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"I take great pleasure in raping women, listening as they scream and beg--"
A brawny arm tightened around his throat and choked off his words. "This is for all the women you made suffer," said Pitt, a macabre look in his intense green eyes, as he cast aside the poncho, jammed the barrel of the .45 Colt down the front of Amaru's pants, and pulled the trigger.
For the second time the small confines of the room echoed with the deafening sound of gunfire.
Giordino hurled himself forward, his head and shoulder driving into the startled guard, crushing him against the hard wall, causing an explosive gasp of pain. He caught
the distorted look of horror and agony on Amaru's face, the bulging eyes, his mouth open in a silent scream, a fleeting glimpse of the Heckler & Koch flying through the air as his hands clutched the mushrooming red stain in his groin. And then Giordino punched the guard in the teeth and tore the automatic rifle from his hands in almost the same movement. He swung around in a crouched firing position, muzzle aimed through the doorway.
This time Shannon didn't scream. Instead, she crawled into a corner of the room and sat motionless, like a waxen effigy of herself, staring dumbly at Amaru's blood splattered over her bare arms and legs. If she had been terrified earlier, she was now merely numb with shock. Then she stared up at Pitt, lips taut, face pale, specks of blood in her blond hair.
Rodgers was staring at Pitt too, with an expression of astonishment. Somehow he knew, recognized the eyes, the animal-like movements. "You're the diver from the cave," he said dazedly.
Pitt nodded. "One and the same."
"You're supposed to be back in the well," Shannon murmured in a trembling voice.
"Sir Edmund Hillary has nothing on me." Pitt grinned slyly. "I scramble up and down the walls of sinkholes like a human fly." He shoved a horrified Amaru to the floor as if the terrorist were a drunk on a sidewalk and placed a hand on Giordino's shoulder. "You can relax, Al. The other guards have seen the light of decency and virtue."
Giordino, with a smile as wide as an open drawbridge, laid aside the automatic rifle and embraced Pitt.
"God, I never thought I'd see your gargoyle face again."
"The things you put me through. . . A damned shame. I can't go away for half an hour without you involving me in a local crime wave."
"Why the delay?" asked Giordino, not to be outdone. "We expected you hours ago."
"I missed my bus. Which reminds me, where is my Dixieland band?"
"They don't play sinkholes. Seriously, how in hell did you climb a sheer wall and trail us through the jungle?"
"Not exactly a fun-filled feat, believe me. I'll tell you over a beer another time."
"And the guards, what happened to the other four guards?"
Pitt gave a negligent shrug. "Their attention wandered and they all met with unfortunate accidents, mostly concussions or possible skull fractures." Then his face turned grim. "I ran into one pulling Doc Miller's body through the main entrance. Who carried out the execution?"
Giordino nodded at Amaru. "Our friend here shot him in the heart for no good reason. He's also the guy who dropped the safety line down around your head."
"Then I won't bother myself with remorse," Pitt said, staring down at Amaru, who was clutching his groin and moaning in agony, fearful of looking to ascertain the damage. "Kind of makes me warm all over knowing that his sex life just went dysfunctional. Does he have a name?"
"Calls himself Tupac Amaru," answered Shannon. "The name of the last Inca king. Probably took it to impress the hill people."
"The Peruvian students," Giordino said, remembering. "They were herded down a stairway underneath the temple."
"I've already released them. Brave kids. By now they should have the guerrillas tied up and neatly packaged until the government authorities arrive."
"Not guerrillas, and hardly dedicated revolutionaries. More like professional artifact looters masquerading as Shining Path terrorists. They pillage precious antiquities to sell through international underground markets."
"Amaru is only the base of a totem pole," added Rodgers. "His clients are the distributors who make the bulk of the profits."
"They have good taste," observed Pitt. "From what I glimpsed, there must be enough prime merchandise stashed here to satisfy half the museums and private collectors in the world."
Shannon hesitated a moment, then stepped up to Pitt, put her hands around his neck, pulled his head down and kissed him lightly on the lips. "You saved our lives. Thank you."
"Not once but twice," Rodgers added, pumping Pitt's hand while Shannon still clung to him.
"A lot of luck was involved," Pitt said with uncharacteristic embarrassment. Despite the damp, stringy hair, the lack of makeup, the dirty and torn blouse over the black swimsuit, and the incongruous hiking boots, he still saw a sensual lustiness about her.
