David Gilman - Blood Sun

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.