by S. D. Perry
A high animal shriek echoed up from the dark, strange and wavering.
Lara froze as the scream died off, echoing wildly. A bird? Was that a—
—and she had only just registered the frantic rush of beating wings beneath the fading echo when a thousand bats came pouring up from the pit. They squealed and flapped and funneled around her. She ducked, dropping to one knee, hands down, her headlamp illuminating a dark, disorienting swarm of membranous wings and tiny white teeth.
Don’t move! The colony was huge but they were spinning toward the tunnel behind her, seeking escape. She only had to wait—
Claws caught in her ponytail, caught and held.
The snared, terrified animal screamed in her ear, the sound so high she could feel it in her teeth, its wings beating at her ears.
Lara reached for it as several more smacked into her. She made the mistake of opening her eyes, and felt her balance shift.
She rolled forward, the bat struggling free and skittering away as she aimed for the end of the bridge, or where she thought the end was, in the storm of dark furry bodies. She was wrong, but only knew it when her right shoulder found open air, and then she was falling.
Muscle memory kicked in. Lara grabbed for the bridge, managed to slap it on her way down, getting her feet under her. She relaxed her legs and hit the sloping edge into the tunnel beneath on the balls of her feet, facing the wall of the cavern. She threw herself forward, scrabbling to grab hold of anything that could slow her down, but the rocks were smooth here, the cracks shallow.
She slipped backwards from the wall, tumbling at an angle, rocks and rapidly shrinking bats flashing past her in a dizzying swirl.
Head up, keep your head up!
She ripped the ice axe from her belt, swung it. The head scraped across the wall and she got her legs pulled around—
Her butt slammed into and skidded off the steep slope, pushing her forward into open air.
Lara twisted and struck with the pick as hard as she could, the impact shuddering up her arm, her fall arrested for a split second before the pick broke loose and she was falling again, this time her right hip crunching against the wall of the passage between the next two tunnels, spinning her sideways.
Arrest!
She struck with the pick again, putting everything into it—and again, the pick held for less than a second, but it was enough time to spot the floor, only a few meters down.
She dropped. When her feet touched she pushed forward, tucked herself tightly and shoulder-rolled across a tumble of guano-splattered stones. She came up crooked but threw herself into another roll. When she came up again, she ran three steps and then stopped.
She grabbed her pocket torch and added its more powerful light to that of the headlamp’s, quickly taking in where she’d landed. She was in a rock chamber at the bottom of the slide, several meters high and quite wide. It descended south, narrowing to a tunnel. There were other openings along the wall to the west, dark holes in the stone.
There was no sign of whatever animal had spooked the bats. No bats, either, although she’d clearly found their roost, or one of them. The reek was spectacular, the floor thickly greasy underfoot, creeping scat-eaters crawling over the surface. She wiped at her shoulder, breathing through her mouth.
She checked herself. Her tailbone ached; she wouldn’t sit right for a week. Her hip was going to bruise spectacularly, too—but nothing was broken. She’d trained to fall, to go loose and slow the descent, to channel the force of the landing, but no amount of training could have prevented her from slamming into a boulder on the way down. She’d been extraordinarily lucky.
Lara stepped back to the slide, looking up. She’d managed to drop twenty meters, and there wasn’t a way to climb back up without putting in some serious time.
She exhaled heavily, putting the axe on her belt. Her sigh echoed back at her. She hadn’t focused overly on the layout of the lowest levels, but she remembered that they were mostly connected, and some of the chambers had tunnels that went up into the center. She could find one of the vertical wells higher up. The maps—
Uh-oh.
She quickly unbuttoned the pocket over her aching hip and pulled out the cheap phone that held Marin’s SD card. The screen was shattered, and the power button did nothing but click.
She stared at the broken device, considering her options. She thought the middle opening in the west wall connected to the tunnel that she’d passed back at the first branch…
Which is also a serious climb; Marin’s notes said so. And you’ll be back where you started. Go south.
She thought she had a pretty good mental map of how the labyrinth was laid out. Wide, wet chambers at the bottom, a confused mass of dead ends and winding passages through the middle, two main corridors that twined across and over each other at the top. The rooms she needed were there. As deep as the labyrinth went, it didn’t extend more than four kilometers from side to side. She was going to have to climb up somewhere, but if she continued south along the floor, she was bound to find an easier ascent.
Sure, like you knew you were going to be fine on the bridge.
If she got into more trouble, Jonah wouldn’t know where to come looking. The safest course was to wait where she was; when she didn’t get back on time, he’d come in after her. She’d left only the one grease-pencil mark for him to follow, but if she stayed here, she would hear him get to the bridge.
The radio. No chance he would hear her, but the signal might still get through. Three taps, followed by three more: Come find me. He could be hauling her up in less than an hour.
Could be, if he hears it, which he won’t. You’re too far out of range for anything and you know it. And you also know you’re not going to wait for two minutes, let alone any number of hours.
Just as well that they couldn’t make contact. What would she say? Jonah, due to an entirely preventable accident, I’m not where I’m supposed to be and I’ve lost the maps. I’m pretty sure I remember everything important, though, so I’m going to wing it. Fingers crossed that I don’t get lost or accidentally blow myself up. Also, there’s some animal down here that may or may not be predatory, but I’m hopeful that it’s a bird, so don’t worry.
Would he argue with her, though? Jonah knew the clock was ticking. The disasters she’d set off would continue, and Dominguez was racing against time, too, to have everything in place when the “cleansing,” as he’d called it, was complete. He had Trinity’s resources and a mad dream and she was one of a very few people who knew what he was looking for and might actually be in a position to stop him.
How sure are you that he needs to be stopped? What if he can use the box to halt the cleansing?
What if he’s insane and means to destroy the world?
“It doesn’t matter,” she said aloud, and when the echo died, she could hear the whisper of the crawling bugs but nothing else. It didn’t matter. There were risks, but it was on her to take them.
She set the dead phone at the bottom of the long slope, in sight of the bridge, checked her compass, and headed south, doing her best to skirt the gently moving mass of whispering insects.
* * *
In his dream, Miguel was in a bar that he liked in Mexico City, playing darts with his friend Diego. Diego had just won, but barely, and he was grinning as he pulled his darts from the board.
Miguel was glad they were out on the town. He and Diego had learned how to fly together, studying for tests in the back of Diego’s mother’s apartment. He hadn’t seen Diego in forever but here they were, standing at the board, and Diego was saying something but Miguel couldn’t hear him. There was a crowd of men in the back room, watching a game or playing one, shouting, laughing. They were loud.
“What?”
“I said, somebody’s coming! You have to—”
The men in the back room roared, and Miguel could see Diego’s lips moving but he couldn’t make out the words— and hadn’t Diego died in a crash in Argentina? Miguel
had been to his funeral, he remembered, he’d worn his only suit.
Even as he thought it, Diego’s face started to blacken and shrivel, his eyes falling back into his skull, his jaw hanging open and then falling off. Miguel screamed but the unseen men screamed louder, and then Diego raised one rotting hand and slammed his darts into the board, stabbing it, bam, bam, bam!
Miguel jerked awake.
“—up, you fuck!” One of Gabriel’s friends, the guy with no front teeth, was hammering on the door of his plane. He had a rifle and he looked pissed. “Get out!”
Miguel shook his head, confused. After Jonah and Lara had gone, he’d fueled the plane and taxied to the top of the runway, close to the camp. Everyone was in a good mood with money to spend; even Gabriel seemed to come around when they’d started shooting dice. But now all the men were shouting in confusion, Davi and Gabriel both barking orders, men taking up arms.
“What? Why?” Miguel sat up and realized that beneath the shouting he could hear the faint sound of engines, coming in from the northwest.
The thug pointed his rifle at the window. “Out!”
Miguel was wide awake. He fumbled at the door. As soon as it was open, Toothless grabbed his shoulder and yanked him out and to the ground. Miguel stayed down, his heart thundering.
“Who is it, Spicy?” Gabriel Santo Almeda screamed above the din, and Miguel looked up to see the older brother striding over, an Uzi in his hand. “Who’s coming? Who did you sell us out to, you bastard?”
Miguel’s blood ran cold, a lead ball forming in his gut. Trinity. Somehow they had followed Lara or found out where she was going.
“Stop!” Davi shouted. “Shut the fuck up, all of you!”
Incredibly, most of the men shut up.
“The pilot, Winters, says it’s an emergency—”
“Bullshit!” Gabriel spat.
“Of course it’s bullshit, it’s about whatever he’s into,” Davi said angrily, gesturing at Miguel. “But Winters says he’s got money and he’s paying twice as much as what we just got. We let him land.”
“The fuck we do!” Spittle flew from Gabriel’s cracked lips. “When was the last time strangers came at all, and now twice in hours? That bitch conned you! She came in on Spicy’s fucking word and now her friends are coming, it’s some suspicious shit happening and—”
“Calm down!”
“—and we’re not going to get caught with our pants down! How do you know this guy Winters has money? How do you know? He’s with those people Spicy brought; it’s some kind of fucking bust or a takeover—”
“Think, you idiot!” Davi shouted. “Who gives a shit about us? We don’t need to insert ourselves into this, and that plane is going to fucking land anyway! You’re high and you’re drunk, and you will keep your shit holstered and your friends calm until we at least talk to the man!”
Gabriel swayed, glaring at his brother, gears grinding… then raised the Uzi, pointing it at Miguel. “Fine. I’m taking out this rat, though.”
Toothless and most of the rest called out encouragement, or at least looked at Miguel like he was dog shit, scowling. He was going to die.
Gunned down by the Santo Almeda crew, doesn’t it just fucking figure, he thought, with a detachment that surprised him. He hoped Mama didn’t take it too hard.
“Not yet,” Davi said. He had to raise his voice, the approaching plane’s engines loud, powerful. And approaching very quickly. “Winters might pay for him. Now quit fucking around. All of you, clean up!”
Gabriel stepped up to where Miguel half lay in the dirt, blinking, stunned that he was still alive.
“Get up, Spicy,” he growled, and then hauled back and kicked him in the thigh, hard enough to immediately lock the muscle, to spread agony through Miguel’s entire body.
Miguel cried out and rolled onto his back—and saw the giant silhouette of a Beechcraft 1900 bearing down on them, coming in at an impossible angle, its massive shadow blocking the stars.
“Get down!” Fish Eye shouted, and then everyone was ducking and hot air was blasting through the small compound, rattling the tarp of the shelter, knocking over chairs. The men’s cries were lost beneath the roar of landing. Miguel hugged the ground, his arms wrapped over his head, trying to brace for the explosion.
It was all over in a minute, and there was no fiery blast, only the dull crack of a few trees being slapped out of the ground and then the descending whine of engines powering down.
The men got to their feet, staring at each other.
“That was goddamn amazing,” Fish Eye said, and Miguel had to agree, distracted from his aching leg. The pilot had set a twin-engine cargo plane down on a strip that barely cleared its wingspan, and had stopped in impossible time.
Gabriel ordered that Miguel be tied to one of the canopy’s metal posts at the back, a rusting steel bar set into a rough block of concrete. By the time Davi and two of his men rode out to meet “Winters,” Miguel’s hands were secured behind his back and he was looped to the post with clothesline, two guys watching him. He couldn’t see any path here that was going to turn out well for him. Davi was right, someone had come because of what he was involved with—taking Lara Croft to her tunnels. It could only be Trinity.
Unless this is the police or the government, and they lied about Trinity. Lara and Jonah could be mental patients or international criminals on the lam, what did he know? He didn’t believe that, though. He thought they were nice people, not cons, and they’d hinted that this could be dangerous, even if they hadn’t come out and said it.
Even so, Miguel was all for a good cause, but not if he was going to end up shot for it. What the hell is Lara doing that they’d send in someone after her?
Yeah, and what were you doing, thinking that it was worth the cash? You’re not here because you said no.
The men had slung their rifles but they stayed standing, listening to the truck drive out and stop. A minute passed, then another. A couple of the drunks were mumbling trash talk, boasting about who they would kill and what they were going to do to Lara if she came back, and Gabriel told them to shut up. Miguel kept still and quiet, his eyes down.
The jeep started up again, and then its headlights were aimed back at the compound, growing, the sputtering whine of the engine rising through the warm night.
Everyone started to relax.
“It’s all worked out,” Fish Eye said. Several of the men nodded, a couple smiling.
“Gonna get paid today,” Toothless cackled.
“Yeah, we’ll see,” Gabriel muttered, and turned to look at Miguel. “Whatever happens, you’re dead, Spicy, and I’m going to make it hurt. You hear me? You’re dead, you’re—”
A neat black hole appeared in Gabriel’s forehead, the soft bang of a silenced pistol round whizzing by an instant later—and then there were more flat shots. Gabriel fell to his knees, blood running down his dirty face. He pitched forward and Miguel saw that the back of his head had been blown open. Fish Eye and Toothless and three others fell in quick succession, crumpling without even crying out.
“They’re shooting!” Two of the crew began firing their automatic rifles into the jungle, randomly spraying wide swaths of the dark beyond the compound.
“Finish it!” someone shouted angrily, in English, from the direction of the other plane. The surviving members of the brothers’ crew collapsed like they were marionettes whose strings had been cut. There was a final burst of fire from Gabriel’s screaming coke buddy, crouching in front of the radio room, and then the unseen shooters took him out, three head shots arriving in a patter, one-two-three: two across his cheek, one through his right eye.
A single member of the Santo Almedas’ crew was left— Nuno, the mechanic. He had thrown down his rifle and fallen to his knees, his hands high. “Don’t shoot! I surrender!”
The jeep pulled up, and a half-dozen strangers piled out. There was no sign of Davi or his men.
A handful of people crept into the yard from the jun
gle, wearing dark clothes, their faces smudged with black paint. They moved in as a team, sweeping short rifles and expensive-looking handguns.
“Koboshi, report!” A man had walked in among them, tall, dark, with burning eyes. He was broad-shouldered, his chin up, his dark facial hair and scowl giving him a sinister look. Even without the order there was no question of who was in charge.
One of the men from the truck responded quickly. “Greeting party dead, Commander, no casualties. Croft landed about two hours ago, took a truck.”
“Dixon caught one in the throat,” the commander said, and shook his head. “Random shot. All right, let’s get this going. You and Byers, wrap up Dixon and put him on the plane. Both of you and Alanis, you’re staying with the plane, in case any of these assholes had friends. Do some decorating; make it look like a deal gone wrong, a rival gang or something. The rest of you are with me.”
The man turned, looked around, saw Nuno still on the ground, his hands in the air.
“Who are you?” the man snapped.
“Just the mechanic,” Nuno said. “I’m not—”
The commander raised his handgun and fired, a single round punching through Nuno’s temple. The mechanic collapsed, blood soaking into the dirt around his head.
Miguel tried to swallow and found he couldn’t, his throat only clicked drily. He’d just watched a group of men get slaughtered in under a minute. The air stank of blood and smoke.
He looked up at the commander to find that the man was staring back at him, his dark eyes cool. “You’re coming with us, Mr. Riviera, to collect Ms. Croft and her friend.”
Miguel found his voice. “They just hired me to fly. I don’t know anything, I swear.”
The commander nodded. “Yeah, that doesn’t matter. You’re what I like to think of as leverage.”
“I only met Jonah yesterday,” Miguel said. “They barely know my name.”
The man smirked. “Wait, so you’re arguing that I should just kill you now? Really?”
