The Condor Prophecy Read online

  The Condor Prophecy

  Book 3 of the Hiram Kane Action Thrillers

  Steven Moore

  Prologue: Lima, Peru

  Summer, 2011

  Light wind lifted dust from the dry grounds of the park, swirling it through the cool air, like memories drifting through time. Centuries of painful memories.

  Parque de la Muralla was almost silent in the hours before dawn, the only sound the nattering of stray dogs aroused by the intruders. It was still night, but it wasn’t very dark, Lima’s garish street lights casting crazed shadows everywhere, one in particular, prominent across the ground; a Spanish conquistador astride his horse.

  They didn’t have long. Soon the park would bustle with early morning joggers, eager to exercise before the sun rose too high. Four men stood silently beneath a street lamp. They were young men, most in their early twenties, but were tough and wiry, their dark, chestnut skin and narrow eyes indicative of Quechuan mestizo men in Peru.

  The gathered men were proud of what they had done and what they were going to do. Nevertheless, they didn’t want to be caught, and had a lot more to achieve. They ran to that vast shadow and stopped, taking a moment to gaze up at the massive statue before them. It was tall, some twenty feet, its bronze glimmering in the darkness. The rider sat mounted on a powerful horse, he and it both heavily armoured. He had his sword raised, and the stern glare in his eyes would intimidate any enemy.

  The statue’s striking profile was a dark and dominant silhouette against the faint hint of dawn. Impressive. But not for long.

  The first of the four men–their single-minded leader–clambered up the pedestal with a length of thick rope. He edged high onto the mighty horse’s back, where the cast bronze shone under the lamp’s orange glow. Two other men laced their own ropes around the front legs of the horse, pulling hard to tighten the knots. In less than two minutes, the statue of horse and rider had three lengths of heavy-duty rope dangling from it.

  The fourth man edged their powerful flatbed truck into position, twenty yards in front of the statue. With all the ropes now linked as one, the driver fastened it to the truck’s winch. It was time.

  The leader, his authority unquestioned, motioned to the others to join him. They stood in line, and with the horse and rider statue before them, the big man said a few words in his native Quechuan:

  Across the Andes Mountains, the mighty condor once soared,

  Where spirits of the Incas will look down forever more,

  And when the name Pizarro, from the history books has gone,

  The legend of the Incas, forever and always, will live on.

  The youngest of the group at just twenty, the driver ran to the truck and restarted the engine, revving it to life. He stepped hard on the pedal, the screech of the wheels harsh on their ears. But they didn’t care. The driver focused his eyes on the leader’s raised arm and waited for the signal. Their hearts raced. The moment was near.

  Destiny.

  And then the arm fell.

  He lifted his foot from the brake, and pressing the accelerator down with all his strength the powerful truck lurched backwards. The ropes resisted, the truck wheels skidding and swerving on the concrete, but it didn’t retreat. The thick bronze of the statue groaned under the pressure as the eerie sound resonated across the empty park.

  Then the rider’s head shifted just a few inches forwards as the statue began to yield. The driver gunned the pedal, straining the engine to its limit. And as if in slow motion, one of the horse’s knees buckled, the entire statue tilting to the left. The screaming of tyres and twisting metal sounded deafening to the men standing close. Yet still the horse and rider didn’t fall, but clung on as if their immortality depended on it. After long, nervous seconds, the men shared doubtful looks. But finally the second leg buckled, and the colossal sculpture fell to its knees. It left the rider leaning precariously forwards and the tip of his lance mere inches from the ground.

  The leader looked at his driver, an instinctive message passing between them. His build was solid, and tall for an Andean native at six foot. The man commanded obedience. He was the eldest at thirty-two, but despite his relatively young age his weathered face was scarred and his eyes had already seen a lifetime of pain and disappointment.

  The driver slipped the gears from reverse to first and as the truck edged forward a few yards the ropes fell slack. A heavy silence now haunted the empty park, the street dogs long since retreated in fear. After all the noise they’d made, the park wouldn’t be empty for long.

  This was it. The final effort. Their leader nodded, his wild eyes alive with anticipation. The driver took a deep breath, slammed the truck in reverse, and accelerating backwards the ropes pulled taut and the huge statue was unceremoniously hauled to the ground. As bronze slammed against concrete and sparks flew like an exploding firework, the horrific sound of warped and scraping metal was a fitting welcome to the dawning of a new era.

  The driver left the truck and joined the others as they walked to the head of the fallen rider. They didn’t speak, but they didn’t need to. Their duty was done. The prophecy was being fulfilled.

  The men turned toward the truck, but the leader paused. After a moment’s thought, he walked back to the rider’s caved in head. Unzipping the fly of his jeans, and with utter calm, the big man urinated on the upturned face. Satisfied, he rejoined the others.

  Without a word they drove away into the night, just as the day’s first locals began entering the park. And the men left safe in the knowledge that the despised Spanish conquistador Francisco Pizarro would never cast his dark shadow over Inca lands again.

  The Andes Mountains, Peru

  May 7th, 2012

  Hiram Kane swatted half-heartedly at a mosquito. It’s not that they didn’t drive him insane. They did, the very bane of his life. But something else occupied his thoughts in that moment, and not even the buzzing of a million mosquitoes would distract him.

  He sat on a flat rock, the ancient stone warmed from a high, midday sun. A nearby waterfall churned white, gravity sending it cascading into the valley below, its constant white-noise roar transcending all other sound. But Hiram heard nothing. He sat still and focused, his mind tuned into something the few people sitting nearby couldn’t have known. Squinting against the harsh light, he stared into the jungle before him, narrowed eyes penetrating the impenetrable.

  He was close. He knew it, could feel it in his bones.

  The quest of a lifetime–the quest of several lifetimes–would at last be over. Kane had found what he and so many others before him had sought. It was within his grasp, and as electricity tingled his fingertips Hiram knew he’d found the real lost city of the Incas.

  Vilcabamba.

  Kane and his team members were deep in Peru’s iconic Sacred Valley, far from the overused hiking trails between Machu Picchu and the city of Cuzco. Few foreigners in the modern era ever laid eyes on the wild terrain in that unexplored area of the valley, which meant the scenery was untainted by humans, thus remained magnificent. Mountains towered off at impossible angles in every direction. Some peaks were covered in snow, despite the warmer season, while others lay shrouded beneath an almost perpetual mist. It lent them a mystical quality always so alluring to Hiram. The steep, jungled slopes fell away to the mighty Urubamba River, where its dark and dangerous waters raged in violent brown rapids.

  Kane had been close to the area before. The last time was twelve months previous, when he’d led another expedition of archaeologists and wide-eyed treasure hunters far into the depths of the valley. Most people didn't really believe they would find the genuine lost city of Vilcabamba, but it didn’t stop them dreaming of success, and groups dedicated vast amounts of time and money ever
y year to try. It was Hiram Kane's job, and pleasure, to lead them.

  But Kane differed from the others, and always had. Hiram truly believed the legend of Vilcabamba was real, and not only that, but he would be the man to find it. And he had an advantage over all those others.

  Hiram Kane had a map.

  A contemplative frown pinched Kane’s face as he pondered his decision, his eyes darkened by deep thought and his mouth set in what looked like a scowl but was more a study in concentration. He had a big choice to make, and he would not take it lightly.

  Considered average looking by most, and not least himself, Kane possessed a rugged, outdoorsy quality admired by many. At a modest five feet eleven but with a physique that hinted at his years of competitive sport and outdoor living, Kane cut a commanding presence. Kane was reserved by nature, yet his cropped and slightly greying brown hair and perma-stubble added a tough edge. But his rich hazel eyes–eyes that faded to jade green under a bright sun–were sharp and wise and painfully honest. With a few hidden tattoos and a collection of well-earned scars, Kane’s was a body that had seen and felt a fully lived life. He’d even lost half a finger, destroyed by a bullet when he found himself confronted by ruthless Yakuza men in Japan last year. It still hurt sometimes, a painful reminder of that horrific episode on Miyajima Island.

  Yet, Kane would be the first to tell you he was only now getting started. Life's short, he said often, seize it by the horns. On his expeditions, he led by example.

  But Kane felt torn. The group of six people with him, resting in the shade of a native polylepis tree after a long and arduous hike up the valley, had all invested a lot to join this expedition, and every one of them had the same ambitions as Hiram; locate the lost city of the Incas. They all wanted to be there when history got rewritten, wanted to be there when the true Vilcabamba was discovered.

  They deserved to know the truth, of course. All six were successful in their respective fields, and among them were two archaeologists, two art historians, an eminent professor of antiquities, and a photographer. Completing the team were three porters, four mules, and a cook. Despite the heat and the harsh conditions, the native Quechuan fellows had barely raised a sweat. They sat away from the group, quietly savouring their rolled cigarettes while chewing wads of bitter coca leaves. In contrast, the foreigner's clothes were soiled, their bodies drenched in sweat, and their overworked lungs gasped for rarified breath in the high altitude air, the very epitome of exhaustion. Yet, no matter their physical state, all eyes were wide with wonder at the imposing panoramas that very same altitude granted them.

  He should share his thoughts with them. They had that right. Kane though had always worried that if the wrong people found out about Vilcabamba, then the world’s press would descend upon the site too soon and before the proper provisions and precautions were in place. Yes, these guys were all professionals. But that didn’t guarantee they would act in a professional manner. In fact, Kane believed in many cases it almost guaranteed they wouldn’t.

  Kane was just being cautious, and he understood he had to tell them what he was thinking. After all, they had each paid him a small fortune based on the reputation of his integrity.

  Now rested, a lean, middle-aged archaeologist from Cornell called out to Kane. “What do you see in there, Hiram? Not a mountain lion, is it?” He chuckled at his own joke. No one else did.

  Kane swivelled to face them. It was time to tell them what he believed was true; that beyond the near jungle, just a few hours hike from where they were sitting, lie the place that had ruined so many fortunes, shattered so many dreams, and over the last century, had cost many, many lives. Yes, they were just a couple of miles from the fabled lost Incan city. Vilcabamba.

  “No, it’s not a puma,” Kane said with a smile in his deep, confident tone. “That would be exciting though, wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, what is it, man?” the archaeologist asked, impatience lacing his voice. “What’s kept you so rapt for the last fifteen minutes?”

  “When we set off on this mission,” said Kane, “we each dreamt of what we’d find. Well, it’s my honest opinion that a few—”

  Suddenly, the docile mules began braying while straining hard at their tethers, causing a commotion among the Quechuans. Something was wrong. The mules knew it, and hearing their ominous cries, so did the porters. In thick, accented Spanish, their leader, a short but commanding figure, shouted, “Carrera! Carrera!” Run! Run!

  A low roar emanated from deep within the very ground they sat on, a grinding rumble, like far-away thunder. The hairs on the back of the archaeologist’s neck stood up, his intuitive fear instant. The tree above him swayed, its papery red bark trembling. And then the ground shook.

  Earthquake.

  The ground shook with violence–left to right, up and down–and those who’d jumped to their feet were thrown to the hard earth like scarecrows in tornado alley. Boulders of all sizes came tumbling toward them from high up the slopes, a loaf sized rock striking an unfortunate mule on the head and killing it on the spot. The polylepis creaked, the thick trunk splintering, and it fell, the Cornell archaeologist diving clear with inches to spare.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Kane and his Quechuan leader sprang into action. They darted across the rocks and grabbed the two nearest members of the group, shoving the stunned senior art historian and the young photographer to the safety of a ledge. But with a deafening roar the ledge shifted, and like a slow-moving tsunami, it crumbled down the slope. “Landslide!” Kane shouted, “Move. NOW!”

  Two of them leapt clear, the professor of antiquities and the younger archaeologist. The French art historian immediately followed. However, her young PhD student companion Claude froze in fear, rooted where he stood. She shouted, “Allez, Claude, se dépêche!” Come on! Hurry!

  But Claude didn’t move.

  In the dozens of expeditions he’d led before, Kane had never lost anyone. There'd been many earthquakes, a common event in the Andes, and plenty of landslides, and Kane had witnessed stronger ones than this. But he knew things could worsen, and probably would. Using all his athleticism he scrambled down a few yards, almost riding the loose debris, until he straddled the fallen tree, and leapt across the crevice that opened between Claude and the group.

  “Claude,” he yelled. “You need to move.”

  “Ce n’est pas possible! I… I can not!” Terror shook his voice and tears streaked his dusty cheeks. But at that moment the sliding ledge came to a shuddering halt, the horrifying rumble fading to a direful growl. Kane took his chance.

  “It’s okay, my friend. You can do it. You have to move. Take my hand.”

  Claude shook his head, still unable to move. Then, just twenty yards away, a boulder the size of a small Citroen crashed past them, slamming trees aside like dominoes until it disappeared into the misty valley below. Claude was a sitting duck, and it was all the inspiration Kane needed.

  Without pause he launched himself out onto the precarious ledge, only just finding his balance in time to prevent plummeting to a certain death. Then, and with some not-so-gentle physical persuasion and a few choice expletives, he hauled the young Frenchman over the crevice, almost certainly saving his life. The others, huddling under a tree and thanking their God or the universe that the earthquake had somehow stopped, stared at Hiram Kane in speechless awe.

  Kane and his head guide, Sonco, hustled around the group checking for injuries, relieved to see they’d all escaped with little more than a few scratches and scrapes. They’d been lucky, Kane knew. He also knew they weren’t out of trouble. After a quick deliberation with Sonco, who understood the terrain better than any man alive, they agreed another landslide might happen at any moment, and in fact they expected it. Kane addressed the group.

  “We’ve had a narrow escape, but the danger hasn’t passed. Earthquakes often have after-shocks, and it wouldn’t take a lot for the whole side of this mountain to collapse. We have to go. Now! We'll backtrack as fast as we
can in the direction we came for an hour, and there we’ll make camp. If nothing drastic happens during the night, we can return tomorrow, and depending on the trails, try to continue on.”

  Every member of the group agreed without hesitation, especially Claude, whose tear-stained face nodded rapid approval. Even Mr Cornell didn't complain.

  As they retreated to a safer distance along the trail, and both the real and proverbial dust had settled, Kane recalled he’d been on the verge of telling the others they were close to Vilcabamba.

  He was not a religious man, far from it, but the rituals and traditions of the world’s diverse civilisations fascinated Kane. He was also a touch superstitious, though he wouldn’t admit it, and Hiram couldn’t help but wonder if the landslide was a sign from the Incan Earth Goddess, Pachamama. The ancient Incas believed if they upset Pachamama, she had the ability to destroy the land with violent earthquakes–like the one they’d just witnessed. Hiram gave little credence to such archaic superstitions himself, but there it was. On the hike to camp the thought lingered with him.

  Kane settled into a restless silence as he walked. After another consultation with Sonco, they believed they were now beyond any immediate danger, which meant tomorrow they could continue with the expedition. But it somehow didn’t feel right. Kane was an instinctive man and had learned the hard way to trust those instincts. The one occasion he hadn’t trusted them had haunted him for almost three decades. Shaking his head, he dismissed those dark thoughts and pushed on.

  After arriving at their new campsite, Kane spent a couple of hours deliberating his options whilst the porters set up camp and the team members tried to relax after their harrowing near miss. It was a tough decision, but after once more conversing with his most trusted friend, Sonco, he made it. Kane was terminating the expedition.