Excavation by James Rollins

were wide, the whites of which almost glowed in the lantern near the ladder. His lips were thin with hatred—but she also sensed fear and shock emanating from him.
    Maggie knew that expression. A childhood friend, Patrick Dugan, had worn the same shocked face when caught by a stray bullet during a firefight back in Belfast. He had raised his head too soon from their shared hiding place in a roadside drainage ditch. Maggie had known better. Even as Patrick’s body collapsed atop her, she hadn’t moved. Danger lay in haste. Having learned her lesson, Maggie stayed hidden and kept the others back with a hand.
    What had happened below? What could frighten a man as hard and tough as Gil?
    As on that noon day in the streets of Belfast, Maggie knew safety still lay in the shadows. She peered from the room’s edge as Gil reached to his vest and fingered an object bulging in a pocket. It seemed to center the panicked man, as a crucifix would reassure an old woman.
    Then, from another pocket, he pulled free what looked like a green apple with a handle. It took Maggie a heartbeat to recognize the armament, so out of place in an ancient Incan ruin.
    Bloody hell! A grenade!
    With a final glance at the shaft, Gil scrabbled to his feet and raced down the tunnel.
    Listening to his fading footsteps, Maggie found she could not move. In her mind’s eye, the grenade still loomed large—a familiar weapon in the war on the streets of herhome. Buried childhood panic swelled, threatening to choke her. Her hands trembled. She clenched her fists, refusing to succumb to the panic attack that verged. Her vision swam slightly as her breath became stilted.
    Sam must have sensed her distress. “Maggie…?” He reached to her shoulder.
    His touch ignited her. She sprang to her feet. “Och, we need to get out of here,” she said, her words rushed. “Now!”
    Sam pulled his Stetson firmer on his head. “Why? It’s only Guillermo.”
    Her face fierce, Maggie swung toward Sam. The Texan had not seen the grenade. Sam backed a step from whatever he saw in her eyes. She did not have time to explain her fears. “Go, you bloody wanker!” she hollered, the panic thickening the Irish brogue on her tongue. She shoved Sam toward the tunnel and waved the others after him.
    Sam’s long legs ate up the distance. Maggie followed, keeping one eye on their back trail. Ahead, Ralph kept up with Sam, but Norman, burdened with his cameras, had slipped behind.
    â€œHurry,” she urged the journalist.
    Norman glanced back. His face was stark white in the glow of the lamps. But he fought for more speed and closed the distance as the two quicker men reached the ladder to the next level of the dig.
    Ahead, Sam flew up the wooden rungs with Ralph at his heels. Norman went next. Maggie stood at the foot of the ladder, her ears straining for any danger behind them. Far away, echoing up from below, she thought she could just make out a deep ticking, like a large watch winding down.
    â€œMaggie, c’mon!” Sam whispered urgently to her from above.
    Maggie turned to find the ladder clear. For a moment, time had slipped away from her. It was one of the signs of a pending attack. Not now! She flew up the ladder. Sam helped her off the last rung, hauling her up with his arms. The ladder to the surface lay only a handful of meters away.On her feet, Maggie led the way.
    She followed the zigzagging line of lanterns, lights flickering past as she ran. As she spotted the ladder’s base, she heard a low grunting coming from the shaft to the surface. It was Gil. It sounded like he had almost reached the plaza above.
    With her goal in sight and a freshening breeze from above encouraging her, Maggie sped faster.
    Suddenly, words echoed down to her: “Swallow this, you hijo de puta !”
    Maggie froze as a hard object pinged and bounced down the shaft to land at the foot of the ladder. She stared in