And it would be the brittle-boned son who brought home that glory for the Saint Germaine lineage. Nothing must stop this from happening.
Rafe turned to Bern. “Do as he says. Pull your men back. Free the boy and send him over the bridge.”
His second-in-command looked ready to argue, but knew better. The prisoner’s hands were cut free, the gag ripped away.
“Go,” Bern ordered, giving him a push.
The youth fled across the bridge, skirting around the soldiers who were returning from the other side. Once he reached Painter, the pair bowed their heads for a time, then the young man nodded and headed toward the far tunnel.
That left just one last demand.
Rafe held up his arm. Another soldier hauled Kai Quocheets forward. Gagged, she struggled with her bound wrists. Her eyes grew large when she spotted Painter.
At the same time her uncle rushed forward, ready to help her. He stumbled several steps out onto the bridge, allowing his guard to drop. Half blind with an avuncular need to defend his niece, Painter threw off his backpack, letting it dangle from his wrist . . . and only then did Rafe realize his own mistake.
Oh no . . .
6:30 P.M.
Painter read the understanding in the Frenchman’s eyes. It took all of his strength to pull his attention away from Kai. He had seen the deep bruising on Jordan’s face. It had set his blood to pounding in his ears.
Had they hurt Kai as well?
Such questions would have to wait.
Instead, he stopped on the bridge. He’d taken only a few steps, but that put him out over the chasm, yet still well enough away from the hostile party on the other side. He kept his arm out. The heavy pack dangled from his fingertips over the gorge. The steam burned his exposed skin while bathing his arm in yellowish clouds of toxins. The river below hissed and gurgled.
“You already have the gold jar with you,” Rafael said, his voice a mix of dismay and respect. “You’ve had it all along.”
Painter reached out over the chasm and unzipped the pack’s main compartment. He let the gold shine out. “Shoot me, and it drops into the river below. If you want this treasure, you’ll let my niece go. Send her across the bridge. Once she’s safely in the tunnel behind me, I’ll throw the bag to you.”
“And what guarantee do I have that you’ll do as you say?”
“You have my word.”
Painter refused to break eye contact with Rafael, not to intimidate but to make his intention clear. He was being honest. There was no subterfuge, no clever plan. He had to risk everything to get Kai to safety. Kowalski had a good spot from which to defend them. Rafael would likely flee with his prize, rather than try to dig the others out of that hole. Kai would have a chance to live.
But that didn’t mean Rafael wouldn’t order his men to shoot Painter after he tossed the package. Anticipating this, he would do his best to retreat to the shelter of the boulders and work his way back to the tunnel himself.
It wasn’t a great plan, but it was all he had.
Rafael kept staring back at him, doing his best to read his enemy. Finally, he nodded his head. “I believe you, Monsieur Crowe. You are right. We can end this like civilized men.” He gave Painter a slight bow. “Until we meet again.”
The Frenchman turned and motioned for his men to free Kai. They undid her hands. Painter watched. Still gagged, she had a wild-eyed stare—but she was not looking at him.
She was looking behind him.
Because of the bubbling of the muddy river, he hadn’t heard the approach until it was too late. As he turned, he felt a telltale tremble in the sandstone trusses of the span as someone’s feet pounded onto the bridge. He got a glimpse of a tall dark shape hurtling toward him. A shoulder hit him low in the rib cage, lifted him off his feet, and slammed him to the stone bridge, knocking the wind from his lungs. Strong fingers ripped the backpack from his grasp. Then the figure flew past him.
He twisted around to see a woman sprint to the far side and reach Rafael. As promised, the Frenchman had pulled back his men. Painter should have been more specific.
The tall black woman—a veritable Amazon—handed Rafael the bag.
“Merci, Ashanda.”
Painter knelt on the stone span, defeated.
Rifles pointed back at him, but instead of ordering him shot, Rafael waved his men to retreat. He matched gazes with Painter. “You’d best be off that bridge, mon ami.”
With a nod to the side, one of his soldiers raised a transmitter and twisted a dial on it. A resounding blast sounded from under the span. The far side of the bridge exploded in a blast of sandstone and mortar. Deafened, blinded, Painter fell back and rolled off the bridge’s end and onto solid rock.
He raised himself up on his hands and knees to see Rafael and his group retreating for the surface on the far side. The remaining span of the bridge crumbled apart and crashed with mighty, muddy splashes into the river below, churning up more sulfur and heat.