Remi’s voice came through the archway: “Run, Sam! I’ll be okay.”

“No!”

“Just do it!”

Sam eyeballed the distance to and angle of the Great Room’s archway and instinctively knew he’d never make it. Russell and Marjorie would cut him down before he got halfway.

“Dammit,” Sam rasped.

Russell and Marjorie popped up on the steps. The muzzles of their machine guns flashed orange.

Sam turned and charged up the steps.

Crouched in one of the tubs, her headlamp doused, Remi was just realizing her position was indefensible when the shots rang out.

Silence.

Then Russell’s whispered voice: “She’s in there. You take her, I’ll take him.”

“Dead or alive?” Marjorie replied softly.

“Dead. Mother says this is the right place. The Theurang is here. Once the Fargos are gone, we’ll have all the time in the world. Go!”

Remi didn’t think but acted. She climbed out of the tub and crab-walked to the shaft. She took a deep breath, let it out, then jumped.

One floor above Remi, Sam had found himself in a maze of small interconnecting rooms and corridors. Here, the roots and vines were much thicker, crisscrossing the spaces like monstrous cobwebs. Slivers of sunlight peeked through, casting the labyrinth in a greenish twilight.

Having left his machete back at the tunnel entrance, there was nothing for Sam to do but duck and weave his way forward and deeper into the maze.

Somewhere behind him he heard the crunch of footsteps.

He froze.

Three more steps. Closer now. Sam turned his head, trying to pin down the direction.

“Fargo!” Russell shouted. “All my father wants is the Theurang. He’s decided not to destroy it. Do you hear me, Fargo?”

Sam remained silent. He stepped to the left, under a thigh-sized root and through a doorway.

“He wants the same thing you do,” Russell shouted. “He wants to see the Golden Man in a museum, where it belongs. You and your wife would be co-discoverers. Imagine the prestige!”

“We’re not in this for the prestige,” Sam said under his breath. “Idiot.”

To his right, farther down the corridor, a vine snapped, followed by a barely perceptible “Damn!”

Sam crouched down, switched the .38 to his left hand, and looked around the corner. Twenty feet away, a figure was charging toward him. Sam fired. Russell stumbled and almost went down but regained his footing and dodged right and through a doorway.

Sam stepped across the hall and crab-stepped over a root into the next room. He paused, flipped open the .38’s cylinder.

He had one bullet left.

Remi landed hard at the bottom of the pit and tried to shoulder-roll to dissipate the impact but slammed into something solid. White-hot flames spread across her rib cage. She swallowed the scream and forced herself to be still. She was in pitch-blackness. She was belowground, she guessed.

From up the shaft came Marjorie’s voice. “Remi? Come on out. I know you’re hurt. Come out, and I’ll help you.”

Not going to happen, sister, Remi thought.

She cupped her hands around the headlamp, clicked it on, and took a quick scan. At her back was a wall; directly ahead, a wide, downward-sloping tunnel. Archways lined either side of the tunnel. Remi clicked off her lamp.

On hands and knees, she crawled ahead. When she’d put what she thought was enough distance between her and Marjorie, she turned her headlamp back on. One hand pressed against her ribs, Remi climbed to her feet. She chose an archway at random and stepped through it. To her left was another arch.

From the tunnel she heard a thump, then a grunt. She peered around the corner in time to see a headlamp turning toward her. Remi raised her pistol, took aim, and fired three quick shots. The muzzle of Marjorie’s weapon mushroomed orange.

Remi backpedaled, turned, and darted through the next arch.

Sam knew Russell was behind him and across the corridor.

One bullet, Sam thought. Russell had more than that, and probably spare magazines as well. Sam needed to draw him in, ten feet or less, close enough that he couldn’t miss.

Careful to keep the corridor in his mind’s eye, Sam crept deeper into the room, then stepped left through an archway. He turned right, stepped up to the next arch, and risked a glance into the corridor.

Through the archway across from him Sam heard a snap. Russell.

Pistol raised to waist height, Sam back-stepped away from the door. When he drew even with the next arch, he turned to step through it.

Russell was standing in the corridor. Sam raised his gun, took aim. Russell took a step and disappeared. Sam took two large strides forward and, gun leading the way, sidestepped into the corridor.

He found himself standing face-to-face with Russell.

Sam knew that Russell was younger and stronger than him, and the King boy was also lightning fast. Before Sam could squeeze the trigger, Russell swung the butt of his machine gun upward, the stock arcing toward Sam’s chin. Sam jerked backward. The butt struck a glancing blow. Sam’s eyesight flashed red. On instinct, he charged forward, engulfing Russell in a bear hug that pinned his arms to his side. They stumbled backward. Russell planted his back foot and spun his body, taking Sam along with him. Sam found his footing again, drew his knee back, and slammed it forward into Russell’s groin. Russell grunted. Sam kneed him again, then again. Russell’s legs buckled, but he managed to stay upright.

Wrapped up, they stumbled into the next room, bounced off a wall, and then lurched into yet another room. Russell reared his head back, tucked his chin. Sam thought, Head butt, and tried to turn away from it, but it was too late. The top of Russell’s forehead slammed into Sam’s eyebrow. His eyesight flashed red again, then blackness began creeping in from the sides. Sam exhaled hard, drew in a deep breath, clenched his teeth, and held on. His vision cleared slightly. He drew his own head back, but the height difference made a face strike impossible. Sam chose instead Russell’s collarbone. This time, Russell let out a yelp of pain. Sam head-butted again, then again. Russell’s machine gun hit the ground.

They spun again, Russell trying to use his superior strength to either dislodge Sam or slam him against a wall.

Suddenly Sam felt Russell’s balance change; he was backpedaling quicker than his feet could keep up. Sam’s judo training took hold. He would capitalize on Russell’s imbalance. Sam put everything he had into his legs and charged forward. Feet scrabbling over the vines and roots, he bulldozed Russell backward, picking up speed. They bounced through an arch, and then they were back in the corridor. Sam kept pushing.

And then they were stumbling, Russell’s balance having given out. They were enveloped by a curtain of foliage. Sam heard and felt vines snapping around them. Over Russell’s shoulder he saw daylight. Sam released his death grip on Russell and snapped his head forward, catching him in the sternum. Russell disappeared through the curtain. Sam, trying to arrest his own momentum, pitched through the opening and into space.

Sam’s vision was filled with sky, granite walls, a churning river far below-

He slammed to a stop. The impact knocked the wind out of him. He sucked in a couple lungfuls of air. All he saw was a black steel cylinder.

Gun, he thought numbly. He was still clutching his pistol.

He was lying, belly first, in the crook of a moss-covered tree. He looked around and pieced together what he was seeing. They’d fallen from a temple window. The tree, having grown half embedded in the temple’s exterior wall, was rooted in a tiny patch of earth at the edge of the plateau. Over the edge was a thousand-foot drop into the Tsangpo Gorge.

Sam heard a groan below him. He craned his neck down and spotted Russell lying on his back next to the tree. His eyes were open and staring directly into Sam’s.