Temple

Romano said, 'You son of a—'

It was at that moment that Romano's head exploded—bursting like a tomato—sending a fountain of blood spraying out in every direction. A split second later, his body dropped to the ground—limp, lifeless, dead.

Race whirled around at the sound of the gunshot, just in time to see Nash standing there with his SIG-Sauer pistol extended in the firing position. Nash took a step along the line of Navy and DARPA people and levelled his pistol at the next man's head.

Blare!

The gun went off and the man fell.

'What are you doing?' Race yelled.

'Colonel!' Van Lewen shouted, incredulous, making to raise his G-11.

But no sooner had he moved than another silver SIG-Sauer appeared next to his head. At the other end of the pistol stood Troy Copeland.

'Drop the gun, Sergeant,' Copeland said.

Van Lewen clenched his teeth, dropped the G-11 and glared at Copeland.

Lauren had Renee similarly covered.

Completely confused, Race spun to look at Marty, but his brother just stood at the end of the line of Navy and DARPA people, staring stoically forward, his only movement a blink with every gunshot.

'Colonel, this is outright murder,' Van Lewen said.

Nash stepped up in front of another Navy man, levelled his pistol.

Blam!

'No,' he said. 'It is merely a process of natural selection. Survival of the fittest.'

Nash came to Ed Devereux.

The small Harvard professor stood before him, trembling.

His eyes were wide behind his wire-framed glasses, his whole body shaking with fear. Nash levelled his SIG at the little man's head.

Devereux screamed, “No—!”

Blare!

The scream cut off abruptly and Devereux crumpled to the ground.

“Race couldn't believe this was happening. American killing American. It was a nightmare. He winced as he saw Devereux fall to the ground, dead.

It was then that he saw the leather-bound book that Devereux had been holding when he had been shot. It lay in the mud, face-up, open, revealing a set of crusty old pages filled with ornate medieval artwork and calligraphy.

It was the Santiago Manuscript.

Or rather, Race corrected himself, the partially-completed copy of the manuscript that had been made by another monk in 1599, thirty years after Alberto Santiago's death.

'Colonel, what the hell are you doing?' Race said.

'I am merely eliminating the competition, Professor Race.'

Nash slowly made his way down the line of men and women, calmly shooting each of them at point-blank range, one after the other. His eyes were hard, cold, devoid of any emotion as he clinically executed his enemies—his fellow Americans—one by one.

Some of the Navy-DARPA people started to pray as Nash levelled his pistol at their faces. Some of the civilians started to sob. Race, helpless to stop the slaughter, saw tears well in Renee's eyes as she watched the shocking series of executions.

Soon there was only one man left, the last man in the line.

Marty.

Race just watched as Nash stood in front of his brother.

He felt completely helpless, powerless to assist Marty.

And then, strangely, Nash lowered his pistol. He turned to face Race, didn't take his eyes off him as he spoke: 'Lauren, would you get me my laptop from the ATV, please?'

Race frowned, confused.

What the hell—?

Lauren hurried off to the ATV, still parked in front of the citadel. She returned a minute later with Nash's laptop computer, the one he had been using during the early stages of the mission. She handed it to Nash who—strangely— passed it on to Race.

'Turn it on,' Nash said.

Race did so.

'Click on “u.s. ARMY INTERNAL NET”,' Nash said.

Race did so.

A title screen appeared.

U.S. ARMY INTERNAL MESSAGE NETWORK

The screen then changed to reveal a list of secure-line email messages.

'Now there should be a message there with your name on it. Do a search for the name “Race”,' Nash instructed.

Race punched in his own name and hit the 'SEARCH' button.

He wondered where Nash was going with this.

Suddenly, the computer beeped: '2 MESSAGES FOUND'.

The long list of e-mails shortened to two.

DATE TIME SUBJECT

3.1.99 1801 SUPERNOVA MISSION

4,1.99 1635 WILLIAM RACE ISSUE

'See the one with your name on it?' Nash said.

Race eyed the second message, double-clicked on it. A message screen appeared:

4 JAN 1999 16:35 US ARMY INTERNAL NET 617 5544 89516-07 N0.187

From: Special Projects Division Leader

To: Nash, Frank

Subject: WILLIAM RACE ISSUE

Do not leave Race in Cuzco. Repeat. Do not leave Race in Cuzco. Take him with you to the jungle. Once the idol has been obtained, liquidate him and dispose of the body accordingly.

GENERAL ARTHUR H. LANCASTER

U.S. Army Special Projects Division Leader

'I just wanted you to know that you should have been dead a long time ago, Professor Race,' Nash said.

Race felt his blood run cold as he stared at the email.

This was a death warrant, his death warrant. A missive from the general in charge of the Army Special Projects Division ordering that he be killed.

Jesus Christ.

He tried to remain calm.

He looked at the time of the message.

16:35, January 4.

Late in the afternoon on the day he'd left New York.