David Gilman - Blood Sun

The slightest breach of security, or even the threat of such a breach, had demanded a complete shutdown of the operation. These were the orders given to Cazamind by his “people.” The faceless men in power were not sitting here in the shuddering helicopter in the stinking heat, soaked in sweat, while an inferno raged around them. And he knew, even as he recovered the blood source material from the jungle laboratory, that others were searching his own private databases and bank accounts, in fact every scrap of his personal life, in case he had made copies of what he knew to be as explosive as that huge tree that had just disintegrated. The pilot yelled at the men to hurry the hell up because they had to get out of here. Now!

Cazamind felt the handcuff bracelet bite into his skin. The slim aluminum briefcase, barely the size of a small notebook computer, held half a dozen sheets of facts and figures and the breakdown on a computer disk of those he knew to be involved in this massive conspiracy. It was no use trying to hide it in electronic databanks-those people would root it out. Even if they only suspected that their loyal servant had covered his back, then he would stay alive as long as nothing was discovered. When it came down to good old-fashioned safety nets, handwritten testimony was always the best bet. He hugged it to him.

Another explosion made him wince. The charges had gone off prematurely because of the unexpected volcanic activity, and now the whole world seemed to be on fire. The helicopter had been hidden in one of the caves, and when they brought it out onto the plateau where the small helipad was located, the ground was already shuddering, threatening to plunge them down into the scalding valley. Cazamind wiped the sweat from his face. The storage compartment door banged shut; the men were getting into the helicopter. He would soon be safely away.

And then he saw the apparitions.

Two filthy, sweat-streaked creatures powered up the edge of the plateau as if they had risen from the underworld. One of them he recognized as his rogue killer, Riga. The other was a boy whose tattered clothes clung to him like a second skin. The flickering light from the wall of fire behind him made his ash- and dirt-covered body look like a jungle cat, head down, muscles rolling in a seemingly effortless movement of attack. Cazamind wiped his eyes and looked again. It was no jaguar; it was Max Gordon. And Riga had let him live. That meant they shared one purpose. They were coming for him. One of the bodyguards was still trying to clamber aboard when Cazamind screamed the command to take off. The man fell to the ground; the other slammed the doors closed. Survival was the main thought on all their minds.

The heat was intense, but Cazamind felt as cold as if he were on the ice face of a Swiss mountain. The helicopter lifted slowly and hovered momentarily as the pilot fought the gusting wind. Cazamind allowed a sigh of relief. But there was something wrong. The helicopter lurched.

Riga was stronger and faster than Max and had pushed ahead, but his injured leg meant he was less agile, and Max could see that they were not going to reach the helicopter before it lifted off. The man who had tried to climb aboard had fallen badly, tumbling down the slope. Riga shouted for Max to be careful of the rotor blades, but Max was already beneath the swirling dust. He could have reached up and clung to the helicopter’s skids, but instead he looped a wrist-thick ground vine round its leading edge, yanked hard and twisted it round itself, so, at least for a few seconds, the helicopter would not be able to take off. It was up to Riga to do something.

Max felt the monster falter. If he did not let go of the vine, the helicopter would slam back down onto the ground and crush him. It swung crazily, as if trying to rid itself of whatever held it earthbound. Max rolled clear but saw the nose sideswipe Riga, who fell heavily.

In an instant Max stood alone as the helicopter ripped itself upward. Its nose tilted and he gazed up at the monstrous bug. A man sat in the backseat, leaning forward, commanding the pilot and pointing toward Max. The nose tilted farther and the rotor blades began to thrash the swirling smoke. They were going to hack him to death.

Riga was pulling himself away, but Max had nowhere to run. In a desperate but determined gesture of defiance, he threw the machete at the high-tech monster that was trying to kill him.

It clattered into the rods at the base of the rotors, and over the din of the whirring blades, Max heard the satisfying graunch of metal against metal. The helicopter shuddered. Max saw the fear on the pilot’s face. The men inside were mouthing shouts of panic. And then the rotor blades tore into the dirt, the helicopter slammed into the ground, cartwheeled over and landed on its roof. The blades twisted and screamed as they were wrenched from the body. Lethal shards of metal hissed through the air as Max flung himself facedown, clawing his fingers into the dirt and praying that the hurtling metal would miss him as pieces slashed into the few remaining trees, the impact splitting their trunks.

Riga had backpedaled as fast as he could from the crashing helicopter. The destruction settled quickly. The beast of a machine was dead. He looked toward Max. Unbelievable. The boy had destroyed a million-dollar aircraft with a machete worth a couple of dollars. The men inside the aircraft hung upside down from their seat belts. The tough-looking one recovered quickly, kicked open the door and helped to drag the man in a suit, with the attache case chained to his wrist, out of the crash. Cazamind.

Riga went for him. The bodyguard blocked his attack, and Riga had a hard fight on his hands. Riga was a lethal opponent, but the other man had not endured what the assassin had gone through these last few hours. For a couple of minutes he got the better of Riga with hard, muscle-tearing blows.

Cazamind stumbled away. Max tried to see him through the smoke, but then the ground shifted and began to break up. Like liquid, the earth slewed a few meters. Max kept his balance. There was a thrill of fear-he had been in an avalanche before and knew how terrifying it was-but when half a mountain moves, there is little chance of survival. The ground beneath his feet steadied, but the far side of the small plateau started to disappear.

The helicopter began to slide, metal screeching against rock as it was slowly dragged ever closer to the edge and the plunge down to the river of lava that cut through the valley floor. Cazamind panicked, lost his footing and managed to scramble away from the machine. Max saw that he had fallen and that the chain of the attache case had snared itself on the helicopter. It was going to pull him down. He would be fried. Max ran forward and saw the man desperately trying to unlock the handcuff. The helicopter groaned as it slipped away. Any moment now it would slide rapidly into the furnace. The crumbling earth would not bear its weight much longer.

Max felt the heat from the flowing lava blistering his skin, even though it was a hundred meters below him. He got down beside the man, who looked imploringly at him and gestured with a small silver key that was attached to a chain from his belt. He could not reach the handcuff.

“Help me, boy, help me! For God’s sake, don’t let me die. Don’t let me die! Please!”

Max’s mouth was so dry he could barely speak, but he pushed his face close to the man’s. “My mother needed help. She was dying, and you refused to help her.”

The man shook his head desperately. He was crying, a horrible death only moments away. He begged. “I had to! It would have exposed our plans.”

“Did you infect her? Is that how she died?”

Cazamind shook his head. “No, no. We hadn’t started the program then. She just got sick. It was the jungle that killed her. Not me. I swear. The case! Everything is in the case! She found out-”