One of the men in the raiding party rushed in. He bowed and said something in a low, urgent voice to the leader.
Male voices rose and fell outside, farther down the central village path, but approaching.
The leader nodded to the messenger and turned to Tomás. He barked out what sounded like orders. Max caught only one word, cenote.
Tomás clutched Max’s hand and tugged. Soldados.¡Vamonos!” Soldiers. Let’s go!
As Max followed the boy through a window, he looked back to see the village leader shuffle out to greet the soldiers.
***
Kate hung her freshly washed cap on the clothesline by the village cenote, then began washing her borrowed smock.
After the night’s rain, the air smelled of new green growth. Steam rose in wispy ghosts as the sun baked the limestone soil. She rolled her shoulders and flexed her fingers, tired and not a little sore from scrubbing on a metal washboard. No way was she wearing what that creepy bandit had put on his head without cleansing it first.
Village women were chatting nearby as they washed their family laundry. Jimena had offered to help scrub her clothes and Max’s, but they couldn’t take the time. Kate had forced herself to pretend the bandits hadn’t touched the pants and shirt she put on.
As she pictured Max without his underwear or anything else, she hugged herself. They’d tried out her hammock, but ended up on the floor, tangled and laughing like little kids at a sleepover. Then they enjoyed each other more slowly. He took his time discovering what turned her on. She shivered with pleasure when he kissed her ear and arched like a cat when he nibbled the sweet spot between her legs.
Their lovemaking was tender and as hot and slow as one of his Texas summers. In the process, they bared their bodies, their souls, and their secrets. He filled the emptiness in her heart. He was romantic and tender, strong and physical, and sexy as hell.
So much for the allure of a stable man.
More than sex with Max was impossible. They would never work out as a couple. She’d grown up safe with an intact family—even with all the wrangling. After Max’s mother left, he’d more or less raised himself. Maybe before.
Fear of uncertainty would no longer keep her confined. Now that she’d tasted adventure, hiding in the security of the museum held less appeal. She’d faced the truth about her past and was coming to terms with her failings.
And Dad, what would he think? Would he be disappointed, or proud like Max said? If I fail, then what? Her mind froze, the question too gut-wrenching to contemplate further.
Regardless of her epiphany, she wanted commitment, a home with a husband and children. What did Max want? Excitement, no strings, no permanence. His mother abandoning him like a puppy at the pound had stomped on his heart, made him fear it could happen again. Over the years, that wounded organ had grown scar tissue, an invisible shield to protect him from further hurt. It kept him from trusting easily. From getting close to anyone.
From loving her.
She rinsed the smock and checked her cap. Still damp. What would her mom’s reaction be if she saw her scrubbing clothes in a wooden washtub? Or if she saw her callused and scraped hands and ragged nails? Hyacinth Bucket as Munch’s The Scream.
Perhaps she and Mom would have a talk when she got home after all.
If she got home.
No, she wouldn’t think that way. Max had brought her this far, pulled them back from disaster time and time again. He’d get her—and Kizin—to K’eq Xlapak. And Devlin’s other operative would rescue Doug. What would happen when they found Doug? Could he have committed crimes?
Willing tears away, she cranked the smock through the wringer. Then she hung it on the line. Carrying water from the cenote in a pail and washing clothes by hand gave her new respect for the Maya women. In primitive conditions, they kept their cotton smocks pristine and pressed smooth. She wondered if her ancestors who settled Virginia had been as happily industrious as these women around her who sang as they did the family laundry.
At the sound of women’s giggles, she turned to see Max loping into the clearing. He moved so quietly his boots barely made a sound on the rocky ground. The sight of him quickened her pulse and, despite their lack of a future beyond this wild land, joy burst inside her.
His gaze latched onto her like a heat-seeking missile. He wore his warrior face, only the tight corners of his mouth betraying emotion. She tensed, her breath backing up in her lungs.
“Kate, we have to leave now.” He snatched up her pack from beside the washtub and tossed it to her. “Soldiers are in the village. They’re asking about two gringos.”
Her brain and her knees wobbled at the same time. “Soldiers? Here?”
Max plucked her yellow cap from the line and shoved it at her.
She hugged Jimena. “Yum botic. Thank you, my friend.”
The Maya woman called softly something that might mean Godspeed as Max hurried her away.
Little Tomás beckoned at the edge of the trees.
They plunged into the dripping jungle. In moments the greenery swallowed them up. She could no longer see the village. They trekked in silence as the boy led them between trees and around agaves and rocks.
She gradually realized they were walking a trail that someone kept cleared of undergrowth and deadfall. She checked the compass. Max had told the villagers they were headed to K’eq Xlapak to help with the restoration. The temple site lay in a southerly direction.
So why was Tomás taking them west?
How could the boy scamper barefoot over the rocky ground? She struggled to clomp along fully shod. After an hour, he stopped the little procession at a clump of palm trees. He stooped and cleared debris away with his hand. Then he used a stick to scrape symbols in the dirt. He spoke to Max in a mix of Mayan and Spanish.
She followed Max’s example and knelt.
Her nerves screeched like a parrot. She hated not knowing what was happening. If only she understood one of the languages better. “What’s he saying? Where’s he taking us?”
“It’s a map to the temple site. Here’s the village we left. See?” He pointed to three hut-shaped symbols. He repeated what she thought was the same statement in Spanish.
Tomás’s dark head bobbed in agreement. “Sí, mi capamento.” Yes, the sketch was his village. To the left of the village he then drew vertical lines with stylized tops.
“Palm trees,” Max said. “¿Aquí?” Here? He gestured at the trees above them.
The boy beamed and continued his map, adding where they were to go. Thank God. But by what route? And how long would it take?
Around them, birds sang and twittered. Insects droned. Monkeys chattered. The jungle accepted their presence without protest.
Max knew the reappearance of soldiers had shaken Kate. Not moving his eyes from the boy’s scratchings, he wrapped his hand around her trembling one. He should’ve expected they’d widen their search. Who sent them, he couldn’t guess. Not the kidnappers. General Lopez and President Aguilar each wanted Kizin as their winning card. Neither rival would fold his hand. And Sedgwick? He was the wild card. Shit.
The fear filling her eyes as they fled the village weighed heavier on him than his backpack. No matter what, they would continue toward their destination. They had to keep moving. Maybe the earthquake would fizzle and they’d make it.
As if in answer, a tremor shook the ground, tossing the small pebbles in the boy’s scratched map like pieces on a chess board. Exactly how he felt—a rook, not even a knight.
Kate sucked in a breath and clutched the camera bag to her chest.
Staring stoically at the ground, Tomàs sat on his heels and wrapped his arms around his knees. When the tremor eased, he returned to action. Tongue captured in concentration between strong white teeth, he repaired his drawing quickly and added more detail.
Kate’s golden head bowed beside Max’s as he tried to decipher the rest of the crude design. Circular squiggles and lines between the village and the temple.
To the west, parallel lines serpentined southward from a cocked half-circle to near a triangle shape diagonally southwest from the village.
“The Kizin temple,” she exclaimed. “My compass work was accurate. We’re not lost.”
“Of course not, darlin’.” If that was the best encouragement he could dredge up, he should just keep his yap shut.
The boy pointed his stick at the circular squiggles in the middle of the map as he explained.
Exactly what the village leader had said. Max’s gut knotted.
“Max?”
Hell. “Tomàs says this is the direct way but over rugged terrain. Boulder fields, crevices, blow-downs. The result of a previous earthquake, I reckon.”
“We have less than three days. Can we make it?”
Tomás answered Max’s repeated question, gazing at them with bright black eyes. He hit his drawing stick against a rock, tapping a rhythmic snick, snick, snick. A howler roared and was answered in the distance.
Max swallowed. “He says that way will take us six days or more.”
Her eyes widened as if a jaguar was poised to pounce on her. Her lower lip trembled. Wordlessly, she slipped from his grasp and retreated to where she’d dropped her things. Shoulders and mouth pinched, she sank onto the pack.
Max ached for her, ached to go to her but first he needed more from Tomás.
Tomás continued to chatter as he pointed to the half circle. “Cenote. Rio.”
Max’s head shot up at the word rio. River. He asked the boy to explain. A few moments later, he thanked their young guide, who knocked fists with him. How a kid in the middle of the jungle learned the street-wise salute was a mystery.
Max was tempted to have the boy continue with them. He knew the way and the territory. But leading them farther into the bush meant farther for him to return home alone. He was, after all, only a child, an easy meal for a jaguar. Max praised the boy for a job well done and sent him home.
Wishing them well, Tomás disappeared back along the trail.
With a lighter step, Max crossed to Kate. He squatted on his haunches before her. Removing her yellow cap, still damp from its scrubbing, he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her left ear.
“We’re done. I’ve failed Doug. I’ve failed my dad.”
He kissed her forehead and brushed his mouth across her lips, salty with tears. “Shh, darlin’, there’s another way. You didn’t hear all of Tomás’s directions.”
***
K’eq Xlapak
In the laboratory shelter, Esteban Morales bent over the table, recording the measurements of the new tiles he and his assistants uncovered that day. His shoulders ached and his eyes burned from working in dim light. Couldn’t be helped. Conserving power might extend the life of their aging generator until more funding could replace the damn thing. Funding that would flow once Kizin returned to K’eq Xlapak.
Rubbing his nape with one hand, he closed his eyes. Why hadn’t he heard from Kate Fontaine? She should’ve called to report her progress along the sacbé. If he thought it would hurry her progress, he’d go to the temple and pray to Kizin and all the jaguar gods.
He rose to go fetch one of the tepid beers in the dining tent.
Fabiola Alvarado looked up from working on the radio, another aging piece of equipment. Ascetic features tight with anger, she sputtered curses and flung down her glasses. “I can do nothing with this piece of trash!”
“Give it a rest,” he told their illustrator and tech expert. “Sisyphus has nothing on you.”
She huffed her frustration. “Rolling a stone uphill for eternity might be easier than trying to repair that devil machine. At least my laptop has given me no problems.”
That was because she babied it like a child.
“Profesor, you must see.” Horacio Flores entered the lab tent with a basket of artifacts.
Morales crossed to the graduate student’s table. “Today’s finds?”
Horacio nodded. “From the fourth level in the debris pile near the plaza. Finally I’m finding artifacts more than a few millimeters in diameter.” From an array of dozens of pieces, he held up the lower body of a jade figurine and a cracked clay whistle.
“Congratulations!” Morales said. “Your patience has paid off. These will be fine specimens to display here alongside the statue of Kizin.”
So long as Kate could bring Kizin in time. By Curse Day.
As if in response, rumbling began and the ground shook like jelly beneath his feet. The light fixtures hanging from the wooden frame swung and clanked. A light bulb shattered.
This shelter and the other large communal structures were wooden-framed with thatched roofs and surrounded by mosquito netting. They had withstood earlier tremors. He prayed they would hold again as he helped Horacio protect the artifacts. Fabiola wrapped her arms around her precious laptop. Her curses nearly reached the decibels of the tumult.
When the tremor ceased, others arrived to help clean up the mess in the lab facility and to check on the damage. Lately that was a twice-daily drill.
As they were finishing, a worker ran into the tent, his eyes wild and his face flushed beneath his dark complexion. “Profesor, Profesor, Héctor sent me. You must come.”
Could they have arrived? Morales grasped the man’s hand. “Is it Señorita Fontaine?”
“No, no. It is Arturo!”
Chapter Twenty-Five
In the jungle
The next morning, while Max explored the cenote, Kate took down their small tent. She knelt to fold it, but the damn thing wouldn’t cooperate. Or maybe it was her. In her haste to get going, she’d made more lumps than flat folds. What was keeping Max? He’d been down there for too long. Sitting back on her heels, she drew in deep breaths and began again. Finally she smoothed all but a couple of lumps and slid the tent into its bag.
She crossed the small clearing to the half-moon-shaped cavern entrance, curtained by vines and roots. Biting her lower lip, she stared downward, listening for Max. She detected a faint crunching sound. His boots on the stone maybe? She glimpsed his headlamp winking in the darkness and breathed a thank-you.
Two days to go. Two days until the sixtieth anniversary of the earthquake. “El Día Maldito,” she whispered.
Max had added the food the villagers gave them to the tent and pack he carried on his powerful shoulders. Hours of hiking had brought them to this cenote on the west side of the boy’s map, where they set up camp at dusk. The underground river below would take them south to within what Tomás described as a “short walk” of K’eq Xlapak. The river trip would take less than “two days’ light,” he’d said. A day and a half.
The villagers fished the underground river during the dry season when the water was low enough for a boat to pass. Because the rainy season hung on, water might fill the cavern to the ceiling. Neither she nor Max possessed gills or scuba gear, so high water would mean— Her stomach tightened, and she pressed her hands against it. No, no, it couldn’t be, not the end.
A scrabbling noise below alerted her Max was climbing the rope ladder back to the surface. When he hoisted himself up from the edge, she held her breath.
His expression held guarded caution. “Don’t get your hopes up too much but it looks doable.” He peeled off his headlamp and ran his hands through his hair, shaggy now and curling around his ears.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in his shirt. Breathing in his familiar sun-warmed scent reassured her more than his words.
She lifted her head and saw his expression softening. “Explain doable.”
He brushed a kiss across her lips. “Boat’s there. A fiberglass canoe. Looks water tight. God knows where they got that. About eight feet long. Big enough for us and one pack. We can leave the rest here and collect it later.”
Or the jungle would claim it. As the jungle might claim them. Stop it, Katherine. Making it alive down the river would demand all her energy and focus. “How high is the water?”
“Ha
rd to tell. That’s the question. Starting from the cavern it looks low enough. I might have to hunch over but there’s headroom. Flow’s steady, not too swift.”
The brooding look in his eyes told her there was more. “So what’s your concern?”
“We could be going down a funnel. It could get narrower, and the roof could get lower. High enough here but who knows what happens farther downstream as the water flows through the series of caverns.”
Her stomach still ached, and her breath caught. Please God, this has to work. “I still haven’t heard from the kidnapper, and underground we’ll have no reception. Even if a full-on earthquake doesn’t happen, they’ll—” her voice broke and she inhaled deeply “—kill him. We have to try. What are our chances?”
His dark eyes bored into hers. “Hard to say. We’ll take it slow, use the lamps to scout ahead. If the tunnel looks too tight and the ceiling too low, we turn back.”
He looked too stone-faced for that to be all. “What else?”
“If—and this is a fucking big if—tremors hold off until we make it to the other end.”
***
Conversation stayed at a minimum as they organized their equipment beside the canoe. They’d brought only essentials and left one backpack behind hidden beneath palm fronds. Moisture dripped down the cavern walls, plinking into the stream and slicking the limestone floor. The damp air smelled of minerals.
Max set the tent bag amidships. Kate hadn’t said shit since his doomsday announcement. He slammed a palm on the cool limestone floor. She’d probably figured out the worst-case scenario without his needing to say anything. He blew out a breath. Nada he could do now.
As she buttoned up a long-sleeved shirt, deep thought creased the skin between her brows tight enough for an air seal. She was shivering in the cool underground temps, but they’d both warm up when they started paddling. If only he could come up with some other way.
On Deadly Ground (Devlin Security Force Book 1) Page 23
