Deacon hung by a tiny thread of high-tensile rope, launched from a pneumatic grappling hook; the same hook that had hit me, and left four bloody holes in my stomach. Jasan was slipping, I could see that, as he sturggled to keep Deacon elevated, and tried desperately to keep him alive. Then the second bomb. A white contrail rose high into the bleak, Amazonian sky. Towering above the green expanse of rainforest, it detonated. Flattening the trees, it's shock wave headed straight for us. And this was the second one. It hit the chopper, and Jasan let go. Deacon plummeted. Jasan grabbed Troy, the pilot and tore him from his seat. They both dived for the rear, as the chopper crashed.

Pain surged through my body. I couldn't stop the blood. I was dying. And couldn't do anything.

Carlos lay dying, bleeding on the ground. Deacon's gun, an M16, had torn up his chest with it's burst-fire. Three huge, bloody bullet-holes had torn his chest apart. Jasan and Troy were already on their feet, running toward Deacon's body. From the darkness, Troy had fired a single shot. With spot-on aim, the bullet had hit his forehead; an instant kill. "Move, Troy!" Jasan screamed, picking up Deacon's M16.

The huge cavern came to life almost instantaneously. Gold-coloured men rose from among the huge piles of the gold. The second most precious metal on the face of the planet sat in seemingly infinite amounts, within easy reach. But it was run, or die clutching the gold. Jasan decided to run. More men streamed in from another of the holes, the Incan side. They weren't clad in gold paint. And they had guns. Then the reality struck Jasan. The Spanish conquistadors had never truly destroyed the native Americans. They had hunted them to near extinction, but they were by no means dead. Here, they could see, was where they had thrived.

Three words echoed throughout the cavern, all different. All the men standing upon the gold held something up. Bows. The tiny metal tip of the arrow head glinted in the counterfeit light. Three more words. Bows twanged, and arrows soared. Only six or so arrows flew in Jasan and Troy's direction. Raising his gun, Jasan was about to fire, when he saw the men on the other side of the cave get impaled by a frighteningly accurate hail of arrows. Dashing forward, he grabbed Deacon's corpse. The gunmen opposite them recovered from the withering hail of volley fire. Now they were prepared. Nine more words echoed around the cavern. Three sentences. Three words per sentences. As he dived into the blackness, Troy realised what was happening. "They're Aztec, Mayan AND Incan." he unintentionally said aloud. Jasan jerked his head in the pilot's direction. "Really Sherlock. You're a-fu--"

Gunfire erupted from the Incan tunnel. The white flashes of automatic gunfire lit up the darkness inside the Incan cavern. Several Indians dropped to their knees. Others went sprawling backwards, thrown off their feet by the withering volley of arrows. An Indian roared something in Aztec. An arrow was sent flying high into the cavern. The thin, wooden projectile shattered a thin piece of grass rope, high up above the door the gunners had charged through. Two of the Indians fell face first onto the gold, blood pooling around them. One of the others was hit in the shoulder, and spiralled backwards.