canisters of VX nerve gas, but we decided to withhold pressing charges if he helped us with our own intel ligence gathering. He's been very reliable so far.'

They arrived at a cramped little apartment on the top floor of the warehouse, guarded by a pair of Baltimore beat cops. They went inside. It was a crappy; disgusting apart ment, with damp floorboards and peeling wallpaper.

Demonaco was met by a young black agent named Han son and the leader of the Baltimore Police Department's Bomb Squad, a small squat man named Barker.

Bluey James himself sat in the corner of the room with his arms crossed. He chugged on a cigarette defiantly. He was a small unshaven runt of a man, with dreadlocked brown hair and a filthy Hawaiian shirt. On his feet he wore sandals— with socks.

'What have you got?” Demonaco asked Hanson.