Looking at Hooper, he wasn’t so sure. Yes, he was a devout Catholic, but he was also a mercenary, and might be swayed from their holy mission by the lure of riches. De La Cruz was sure that, given half a chance, Hooper would sell his soul to the highest bidder.

  “I’m ready,” said Hooper. “Haven’t I already showed my willing?”

  “You have showed you would try, yes.” There was a trace of sarcasm in the Spaniard’s voice.

  “I won’t fail again.” Hooper meant it, angry there was any doubt.

  “I know you will not. God knows you will not.” For now he would trust the American, but if needed, De La Cruz would sacrifice Hooper himself.

  What Angelo couldn’t know at that moment, despite what he believed was God-given knowledge, was that Kate Edgewood had her own agenda, and working together as part of this team until its mission had concluded wasn’t part of it. The sacrifice part was true.

  But that Angelo himself was in line to be part of it was something God had elected not to tell him.

  Yupanqui

  His duties finished for the night, Yupanqui took his fireside seat with Sonco and the porters. They were quiet men by nature, calm and peaceful people at home in the mountains. They chatted together and enjoyed the usual banter among men, meanwhile tuning themselves to the soul and sounds of the surrounding wilderness, drawing comfort from and revelling in their beautiful landscape. The mountains belonged to these people, and these people belonged in the mountains.

  Yupanqui watched them, appraising them, looking deep into their hearts and into their minds. They spoke Quechuan like him, and in one way or another they were all descended from the Incas. More than five hundred years ago the Incans assimilated almost all the Andean tribes under one banner, the Inca Empire, and Quechuan became their adopted language. Today, all remaining indigenous Indians in the Andes are labelled Quechuan, an easy blanket term for modern anthropologists and historians.

  But in genetic truth, the purest of all Incan descendants are the Q’ero, an ancient tribe of just six hundred people that escaped the conquistadors by hiding out high in the mountains, remaining untouched by the outside world until the middle of the last century. Yupanqui Atoc was Q’ero.

  When the Spanish conquistadors destroyed the Inca Empire in the early sixteenth century, the event was known as a Pachacuti, a great change. Pachacuti was the son of Viracocha, a legendary Inca King named after their creator God, and the name Pachacuti became synonymous with times of upheaval. Since then, the Q’ero elders have preserved the knowledge of a sacred prophecy, that a second Pachacuti would come, the world would be turned the right way up, harmony restored, and chaos and disorder among their people ended.

  Their prophecies are positive, a coming together of nations and peace between both the indigenous tribes and their Gods, and better relationships between the natives and what they saw as their conquerors. To the Q’ero, the prophecy also refers to an end of time as they know it, the death of a way of thinking. But Yupanqui knows better than that, and would never trust the ramblings of withered old men, so isolated in their mountain hideouts.

  The Q’ero have been waiting half a millennium for the revered condor of the south to fly with an eagle from the north, a sacred union that would spell the beginning of a golden age for their people, and a thousand years of peace. That’s not how Yupanqui interpreted the prophecy. Why wait for the eagle of the north to venture south, when he knows that eagle to be the might of the USA, and their arrogant belief they should rule the world with their Christianity based government? Whether the president was Catholic or Christian mattered little to Yupanqui, for they were all false Gods.

  But Yupanqui was tired of waiting, tired of seeing so many of the indigenous people living in poverty and squalor while the Catholics, and now the half-breed mestizo Catholics, live comfortable lives and occupy the ruling seats of Peruvian government. The time is right for change, and Yupanqui believes the Q’ero prophecy has chosen him.

  In recent decades, since Yupanqui was just a boy, signs that the prophecied great change was coming were evident: the high mountain lagoons across the Andes dried up to little more than ponds, and the once widespread and mighty condor now flies on the verge of extinction. After the earthquake in 1949, the Golden Temple in Cuzco was discovered, a clear sign to him that the wrath of the Sun God Inti had been wrought.

  Recent events in Lima and Cuzco proved to him that the next Pachacuti had already begun, and with it, the promise of a new Inca sovereign after the current period of turmoil.Yupanqui was firm in his belief. Not only was the Pachacuti upon his people, but he was its epicentre, its guiding force. Its leader. Now he would educate his Incan brothers.

  But would they be with him? They should be. If not, they too would die at his hands.

  Yupanqui stood. It was time to reveal his true identity, and declare to the men around him the Inca were rising, and that an enemy was in their midst. Yupanqui was a big, powerful man, and as the glow of the fire danced upon his tough face and massive chest, he cut an imposing figure.

  “My brothers,” he began, “We are all the same, you and I, each of us carrying within our bodies the sacred blood of the Inca, and in our minds, the sacred spirit of our ancestors.” Yupanqui paused, waiting to see if he had their attention. He did. Only Sonco Amaru seemed less aroused by his opening lines. That’s okay, he thought, soon I will have him.

  He continued. “But being Incan carries with it a great responsibility, a weighty burden, and the time has finally come to unload that burden.” He stalled for effect, just a few seconds. And then… “The Pachacuti is upon us.” He stopped, looking ahead but watching Sonco from the corner of his eye. As he knew he would, Sonco had sat up and now listened with intent. “Yes, my brothers, the time of the new great change is here. In fact, it has already started.

  “The prophecy of my kin, the Q’ero, states that the condor will one day rise and fly with the eagle of the north. But I say to you, that eagle is a dangerous prey, and will not come in peace. It will come in two forms, an eagle that wears the military insignia of the United States upon one wing, and the cross of the barbaric Catholics upon the other. The first threat is imminent, so listen with care: the Catholics are here, and they are here to destroy us again. That is not in question.

  “The real question is, my friends and brothers, are you ready to join the fight against them?”

  Amongst the seated men eyebrows raised in surprise. The youngest of them, Umaq and another boy, had already been confronted by Yupanqui, but they hadn’t expected this. A threat already upon us? It was far more serious than they first believed. But Yupanqui was an impressive speaker, and they didn't doubt the truth of his words.

  Sonco Amaru, however, was not convinced. He stood, matching Yupanqui’s glare. “What evidence do you have about these claims, other than an ancient prophecy no one believes anymore? Except… except your Q’ero elders?” He said the word Q’ero almost as a dismissal. The Q’ero were a mysterious people, and though true they were the closest living descendants of the Inca, there were so few left that no one paid them any attention.

  Yupanqui was expecting resistance from the oldest Quechuan among them, and he'd prepared. He needed patience, but just a little, for the time for action was upon them. He was done waiting, and according to the prophecy, one that he believed with every atom of his being, Yupanqui the chosen one had been waiting five hundred years.

  “I know that not everyone believes in the ancient prophecies the way we Q’ero do,” he said. “I understand that. My people held tight to their beliefs that a new Pachacuti would come. I know it isn’t a widely believed legend, but that’s the problem. For hundreds of years, Inca blood weakened after assimilation of the Europeans, diluted so much that the vast majority of descendants are linked by nothing more than a textbook.

  “Most Incan descendants have long forgotten our proud history and do not understand who we were and where we came from. It is up to me, the chosen Pachacuti, the living proof of the ancient prophecy who will begin our new dawn, a new and glorious era. It is from among the living stones of Vilcabamba that I will begin our rebirth, and from where the mighty condor will once more spread its wings and cast a shadow over the cathedrals of the false god as they burn to the ground.

  “The history and traditions that made us who we once were are all but gone, and like our beloved and sacred condor, a belief in the old ways is on the edge of extinction. There is little pride among our indigenous people anymore, except for a few brave warriors, and if we do not act now then we will lose the Inca bloodline forever. Everything that our ancestors fought so bravely to defend five centuries ago against the Spanish invaders will be for nothing, lost to history, and dead for all time.

  “But you, and I mean you sitting around this fire, your brothers and sisters, your friends and relatives… we all have a chance to act. Yet it is not a choice. We face annihilation once more if we wait, for the adversary we face is strong. We need to rise up and arm ourselves for the battle to come. But like I said, the first of the gringo enemy is already close.”

  Yupanqui flicked his head toward the expedition camp with undisguised hatred, and the eyes that watched him from around the flickering fire widened even further.

  “You all know why we are out here, so far from our warm beds, carrying heavy loads as if we’re nothing more than animals to the lazy tourists. Do you not? Of course you do. But do you realise that by helping them in this way, almost as slaves like our conquered forefathers, we are actually helping them to steal what is ours.

  “Do you think that when they find our revered ancestor Atahualpa’s lost treasure, that its rightful owners will ever receive any of it? They won’t. They will steal it, just like they stole everything from us before. They stole our treasure, they stole our land, they subjugated us as slaves, and crushed the empire through their disgusting diseases and immoral ways of living. They know we are rising up, but we can stop them. And not only can we, but we must. It is our duty, our moral obligation to our people and our heritage.

  “But there is more. Five hundred years ago it was prophecied that the age of the new Pachacuti would arrive, and with it a new era of peace and prosperity for our people. How many of you want to remain as you are in life, living in crumbling homes, deep in poverty, lacking education and carrying the load of wealthy thieves for a pitiful living?”

  There was an excited grumbling of ascent from the group surrounding Yupanqui, and he didn’t fail to notice the nodding head of Sonco Amaru. He was getting through, evidence and justification that he was their rightful leader.

  “But we have no wealth or means with which to rise,” suggested Sonco. “How will we arm ourselves, as you say?”

  It was an obvious question, but the answer was simple. Yupanqui nodded with confidence.

  “The answer to that, my wise friend, is easy. We let these ignorant foreigners, led by the man they call Kane and his alleged map, lead us to the treasure. When they find it, we will take what is rightly ours.”

  “But how will we take it? By fighting?” asked one of the younger men.

  “My young friend,” replied Yupanqui, his eyes wide with burning passion. “We will kill the Catholics. Our voices will be heard again, and this time…” He paused, and looked up to the dark skies.

  “This time, all the world will hear.”

  The Eagle Alliance

  Spring, 1982

  Manu, Peru

  Angelo De La Cruz was a shy eighteen-year-old when he first met thirteen-year-old Ferdinand Benedix. It was 1982, and the boys formed part of a large group of youths on their first missionary trip. There were other places they could have gone, such as Madagascar or the Philippines, but both had chosen to save souls in the rainforests ofsouth-eastern Peru. And, of course, to spread the word of God.

  Ferdinand inspired Angelo, and the reason Angelo was so taken by Ferdinand was an incident he’d witnessed. During an interaction with the native kids, Ferdinand, who towered over the indigenous Quechuan boy he was proselytising to, suddenly got angry. He punched the boy in the stomach, and when his knees buckled, kicked him in the head with his hiking boots. It was a vicious assault and shocking to witness. There were no adults anywhere nearby.

  “Why did you do that, Ferdinand?” one of the missionary kids called out to him. “What’s wrong?”

  The young Ferdinand stood calm and collected as he replied. “This heathen doesn’t believe in God, and refuses to convert.” He paused, and shouted to anyone that was listening, “He needs to be punished.” Without so much as a look back, Ferdinand walked away towards camp.

  Angelo De La Cruz, timid around people, had stood unseen nearby. He’d watched the assault with unmoved intent, and watched still as Ferdinand strode off as if nothing special had happened. Something stirred within him, some previously unknown passion for their cause. As missionaries, they were there to share the truth of the one true God to these jungle people. If the natives didn’t convert, they were supposed to persevere, encouraging them to choose their God rather than indulge in pagan worship of the sun and the mountains and the surrounding jungle. But those were the adult rules, and they didn’t always work.

  Angelo knew who his mighty and noble ancestors were, which meant he knew he had the blood of genuine conquistadors flowing through his veins. That knowledge, combined with the passion he’d just witnessed in Ferdinand, instilled in him a new found righteousness, a new sense of power over these backwards, uneducated heathens who still lived in huts and wallowed happily in their degrading poverty and torn clothes. He began to despise them, abhorred their lack of shame in such dirty and hopeless environs, and as he stood there, looking down now at the poor unknowing disgrace of a human slouched in the dirt, he felt something else; Angelo felt hate.

  He looked around. All the other young missionaries had left. It was just him and the kid on the floor. The power within grew, his passions rising, and before he knew it Angelo had launched his boot into the face of the fallen boy. Blood erupted from a broken nose, and that power Angelo experienced grew until he felt invincible. He was eighteen, a young man, but in that moment he became a man for the first time. He thought of his name: Angelo De La Cruz. Angel, or Messenger of the Cross. He was a man with a purpose in life.

  From that moment, Angelo was a soldier of God.

  After a few more similar incidents word spread throughout the missionary camp that there were a couple of rogues among them, and very soon the two boys got hauled before their superiors. It didn’t take long before they’d been sent home to their countries in disgrace, with a warning that unless they changed their ways, they would be excommunicated from the Catholic Church.

  Despite the age gap, Ferdinand and Angelo became acquaintances from that day on, as each continued to develop fundamentalist views. Together they formed what at first was nothing more than a club for passionate young Catholics, each with their own branch in their respective countries; Ferdinand in his homeland of Holland, and Angelo in the heartland of the conquistadors, Trujillo, in western Spain. As the years passed they grew more zealous in their beliefs. On occasion they met in person to organise what was now becoming a more militant faction. But with the advent of the internet in the late 90s, their communications became easier, and the two comrades soon put together a scheme which would define their very lives.

  Through research, and their knowledge of history in the Inca heartland, they learned of a growing dissidence among the new generation of Peruvians. This new generation saw what was a distancing of their people from mainstream politics in Peru, and tension was rising. Over the last several years an underground group had performed some minor terrorist activities that struck out at the Catholics in Lima, their most notable act the destruction of a statue of the most notorious of all conquistadors, Francisco Pizarro.

  Something had to be done, and led by Ferdinand and Angelo, The Eagle Alliance was born.

  Having named their group, they knew that the responsibility for change was now theirs. The Eagle Alliance would crush the Inca insurgents, known now as the Condor Uprising, and not only that, but they would wage war on all the indigenous people of Peru who would not convert to Catholicism.

  It would be bloody and brutal.

  And it would be magnificent.

  7

  Day 7

  Murderous Intent

  John Haines was having a fabulous time. Despite his age, the professor was as healthy as anyone on the expedition, but even he seemed surprised with his endless supply of energy. He didn’t want to waste the moment.

  Many of the others were still in their tents, some sleeping, others relishing the slow start to the day. However, John felt compelled to explore, and ventured off a little way by himself on a narrow trail that wound in and out of some unusual rock formations. He had with him his notebook and a pencil, and the old professor was ever ready to take down some obscure note or observation he could share with his beloved grandchildren once home.

  He strolled at an easy pace, basking in the quiet and solitude among the rocks that were, in some cases, as large as houses. The wind from the valley couldn’t penetrate the natural fortress, and the birds had fallen silent after their animated dawn chorus. He took a seat on a rather comfy rock, enjoying its natural incline and revelling in the peaceful surroundings. Closing his eyes, John tried to put all the previous drama out of his mind, and instead imagined what Vilcabamba might look like.

  Professor Haines had a reputation among his students for falling asleep at will, even in the middle of a student’s important presentation, though he always amazed them when it was finished, making points and observations as if he’d heard every word.