Juan’s corpse lay upon a neighboring gold tile, where he had managed to drag himself before dying. Blood pooled under his silent form. No new trap had been triggered when Juan had crawled off the silver tile that had originally sprung the trap. Could that be the answer? Were the gold tiles safe and the silver a danger?
There was only one way to find out.
Gil unslung his short rifle and poked it into Miguel’s ribs. “Move,” he ordered.
Miguel glanced from the rifle’s barrel to Gil’s face. “¿Que?”
“Hop over to that gold square,” Gil nodded toward a tile beyond the neighboring silver one. The direction led toward the golden idol. If they were to risk their lives, Gil wanted something to show for their efforts.
Miguel still stood frozen, disbelief and horror on his face.
“Go. Or die right here.” Gil shoved his rifle harder against Miguel.
His squat companion stumbled back a step, his heels just inside the square. “Please, ese, don’t make me do this.”
“Do as I say, or I’ll use your corpse to test the tiles.”
Miguel trembled, gaze swinging between the rifle and Juan’s corpse. Finally, his shoulders sagged. He turned to face the deadly pattern, made the sign of the cross, and jumped. His legs were so wobbly from fear that he barely managed to leap the short distance. He landed hard and fell to his hands and knees on the gold tile.
Gil saw that the man’s eyelids were squeezed tight as he froze in place, expecting the worse. But nothing happened. Slowly, Miguel opened his eyes and pushed shakily to his feet. He turned toward Gil, a feeble smile on his lips.
Gil called to him, relieved to find his theory proving true. “The gold tiles are safe. Stick to them and we can get in and out of here.” Still, Gil was taking no chances on being wrong. He waved his rifle. “Go on to the next, and I’ll follow.”
Miguel nodded. The next gold tile adjoined the tile he occupied. He merely had to step onto it. He did so slowly. Again nothing happened. The ancient mechanism just continued its continual creaking from beyond the walls and ceiling. Miguel moved onto the next golden tile, again having to leap a silver one. Still safe.
As Gil followed, he saw Miguel’s attitude grow more relaxed, though his lips still moved silently in continuous prayer. The pair slowly worked their way across the chamber. Tile by tile, row by row, they neared the golden idol. At last they reached the last tier that stood between them and the treasure. The tiles were all silver. The only gold tile was the one upon which the idol and the treasure rested.
Miguel turned to Gil, his expression clearly asking what now?
Gil studied the Incan king. Against the backdrop of black granite, the statue’s gold eyes seemed to stare back, mocking him. Gil bristled. He would not be thwarted by a bunch of idol worshipers. Not when he was so close.
He moved beside Miguel, again sharing his tile. Neither dared cross that silver river of tiles to the treasure beyond, but that did not mean he could not pilfer the piled wealth at the statue’s feet. Holding his rifle by its butt, Gil reached out with his weapon, stretching his arm across the silver toward the statue.
The tip of his rifle just reached the hoard. Gil nudged a few of the items, searching. He held his breath as he did so. What if there was another booby trap there? His straining ears seemed to pick up a slight change in the cadence of the mechanism’s gears. He cringed, but nothing happened.
Gil swore under his breath. The rifle bobbled in his extended grip. He was getting too jumpy. He took a steadying breath, then concentrated on his task, refusing to fail. He ground his teeth and ignored the growing burn from his straining shoulder. Finally, his efforts paid off. A pair of twin goblets was exposed, one gold, one silver, each embedded with rubies and emeralds in a serpent pattern. But the feature that most attracted Gil was the arched handles on the cups.
Something he could hook!
Slipping his rifle’s barrel through the handle of one, he lifted it free of the pile. He tilted the weapon, and the silver goblet slid down the barrel to rest against its wooden stock. Gil pulled the weapon back and stood. He shook the treasure off his weapon and passed it to Miguel. “For your bravery, mi amigo.”
Miguel held the goblet in trembling fingers. There was enough wealth in that single token to set up the squat man and his family for the rest of their lives. Miguel whispered a prayer of thanks.
Gil frowned and turned away. His companion should be thanking him, not his God. Gil knelt again and stretched his rifle to retrieve the golden cup. The second goblet was soon in his hands. Here was his reward. He knew a dealer in stolen antiquities that would pay triple the price of the gold in the cup for any intact Incan artifacts. Gil shoved the goblet into his jacket and turned his back on the statue.
He plotted what he had to do next. He patted the grenade in his vest. He had to protect the rest of the wealth here until he could bring in a demolitions team to neutralize the booby trap. Once the cursed apparatus was disabled, he and his team could collect the rest of the riches at their leisure. In his mind, he pictured the only other obstacle to his plans: the group of americanos sleeping snugly in their tents. He gripped his rifle. They must never see the dawn.
With his plan set, Gil waved Miguel on toward the exit. His companion needed no further coaxing, clearly glad to escape with his single small treasure. Miguel hopped to the next gold square.
It shot up under him with a scream of gears and pulleys. The tile, with Miguel atop it, flew toward the ceiling, borne up by a thick trunk of wood. Overhead, the corresponding silver tile in the ceiling slid back. Silver spikes thrust downward.
Miguel saw his death and tried to roll off the tile, taking his chance on the fall below—but he was not quick enough. His legs, from the knees down, were pinned by the spikes, driven through muscle and bone. Miguel screamed. Bones snapped like broken twigs as he thrashed in the grip of the spikes.
The gold tile then descended, sliding smoothly back to its place in the floor’s pattern. Smeared with blood, it was empty. Gil looked up. Miguel still hung by his spiked legs from the roof.
Blood rained down from Miguel’s ruined legs. He thrashed, arms pushing against the stakes. He finally won his freedom and fell the two stories to the metal floor. Again the crack of bones sounded with the impact.
Gil had glanced away when Miguel fell. He turned back. Miguel lay broken upon the tiles. Only one limb was still intact. The man tried to push up on his good right arm, but the pain was too much. He collapsed again. Too weak, too shocked to scream, only a low moan escaped his lips. He stared at Gil with begging eyes.
Gil could not save him.
Raising his rifle, Gil whispered, “I’m sorry, ese.” He shot Miguel through the forehead, the rifle’s blast deafening in the enclosed space. Miguel’s moaning stopped. Blood dribbled from the small hole in his forehead.
Gil studied the tiles once again. A gold one had killed Miguel! Why were they no longer safe? Was his theory wrong to begin with—or had the rules changed? He remembered the shift in the mechanism’s cadence as he had fished through the treasure. Something had altered. Gil stared. Miguel had landed on a silver square with no repercussion. Were the silver tiles now the safe ones? Gold when one approached, silver as one left. Could it be that easy?
Gil had no other cohort to bully into taking the risk. He would have to test his theory himself. Cautiously, he reached with his rifle and tapped its butt on the next tile—a silver one. Nothing happened. But did that prove anything? Maybe it would take his full weight to spring the trap. Slowly, he reached a booted foot and placed it on the square. Holding his breath, he leaned his weight onto this leg, ready to leap back with any shift in the tile or change in the gear’s timbre. Soon he stood with one leg on the new silver tile and one on the gold tile. Still, nothing changed.
Cringing, Gil pulled his other leg over onto the silver. He stood motionless. No harm came to him. Safe.
Sighing out his trapped breath, he wiped the sweat from his eyes. Tears ran down his cheeks. He did not know when they had begun to flow.
He stood on the silver tile. The next one would require leaping a gold square. Before he could lose his nerve, he leaped, rifle in hand and landed roughly on the silver tile. He froze but remained safe.
Grinning, he straightened and glanced back to the king. “I beat you, you bastard!”
He turned toward the exit and worked his way cautiously, but more rapidly, across the floor. It was his speed that saved his life. He hopped from one silver tile to its neighbor, just leaping off the first as it opened under him. From the shift in his footing as he jumped, he fell hard to the next tile. Overhead, a spray of water jetted from small openings that appeared in the corresponding roof tile. It showered into the newly opened pit behind him. Gil rolled around. A bit of the mist from the spray struck his exposed cheek; it burned with a touch of fire. Gil shoved away. Acid!
He touched his flaming cheek. His skin already lay blistered and oozing.
Gil shivered at the thought of being trapped in that pit below when the shower of acid struck. His death would have been long and painful.
The burning rain ended and the silver tile slid closed over the pit. Death had come within a breath of claiming him. Trembling, he struggled to his feet.
He stared at the traitorous silver tile. Silver! He had been wrong all along. Only pure luck and chance had carried him this far.
With this horrible realization dawning, he swung to face the exit. Escape lay three rows away—about three meters. He now knew he could trust none of the tiles. He would have to risk jumping. If he dived, he might just make it.
Gil stared at his rifle. He could not chance its weight. He dropped it along with the ammunition belt slung over his chest to the floor. Taking out the heavy golden goblet, Gil stared at it a moment, then returned it to inside his vest. He would rather die than lose this treasure. He shrugged out of his boots instead. Besides, if he was barefooted, he had a better grip on the tile’s silver surface anyway.
Once ready, he backed to the far edge, giving himself as much of a running start as possible. But he had only two short steps at most. Girding himself, Gil closed his eyes, and for the first time in decades, he prayed to his God for strength and luck. Prepared, he opened his eyes and clenched his fist. “Now or never,” he mumbled.