Temple

Nash lay writhing in agony on one of the litters, while a series of other corpses—Van Lewen, Marty, Lauren, Romano, and the corpses of the entire Navy-DARPA team-occupied other litters. Dead or alive, any kind of human flesh would appease the cat gods that dwelled inside the temple.

The whole village gathered around the rear of the temple chanting in unison—as two strong warriors lifted the cylindrical stone from its slot in the path, revealing the sacrificial chute.

The dead bodies were cast into the hole first—Van Lewen, then Marty, then Lauren, Copeland and the Navy people.

Frank Nash was brought over to the sacrificial well last of all. He had seen what had been done with the other bodies and his eyes widened as he realized what was going to hap pen to him.

He screamed through his gag as the sacrificial priests bound his feet together. He writhed about maniacally as two Indian warriors brought him over to the chute.

They put him in feet-first and as he saw the sky for the last time, Frank Nash went bug-eyed with horror.

The two warriors dropped him into the chute.

Nash screamed all the way down.

The cylindrical stone was placed back into its slot and the natives left the tower top for the last time, never to return.

Once they arrived back at their village, they began preparations for a long journey, a journey that would take them to a place deep within the rainforest, a place where they would never be found.

The Goose soared over the Andes, heading for Lima, heading for home.

Doogie sat up front in the cockpit, bandaged but alive.

Race, Renee, Gaby and Uli sat in the back.

After about an hour or so of flying, Gaby Lopez joined Doogie in the cockpit.

'Hey,' she said.

'Hey,' Doogie replied when he saw who it was. He swallowed, nervous. He still thought Gaby was seriously pretty and seriously out of his league. She'd done a great job bandaging his wounds, treating them with gentle hands. He'd stared at her the whole time.

'Thanks for helping me with that caiman back in the moat,” she said.

'Oh,' he blushed. “It was nothing.'

'Well, thanks anyway.'

“No problem.'

There was an awkward silence.

'So I was wondering,' Gaby said nervously. 'If you weren't—you know—seeing anybody back home, maybe you'd like to come over to my place and I could cook you dinner.'

Doogie's heart almost skipped a beat. He smiled a broad, beaming smile.

'That'd be great,' he said.

Ten feet behind them, in the passenger section of the plane, Renee lay nestled up against Race's shoulder, fast asleep.

For his part, Race was speaking to John-Paul Demonaco on Earl Bittiker's cellular phone are of the redial button.

He brought Demonaco up to speed on everything that had happened at Vilcafor. From the BKA to the Nazis, to the Navy and the Army, and then finally, the Texans.

“So, wait a minute,' Demonaco said. “Have you had any military experience?'

'None at all,' Race said.

“Jesus. What are you, some kind of anonymous hero?”

'Something like that.'

After they spoke some more, Demonaco gave Race the telephone number and address of the American embassy in Lima and the name of the FBI liaison there. The FBI, he said, would take care of the trip back to the States.

After he hung up, Race just stared out the window at the mountains swooping by beneath him, his battered Yankees cap pressed up against the glass, his right hand fingering the emerald necklace that hung from his neck.

After a while, he blinked and extracted something from his pocket.

It was the thin leather-bound notebook that Marquez had given him that morning during the banquet.

Race flicked through it. It wasn't very thick. In fact, it was only made up of a few handwritten pages.

But the handwriting was familiar.

Race turned to the first page, started reading.

FIFTH READING

To the worthy adventurer who finds this notebook.

I write to you now by the light of a torch in the foothills of the glorious mountains that dominate New Spain.

By my amateur reckoning, it is now approximately the Year of Our Lord 1560, nearly twenty-five years after I first came to these foreign shores.

To many who might read this work, it will mean nothing to you, for I write it in anticipation of penning another, fuller account of the remarkable adventures that befell me in New Spain—an account that I may not even write at all.

But if I do write it, and if you, oh, brave adventurer— having come across this notebook through the ministrations of some most noble natives—have indeed read that account, then what follows will certainly have meaning for you.

It is close on twenty-five years since my incredible adventure with Renco, and all of my friends are dead.

Bassario, Lena, even Renco himself.

But fear not, dear reader, they did not die of any foul deeds or subterfuge. They died in their sleep, all of them, victims to that villain no man can escape—old age.

Now, I am the last one left alive.