The Inca Temple

by Preston W Child

"What?"

  Liam opened her collar. "They tried to hang me, three men, a dog I saved, saved me."

  "And someone tried to poison Frank in France—"

  "In France?" Tami was flustered.

  "Yes." Olivia nodded. "In France, and Anabia almost died in a gas chamber too. Someone switched his protective gear with a faulty one. He should be dead."

  Liam smiled. "Yeah, he's one lucky bastard, right?"

  Lips trembling, hands gripping the steering wheel, Tami whispered, "Jabon."

  "Who?" asked Olivia.

  "Jabon is the man I told you of. I can't put it past him. He is loco. He could have known I'll be bringing my friends to help me. I assure you he set it up."

  "No."

  They all looked at Frank Miller. He looked out the window at a cart on the other side of the road. White smoke rose from it, so thick that the man behind was engulfed.

  Miller said, "There's someone else; he's not alone, this Jabon."

  "How do you know that?" Tami asked.

  "All the attacks happened approximately at the same time, within minutes or hours of each other. Someone pulled considerate weight. That's not something a pawnbroker could do alone."

  "And we haven't heard from Andrew yet, and Victor," Anabia added.

  "What we are trying to say, Tami, is we can't stay in your place," Miller continued. "I have booked a hotel here in town. It isn't the Sheraton, but I've been told it's alright. I imagine they know we are here now. So would you get your things and come with us? It'd be safer for you and for us."

  Tami agreed. She went up to her apartment while the team waited for her. The rowdy street suddenly changed tempo when a truck loaded with policemen suddenly turned onto the street.

  Olivia saw them through the side mirror.

  "Guys, something's wrong."

  The men turned around. There were two trucks, actually. Olivia had missed the second one because it was directly behind the first one. They were both painted green like army camouflage. One stopped behind the car, and the other went on and parked a block away. Four policemen in rumpled blue uniforms, face caps with POLICE written on them, walked over to the car. Each one brandished an AK-47. Two policemen laughed their way into the building.

  One policeman poked his head through the window of the driver's side.

  "Good day to you, gentlemen, and lady."

  "Hello, officer," Miller said in a tight voice.

  "May I know the nature of your visit to Peru?"

  "You are not immigration, are you?"

  The cop cackled laughter at Miller. "No, we are not, but we are the police. Immigration is at the border, Mr. American."

  Miller spread his hands. "I can't help you, Officer."

  The man laughed some more. He winked at Olivia.

  "We'll see."

  Minutes after, the two cops who had gone up to the building came back out. With them was Tami. She shook her head at Olivia grimly. They shoved her in the back of the truck and drove away.

  Olivia took the driver's seat. She followed the police trucks.

  —

  Olivia spent ten minutes at the police station. When she came back out, her shirt was soaked with sweat.

  "They say Tami stole the artifact."

  "What?" the men chorused.

  "Yeah, they refused bail."

  Liam asked, "Is that legal here or what?"

  "Anything is legal here if you're powerful," Miller said.

  Olivia got into the car. They drove to a hotel that Miller had booked the team online; it looked like a motel on I-98 in Los Angeles. A small parking lot beside it with no cars but a dog tied to a tree. Miller confirmed their reservations at the lobby, went back to get the guys, and they were herded to their room. Miller had reserved a different room for Olivia, in the hopes that Tami would bunk with her.

  Next, they needed supplies and a map of the Inca temple. And definitely, Lawrence Diggs.

  "Yes, Lawrence Diggs," they said in unison.

  Meanwhile, Olivia drove back to the police station with Miller.

  —

  Somewhere across town, Pietro Oscar was flying in a rage on the phone.

  "What are you talking about you missed! Not one of them was killed!"

  "We did out best," the voice on the phone said.

  "You did not do you best, you fucking pussy! You didn't even get one of them. Six people, six untrained, ordinary people, and you could not kill even one—"

  "One of them was a CIA trained personnel," the voice put in. "The man we sent was the best the CIA has, but he killed him and buried him in the sand. We just found his body; a raccoon dug him up."

  Pietro closed his eyes and cursed. He made a fist and struck the nearest wall. He was surrounded by his guards. They flinched every time he hit something.

  "How do you want us to proceed?" the voice asked.

  "Proceed? Proceed to where? Fucker, these fuckers are here already. They just got into town today! Everything has already proceeded to shit, and wherever things fucking went when they aren't going right. My friend, you better hope I don't find you, cos when I do, I'm gonna peel you up over your forehead, you hear me?!"

  He heard the dial tone, it sounded like all the disappointments in his life, raised to the power of zero.

  "Talbot! Talbot!"

  He gritted his teeth at the phone, struggling not to strike it against the wall.

  "Who was that?"

  Pietro glared at the man who had been sitting on his sofa. He was the police chief. Chief Armando Suarez has been playing that position for two years.

  Pietro dropped himself in the puffy chair opposite the policeman.

  "Some CIA idiot I know," he said. "Even my men bring better results than the CIA."

  "I told you, Pietro. You should have let them come, and we deal with them here, our style, our way."

  "Well, they are here. Have them arrested or something before they go up there."

  "No, not like that, too obvious. We'll make the men disappear."

  "Do you have the woman, the artist's wife?"

  "Good." Pietro rubbed the side of his jaw. "She's a pretty woman. I might just take her for myself, yes."

  "Of course, it's your money, your tune."

  "Make sure she gets no bail!"

  "Done."

  —

  The constables—Wasn't that what they called these guys here? Olivia thought—would not let Olivia see Tami Capaldi. She waited in a hot hallway on a bench that made her bottom sore after only five minutes of sitting. The constable was a shabby-looking guy. His beret was turned down over his left ear. His black mustache gave him an appearance like a cartoon. He had told Olivia to wait for the police chief who was the only man alive who could authorize Tami's bail. And he would be back in ten minutes.

  Twenty minutes later, Olivia was back at the desk.

  "Ten minutes," the cop said again.

  "You said ten minutes, twenty minutes ago."

  The cop shrugged and went back to reading a hunting magazine.

  Olivia went back to sit.

  —

  Miller had left Olivia at the police station to get supplies at an outlet in Cusco. He bought ropes, harpoons, pickaxes, helmets, and hammers. Then he picked up batteries, torchlights, and heavy-duty power drills.

  The store attendant looked at the pile and asked, "You looking to do some exploring?"

  "Yeah."

  "Some guy, an American, came round too. He bought pretty much the same things you just bought."

  "You don't say?"

  "I say. The man was American, for sure, like you."

  "And where's he now?"

  "How am I supposed to know? I just provide the tools, I don't follow them around."

  "Well, you should," Miller said as he packed his stuff in his backpack. "You have a responsibility for what they do with your tools."

  The man pulled his cap lower on his jowly face. He had some grey in his beard and a blackhead on his prominent nose. He gave
Miller a sour look; Miller slipped his credit card over the stainless steel table. The man kept quiet until he slipped the card back to Miller.

  "You be careful out there. God speed."

  Miller thanked him and walked out of the store.

  —

  He was driving back to the police station when he noticed a dark green car that had stayed with him most of the way out of Cusco. Miller had changed lanes twice to make sure paranoia wasn't an ally in his suspicion.

  The car had almost crashed into a fruit truck to stay on Miller. He counted four dark heads in the car, and what appeared to be sticks or guns.

  He pulled into a gas station just before he entered the Apachia proper. It wasn't a self-servicing pump station, so Miller stepped out to pay the attendant and to get a look at the guys in the car when they passed by.

  The car didn't pass by; it pulled into the gas station, behind Miller.

  Two heavily-set men jumped out with AK-47s. Then three more except the one at the wheels.

  The one who seemed to lead the gang wore a black bandana over his head. He wore dark shades, a white tank top. Muscles bulged all over his body.

  "Nice car," the guy said, poking his head in the window.

  "Nice abs, you've been living in the gym, working out."

  The guy laughed. He looked back at his people. "He knows how to joke, hahaha!"

  The gas attendant's hand shook as he took Miller's cash. He pocketed it and quickly tramped into the small shop. He shut the door and watched from behind the glass.

  "Do you know how far from here to Apachia?"

  Miller shrugged. "I don't know, enlighten me."

  The thing looked at his other thugs. He nodded at them. "Educate this American on what happened to the nose-poking foreigners."

  Miller ducked as one of the thugs landed the butt of his gun on the windscreen of the car. It shattered in a thousand pieces. More thugs descended on the car, breaking the headlights and bashing the top of the car. Miller stood away by the gas pump. The tires hissed when the leader shot each tire one after the other.

  The car was a wreck when they were done. It was smoking.

  The leader popped the trunk open.

  "What do we have here?"

  Miller moved. "Hey, don't touch that!"

  A thug brought his gun butt down on Miller's head. He fell on the floor, cutting his palm on glass shards. His head bled, and he saw stars. His eyes glazed over, and his ears tingled.

  When he raised his head, a sportscar was pulling into the gas station. A wiry man stepped out. His hair was blond. His face looked familiar. He wore dark shades.

  Their leader hollered.

  "Hey, go somewhere else to buy your gas, we are—"

  Blam! Came the sound of the gunshot that cut the thug's words off. He was thrown off his feet and slammed against the open trunk. He fell inside it in a limp lump.

  "Diggs…" Miller smiled wickedly.

  The other thugs were caught off guard, petrified momentarily by what just happened. Diggs pointed two enormous shotguns at the three men with AKs. His hands were so steady they could have been implants.

  "Why don't you boys get in your car and head back to Pietro, tell him the devil is on vacation in your town, huh?"

  The boys scampered into their car, and the vehicle careened onto the highway and hightailed it.

  The attendant in his shop pumped his fist. He hissed, "Yes!"

  Diggs pulled Miller up. "You alright, man?"

  "I am now."

  —

  Olivia made her way into the chief's small office. The office felt like an oven. Even though an air-conditioning box on the wall behind it huffed and puffed.

  "You know that woman stole from his boss?"

  "Did the boss file the complaint?"

  The chief frowned. "The boss doesn't have to."

  "Well, we'll see what he has to say about that—"

  "Okay."

  "And we'll see what the world has to say about refusing bail to a woman for taking some worthless piece of metal when I write about it in the Times magazine."

  The chief laughed. The chief stared at Olivia, sweating, and from every pore in his face. "I know you are a journalist, but that's in Miami, not here. I could have you arrested for not minding your business."

  Olivia thanked the man for his time and left. She passed a man in the hallway. The man gave her a curious look with dead eyes. Olivia thought he looked like an Elvis Presley wannabe.

  She took a taxi back to the hotel.

  —

  Seth Kowalski was in the police chief's office all of five minutes.

  "I'm here on the authority of the president of the United States of America. I will be doing some things, some of them you may not like, others in your favor. Tell your boys to stay out of my way mostly, and no one gets hurt."

  "What do you want?"

  "I'm looking for a professor who disappeared in your town recently. He's American, a professor. He goes by the name of Patrick Coleman."

  "Yes, I heard about him. Dead I assume."

  "I'll be the judge of that."

  The chief pursed his lips. "But my boys are not the ones you should be worried about."

  Kowalski raised his brows.

  "Yes, there's another group."

  "Tell me."

  So the chief told him about Olivia and her team.

  —

  Lawrence Diggs treated Frank Miller's wound. Miller was holding an ice pack to his head when Olivia came in. There were beer and food that Liam cooked in the kitchen because they couldn't trust the hotel's food, or any food in Apachia for that matter.

  It was apparent the team posed a significant threat. It was evident a lot was at stake. The police were in on it as well, and they were in cahoots with the syndicate leader Pietro Oscar.

  "Who's this guy?" Liam asked.

  Diggs said, "He's a killer, as bad as they come. He specializes in buying loyalties and guns. If the gold in that temple is as legit as you say, Olivia, then he'll do anything to stop us."

  "Which means we need to move in tonight," she said.

  They all looked at her as though she had just set her head on the table.

  "You're kidding, right?" Liam said.

  "No."

  They had nothing to bargain with where things stood. Their only advantage was the said gold.

  "Then why isn't anyone taking it yet?" Anabia asked.

  Olivia shrugged. No one had the answer to that. Except that the locals have a belief that there's a demon in the temple protecting the gold. Miller said not everyone shared the superstitious crap. "This Pietro guy wants it for sure. He's probably rounding up his boys now for an invasion."

  "What about Tami?"

  Olivia picked up the car keys. "I'm gonna get her bail, or get the cops to drop the charges. I want to go see her employer."

  Miller said, "Be careful."

  Diggs cocked his gun.

  —

  Old man Rodriguez was at his counter, bookkeeping his austere sales when Olivia walked in. Roddy bared old stained teeth at her, asked what he could delight her with.

  Olivia looked around the antique shop and said she'd like a horsewhip. Rodriguez made an exaggerated show of disappointment.

  "Lady, I don't have whips, but I have old horseshoes fit for hanging on your wall."

  "Why would I want to hang horseshoes on my wall?"

  "Same reason you white people hang deer heads."

  "Right."

  Olivia walked over to the pile of carpets in the back. She saw the steps that Tami mentioned. Olivia wondered what else could be of value up there. Rodriguez said the carpets don't cost much if she was interested.

  "I'm interested in someone else."

  Olivia turned to the man.

  "Someone? Who?"

  Olivia smiled and said, "An employee—former, sorry—of yours."

  "Tami?"

  "Yes, she—"

  "I have not seen her for days now." The man
seemed genuinely concerned. "You are friends with her?"

  "She has been arrested."

  "What?"

  "You can help her. The cops won't let her get bail, but they'd drop the case if you tell them she didn't steal from you, that you gave her the piece of antique she took from upstairs."

  Confused, old Roddy looked at the steps at the back. He frowned. "All I have up there are old things. I should burn them up when I have the time. There's nothing there of value."

  "Well, it seems she found something worth a lot. They stole it from her place, and now she's been arrested for stealing something that's not in her possession anymore. And you don't even know about it."

  Olivia shook her head.

  "If you come to the police station, you can help her get released."

  Rodriguez's face fell. He sighed and looked at his book. "The police in this town can't be trusted. They'd just look for something else to hold her for."

  "At least we can try, right?"

  "Indeed, we can. Can you come back around the evening? I need to do my taxes. I'll be ready then."

  "Deal."

  Olivia drove back to the hotel.

  —

  Pietro Oscar hated the sight of Seth Kowalski the second he saw the short man. Kowalski had the eyes of a snake and the cunning of a tortoise. The man reminded Pietro of Peruvian folklore about the tortoise. All of them ended in the misfortune of everyone other than the tortoise himself.

  "What do you want?" he asked him.

  "No, what do you want?"

  "What do you care what I want?"

  "Questions, questions, too many questions, fewer answers. Some say the world was built on questions. Why does this work this way? Why does that do that? How can we make it better? Questions. I say, fuck that! The world was built on the backs of the opportunists."

  It was a smooth speech. Kowalski eyed the bottom of brandy that Pietro had been drinking. He eyed the glass walls of the bar, the paintings, and the big thugs with AKs guarding the syndicate leader.

  "The world was built on all of this," Kowalski added.

  "That leaves the question: what do you want?" said Pietro. He twirled a bottle of alcohol and watched the CIA guy like he'd watch a pack of coyotes around his chickens.

  "I want to find the gold."

  "What gold?"

  "Questions again." Kowalski leaned forward. "Don't bullshit me. You know what I'm talking about. I don't like questions or the hassle of answering them. I just take what I find, and if there's more, I take that also. I'm here on a business for the United States of America. I want what Patrick Coleman found in the hills of Machu Picchu, with or without your help—"