Free Excavation by James Rollins Page B

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.
    Leaning forward, he dashed two quick steps, then flung himself headfirst with all the strength in his legs. He flew across the rows of tiles and landed hard upon the stone floor, ducking enough to take the brunt of the collision on his left side. Something snapped in his shoulder as he rolled into the short passage and came to rest against the toppled stone door.
    With a grimace, Gil shoved to his feet. He ignored the shooting pain in his neck. He had made it! Fingering his shoulder, he realized he had most likely broken his collarbone. Not a big deal. He had once taken three bullets in the chest. In comparison, this was nothing more than a scratch.
    Gil pulled free the precious goblet. One of its lips was slightly bent from the weight of his fall. But, like Gil, it had sustained no real harm.
    Stepping to the edge of the deadly pattern, Gil raised the chalice and spat toward the distant Incan king, the gold idol bright against the black stone. “I’ll come back and rape you yet!” he cursed.
    With that promise, he turned on a heel and fled.
    Â 
    Maggie knelt by the top of the ladder that led down to the third level of the ruins. “Someone’s coming!” she whispered, pushing Sam back from her shoulder.
    An instinct told her they needed to hide. Raised on the streets of Belfast, Maggie knew to listen to that inner voice of hers. Surviving among the constant gunfire and bombings between the warring Irish factions and the British military had taught Maggie O’Donnel the value of a good hiding place.
    â€œC’mon,” Maggie urged, pulling Sam with her. Norman and Ralph followed.
    Sam resisted, raising his rifle. “Maybe it’s looters. We should stop them.”
    â€œAnd get us all killed, you stupid git? You don’t know how many are down there, or how well they’re armed. Now let’s go!”
    Norman agreed. “She’s right. The leftist guerrillas around here, the Shining Path, are well equipped. Russian AK-47s and the like. We should leave any investigation to the security team.”
    Sam stared back to the ladder, then shook his head and followed Maggie. She led the group to a side chamber. No sodium lamps lit the room. Darkness swallowed them.
    â€œStay low,” Maggie warned. “But be prepared to run on my signal.”
    Sam muttered as he hunkered down beside her, “Maggie O’Donnel, combat archaeologist.”
    Maggie could just make out Sam’s form as a darker shadow among the others, but she could imagine his sarcastic smile.
    â€œYou know,” Ralph added in a whisper, “it’s probably just Gil or one of his men.”
    â€œAnd the scream?” Maggie said.
    â€œI’m sure that—”
    Maggie reached a hand to his knee to quiet the large man. She could hear the creaking wood as someone mounted the ladder from below. Whoever climbed was in a hurry. She could hear his panting breath and his scrambled flight. Lowering herself closer to the stone floor, Maggie watched theclimber’s head rise from the shaft.
    She recognized the lanky black hair and the spidery white scar on his bronze cheek. Guillermo Sala. The ex-policeman frantically crawled from the ladder, his feet almost slipping. Maggie allowed a breath of relief to escape her throat. Ralph was right. It was just the camp’s guard.
    She started to stand when she spotted the large burn blistered on his cheek. It cracked and bled. Gil swiped a hand to his wounded face and smeared the blood across his shirt. His eyes