Cult of the Black Jaguar (3 page)

Ethan hesitated, torn between pulling the trigger or just tying the man up, but before he could decide, the opportunity slipped from his hands.

A sharp pain in his shoulder made him turn around. Popi stood just inside the entrance to the Ossuary, a long blowgun in his hands. Ethan's suddenly numb fingers relinquished their hold on the gun. His legs collapsed under him.

Ambush,
he had time to think, as the bright Guatemalan daylight turned gray.
Stupid! I forgot about Popi and Luz.
He tried to stand but his muscles refused to obey. Distant sounds of fighting and shouting registered on his fading consciousness.

Then everything went black and silent.

Ethan. Ethan.

Someone was calling for him in the darkness. Where are you? he shouted, but there was no sound to the words.

Ethan!

He turned, but didn't, because he had no body. The thing he kept caged up inside him, the animal part of him, howled and shrieked, begging to be set free. Ethan told it to go, but it remained trapped, as lost and immobile as he was.

This isn't right. It's dark. Dark means night. Only daylight could—

Ethan!

Closer now, that voice. I know it. I—

“Ethan, wake up. Can you hear me?”

Cool wetness on his forehead accompanied the familiar voice. Ethan Foster opened his eyes. Rory Amos's round face hovered above him, its high forehead creased with worry. Behind him, tiny windows let in just enough light to turn darkness to dusk within the tomblike oven of the Ossuary.

Still daylight. That explains it.

Ethan attempted to raise his head but the movement sent everything spinning in rapid circles. He closed his eyes and groaned as nausea gripped his stomach.

“He's coming out of it,” Rory's voice moved away. Another took its place.

“Mr. Foster. Drink some of this juice. It will help you feel better.” He knew those nasal tones.

“Harrison?” Even to his own ears, his voice was barely more than a croaking whisper.

“Right the first time, old sport. Now drink. Doctor's orders.”

A shadow fell across him and warm liquid dribbled into his mouth. Sour-sweet fruit juice of some kind. Not what he needed. His already churning stomach protested the insult. He doubled over, spitting the nectar onto the ground. Dry heaves and cramps racked his body for several minutes afterwards.

After the episode passed, taking with it the worst of his symptoms, he was able to sit up and open his eyes. His hand moved to his shoulder.

“If you're looking for the dart that did you in, don't bother, I already removed it,” Harrison said.

Ethan held up a shaky arm and Amos grabbed it, helping him to his feet. “Good to have you back, boss. You've been out cold for a while.”

“It feels like I just came off a two-week bender.” Ethan rubbed his forehead while he waited for the world to stop doing lazy circles around him. “Jesus, what the hell did they shoot me with?”

Harrison thrust the wooden cup of juice at him again, but Ethan pushed it away. Even the smell was nauseating.

“Some kind of local toxin, probably a curare derivative,” the English doctor said. “Lucky for you they want us alive. Some of those Indian poisons can kill a man in under a minute. Veracruz left the juice, said it would wash out the poison. He also left our canteens.”

“Is everyone else all right?” Ethan glanced around the stone-walled room and took a quick headcount. Their party was all there.

Most importantly, Jenny was there, sitting beside her father. Both of them looked exhausted. Jenny started to rise, but Ethan motioned for her to stay with Heathcliff.

“Bruised and sore, but no broken bones.” Amos shrugged. “There was a bit of a tussle after you went down. Luz and Popi were hiding in buildings to either side of us. A classic trap. We put up a good fight, but in the end the professor told us to surrender.”

The younger man's tones indicated his distaste with the decision.

“Better to be prisoners than dead.” Heathcliff reclined against one ancient wall. Jenny patted his hand and held a canteen at the ready.

“You made the right decision,” Ethan agreed. He looked down at his wrist, but his watch was gone. Peering out of the small, square windows lining the walls he saw the sun still had a ways to go before it set. “It looks like late afternoon, maybe four or five o'clock. What've you been up to while I was out?”

“Cooling our heels and conserving our strength, mostly.” Amos waved his hand at the room. “They took everything we had; belts, watches, pocket knives. And our packs, of course.”

“What about the door?”

“It won't budge. They've got it braced from the outside. And the windows are too small for even Jenny or Harrison to fit through.”

Amos scuffed his boot against the dry earth. “Sorry, boss. I wish I had better news.”

“Not your fault, Rory. There was no way to know Hector and his men were crazy. We'll just have to be ready for any opportunity to escape.”

He turned and faced the others, cleared his throat to get their attention. “I don't intend for—” He stopped at the sound of voices from outside. A moment later the door opened, filling the dim quarters with golden, late afternoon sunlight.

Ethan's long-barreled Colt held out in front of him, Veracruz entered the prison. Popi and Luz followed close behind, rifles at the ready.

Veracruz pointed at Jenny. “It is time to prepare for the ceremony. You will accompany us to the temple, where you will be cleansed before the sacrifice. The rest of you will stay here until your blood is needed.”

“No!” Ethan lunged at Popi. Two punches to the stomach doubled the man over and knocked the gun from his hands, but the guide surprised Ethan by drawing a thin, obsidian-bladed knife and slashing across Ethan's midsection. The stone blade, sharp as German steel, sliced through Ethan's field vest and flayed open the flesh along his ribs.

Ethan cried out in agony and fell backwards, hands over the bloody gash. He tried to get up, but a heavy boot caught him in the chest, knocking the wind from him. Arrows of pain shot outwards from the knife wound.

Ethan caught glimpses of feet and fists as the expedition team once more exchanged blows with the natives. Even Harrison seemed to be putting up a fight.

“Father!” Jenny's voice rose above the general din. Veracruz had her by one arm and was dragging her away from Heathcliff's side. The white-haired historian lay on the ground, gasping for air.

“Enough! Stop or the girl dies!” Hector had his gun to her head.

“You're going to kill us anyway.” Ethan spat out the words through clenched teeth.

“Then perhaps I will merely wound her.” He moved the gun down to her stomach. “She can spend her last hours in agony, because of you.”

“No.” Ethan couldn't risk something happening to Jenny. They'd have to find another way to stop whatever madness Hector had planned. He held up a hand.

“All right. Everybody stop.”

Popi and Luz pushed Amos against the far wall next to Elton Harrison, who sported a bloody nose.

Hector passed Jenny over to his men and then trained his gun on the other expedition members. Jenny struggled violently to free herself until Luz slapped her across the face. Ethan wanted to shout as her eyes went glassy and she slumped forward in their grasp, but the pain in his midsection prevented him from taking a deep enough breath. A laughing Popi tore her khaki shirt open, exposing her bra and bare midriff. He pulled the shirt down to her wrists and bound them behind her back with it.

Ethan felt the blood rush to his face as the two men hauled Jenny towards the door. Her copper hair was mussed and dirty, and streaks of gritty soil showed on her chest and back. The delicate material of her bra did little to hide her bare flesh, and Popi made sure his hands groped her as he pulled her along. Ethan dug his fingers into the hard-packed earth. Despite her condition—or perhaps because of it—Jenny had a wild beauty about her, and he feared what would happen to her once Hector's men got her alone somewhere.

“Enjoy your last hours, my friends.” Veracruz smiled at them. “Soon the setting sun will call our Priestess from her slumber.”

The door slammed shut, and the heavy sound of wood-on-wood indicated the brace had been set as well.

“Damn you, Veracruz!” Ethan pounded a fist against the ground, ignoring the throbbing across his ribcage. His body craved one of his cheroots, and darker things as well. His hands wanted only to be around Hector's neck.

“Boss, you okay?” Amos knelt down beside him, tried to pull Foster's hand from his wound.

“I'm fine,” Ethan said, turning away and forcing his body to sit up. It took a greater effort than he expected, but he didn't stop. He knew he only had to deal with the pain until nightfall.

“Then you better take a look at Professor Pascal. He's in pretty bad shape.”

Concern for Heathcliff spurred Ethan to push himself to his feet and stagger across the chamber.

“He's not breathing well,” Harrison said.

Ethan lowered himself down next to his old friend. The professor's bearded face seemed to have aged years over the past few hours. His normally ruddy complexion had gone pale. Sickly dark smudges stained the flesh under his eyes, and his lips had a bluish tint to them. It alarmed Ethan that despite the intense heat in the Ossuary, the professor was no longer sweating.

The sound of Pascal's breathing reminded Ethan of a fat man trying to climb a long set of stairs. It wasn't a sound he'd ever heard Heathcliff Pascal make, not even after the longest of grueling jungle hikes.

“Heathcliff, can you hear me?” Ethan patted one of the professor's cheeks.

Blue eyes, uncharacteristically dull and faded, opened. “Ethan, my boy. They have Jenny. I tried to stop them…” Pascal paused to draw in a shaky breath. A tear rolled down his ashen cheek. “I tried…but I'm not as young as I used to be.”

“Don't worry. We'll get her back. In the meantime, you rest. You'll need your strength later. Can you tell me where you're hurt?”

Ashen lips turned up at the corners, a ghost of the historian's normally ebullient smile. “Not my bones, Ethan. It's my heart. They took my pack with my medicine. All this excitement…” He paused again. Ethan interrupted him before he could continue.

“I understand. Sit still. I'll get you something to drink. It will make you feel better.”

Ethan patted the man on the arm. Holding back a groan, he stood up and motioned for Harrison to give the professor a cup of juice. Grim thoughts circled like buzzards in his head as he watched the professor sip carefully at the sweet liquid.

My only friend in the world is dying. And I'm helpless to stop it.

He'd served as mission planner, senior guide and security guard for more of Heathcliff Pascal's excursions than he could count. Ever since the professor had found him in Italy, locked in an underground tomb and facing an eternity-long slide into insanity. From that moment on, they'd been inseparable.

South America, Mexico, Egypt. Even Mongolia, where they'd run across one of Roy Chapman Andrews' fossil-hunting expeditions. They'd spent a wild three days excavating the bones of prehistoric animals, all the while keeping a wary eye out for the bands of marauders rumored to be roaming the area.

Now, after more than thirty years together, the great explorer was in danger of losing his life because the crazy last members of an ancient cult had stolen his medicine. Ethan silently cursed the Gods who thought it entertaining to bring people together only to tear them apart again.

“We have to get his pack,” he told Amos. “He won't last long without his pills.”

“Forget about me. Save Jenny.” The professor's voice was little more than a choking whisper.

Jenny. If you don't get out of this, you'll lose them both.

“We will. Nobody's dying, not today.”

Ethan stared out one of the tiny windows. The Temple de Sangre rose above the other buildings, a monument to blood and death.

Ethan refused to picture Jenny laid out on the altar at the top, her life draining out onto the stones.

“I'll save you. I promise,” he whispered.

Ethan did his best to use the time until sunset to their advantage. He moved from window to window, memorizing as much of the city's layout as he could. He went over different escape options with Rory Amos and Elton Harrison. And he made periodic checks on Heathcliff Pascal's condition.

The native remedy seemed to have revived the old man somewhat. His breathing was no longer as labored, and he'd even managed to sit up on his own. But his face still remained drained of color, and his skin had gone cold and clammy. By unspoken agreement, all three men were letting Pascal have their shares of water and juice.

The minutes dragged on in the oven-like temperature of their prison. Eventually, however, the light reaching them through the windows began to change. First darker yellow, then orange, then blood-red. Tropical sunsets passed quickly, and as soon as he noticed the lengthening shadows, Ethan roused the others.

When the three natives came for them, Ethan had everyone on their feet and waiting. His plan was to rush their enemy at the door. His wound wasn't healed yet, but it had stopped bleeding, which was the best he could hope for under the circumstances.

The long, cold barrel of a shotgun stopped Ethan before he could take a single step. Veracruz sneered at them.

“You think I am stupid, Señor Foster?” He motioned with the gun. “Please come outside. One of you at a time. No tricks. You can meet the Priestess on your own two feet,” he smiled, “or we can drag you to her on bloody stumps.”

Ethan glanced back at Amos. “Do as he says.” He stepped through the door, arms raised. Luz and Popi stood outside, both armed with pistols. Ethan's hopes sank further. Attempting an escape at that point would be pointless; they'd all end up dead. Their only hope now would be if one or more of the guards got distracted on the march towards the temple.