Santos’s face appeared above him, the barrel of his assault rifle pointing into Gage’s face an instant before a soldier in camo rose behind him. A blade flashed, slicing across Santos’s throat. Blood erupted. He sank to the ground on his knees, then pitched forward.

Gage grabbed Abby and pulled her close, turning her head into his shoulder, running a soothing hand up and down her back.

The sound of gunfire had ceased. Nothing but the sigh of the wind through the trees.

“It’s over.” Gage released a long, slow breath of relief. “We’re safe.”

Edge wiped the blade of his knife on his camo pants and slid the weapon back into the sheath strapped to his thigh.

“Thanks, little brother,” Gage said, rising, bringing Abby up with him.

“No problem.” But Edge’s face looked grim, and there was a darkness in his eyes that Gage had never seen. Trace appeared from one direction, and Skye walked toward them from another, their faces equally grim. Killing a man was never easy.

“I gather you found the gold,” Edge said.

“Some of it. Not all.”

Abby looked up at him. “What?”

“Unless I missed them,” Gage said, “I didn’t see any gold bars.”

“No, but—”

The sound of a helicopter overhead interrupted their conversation. It settled in a field behind the house. The helicopter bay doors slid open, and a dozen uniformed soldiers wearing flak vests and carrying weapons leaped to the ground.

Victor Alamán, in a perfectly tailored black suit, climbed out of the chopper and strode toward them.

He glanced at the blood and death, the bodies scattered around the field. “Looks like you didn’t need my help after all.”

“We managed,” Gage said. “Mostly they killed each other.” He pointed. “You’ll find the treasure at the bottom of those stairs. Mayan plunder,” he said.

Alamán frowned. “Mayan? I thought you were looking for gold ingots.”

Gage shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe next time.”

Victor scrubbed a hand over his face. He sighed. “We’ll have to turn it over to the antiquities department at the Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia. There are laws restricting the sale or removal of any national treasure.”

“I know. I’m sorry. We’ll be leaving soon. If we find anything else before we go, I assume our deal still stands.”

Alamán nodded absently, his gaze sliding toward the top of the stairs. He motioned to a younger man also wearing a suit, apparently his assistant, who came forward. The two men briefly conversed, then disappeared down the stairs.

Around them, soldiers checked on the men lying on the ground. Those still breathing were transported aboard the chopper. Gage watched Paulo limping toward the helicopter at gunpoint. Santos was dead, along with most of the cartel crew. Tomás was being carried to the helo. Gage still didn’t know which cartel group the village men belonged to.