FORTY
The helicopter hovers above the statue of Pachacutec, a steel cable dangling from its winch assembly. The noise and downdraft from its rotors turn the top of the tower into the yowling center of a localized storm. The statue stands on a raised platform, and it's high enough to obscure me as I lever myself onto the roof. The noise covers any clumsy noises I make.
There is a viewing area on the roof, but most of the space is dominated by the statue which fills up most of the back portion of the roof. On the other side of Pachacutec are three Arcadians: two are busy with the cable and a bound prisoner; the third is paying more attention to the stairs that descend from the roof. The cable is attached to a harness one of the two is wearing, and as I watch, he wraps his arms around the bound prisoner as both of them are lifted off the roof. He kicks off from the chest of the statue to make sure he doesn't get tangled in Pachacutec's outstretched hand.
His cargo is wrapped in an industrious web of restraints and her head is covered with a black hood. I can see enough of her clothing to recognize that it is Phoebe.
I hesitate. Where's Mere? As the pair go up, my stomach sinks.
The other car.
Things have been moving so quickly the last few minutes, I haven't had a chance to think about what's been going on, but it all starts to sink in. They aren't after Mere. They're snatching Phoebe.
She told me and I hadn't been listening. It's not about you.
Escobar wants Phoebe, for some of the same reasons he must have kept tissue samples from Nigel. But she's pure, a first generation child of Arcadia, untainted by reburial. They want her flesh to feed their chimera.
Talus wanted Nigel and me off the boat so he could take Phoebe. But that failed when Phoebe went overboard as well. Both sides floundered until Phoebe checked in with Callis. But he couldn't convince her to come in. She prefers the high ground, the sniper's position. She prefers to know a situation is safe before acting. She wouldn't expose herself, not after being betrayed on the boat by other Arcadians. She might trust Callis enough to call him, but not enough to reveal herself until after she had a chance to perform her own recognizance. By that time, I had made contact with Callis too. Knowing that she would watch me. Knowing that he could push me in the direction he wanted. Knowing that Phoebe would follow…
The second Arcadian shouts at the one watching the stairs, who turns his head. Unfortunately, as he does, his field of vision encompasses me. He brings his rifle up, and I dart to my left, putting as much of Pachacutec's legs as possible between him and me. Bullets ricochet off the bronze statue, and as I come around the statue's left side, I return fire, sending the Arcadian ducking down the recessed stairs.
The other Arcadian has nowhere to hide and so he charges me. I pull the trigger on the MP7 and nothing happens. The magazine is empty. I forgot to check how full it was before I started climbing. He's on me before I can eject the magazine and put in another. He shoves my gun aside with one hand, grabbing me with the other. As if we were going to grapple, Greco-Roman style.
With very little effort, I throw him. He bounces once, slides a meter or so, and then discovers he's out of roof. He has a surprised—and somewhat hurt—look in his eyes as he scrabbles at the edge of the roof, as if I have somehow cheated. And then he is gone.
I've just been wrestling longer than he has. Quite a bit longer.
The third guy is still hiding in the stairwell, and there's no easy way to approach him without giving him a clear shot, and so I dig in my pocket for my last grenade. Pull the pin, toss it over like I'm throwing a bean bag at a lawn party, and shake my head at the foolishness of hiding in a hole.
I drop the empty magazine from my MP7, and slap another one in.
The grenade goes off, and I'm sure the noise and flame are signal to the helicopter crew that something is amiss on the rooftop. There's no sign of Phoebe and the Arcadian who went up with her—they must be on board already—and the cable is still hanging down beneath the helicopter. On its way for the other two, who are no longer in need of it. For a second, we're caught in that moment of transition: Brains processing signals. Decisions being made.
I leap for the statue, scrabbling like a monkey up its bronze chest. I hoist myself up onto its outstretched arm, and as the sound of the helicopter's engine changes and its nose starts to dip, I leap off the statue. The helicopter pulls away from the tower, but it takes a second for that change to travel all the way down the cable. The clasp at the end of the line hangs in the air over Pachacutec. I stretch out my arm, not unlike the statue beneath me, my fingers straining for the clasp.
As I wrap my hand around the metal loop, it is yanked forward, pulling hard against my fingers. My arm follows, my shoulder complaining from the sudden tug. I fumble with the strap of my rifle, trying to get the weapon under control as I sail through the air beneath the helicopter. It's only going to be a few seconds before someone notices me, dangling down below. We streak across the promenade, roaring over the traffic jam, and I hear the distant noise of gunfire below. Something bites my right leg, down on the calf, and blood begins to flow.
Twisting on the end of the cable, I point the rifle up at the helicopter fantail and try to wreck the assembly with several bursts from the MP7. The cable bounces, dropping me a meter or so, and I shift my aim toward the main portion of the helicopter. Several more bursts from the gun and I'm out of ammo again, but at least the cable has stopped dropping. For the moment.
I hit the button that drops out the empty magazine and try to figure how I'm going to get the last magazine out of my back right pocket and into the gun without letting go of the cable, and I decide that isn't going to happen.
The helicopter turns to the north, climbing to a height that will allow it to clear the hills that ring Cusco. Discarding the empty gun, I start climbing the cable. It's slick, meant to be wound quickly and efficiently around a drum, but I've climbed worse. It's precarious work, but there's also no reason to dwell on what I'm doing. Hand over hand, as quickly as I can.
As I get close to the helicopter's landing struts, the cable starts unspooling again. It starts slow, but picks up speed. In another second or two, it'll be unspooling faster than I can climb. My muscles aching, I move faster, my hands burning as they grip and release the cable. My first attempt at grabbing the long strut misses, my bloody hand slipping from the rounded strut. Another meter of cable plays out and I have to make up lost ground before I can try again. I climb higher, and on my second try, I get my arm wrapped around the strut. I disengage myself from the cable and get my other arm around the landing gear too.
Still not out of the woods yet.
I get my legs around the strut, and hanging upside down, I wrestle with the pistol still in my pocket. One of the spare magazines goes tumbling away as I pull the gun out. A masked face peers out of the helicopter to check on the cable, and I pull the trigger twice. The face disappears, replaced by a foot jutting out from the cabin of the helicopter. The foot doesn't move, suggesting that I hit my target. As long as it stays there, I have a chance.
I put the gun in my mouth, biting down on the back of the slide. I need both hands to pull myself onto the strut. I swing up as the helicopter pitches to the right, and I clutch at the strut, fighting to stay on. When it pitches in the other direction—a clumsy attempt to shake me off—I use that change in aspect to my advantage. Both hands on the bar, shoving my butt up, and arcing my back. I pitch forward, sliding across the strut, and I push off, throwing my hands up now, reaching for the second strut—the one that runs along the underside of the helicopter's cabin.
I haul myself up, getting one arm on the inside of the helicopter cabin. The rest is easy, even with the back and forth motion of the helicopter. I get my knees up and, caught in an awkward leaning forward position, I freeze.
Sitting in one of the seats, as calmly as if this ride is nothing more than a tourist trip around the Sacred Valley, is Alberto Montoya.
But I killed him.
He's holding a bulky gun that has two holes in the front of its barrel. It's a Taser, and he smiles briefly at my confusion as he fires both darts.
The current lights up my nervous system, and I collapse on the floor of the cabin. Phoebe is lying nearby, the sack still over her head. She's oblivious to what's going on, and a second later, I am too.