The Tomb (Scarrett & Kramer Book 3)

by Neil Carstairs

  Yancha opened the door to their apartment. He stepped back to allow Ramon and Itzel to enter. The short corridor, with its peeling paint and worn carpet, led straight on to a small living room. There were two bedrooms off to the right and a kitchen and bathroom to the left. Itzel had one bedroom to herself, Yancha and Ciro shared the other with Ramon sleeping on the couch. Itzel kicked off her shoes and, as carefully as she could without getting mud and water everywhere, gathered a pair of jeans and a t-shirt from her room.

  The men waited in the kitchen while Itzel used the bathroom. She made sure the door locked properly, not putting it passed Ramon to enter accidentally. Itzel stripped and started the shower, waiting for the weak flow to reach an acceptable temperature before stepping into the spray. She kept her hair cropped short for missions; her adversaries had nothing to grasp onto in a fight, and short hair needed less maintenance. There were downsides of course. Cropped hair made her more noticeable, and to overcome that she had a variety of wigs in her suitcase to disguise herself.

  She soaped her body, proud of her lean, muscled figure. Long legs, a flat stomach and small breasts made her seem almost boyish, but men still noticed her and some, like Ramon, desired her.

  Itzel stepped out of the shower and towelled herself dry. Her thoughts rested, briefly, on the dead man. Her team had planned on staying the night in Boston and then travelling south by hire car. Should they go now, before anyone raised the alarm? If the fool hadn’t tried to rob her as she entered the apartment building, then he’d still be alive, and her nerves wouldn’t be so shredded. But no, out came his knife as he grasped for her shoulder bag. He didn’t know what he was dealing with and had no idea that Yancha and Ramon were seconds behind her. Itzel wished she’d been able to incapacitate him there and then. But he fluked his escape, and when he saw the guns the three of them pulled he said the word ‘terrorists’ and ran.

  Ramon was the one who chased him down into the river. By then he had to die. People in this part of the city might look the other way for many things, but terrorism wasn’t one of them. He’d report them, even if incorrectly, but the police would react and the hunt would be on. So the robber died in the muddy shallows of the river and Itzel, Yancha and Ramon ended up soaked and filthy through the struggle or simply slipping and falling in the slime.

  Itzel dressed in the jeans and t-shirt with no underwear for now. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror, wondering what Ramon’s would think of that. She left the bathroom. The two men stood in the kitchen, staring at Yancha’s smartphone. Itzel knew something was wrong. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Ciro is dead,” Yancha said. He turned the phone and gave it to her as he pushed past.

  The report came from CBS Boston’s news website. An unidentified male died in an incident involving police after being approached outside the Museum of Fine Arts. Reports suggest he was a suspect in the assault and robbery that had taken place inside the museum minutes before.

  Itzel heard the slamming of the bathroom door as Yancha went for his shower.

  “It might not be him,” Ramon said.

  Itzel handed the phone over. “It’s him.”

  Ramon’s shoulders sagged. “What do we do?”

  “We leave tonight. Start packing now. When you are cleaning up, I will get Yancha to go to the nearest store and get some supplies for our journey. We won’t stop until we reach the border.”

  “But Ciro’s soul?”

  “Is lost.” Itzel’s rage came on like a summer storm. Ramon must have seen it on her face as he retreated into the furthest corner of the kitchen. She turned away, not wanting him to see the blood red shadow that filled her eyes.

  Breathe. Breathe and calm.

  A hand rested on her shoulder. “Itzel?” Ramon asked, his voice soft. “Are you okay?”

  “No,” her voice growled out at him.

  He took his hand away. Itzel could hear the water running for Yancha’s shower. She looked out of the window at the shadows of a setting sun. A man and a woman argued somewhere inside the building. A door slammed. Sirens rose and fell in the distance. Ramon still stood behind her. She could feel his presence, sense the beat of his heart. The water stopped as Yancha’s shower ended. Itzel stepped away from Ramon. “Have your shower,” she said. “We go as soon as Yancha returns.”

  In the doorway, she looked back at him. He nodded, his face crestfallen. He must have thought they had connected at that moment she learned of Ciro’s death. When Yancha came out of the shower, Itzel told him her plan. He smiled, happy that she’d made a decision. She retrieved cash from her suitcase and gave him one hundred dollars for food and drink. As Yancha left, Ramon entered the bathroom. Itzel noticed he did not lock the door. It made her smile, but he was too late now. She had other things on her mind.

  In her room, she opened her suitcase and retrieved the stolen carving. The stone warmed her hand, and when she lifted it close to her ear, she heard the goddesses’ voice. Itzel sat back on her haunches. So far, the mission was a qualified success. All they had to do now was get the statue back to the High Priest. She laid the carving back in her case. Itzel still squatted on the floor of her room when Ramon came in. He’d left his shirt off, no doubt trying to impress her with his hard stomach and defined pecs.

  “Is Yancha back?” he asked.

  “No.” Itzel waited for Ramon’s advance. It would come. If not now, then sometime in the next few days as they travelled across the United States and then into Mexico as they headed for the Yucatán Peninsula. Once home, Ramon would know his chance was gone. Itzel doubted they would be teamed up again. This mission was Ramon’s chance to prove himself before he was sent out with other teams. Yancha’s report would not be complimentary. Itzel’s better, but not hugely so. As Yancha said, Ramon had an edge of childhood about him that he needed to lose if he were to be valuable.

  “Do you like what you see?” Ramon asked.

  Itzel shrugged. “I’ve seen better, and I’ve seen worse.”

  “Have you felt better?” Ramon grinned, tightening his muscles so they stood out.

  Itzel rose in a smooth motion. Close to him, she could smell the scent of the gel he had used in the shower. His damp hair glistened, and the white of his teeth stood out through the dark growth of his beard as he smiled at her.

  Itzel laid her left hand on his shoulder and let it drift down onto his chest. His flesh was smooth and hairless. She didn’t take her eyes from his as her palm slid over his nipple and she felt the coarse touch of it on her skin.

  “Well?” Ramon asked, his voice hoarse.

  Itzel considered Ramon’s gaze. Part of her wanted him. Desperately. The rest needed a little longer. Her fingers curled, and she dug her nails into the soft flesh that surrounded his nipple. As he yelped in shock, Itzel pushed, driving him back into the doorframe. The impact came as a wet smack of flesh on wood. Without pausing her right hand punched him in the stomach. Ramon grunted, the air blown from his lungs, and doubled over. Itzel retreated, waiting for retaliation. It never came. Ramon hung on for a moment, still on his feet, until he sank slowly to the floor gasping for breath.

  It took two minutes for him to recover. He straightened, his face a mask of pain as he clutched at his guts with one hand and covered his bleeding nipple with the other. “Why?” he panted.

  “I need to know you want me,” Itzel said. She put her hands on her hips and breathed in, the fabric of her t-shirt stretched across her breasts and outlined her nipples. Ramon stared at them, his mouth open. “When you believe you are ready, come and try again.”

  Ramon glared at her before he left the room. Itzel made sure he heard her laugh as she kicked the door closed behind him. Her humour didn’t last long as her thoughts strayed back to Ciro. His orders had been to maintain a watch on the museum but avoid any chance of being identified or approached. So how had he died?

  Itzel grabbed her tablet and sat on her bed. It seemed to take an age for the browser page to load up on the same
news site Yancha had shown her. The page had been updated a few minutes before with a few more details. Itzel’s blood ran cold. She looked up, staring out of the window. The sky seemed to be darkening more rapidly than she had ever known. Her eyes returned to the report.

  Sources within Boston PD suggest that the suspect took his own life using concealed poison. The authorities have implemented a full terror alert as investigators hunt for the unidentified man’s accomplices.

  The need to escape the city increased ten-thousand-fold.

  “Ramon!” She opened the bedroom door and shouted to her colleague. “If you haven’t finished packing leave it. We go as soon as Yancha is back.”

  “Why?” his voice floated back to her.

  Itzel’s anger bubbled up again. This was why Yancha doubted Ramon’s suitability. He didn’t obey a commander’s order. “Do it.”

  He mumbled something that sounded like agreement. Itzel slammed the door shut. Maybe now he would get the message. She calmed herself. She had no doubt the source quoted in the news report was correct. Ciro had killed himself rather than allow the police to capture him. As she began throwing things into her suitcase, Itzel’s tongue explored the false tooth in her lower jaw. The surface was slightly rougher than the natural teeth that surrounded it. Inside lay four grams of hydrogen cyanide. Enough, so her High Priest claimed, to kill a man a dozen times over.

  Poor Ciro.

  She suppressed the thought that it would have been better for Ramon to have died. Knowing Ramon, he wouldn’t have broken the tooth to release the poison. At least Ciro had made the correct decision. Itzel closed the suitcase and locked it. She took one look around the room. There was no point in trying to clean up evidence of their stay. Fingerprints and DNA were all over the place. If the police decided to investigate the apartment, then their CSI team would have a field day. She lugged the case out into the corridor and left it by the door.

  Ramon sat on the sofa, his bag packed. He had the look of a forlorn puppy when Itzel came in. “You hurt me,” he said.

  “I’m surprised you have any sense to feel it,” Itzel told him. “We have to concentrate on our mission, but you seem to think with your balls, not your brain.”

  “It’s because you are beautiful.” Ramon gave her one of his smiles, the kind that did make her heart ripple because his eyes shone with an inner light that fascinated her.

  “The mission comes first,” Itzel said.

  Ramon nodded. “I know, but that answer tells everything I need to know.”

  “Does it?” she looked down at him, one eyebrow raised.

  “Sure, I now know what comes second.”

  Despite herself, Itzel smiled and could have taken the conversation a little further if the sound of the apartment door opening hadn’t reached them as Yancha returned.

  When he came into the room, Yancha said,

  “Your bag is ready.”

  “We go now,” Itzel said. “I saw another news report. They are saying Ciro killed himself and a full terror alert has been launched. The sooner we get away from the city the better.”

  Yancha nodded, gave Ramon a disdainful glance, and left to get his things together. Itzel told Ramon to take their cases down to the car. When the younger man had left, she went through to the room Yancha and Ciro had shared. “We’ll leave Ciro’s things. There’s not enough time to pack them.”

  Yancha said nothing. He worked wordlessly on his belongings for a time until Itzel said, “It’s not my fault.”

  Yancha grunted. “Ciro was no fool. Something went wrong.”

  “Something always goes wrong when one of our people dies on a mission. We recovered the goddess. We’ll be home in three days. Then the next stage will begin. That will be considered a success.”

  Yancha stared at her, his dark eyes bleak. “Do you consider it a success?”

  “Yes,” she said, not breaking eye contact. “I do.”

  ***

  They left Boston a few minutes after eight, heading west on the Massachusetts Turnpike towards Worcester. Itzel took the first shift in driving. They would switch every four hours, those not driving trying to sleep through the night as the hire car ate up the miles. She stared into the arc of light thrown out by the headlights. Cars and trucks swept by on either side, the red glow of their tail-lights like the burning eyes of an angry god. Itzel spent the quiet time of driving as Ramon and Yancha slept wondering if her gods were angry with her over the loss of Ciro.

  Don’t think like that.

  She understood Yancha’s anger. Ciro had died alone in a foreign country. His soul would be lost, and only a god could recover it. The torment Ciro would be going through was enough to make tears prick her eyes. The red lamps became lava flows as she wept silently. A truck barrelled past, her car buffeted by the slipstream. Itzel wiped her eyes clear and concentrated on the road markings.

  A foreign country.

  She glanced to her right where Yancha slept, resting his head on a balled-up coat he had wedged against the passenger door. He acted like an older brother when she was around. Part protective and part antagonistic. But the High Priest had selected her as the leader of this mission because she made decisions, usually the right ones, and could operate under pressure.

  The traffic around the car eased, most of the commuters taking the off-ramps to smaller towns and communities that lined the interstate. Itzel relaxed, remembering the first time the priest spoke to her in the hot and dusty village where she lived. The man had been walking by Itzel and her friends as they played a street game. They were so young at the time that they had no idea who he was, nor how important. But when he came over to them and pointed at Itzel the whole group froze like statues. He asked her name. Itzel was so scared she couldn’t reply. Her best friend, Adana, lived close by and it was her mother who came out of their house and saw the man.

  Itzel could still feel the shock when Adana’s mother sank to her knees and called the man ‘lord’. It scared her too. He towered above her with his big frame and wide shoulders. He pointed at Itzel again and asked her name.

  “Her name is Itzel,” Adana’s mother told him.

  The man smiled, revealing bright teeth. “The Moon Goddess,” he said.

  Adana’s mother said nothing. She grabbed her daughter and the two other girls and dragged them into her house, leaving Itzel alone in the sun with the strange man. He circled her, examining Itzel as if she were a prize calf at a market. Her bladder signalled an urgent need to pee, but she knew if she moved he would stop her.

  “Where do you live?”

  She pointed back up the street. The priest’s grunt seemed to be an instruction to take her home. Itzel ran, and the man followed with his long-legged stride. She smashed the door open and didn’t stop until she reached the bathroom. Her father, sitting on the worn sofa with a bottle of beer in his hand shouted something she didn’t hear and then his voice died away as the stranger followed Itzel into the house.

  When she came out of the bathroom, her father stood next to the man and said to her, “You are going with this man to the temple, you will live there now.”

  Itzel blinked. The stranger came to her, grasped her shoulder in his steel fingers, and dragged her out of the house. Itzel looked back, her final view of her father showed him in the doorway, still clutching his beer. She started screaming then. Her father turned away and closed the door to her house. She carried on screaming until the man hit her. She saw the houses of her neighbours go by in a blur. Faces showed at windows and doorways, but no-one came forward to stop the man taking her from the village.

  She didn’t see her home again for ten years. Never saw her father or her mother or her three brothers and two sisters. By then they meant nothing to her. The priests raised her a warrior. Her duty to her temple, her faith and the priests.

  Itzel killed her first man at the age of thirteen, cutting the throat of the drug dealer as her mentor, a man called Yancha, looked on. From that day to this Yancha never st
ood far from her side. Now Itzel neared thirty-years of age, and the number of men and women who had died at her hands were countless. She learned in those first months that the man who found her in the street all those years ago was the High Priest. That made Itzel important. She was his protégé, the chosen one, and when his visions began it fell to Itzel to go out into the world and make them become a reality.

  The lights of a rest stop appeared ahead, neon signs advertising fast-food, restrooms and fuel. Itzel moved the car into the correct lane. She nudged Yancha awake as they reached the parking lot. Itzel let the men use the restrooms first. When she finished and came out Ramon stood next to the car doing some stretching exercises to get his brain awake for his stint at driving. Itzel got into the back and tried to find a comfortable position to sleep. Yancha and Ramon kept her awake for a time with their conversation, and the drone of the tyres on the road surface transmitted through to her as she began to drift away.

  The dream, when it came, seemed to suck her out of the car and into a world swept by dark storm clouds. Rain fell. No, not rain. Blood. It rained blood in sticky swathes that splattered upon her body as lightning illuminated the clouds. Itzel opened her mouth to scream and found it filled with the copper-tasting fluid. The blood coated her hair and covered her face. Her eyelids stuck together, and she stumbled blindly across a desolate landscape.

  She opened her eyes and found she no longer lay in the car but upon a field of ash. A warm breeze teased her skin as she rose. The storm clouds had retreated into the distance, and now the sky arched above her. Itzel sensed an undercurrent in the air; there was no peace, only a pause. Whatever world she stood in death would return. Itzel saw it then. A god walked towards her. A giant, with the body of a man and a skull for a head. He strode the land, and with every step, the world shook.

  Itzel sank to her knees. Her god came closer, and Itzel’s flesh tingled at the electric touch of his breath.

  Child, he breathed onto her and Itzel saw the world as it would be.