After so many hours trapped in that tomb, the first gulp of fresh air that fills my lungs is the sweetest I’ve ever tasted. I turn to find Winter beaming up at me in the faint light of the approaching dawn. She’s wet as a drowned rat, smeared all over with dust and mud, bruised, the fear of certain death still visible in her eyes. And yet, I’ve never seen a more beautiful woman in my entire life.
I smile back at her. “We made it!”
Winter surprises me with a high-five, and then undoes her tresses and shakes the water off, wet-dog style. I’m positively hypnotized.
“Where are we?” she asks.
I check our surroundings, trying to orient myself. We’re on a hill, the mass of the temple at our backs, and a stretch of untouched jungle expanding before us in a huge valley.
“We must’ve gotten out the other side of the temple,” I say, taking a better look at the vale opening below us.
That’s when my brain clicks.
The memory of the satellite images superimposes with the planes and hills before my eyes, turning rises into buildings and the flat stretches of ground into roads and plazas.
“Look,” I say, pointing forward. “This isn’t natural. See the straight lines and regularity of the mounds?”
I can’t believe it! It’s like staring at a monochromatic-green plastic of a city grid. There are roads, canals, and moats around all the principal structures, and the river we followed must be an artificial stream; it encloses and encircles the city. All the important buildings face east, toward the rising sun, as was often the case in local ancient cultures. The temple we came out of does, and so do the other vine-covered mounds—which are probably the city’s religious and government buildings.
At the city’s edge, forts and walls line the perimeter, and underneath the vegetation, I can see sparkles of gold in the dawn’s light. An entire city of gold—and I don’t care if it’s just a layer of paint. Once cleaned of the weeds, this will be the most magnificent historical site in the world.
Winter steps next to me. “It’s really something, huh? Pity you drowned my camera. This would’ve been a beautiful picture.”
Is she seriously blaming me for the camera? It’s not like I tried to fall into the river. “Sorry if I was busy trying to save both our lives,” I snap.
She nudges me gently with her elbow. “I was kidding.”
“Oh.”
Winter runs her fingers between her wet locks, distracting me from my irritation. “What’s the plan now?” she asks. “Where do you reckon Smith’s at?”
“Judging from the sun’s position, we must’ve been trapped in the temple for about twelve hours. I bet Smith used this time to move the boxes out of the building, but he can’t carry the booty away by himself. He must plan to use the mule, and Somchai took it back to base camp. If we’re lucky, he’s waiting at the temporary camp for them to return.”
“And then what?” Winter asks. “He single-handedly takes everyone out and escapes?”
“Nah, Carter or Montgomery will be in the group, and those two do everything Smith tells them. They’re professional fighters with weapons, and even if they’re outnumbered, they can overpower the others in a blink.”
“Okay, then we need to take Smith out before they arrive.”
“Why?”
“Because he thinks we’re still trapped in the temple. With the element of surprise, we might stand a chance against one armed ex-Delta Force, but no way we can take down two. Surprise or not.”
“And how do you plan to take out Smith?”
“Easy. We steal his rifle.”
“Sorry, but that would be useless, I can’t shoot.”
Winter flashes me a wicked smile and slowly walks toward me. “You may not, Doctor.” She stops a foot away from me and gently pokes me in the chest. Then, with a wink, she adds, “But I sure can.”
***
One hour later, we’ve circled our way back to the front of the temple and have eyes on our temporary camp. The place is absolutely still, which hopefully means Smith is still asleep in his tent. But his M16 is nowhere to be seen.
“No rifle,” I whisper.
“Well,” Winter whispers back, “if I were a crook sleeping alone in the jungle, I’d take the big guns to bed with me.”
“So what do we do?”
“Cover me,” she says. “I’ll sneak inside his tent and steal it.”
“And how am I supposed to cover you?”
“I don’t know.” Winter shrugs. “Grab a shovel. If Sleeping Beauty wakes up, smash it on his head, I don’t care. He had it coming.”
Gingerly, careful not to make too much noise, we approach Smith’s tent. But when Winter pulls the flap open, the inside is empty. Well, not exactly empty. The rifle is there, but Smith isn’t.
With a quick precision that’s half-hot, half-scary, Winter grabs Smith’s M16, checks it for ammunition, and then cocks it over her shoulder. A rustling sound coming from behind makes us turn, and before I’ve had time to realize what’s happening, Winter bursts through the tent flap, trains the rifle on Smith, and shouts, “STOP RIGHT THERE! Hands up where I can see them.”
At the edge of the jungle, Smith, probably back from taking a leak, freezes with his hands in the air. His ever-present leer is not one bit dimmed by the fact of suddenly finding himself on the wrong side of the weapon.
“Come on, Barbie,” the soldier snickers. “We both know that rifle is useless in those pretty hands of yours—”
He reaches for the gun at his belt, but Winter is quicker, and sends a bullet flying an inch from Smith’s foot. Dirt explodes in a circular bubble near his toes, and Smith backs his hand away from his gun.
Eyes fixed on the rifle sight, she says, “Try a move again, and the next bullet goes in your kneecap.”
Again, I don’t know if I should be turned on or frightened to death.
“Oi, Barbie can shoot.” The soldier chuckles mockingly. “The world is full of surprises. I confess I hadn’t hoped to see you again so soon, Miss Knowles.”
“What can I say,” Winter quips right back. “I was missing you too much. Now, would you be so kind as to remove that gun from your belt, and the one at your ankle. The knives, too. Go slowly, and not another funny move.”
Some sort of unspoken sniper secret code must run between them, because to my utter surprise, Smith does exactly as he’s told. He must have finally decided Winter is a threat.
Once the colonel has removed all the weapons from his person, Winter instructs him to kick them our way. He does, and I quickly collect them, still eyeing my companion skeptically.
“How come you’re such a good shot?” I ask.
Her eyes flicker to me for a fraction of a second, and she smirks. “My mom’s from Indiana, originally.” She refocuses on Smith. “She was born and raised on a ranch, and we went to visit our grandparents every summer. Pops taught us how to shoot before we could walk.”
I swallow. “Remind me to never make you angry again.”
“Oh, I will.” She gives me that sweet, bone-chilling smile of hers, and then her face loses all humor. “Logan,” Winter says, her voice hard as steel. “We need to find a wire or something we can tie him with. I can’t keep him at gunpoint forever.”
I check the supplies Somchai left us and come back with two lengths of rope.
“Throw one at him,” Winter instructs.
I frown. “Why?”
“So he can tie his own feet.”
“I can do it,” I offer.
“No, you can’t,” Winter says. “He could grab you in a hundred different ways the second he gets his hands on you and threaten to choke you or snap your neck. Our government paid top dollars to transform him into a living killing machine. We’re both staying well away from him until he’s incapacitated.”
Smith’s responding sneer is evil. “Other than being a good shot, you’re smarter than I thought,” he says, something close to admiration audible in his voice.
I throw him the rope, and Smith obediently ties his feet together. I’ll make sure to check that the knots are tight once his hands are bound.
Winter gives him her next order. “Now tie the other rope around your wrist, bring your hands to your back, and loop the rope inside your belt twice. Then turn around—as always, slowly.”
Smith does, and when he has one hand securely restrained behind him, Winter says, “Logan, time to finish the job.”
I tie his other hand, then lift the colonel bodily, drag him to a nearby tree, and use the rope to secure him to the trunk.
Once Smith is restrained, and I’ve double-checked the knots, Winter lowers the rifle, letting her shoulders relax.
“What’s next, G.I. Jane?” I ask. “Should we wait for the rest of the group?”
“No, we make a run for it.”
“Why? We have him. There’s no more danger of—”
“Carter or Montgomery will arrive soon. They might just blunder in and get the jump on us, or they might scout ahead, see Smith tied up, and ambush us. Too many things could go wrong. We need to get lost, find civilization, and call for help.”
“You expect me to leave him here? With all the gold? So he and his cronies can steal it?”
“I don’t care about the stupid treasure; I just want to make it out of the jungle alive. We have to find help.”
“And what of the others? We need to warn them.”
“We can’t; Logan, we have to go. Every second we lose is thinning our chances.”
“Listen to Barbie, Professor,” Smith taunts. “Make yourselves scarce and hope we don’t catch you.”
Winter scowls at him but doesn’t engage. “Let’s gather all that we can and get out of here.”
First, we drink as much water as we can from the stock Somchai left behind. After a day and a night spent rationing, the water is sweet and fresh as it flows down my parched throat. I gulp it down until my stomach begins to stretch. Then I fill all the canteens I’m comfortable carrying without collapsing, and, finally, reload my backpack with more food. Lastly, I pick up one of the machetes. I’d like to take them all, but they’d be too heavy to bear. Winter, her hair now dry, combs it back in her signature twin braids, gathers her camera gear, and nods at me she’s ready.
“Which way should we go?” I ask.
Throwing a hateful glare at Smith, she comes next to me to whisper in my ear. “Let’s retrace our steps on the road for a while, then we can decide. Should make it harder for them to track us.”
“Okay. Somchai and the others shouldn’t arrive before noon, which should give us a good head start.”
“All right.”
We nod at each other and, without sparing Smith another glance, we head for the thick of the jungle.
“Au revoir,” the soldier calls mockingly after us, just as dark, heavy storm clouds obscure the sky and a clap of thunder rumbles in the distance.