The Codex by Douglas Preston

Author:Douglas Preston [Preston, Douglas]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Thrillers, Suspense, Suspense Fiction, Action & Adventure, Inheritance and Succession, Fathers and Sons, Missing Persons, Treasure Troves, Treasure-Trove, Adventure Stories, Antiquities, Manuscripts, Pharmaceutical industry, Archaeological Thefts, Maya, Tombs
ISBN: 9780765307002
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2003-12-30T06:00:00+00:00

34

Marcus Hauser sat on a log by the fire, Churchill in his mouth, field-stripping the Steyr AUG. The weapon didn’t need it, but for Hauser it was a repetitive physical process that was almost a form of meditation. The rifle was mostly made of finely machined plastic, which Hauser liked. He retracted the cocking slide knob, grasped the barrel grip and, using his left thumb, pressed the barrel locking latch down. Then he rotated the barrel clockwise and pulled it forward. It came free with a satisfying smoothness.

From time to time he glanced into the forest where Philip was chained up, but there wasn’t a sound. He had heard a jaguar roaring earlier in the day, a roar of frustration and hunger, and he didn’t want his prisoner getting eaten, at least not before he had figured out where old Max had gone. He heaped some more wood on the fire to beat back the darkness and the prowling jaguar. To his right, the Macaturi River slid past the camp, making soft splashing and gurgling noises as it eddied and flowed. It was a beautiful night for a change, the velvety sky dusted with stars, which were reflected as faint dancing lights in the surface of the river. It was close to two o’clock in the morning, but Hauser was one of those fortunates who needed only four hours of sleep a night.

He chucked another log on the fire to increase the light and slid the bolt assembly out of the receiver. His hand lightly caressed the smooth pieces of plastic and metal—one warm, the other cold—and he savored the scent of gun oil and the clicks of the well-machined parts as they disengaged. A few more well-practiced moves and the rifle lay in front of him, stripped to its six basic parts. He hefted each piece, examining it, cleaning it, running his hands over it—and began putting them back together. He worked slowly, dreamily even: no boot-camp haste here.

He heard a faint sound: the whine of the returning boats. He paused, listening carefully. The operation had concluded, and the men were back right on time. Hauser was pleased. Not even a half-assed group of Honduran soldiers could have screwed up such a straightforward op.

Or could they? He saw, materializing out of the dark body of the river, the dugout, but with three instead of five soldiers in it. The boat docked at the large boulder that served as a landing stage. Two men hopped out, firelit forms moving against the darkness, and helped a third man out. He walked stiffly, and Hauser heard a groan of pain. Three men—and he had sent out five.

He refitted the butt plate, slid the bolt assembly back in, and reset the housing latch to the left, working by feel, his eyes fixed on the figures moving toward the fire. The men approached diffidently, nervously, one soldier supporting his wounded colleague. A three-foot-long arrow had passed through his thigh, the feathered end sticking out the back, the barbed metal point out the front.

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