Free Excavation by James Rollins

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 wasempty. Gil looked up. Miguel still hung by his spiked legs from the roof.
    Blood rained down from Miguel’s ruined