David Gilman - Blood Sun

He wanted to move more quickly, but the blades snagged his shirt and trousers like barbed wire. He had to pick his way clear. Riga seemed to be making better progress and was almost through.

And then Max’s legs trembled. He felt the panic rise quickly and almost reached out to grasp one of the blade-tipped arms for support. He twisted his upper body to balance the movement under his boots. Another earth tremor.

Riga was nearly out of the deadly traps, but one of the poles twisted from the vibration, and like a cog in a wheel, it shifted into its normal stationary position. The bladed arm swung in a lethal curve from behind Riga’s right shoulder down toward his left leg.

“Behind you! Look out!” Max yelled, desperately keeping his own balance, eyes darting left and right, hoping none of the blades was shifting toward him.

Riga’s reactions were remarkable. Keeping his feet firmly planted, he twisted from the waist, raised his left arm above his head and turned himself clear of the cutting blade. The tip caught his shirt, ran beneath his ribs and bit into the shoulder holster. Max heard the clean ripping cut as the blade severed it from the shoulder strap. Max’s warning, Riga’s fast reaction and the shoulder holster had saved the killer from a lethal wound. The chrome-plated semiautomatic tumbled away beneath the blades.

Riga was clear. He caught his balance and turned back to watch Max’s progress through the last few meters. “Come on, kid, that lever might not hold. Hurry!”

Max could hear the poles creaking and saw the blades quivering. Another earth tremor snaked beneath his feet. He almost fell. And then he heard a sound from the other end of the building. It was metal scraping against rock. The rifle was being forced along the rock wall under pressure.

Riga watched Max trying to move more quickly. It was like observing a fly trying to escape from a spiderweb. Sometimes the fly got lucky.

“Come on! Do it!”

And then they both heard the crash of the lever breaking free of the rifle’s restraint; the sound of rushing water echoed through the chamber. The poles groaned back to life. Behind him the blades were already turning, and Max felt the exertion force itself out of his lungs. He gasped as he tried to get through the last couple of meters before the teeth around him spun into life and devoured him.

He was not going to make it. And he knew it. He raised his head to look into Riga’s eyes less than a meter away-but the blades spun. Riga snatched at one of the moving arms, jammed his foot onto another and threw his weight backward. The sudden counterbalance on one of the poles slowed the blades that had not yet reached full speed.

Max saw the narrow space between the blades, like a gap through a bramble hedge. Throwing himself forward, he felt them nick his clothing. He hit the earth floor, rolled and came quickly to his feet. Even Riga’s strength could not have held back the blades any longer, and Max saw them wrench free of the assassin’s grip.

Max looked at him. How did you thank a killer who had just saved your life but had promised to kill you later? You didn’t. It was already a debt repaid.

“Where now?” Riga demanded.

Max saw the location of the satellite dish in his mind’s eye. He turned and ran for the opening that led into a green umbrella covering of forest. “This way!”

They were no sooner clear of the claustrophobic building than they could hear the muted staccato of what sounded like firecrackers somewhere in the distance, the harsh sounds swallowed by the dense jungle.

“Gunfire,” Riga said. “AKs, M16s, others. Two or three clicks away.”

Max kept running and noticed Riga kept pace despite his injured leg. He was one of those unstoppable guys, Max thought. People like him will keep coming for you until they die. Max had never wished anyone dead before, but Riga was different.

It was a world away from the stark, heat-seared ball court. No blue sky penetrated the overhanging tree branches and vines.

It seemed like an artificial corridor of foliage, as if a gardener had created a massive tunnel out of the greenery.

“Camouflage,” Riga said. “Deliberate. This whole area is hidden from view.”

“There has to be another way in here,” Max said. “The Razor House kept everyone out from that side.”

The ongoing gun battle came no closer, but one or two echoes became more dominant. Who was doing the shooting? It wouldn’t be the warriors fighting, so it had to be police or army. Were they coming here? Max heard the roaring cries of howler monkeys moving away and sensed rather than saw birds’ alarm as the air beat somewhere above the green tunnel. He had no idea how far they had run, but the ground was clear of any major obstacles. It looked as though it had been cleared by machinery. Then it dropped away, and a vine-covered stone building, most of it below ground level, was just about visible through the undergrowth.

Riga ran his hands over the limestone blocks, then edged round to the side, trying to find the line of the building, but there was nothing else. This wall was all that existed. Anything else must be underground. Max rubbed his hands across a stone lintel. He gazed at the shapes and figures of mountain monsters that had been cut into the building, probably more than a thousand years ago. He did not have to bluff now.

“It’s a temple. An ancient temple,” he said.

“How do you know that?” Riga said.

“It’s in one of my mum’s photographs.” He looked around. “None of this camouflage was here then. There’s an entrance somewhere.” Max’s heart felt a squeeze of regret. The photographs in his pocket were his insurance against Riga killing him. He dared not look at his mother smiling in front of the old temple. She had been right here. On this spot. He could almost feel her.

Max traced his hands along the wall. Behind where his mother had stood, there should have been a small entrance. He thrust his hands into the dense undergrowth.

“Here, pull this away.”

Riga unsheathed his machete and hacked at the ropelike vines that dropped down the temple walls. A small window-sized opening was visible, recessed into the depth of the stone. It was covered in steel mesh.

“I don’t know too much about Mayan culture, but I know they didn’t have windows like that.”

Riga looked at him. “All right. So you know where you’re going. Good.”

He pulled Max out of the way and kicked hard and fast against the corners of the mesh. It gave way on three sides, and Riga pushed his weight against it. The corner snapped, the mesh window dropped, and they heard it clatter onto stone. Riga climbed in. There were steps going down. They were in a dark corridor of an ancient temple, which was obviously unused and which had been sealed to stop anyone clambering through the small window. Riga moved forward, the back of his hand running along the wall to guide him. Max followed. The fetid air made their labored breathing the only sound in the heavy atmosphere. The passageway angled left and right and then opened out into an antechamber. It would have been pitch-black this deep inside the building except for a hairline crack of light seeping around what appeared to be a door. Max reached out and his palms met the smooth texture of a wooden covering.

“Can you smell that?” Max asked.

“Chemicals,” Riga said. “OK. We’re out of options. This is where we go in.” He rammed the tip of the machete’s blade between the wood and stone, forced it back, felt the wood ease slightly. He kept the pressure on it. “Kick it!”

Max twisted his body, balanced on one leg, grunted with effort, side-kicked the door and heard wood splinter.

“Again! Come on! Harder, kid!”

Max put all his power into the kick, and, with Riga’s shoulder aiding his efforts, the wood gave way.