"It doesn't matter," said the biker, as if he were brushing off a cla.s.sroom student's irrational question.

"You knew we were trapped in the chamber by a rockfall and rising water?"

"Yes," the biker said coldly.

"And you did nothing?" Marquez said incredulously. "You didn't try to rescue us or go for help?"

"No."

A stimulating conversationalist, this guy, thought Pitt. If he'd been a tiny bit suspicious earlier, he was downright convinced now that these men were not local daredevils on a weekend adventure. These men were killers, and heavily armed. He didn't know why, but he knew they were not going to allow them to escape the mines alive. It was time to act, and surprise was his only advantage. He slipped his dive knife from its sheath and gripped the hilt. It was the only weapon he had, and it would have to do. He took several slow deep breaths and gave a final flex to his fingers. It was now or never.

"We came within minutes of drowning in the chamber," said Pat, wondering what Pitt was planning, if anything. She began to wonder if he was a coward and simply hiding from danger.

"We know. That was the plan."

"Plan? What plan?"

"You all were supposed to die," the biker said conversationally.

The words were greeted with a stunned, uncomprehending silence.

"Unfortunately, your will to survive overcame the cave-in and the flooding," the biker continued. "We did not foresee your perseverance. But it is of no matter. You merely prolonged the inevitable."

"The dynamite blast," muttered Marquez in shock. "That was you?"

The answer was candid. "Yes, we set the charge."

Pat began to look like a deer staring into the headlights of an approaching truck. She knew that the bikers were not aware of Pitt's presence, so she acted as if he didn't exist. Marquez and Ambrose a.s.sumed he was simply standing behind them quietly, as stunned with shock as they were.

"Why would you want to kill us?" she asked, her voice shaking. "Why would total strangers want to murder us?"

"You saw the skull and you saw the inscriptions."

Marquez looked like a man torn between fear and anger. "So what?" he growled.

"Your discovery cannot be allowed to become known outside these mines."

"We've done nothing wrong," Ambrose said, strangely calm. "We're scientists studying historic phenomena. We're not talking treasure but ancient artifacts. It's insane to be killed because of it."

The biker shrugged. "It's unfortunate, but you became involved with matters far beyond your comprehension."

"How could you possibly know about our entry into the chamber?" asked Marquez.

"We were informed. That's all you need to know."

"By who? Not more than five people knew we were there."

"We're wasting time," grunted the second biker. "Let's finish our business and throw them down the nearest shaft."

"This is madness," muttered Ambrose, with little or no feeling in his voice.

Pitt silently moved from the bore, any sounds of his footsteps covered by the soft popping from the exhaust, and crept up behind the rider still sitting on his bike, who was distracted by the conversation. Pitt was no stranger to killing, but it wasn't in him to knife another man in the back, no matter how rotten the victim might be. In the same motion, he reversed the grip on the knife and plunged the blunt hilt with all his strength against the base of the biker's neck below the helmet. It bordered on a killing blow, but it was a pound short of fatal. The biker sagged in his seat and fell back against Pitt without making so much as a soft moan. Pitt crouched low and quickly threw his arms around the body, held it for a moment, then lowered it, together with the bike, quietly onto the ore cart track with the engine still idling in neutral.

Working swiftly, he pushed aside the biker's chest protector and uncased a Para-Ordnance 10+1 round, .45-caliber automatic from a shoulder holster strapped under an armpit. He trained the sights on the back of the biker standing on his right and pulled back the hammer. He had never fired a P-10 before, but from the feel, he knew the magazine was full and that the gun possessed most of the same features as his trusty old Colt .45, which was locked inside the NUMA vehicle he'd driven to Colorado from Washington.

The headlights on the motorcycles brightly illuminated the two killers, who failed to detect the figure stealing up behind them, but as Pitt crept closer, he pa.s.sed in front of the light from the third bike, which was lying on the track, and he became identifiable to Ambrose.

The anthropologist spied Pitt emerging from the bright light, pointed behind the bikers, and blurted, "How did you get back there?"

At the words, Pitt took careful aim and allowed his index finger to caress the trigger.

"Who are you talking to?" the first biker demanded.

"Little old me," Pitt said casually.

These men were top of the line in their profession. There was no hint of stunned surprise. No pointless discussion. No obvious questions. No hesitation or remote display of uncertainty. Their sixth sense worked as one. Their actions came with lightning speed. In a seemingly fused, well-practiced movement, they jerked the P-10 autos from their holsters and whirled around within a single second, the expressions on their faces frozen in cold implacability.

Pitt did not face the killers full-on, knees slightly bent, his gun gripped and extended in two hands directly in front of his nose, the way they taught in police academies or as seen in action movies. He preferred the cla.s.sic stance, body turned sideways, eyes staring over one shoulder, gun stretched out in one hand. Not only did he present less of a target, but his aim was more precise. He knew that the gunslingers of the West who'd lived to a ripe old age had not necessarily been the fastest on the draw, but they were the straightest shooters, who'd taken their time to aim before pulling the trigger.

Pitt's first shot took the biker on the right in the nape of his neck. A slight, almost infinitesimal shift of the P-10 as he squeezed the trigger for the second time, and the biker on the left took a bullet in the chest at nearly the same instant his own gun was lining up on Pitt's silhouetted figure. Pitt could not believe that two men could react as one in the blink of an eye. Had they been given another two seconds to snap off a shot, it would have been Pitt whose body fell heavily across the granite floor of the mine tunnel.

The gunshots erupted like a deafening barrage of artillery fire, reverberating throughout the rock walls of the tunnel. For ten seconds, perhaps twenty-it seemed more like an hour-Pat, Ambrose, and Marquez stared unbelievingly at the dead bodies at their feet, eyes wide and glazed. Then the tentative beginnings of a dazed hope and the final realization that they were still alive broke the horror-numbed spell.

"What in G.o.d's name is going on?" Pat said, her voice low and vague. Then she looked up at Pitt. "You killed them?" It was more a statement than a question.

"Better them than you," Pitt said, putting his arm around her shoulders. "We've experienced a nasty nightmare, but it's almost over now."

Marquez stepped past the rails and leaned down over the dead killers. "Who are these people?"

"A mystery for law-enforcement authorities to solve," replied Ambrose. He thrust out a hand. "I'd like to shake your hand, Mr... ." He paused and looked blank. "I don't even know the name of the man who saved my life."

"It's Dirk Pitt," said Pat.

"I'm deeply in your debt," said Ambrose. He seemed more agitated than relieved.

"As am I," added Marquez, slapping Pitt's back.

"What mine do you think they entered to get here?" Pitt asked Marquez.

The miner thought a moment. "Most likely the Paradise."

"That means they purposely trapped themselves when they blew the dynamite that caused the avalanche," said Ambrose.

Pitt shook his head. "Not purposely. They knew they could make their way back to the surface by another route. Their big mistake was in using too ma.s.sive a charge. They hadn't planned on the earth tremors, the collapse of the tunnel, and the opening of the underground fissures that allowed the water to rise and flood the tunnel."

"It figures," agreed Marquez. "Since they were on the opposite side of the cave-in, they could have easily ridden their bikes up the sloping shaft ahead of the flooding to the entrance. Finding it blocked with snow, they began searching connecting tunnels for a way out-"

"And after riding lost through the mines for hours, eventually came upon us," finished Ambrose.