The geologist was standing at the edge of the lift, good hand holding the railing, wounded hand held tight beneath the armpit. "You're insane," he said.
Bonterre looked at him. The great bear of a man, normally affable and easygoing, was filled with a rage she had never seen in him before.
"Don't you get it?" Rankin snapped. "That treasure's been soaking up radiation for hundreds of years. It's no good to anyone."
"Keep running your mouth and I'll put my boot in it," Streeter said.
"I don't give a damn what you do," Rankin said. "The sword's gonna kill us all, anyway."
"Bullshit."
"It's not bullshit. I saw the readings. The levels of radiation coming from that casket are unbelievable. When he takes that sword out, we're all dead."
They passed the fifty-foot platform, the dull metal of the titanium spars bathed in the glow of emergency lights.
"You think I'm some kind of idiot," Streeter said. "Or maybe you're so desperate you'd say anything to save your ass. That sword's five hundred years old, at least. Nothing on earth is that naturally radioactive."
"Nothing on earth. Exactly." Rankin leaned forward, his shaggy beard dripping. "That sword was made from a fucking meteorite."
"What?" Bonterre breathed.
Streeter barked a laugh, shaking his head.
"The Radmeter picked up the emission signature of iridium-80. That's a heavy isotope of iridium. Radioactive as shit." He spat over the side of the lift. "Iridium is rare on earth but common in nickel-iron meteorites." He rocked forward, wincing with pain as his shattered hand grazed the platform.
"Streeter, you must let us speak to the Captain," Bonterre said.
"That's not going to happen. The Captain's spent a lifetime working for this treasure. He talks about it, even in his sleep. That treasure belongs to him, not some hairy-assed geologist who joined the team three months ago. Or a French whore. It's his, all of it."
Raw anger flared in Rankin's eyes. "You pathetic bastard."
Streeter's lips compressed to a thin white line but he said nothing.
"You know what?" Rankin said. "The Captain doesn't give a shit about you. You're even more dispensable now than you were back in 'Nam. Think he'd save your life now? Forget it. All he cares about is his goddamn treasure. You're history."
Streeter whipped the gun to Rankin's face, jamming it between his eyes.
"Go ahead," Rankin said. "Either do me and get it over with, or drop the gun and fight. I'll kick your puny ass with only one hand."
Streeter swiveled the gun toward the lift railing and fired. Gore flew against the scribbled walls of the Pit as Rankin jerked his ruined left hand away. The geologist dropped to his knees, crying in pain and outrage, the index and middle fingers hanging by torn strips of flesh. Streeter began aiming calculated, vicious kicks at Rankin's face. With a cry, Bonterre threw herself at the team leader.
Suddenly, a throaty rumble roared up from the depths. It was followed a split-second later by a jarring blow that threw them all down onto the platform. Rankin reared back, unable to gain a purchase with his shattered hands, and Bonterre grabbed his shirt collar to keep him from tumbling over the edge. Streeter recovered first, and by the time Bonterre rose he was already gripping the rail, aiming his gun at them. The entire structure was shaking violently, titanium struts screeching in protest. Beneath it all was the demonic roar of rushing water.
The lift lurched to a shrieking halt.
"Don't move!" Streeter warned.
Another jarring shudder, and the emergency lights flickered. A bolt fell past, glanced off the platform with a clang, and went spinning down into darkness.
"It's begun," Rankin cried hoarsely, huddled on the floor of the lift, hugging his bleeding hands to his chest.
"What has begun?" Bonterre shouted.
"The Pit's collapsing into the piercement dome. Great fucking timing."
"Shut up and jump down." Streeter waved his gun at the gray shape of the hundred-foot platform, silhouetted a few feet below the lift.
Another jolt shook the lift, canting it crazily. A rush of chill air gusted up from the depths.
"Timing?" Bonterre shouted. "This is no coincidence. This is Macallan's secret trap."
"I said, shut up." Streeter shoved her off the lift and she tumbled several feet, landing hard on the hundred-foot platform. She looked up, shaken but unhurt, to see Streeter kicking Rankin in the abdomen. Three kicks and he was over the edge, landing heavily beside her. Bonterre moved to help but Streeter was already clambering catlike down the array to the platform.
"Don't touch him," he said, twitching the pistol warningly. "We're going in there."
Bonterre looked over. The bridge from the ladder array to the Wopner tunnel was trembling. As she stared, there came another violent shudder. The emergency lighting went out and the web of struts plunged into darkness.
"Move it," Streeter hissed in her ear.
Then he stopped. Even in the darkness, Bonterre could feel him tense.
Then she saw it, too: a faint light below them, rising quickly up the ladder.
"Captain Neidelman?" Streeter called down. There was no answer.
"Is that you, Captain?" he called again, louder, trying to make his voice heard over the thundering roar welling up from below.
The light kept coming. Now Bonterre could see it was pointed downward, its brightness obscuring the climbing figure.
"You down there!" Streeter called. "Show your face or I'll shoot!"
A muffled voice came up, faint and unintelligible.
"Captain?"
The light came closer, perhaps twenty feet below now. Then it snapped off.
"Christ," Streeter said again, bracing himself against the shaking platform, planting his legs apart and aiming downward, both hands on the gun. "Whoever it is," he roared, "I'm going to—" But even as he spoke there was a sudden rush from the other side of the platform. Taken by surprise, Streeter spun around and fired, and in the flare of the muzzle Bonterre could see Hatch, slamming his fist into Streeter's gut.
Hatch followed the blow to Streeter's abdomen with a straight-arm to the jaw. Streeter staggered backward on the metal platform and Hatch came quickly after, catching a handful of Streeter's shirt and spinning him around. Streeter began to twist from Hatch's grip and Hatch pulled him forward, punching him twice, hard, in the face. On the second blow, there was a low crunching noise as Streeter's sinuses gave way with a splatter of mucus and hot, thick blood.
Streeter moaned and went limp, and Hatch relaxed his grip. Suddenly, Streeter's knee came up. Grunting in surprise and pain, Hatch fell backward. Streeter went for his gun. There was nothing he could do but shove the man, hard, toward the floor.
Streeter lifted his gun as Hatch dove for the far side of the array. There was a roar and a burst of light, and a bullet sparked off a titanium member to his left. Hatch ducked to one side, swinging around as another bullet whined between the braces. Then Hatch heard a gasp and a low grunt: Bonterre was grappling Streeter from behind. He lunged forward just as Streeter gave her a brutal backhand that sent her spinning toward the mouth of the tunnel. Quick as a cat, Streeter brought the gun forward again. Hatch froze, his fist hanging in midair, staring at the dim line of the gunbarrel. Streeter looked into his eyes and smiled, blood from his nose staining his teeth a dull crimson.
Then he lurched to one side: Rankin, unable to use his hands, had risen up and was butting Streeter toward the edge of the metal bridge with his body. For a moment, Streeter seemed on the verge of toppling. But he regained his balance and, as Hatch brought his arm back for a blow, turned the gun on Rankin and fired point-blank.
The geologist's head jerked back, a dark spray rising behind in the gloom of the tunnel. Then he slumped to the metal flooring.