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Janus walked toward the aircraft. When he neared it, he stopped, turned to Sam, and called out over the noise of the rotor blades, “As I said, I don’t kill. Not even you, Sam Fargo.”
“At least you didn’t get the Eye of Heaven.”
“True,” Janus shouted above the thumping sound. “But there will come another time when a treasure will bring us together.” He turned and boarded the chopper as Sam stood frozen.
Sam watched as it lifted from the clearing and turned over the cliffs toward the sea. “Yes,” he said softly to himself, “there will come another time.”
Sam lowered the revolver as his eyes followed the darkened aircraft disappear into the night, leaving him alone on the bluff. The breeze tugged at his clothes as he made his way slowly back to the temple.
When he reached the entryway, Remi ran out and threw her arms around him. He hugged her for a long moment and then pulled back.
“He got away.”
Remi’s eyes radiated confusion. “He escaped? How?”
“I let him go. I couldn’t shoot an unarmed man in the back even if it was Benedict.” He explained what had happened.
Remi reached down and took Sam’s revolver from him. She peered at it in the moonlight, flipped open the cylinder, and then turned to him.
“Good thing. You were out of bullets.”
Sam and Remi watched as the heavily armed soldiers ringed the temple area and four medics came toward them. Remi pointed to where Lazlo was slumped against a wall and two of them went after a stretcher as the other two followed Antonio down the steps to Reginald.
Sam moved to Lazlo, who reached toward him with a shaking hand.
“Don’t try to talk. They’ll take care of you,” Sam said.
Lazlo motioned for him to come closer. Sam exchanged a glance with the medics, who shrugged as they stood, having stabilized Lazlo. Sam knelt by him and offered a grim smile.
“Save your energy, my friend. You’re going to need it.”
Antonio burst from the temple, a look of alarm on his face. Remi glanced at him.
“What is it?”
“The Eye of Heaven. It’s gone,” Antonio whispered, eyeing the dozens of soldiers who were milling around in the interior. “This is a catastrophe.”
Lazlo coughed and winced. “My . . . my jacket,” he said, turning his head to where one of the men had placed his bloody windbreaker.
“Are you cold?” Sam asked, alarmed.
“No. The . . . the jewel’s in one of the pockets.”
“What?” He scooped up the jacket, feeling the weight, and retrieved the emerald.
“I thought it might . . . be best . . . to remove temptation . . . if we were expecting . . . a crowd,” Lazlo said and closed his eyes, exhausted by the effort.
Remi and Sam exchanged a glance and Sam handed the jewel to Antonio, who took it reverentially. “Be careful, Antonio. That’s an important piece of history you’re safeguarding.”
Antonio nodded, a conflicted look in his eyes as he studied the gem, the memory of his sister clearly at the forefront of his thoughts as he held the treasure of the Toltecs in his hands.
Seven hours later, Lazlo regained consciousness at the military hospital in Veracruz after a two-hour surgery. The prognosis was good, and, with a little luck, he would mend, a puckered scar and a crescent-shaped incision as bragging rights.
Sam and Remi approached his bed as his eyes opened, his complexion still waxy and gray even after countless bags of blood and plasma. He cleared his throat and tried to talk, but Sam shook his head.
“Don’t. We’ll be back tomorrow. We just wanted to stick around until you came to. Looks like you cheated the Grim Reaper once again. Nine lives, the man has.”
“I . . .”
