The path itself was the worn out remnants of an old Inca trail, which Kane surmised no foreigner had used in decades, if ever. The area was uninhabited, not even frequented by Quechuan villagers, and it was likely the path was only still a path because of the wild pigs and deer that used it.

  They needed to locate shelter before darkness, and with one torch between them time was running out, but Ridley soon spotted what turned out to be the narrow entrance to a small cave, little more than a crack between two gigantic boulders. As long as they weren’t hit by a deluge through the night, it would provide them with sufficient protection from the elements for a few hours until dawn.

  It was only a little after five in the afternoon, but with the fading light there was nothing for it but to hunker down and rest. It was lucky they still had their backpacks, and though they only carried basic hiking essentials, such as water and snacks, and a little extra clothing, it was enough to survive. In any other situation, each thought privately–it might have been romantic. They would make the best of it.

  “What will we do, Hiram?” Ridley rarely used Kane’s first name. It meant she felt the tension. “I mean, all those guns, and our friends being held? What can we do?”

  Kane paused. He wanted to sound confident, show Alex he thought things would be okay. He needed her to feel confident in him at least, even if he didn’t feel it himself. “At this moment I honestly don’t know. I’m certain we’ll get to Vilcabamba before them, and that has to be our immediate focus. But somehow, once we’re there we have to stop them from finding the gold, or…” Kane paused again, this time for a moment too long.

  “Or what, Hiram?” Ridley probed.

  “Or… Or the world will suffer. We have no choice. We must stop them.”

  Ridley fell silent, her back wedged against the rocks and her legs folded out in front as if in deep meditation. She closed her eyes, and Kane knew she was thinking hard. She was one of the smartest women Kane had ever met, just one of the many reasons he had fallen for her over and over again, despite his subconscious efforts at self-preservation. Evan once told him a theory he had heard about love, something about each person on Earth probably loving three times in their life, and that only one of them was that person’s true love. You might not know who ‘the one’ is at the time, but in the course of your life you would find out. Kane rarely believed Evan’s nonsense theories about life, love, and the world in general, but he knew this: if it was true then Ridley was ‘the one’ for him, because he had loved her first, and despite the perpetual knock backs, he loved her still.

  There had been no one else for Kane, not even close. They had shared and been through a lot together, both incredible adventures and painful losses, all of which had given them memories, both good and not so, that would last a lifetime. She was a tough and independent woman, and Kane knew it wasn’t just him who’d failed to break through her emotional barriers. He also knew he had come closer than most. She trusted him and cared for him, that much was certain. Kane just had to settle for that.

  He also believed it would take something special, some shift in mentality, for Ridley to fully lower her emotional walls. Sitting there in that dark and inhospitable cave, in the middle of the wild mountains of Peru, Kane wondered if this disastrous, dangerous, and life-threatening expedition could be the event, the unwanted catalyst, that would at last bring them together in the way he had so long craved. A wry smile curled his lips up to the left. Kane hoped that if nothing else came of this terrible series of events then maybe, at last, he would finally get the girl.

  “We will have to kill someone.”

  The abrupt and decisive way in which Ridley spoke from the darkness startled Kane and snapped him back from his reverie. He could not make out the expression on Ridley’s face in what was now the stygian black of their shelter, but in his mind’s eye he saw her jaw set firm and focused, the eyes clear and strong. And when Ridley spoke she spoke with efficiency. Never one to waste words on small talk, she believed people should speak literally and to the point, a philosophy to match her forthright attitude to life. Given what he knew of Alex Ridley, Kane knew she was serious.

  But more than that, he knew, Ridley herself was prepared to kill. From what he had learned about his unattainable love over the years, he knew she had endured a torrid childhood. Her parents died young in a fatal car crash, and Alex was shuffled between multiple foster parents, some unsavoury at the least, and at their worst downright disgusting. She had defended herself more than once from the wandering hands of alleged guardians, and had even fallen foul of the juvenile courts for an attack that put one such man in hospital. At eighteen, Alex finally emancipated herself from a system that had ultimately failed her, and with her new found freedom, she set out alone in the world as a tough yet street smart young woman who could hold her own in any situation.

  There was money. After a decade of world travels her parents both become successful in their fields as specialist doctors, and had in place a considerable life insurance policy for their only child. After going off the rails for a while, Alex saw the proverbial light and got herself the education she craved. She spent the next decade both improving her life and the lives of others. She ran self-defence classes for young women on campus, and many other charity projects aimed at helping underprivileged children and vulnerable girls and women. She was an inspiration for many, and she was an inspiration to Hiram Kane.

  But what she had just said both shocked him and yet was not that shocking. It wasn’t shocking because Kane knew it was probably true. They weren’t dealing with simple treasure hunters. They were up against two groups who had both shown they would kill religious fanatics who believed they were rightful claimants to the treasure.

  Kill.

  It seemed so easy when you just thought about the word. But Kane had always held an open hatred for guns, and could not respect anyone that hunted animals for fun. Humanely killing an animal for food he understood, and even that notion was becoming a struggle. But the senseless killing of animals for so-called sport left him questioning what had happened to humanity. Evolution was fact, no longer doubted in scientific communities, yet had humans evolved so much they now transcended nature, earning the right to kill another creature? No, was Kane’s simple answer.

  But that old phrase came to mind; sacrifice the few for the good of the many. Could it be that elementary? Was life that simple? Did it justify taking one life, or a few, in the hope of saving many more, perhaps thousands? Hundreds of thousands? Kane was just a normal man, born and raised in England into what he believed qualified as a normal family. How was he in a position to judge such things?

  “I’m just a fucking tour guide,” he blurted into that same darkness, surprising Ridley as much as she had surprised him before. “Why is this happening? Why me? I can’t kill another person.”

  Ridley knew Kane was struggling with the implications of what they might have to do. She slid over and squashed in beside him, embraced him and rested her head on his shoulder. She couldn’t be sure, but he might have been crying.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered, “we’ll work this out. I’m here, and we’ll work it out together. For now we need to rest, and at first light we’ll head to Vilcabamba. By then things will seem clearer, and we’ll know what we have to do.”

  Kane didn’t respond at first, and sat in quiet, relishing the closeness of the woman he loved as his thoughts calmed and his breathing slowed to its normal pace. He was okay. Made of stern stuff. He thought of his grandfather would do in their situation. He thought of his great-grandfather too, and imagined him in the same circumstances. It was obvious. To prevent further death and tragedy they would have do exactly what he had to do.

  The answer was simple; they’d all do whatever it took.

  And if that meant they had to take a life, then he would do the same.

  Trying to put aside their stark dilemma and the dangers of the hours and days ahead, Kane and Ridley got to talking about life and love, and as they often did after a few drinks, putting the world to rights. They talked about how they met, about their carefree days back at university, their friendship with Evan and their respect for John Haines, their families, both the good memories and the bad. They loved to chat, and it came so naturally to them, and for a while it took their minds off their situation. But eventually, after a few minutes’ reflection, Ridley asked Kane what he thought Sonco was doing at that moment.

  “I don’t know, but I hope he’s safely with his family. I know he left us, but he is a trekking guide, not some kind of hero. He put his family first, as he should have.”

  They couldn’t possibly have known it, but at that very moment Sonco Amaru was on his way back to them, as fast as he could through the darkness.

  Sonco could not have known either, but in just thirty-six hours he would indeed become a hero.

  9

  Day 9

  Untitled

  Yupanqui was so anxious to get to Vilcabamba he marched the beleaguered–and in some cases injured–guards and captives right through the night. The sub-zero temperature bit deep after the immense heat of the day, and Haines figured it was better to keep on the move than to freeze without a proper camp. They trudged on.

  Andean trails are difficult to navigate under the best of conditions. Combine that with darkness, genuine cold, their weariness, and their fear of the armed escorts, then it was dangerous in the extreme. Ancient roots of gnarly trees tripped you from out of nowhere. Bones almost always collided with unforgiving rocks when you stumbled. Despite the numbing cold, mosquitoes droned with fervour at their ears and eyes, and the unlucky few leading the sombre procession often found themselves shrouded in the unbelievably strong webs of unseen tarantulas.

  It was hardly an official phobia, but those webs were still a nightmare come true to Craft, who had always feared spiders of any kind, despite their modest sizes in his homeland. To know that all around him were massive tarantulas the size of his hand sent shudders through his already chilled frame. Walking just steps behind him Haines did well to conceal a chuckle each time he saw Evan twisting out of the webs, and with his arms bound behind him, doing a kind of crazy, straight-jacketed insane asylum dance. John didn’t mean to laugh at Evan’s discomfort, but he couldn’t help it, and blamed it on the heightened tension they must all have felt.

  Haines had no idea of the time, and in his disoriented state he could only guess at around 4a.m. It mattered little, other than the summation that they must be closing in on Vilcabamba. John’s thoughts turned to Kane, and it saddened him.

  Haines had believed in Kane and the map for a decade, and yet like much of the world these days it seemed terrorists were involved in everything. He still expected Kane to make some sense of the mess, but just as he knew that in a few hours the first rays of Andean light would illuminate their futures–if they had any–he also knew that as the hours wore on, their futures–if they had any–would fade to dust.

  Haines just couldn’t see how any of this could end well. People would die, he was sure of it, and he just had to cling to the hope that the innocents among them, such as Evan, Kane, and Ridley, the young brainwashed Quechuans, and he himself, would somehow make it out alive.

  He wanted no one to die, but there were among them some heinous villains, and if anybody should suffer it should be those who had warped their faith into blinded, misguided terrorism. He would rather see justice served to the likes of Angelo De La Cruz, Howie Hooper, and Yupanqui, or even Edgewood, who he doubted was a terrorist but who definitely had dubious intentions. This whole drama should end up with those nefarious characters in prison. But that is not what the professor expected.

  The professor believed that one way or another, perceived justice would be meted out by one of the terrorist groups, their hands stained by the blood of alleged enemies. It was so barbaric to Haines that five hundred years ago, deep in those very mountains, the conquistadors betrayed an empire and slaughtered hundreds of thousands in the name of an imaginary Catholic God. Evolution? Haines knew it was a fact.

  But it seemed man’s evolution had somehow taken a backward step.

  Umaq Huamani rarely spoke. He was and had always been a quiet boy, and since his father’s friend Sonco had disappeared from the expedition Umaq hadn’t spoken a word.

  His first experience of working as a guide had turned into a nightmare. People had been injured, and two of his fellow Quechuans were dead. Now the self-proclaimed leader Yupanqui had said things part of him wanted to believe but another side of him abhorred. He hated violence of any kind, and yet he’d believed in the uprising. Believed in it, or at the very least been enamoured by the impassioned way Yupanqui explained its importance to their very futures.

  And there was the matter of the English woman Kate, who had given him the opportunity to secure his family’s future for many years. He just needed to help her when she asked. Well, it seemed to Umaq that she desperately needed his help now.

  But his emotions were being ripped between the pull towards his heritage and Yupanqui, and the innate love of his family. It seemed to the young man that whatever he decided and which ever way he turned, he would betray someone. How much do I believe in the uprising? he asked himself. Do I really believe in Yupanqui? His answer would ultimately decide his dilemma. He wondered if it would also determine the fate of his life and the lives of his family.

  He did not know Sonco Amaru well personally. Sonco and his father were close, and his father trusted him as an old friend would. Since Sonco had left the mountains Umaq hadn’t stopped asking himself a pertinent question: did Sonco leave us because he faces the same moral dilemmas as me? Maybe he too is torn? Maybe he has left it to the fate of the Gods and gone to be with his family? Umaq could not know.

  Yet he knew one thing. He would never betray his family, even if it meant betraying the uprising and his ancestors.

  Race Against Time

  After enduring a few fitful hours of sleep in their makeshift rocky shelter Ridley and Kane were awake and ready to face the new day and whatever hostile challenges it provided. With just enough light from their one torch to illuminate the way for an hour or two before dawn, they set off at a careful pace, aware of but blind to the unseen dangers in the darkness. Any injury now could prove fatal, and it was not a chance Kane was prepared to take.

  Kane figured it should take around three to four hours of hard trekking to arrive at where he would find the outer edges of Vilcabamba. Kane had always believed in the authentic truth of the map, but until he laid his own eyes on the lost city he didn’t know what to expect. Kane had explored countless Inca ruins, and few people alive knew more than him about their architectural styles. But if Vilcabamba was anything like other previously undiscovered Inca sites, then its location would not at first be obvious.

  First they’d find themselves in tangles of jungle so thick the beautiful Inca walls had remained hidden for centuries, the structures reclaimed by a jungle that cared little for the brilliant craftsmanship of the Andean people. Next there would be the outer walls, built at a clever incline to make it more difficult for intruders to scale. Through those walls via the ornate trapezoidal doorways they’d find the inner sanctums, assuming that the most mysterious of lost cities was built in traditional Inca style. And then...

  This was pure speculation on the part of historians and adventurers. Atahualpa’s legendary lost gold could have been hidden in a remote cave, simple yet impossible to find. But if the myths and legends of Vilcabamba had any truth in them, which Kane and his predecessors believed they did, it would have taken more than a mere cave to conceal such a vast hoard from the Spanish invaders, and the reams of treasure hunters in the centuries since.

  For more than two decades Kane had dreamed about finding at Vilcabamba a site to match the sheer scale and beauty of world famous Machu Picchu. The awe felt by Hiram Bingham upon his first sighting of the magnificent Inca stone walls–that he so eloquently recorded in his diaries and later book, The Lost City of The Incas–was the stuff of adventure legend, and like Bingham Kane believed that whoever was the first outsider to discover the real Vilcabamba was in for the same experience.

  He hoped it would be him, though technically it would not be a discovery at all. Kane believed with all his heart that, not only did it exist, but he knew exactly where it was.

  It was during Bingham’s search for Vilcabamba a century previous that he inadvertently ‘discovered’ Machu Picchu, an accident that bestowed upon him world fame but scarred him with a lifetime of disappointment, a despondency shared by his assistant Patrick, Kane’s great-grandfather. That same sense of failure was then handed down through the generations like an unwanted heirloom, a cursed legacy that would never cease to haunt them until the ghost was laid to rest.

  The irony he now felt was like a Conquistador’s sword through his heart. After all the decades since the fortuitous stumble upon Machu Picchu, it seemed as if one of the Kane family was to be the first outsider to step among the legendary and mythical stones of Vilcabamba. A great success, yet unable to enjoy and celebrate the moment.

  There were terrorists marching to the hidden walls even then, more desperate than Kane himself, and Hiram knew if things went against them, as they surely would, then there would be more than just metaphorical ghosts haunting those stones in the decades to come.

  Sonco’s breaths came hard. It wasn’t a lack of fitness that tired him, nor was it his age–fifty-two, despite what he told his friends. In modern Andean folklore Sonco was famous for being one of the fastest Andean guides of all time, setting numerous records for the annual Inca Trail race. No, it was the sheer tenacity with which he scaled rocks and scrambled over ledges combined with the emotional dilemmas he had faced in the last twenty-four hours that wore him down. But ignoring his pain, the rugged Quechuan put his own feelings aside, and focused on only one thing; Vilcabamba. If he was fast, Sonco knew, he might just prevent a war and save his friend’s life.