The Fifth Kingdom

by Caridad Piñeiro

  The Fifth Kingdom

  By Caridad Piñeiro

  Dr. Deanna Vasquez hasn’t spoken to her mother in years, not since the renowned archaeologist abandoned her family in her quest to find the lost tomb of Montezuma. When CIA agent Bill Santana shows up in her classroom with the news that her mother has been abducted by terrorists, Deanna has to help in any way she can.

  Bill needs Deanna’s expertise to determine the location of her mother’s latest find, before her kidnappers do. He fears whatever mysteries the tomb holds could be deadly in the wrong hands. In an effort to make contact with the terrorist cell, Bill accompanies Deanna to Mexico posing as her fiancé—a ruse made doubly dangerous because of the very real heat between them…

  69,000 words

  Dear Reader,

  I feel as though it was just last week I was attending 2010 conferences and telling authors and readers who were wondering what was next for Carina Press, “we’ve only been publishing books for four months, give us time” and now, here it is, a year later. Carina Press has been bringing you quality romance, mystery, science fiction, fantasy and more for over twelve months. This just boggles my mind.

  But though we’re celebrating our one-year anniversary (with champagne and chocolate, of course) we’re not slowing down. Every week brings something new for us, and we continue to look for ways to grow, expand and improve. This summer, we’ll continue to bring you new genres, new authors and new niches—and we plan to publish the unexpected for years to come.

  So whether you’re reading this in the middle of a summer heat wave, looking to escape from the hot summer nights and sultry afternoons, or whether you’re reading this in the dead of winter, searching for a respite from the cold, months after I’ve written it, you can be assured that our promise to take you on new adventures, bring you great stories and discover new talent remains the same.

  We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to generalinquiries@carinapress.com. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.

  Happy reading!

  ~Angela James

  Executive Editor, Carina Press

  www.carinapress.com

  www.twitter.com/carinapress

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  Dedication

  To Angela James and Andrea Kerr—thank you for helping me to tell my stories. You guys rock!

  Contents

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The force of the blow rattled her teeth and snapped her head back.

  Dr. Miranda Adams reluctantly brought her head forward once more, tonguing the inside of her cheek to gauge the damage as the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.

  She had been stupid to think she could lose her pursuers in the Sunday crowds in Chapultepec Park. Even more brainless to think that a floppy straw sombrero and big sunglasses would let her blend into the throng of locals.

  Her disguise had only screamed turista even louder.

  For the last two days she had been paying the price for that stupidity, she thought, her brain slightly muzzy from the last blow. Her body aching from the combination of physical beatings and confinement to the hard wooden chair.

  “Where is the tomb and what is in it?” her inquisitor asked in Spanish, fists clenched at his sides, but ready to lash out at her if she should fail to answer yet again.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, just as she had been saying for the last forty-eight hours, not that he believed her.

  Not that he should.

  She knew full well what he was talking about—the tomb of Montezuma, one of the last emperors of the Aztecs.

  She knew full well where it was and the secrets it hid, not that she would tell him. She had discovered only days earlier that he was the head of the local Primera Mexica cell and with a group that dangerous, she could not trust him. As long as she kept the secret, she would live. The moment she told them…

  “You leave me little choice,” Javier Ramirez replied. He inclined his head in the direction of the far side of the basement where they were holding her captive. A plain wooden table sat close to the cinder block wall and beside it was a small cart where she could discern a car battery, jumper cables and a bucket.

  Fear crawled along her nerve endings as one of the men approached, untied her from the chair and then dragged her to the table.

  She fought him, digging her heels into the soft dirt of the basement floor, using her greater height to try and escape from his grasp by jerking her body to-and-fro, but he was short, thickly muscled and stable on his feet. He didn’t even wobble as she struggled in vain against the hold he had on her.

  Apparently tired of her resistance, he enveloped her in his stocky arms, nearly stealing her breath with the pressure of his grip. He hauled her the last few feet to the table and unceremoniously tossed her onto the top of the rough wooden surface. A moment later he was tying her arms and legs to the four table legs.

  Her inquisitor approached, but as he did so, Javier gestured to her with his hand and another assistant quickly removed her boots and socks and pulled out a large knife.

  She bit back any show of fear, but jumped a little when the man slipped the knife beneath the front hem of her cotton blouse. The metal was cold beside her skin. With one quick swipe he sliced open the front of her shirt. She had no doubt what they planned for her, but she once again reminded herself that they needed her alive in order to find the tomb.

  Her captor must have seen the determination in her eyes.

  Javier picked up the ends of the jumper cables and inched closer until she could smell the cheap cologne that failed to hide the rank odor of his body.

  “Do not fool yourself, Dr. Adams. Sometimes life is severely overrated as you’ll soon discover.”

  When he pulled away, someone tossed the water that had been in the bucket over her body. The welcome respite that the chill wetness brought from the Mexican summer heat was short-lived. Her assailant touched both ends of the jumper cables together and sparks flew into the air.

  She sucked in a breath, girding herself for the first sharp blast, but nothing could have prepared her for the jolt. Her body jerked spasmodically, every nerve ending springing to painful life.

  After Javier broke the contact of the jumper cables against her body, she sagged onto the tabletop, her muscles twitching while she sought to recover.

  “Where is the tomb, Dr. Adams?” Javier asked once more and brought the jumper cables near, touching them together to send another shower of sparks through the air.

  Miranda thought of the tomb and of the sun stone within it. Thought of how
long she had searched for the burial place of Montezuma and what she had sacrificed for its discovery.

  Her career.

  Her husband and daughter.

  The happy life she had once had.

  Because of that she was certain of one thing—it would take a lot more than this to make her reveal the secret for which she had already paid so dearly.

  “Sorry, amigo. I seem to be having a little problem with my memory lately.”

  The shock this time was not as unexpected, but he kept the cables against her wet skin longer.

  Much longer.

  Javier kept her jumping and dancing at the end of the cables like some grotesque marionette until her body and brain overloaded, shutting down her senses in self-defense.

  She sagged against the table, no longer feeling any pain. No longer aware of what was being done to her. The only thought remaining in her brain…

  You cannot tell them the secret of the tomb.

  It was the only thing of value she had left in her life.

  Chapter One

  A man in black at your door was never a good thing, Deanna Vasquez thought as she watched her students shuffle past the brawny man with the nearly black buzz-cut hair stationed at the entrance to her classroom. He had one hand clasped over his wrist and resting on a lean midsection in a classic pose. When coupled with the midnight-colored suit, it screamed law enforcement.

  Handsome in a deadly and dangerous kind of way, she supposed, as she examined him from the corner of her eye. His face was all sharp lines chiseled into granite. His creamy skin showed traces of a heavy beard and his eyes were the color of the ocean during a tempest.

  That stormy gaze never shifted from her as the teens filed by and shot him a combination of amused and uneasy looks.

  She was certain her own features reflected her discomfort when she finally gave him her full attention.

  “May I help you?” she called out.

  “May I come in?” he asked, his voice a melodious baritone that might have been pleasant in some other situation. She ignored the way the low timbre of it strummed alive something within her.

  “Would it make a difference if I said ‘No’?” she asked and arched her brow in emphasis.

  “No,” he said with a rueful shake of his head. He walked into the room, his strides purposeful. When he reached the edge of her desk, he once again stood there, hands held before him, everything about him outwardly calm and yet shimmering with ominous energy below the surface.

  He was lethally large, with thick muscles through his shoulders and chest, and big powerful thighs. The suit hid most of his midsection, but she imagined it would be as solid as a tree trunk given the rest of him.

  She was used to slighter, more scholarly, sorts and his size intimidated, but she suspected that’s what he wanted. It was probably what he needed to deal with most of the people he met in his line of business.

  She pulled her attention away from the bulkiness of him and concentrated on filling her briefcase with the end-of-year essays her pupils had turned in at the beginning of the class.

  “Dr. Vasquez, I presume,” he said and finally held out his hand. Big, blunt-fingered and powerful. A large crescent-shaped scar marred the skin on one knuckle.

  Swinging the now bulging briefcase from her desk, she stared down at his hand for a long moment, but didn’t shake it. Not a fan of authority figures, she had no desire to make his acquaintance in any way, shape or form.

  He finally dropped it and once again assumed his militarily precise posture. Hands steady. Legs braced slightly apart. Back ramrod straight. His posture communicating that he had no intention of going anywhere until he was good and ready.

  Lifting her gaze to meet his since he was a good six inches taller than her middling height, she asked, “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “Are you always so distrustful?” he stated blandly, although his mouth quirked with a hint of dissatisfaction.

  She tried to brush past him, but he lifted a rock hard arm the way a barrier might snap down at a toll plaza. Following the line of his arm up along the clean dark fabric of his suit, she realized that much like the toll, her freedom would require some kind of payment.

  “How can I help you, Mr…?” She paused, waiting for him to identify himself.

  “Special Agent Santana,” he said, dropped his arm, reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a badge which he flashed in front of her face.

  She peered at the shiny badge, noting the emblem with the eagle and multifaceted star along with the words Central Intelligence Agency. On the other side of the badge wallet was a laminated ID with his name. Guillermo Santana.

  “CIA?”

  He shut the wallet with a loud snap and tucked it back into an inside jacket pocket, revealing the dull black handle of a gun secured in a well-worn leather holster.

  “What can I do for you, Special Agent Santana?” she asked, returning her gaze to his face. A hard face, she acknowledged, although there were some features which softened its harshness. Long thick lashes framed inquisitive gray eyes flecked with blue. His mouth, which had appeared judgmental earlier, was full-lipped and she imagined he might have dimples should he ever smile.

  She didn’t imagine that he smiled very much, which was evidenced by those full lips tightening into a thin line as he said, “Is there somewhere private where we can talk?”

  “My office is just down the hall.” She motioned to the door of her classroom.

  He nodded, giving her the go-ahead to leave, but was right on her tail as she walked into the hallway and down the short distance to her room.

  Some might have called her office space small, but she preferred to think of it as intimate. CIA Agent Santana clearly thought of it as puny based on the look he shot her after he assessed the book-lined walls and squeezed himself into the creaky wooden chair in front of her desk. To be honest, his immense size diminished the space, making it almost claustrophobic, especially after she closed the door to give them the privacy he thought they needed.

  She dropped her briefcase beside her desk and sat down, mimicking the pose he had adopted. Fingers twined, hands resting on his midsection. Legs crossed at the ankles in a deceptively casual posture.

  “So what can I do for you, Special Agent Santana?” she asked again.

  Bill Santana had met some hard cases in his life, but he suspected that Dr. Deanna Vasquez was going to be as difficult as any of them.

  Maybe more so.

  “I understand you’re the daughter of Dr. Miranda Adams.”

  An immediate change came over her. She sat upright in her chair and stiffened. “Miranda and I—”

  “Are estranged. I know that, Dr. Vasquez. But I understand from your father—”

  “My father divorced my mother—”

  “When you were thirteen. It must have been difficult for you to lose your mother at that age,” he said, well aware of the effect such things had on people. His own life had been a story of such loss.

  She shot forward in her chair and the movement had her chestnut shoulder length hair shifting from the force of it. She splayed her hands across the smooth leather blotter on the surface of her desk, her seductive hazel-green eyes darkening with indignation. “If I wanted to be psychoanalyzed—”

  “You were at age fourteen, I believe, but you’re right. I’m not here to find out what makes you such a hard-ass.”

  She sucked in a deep breath, held it and seemed to center herself before she released the breath slowly. “Why are you here?”

  “The better question might be why you’re here,” he said, motioning with a flip of his hand to the bookcase-lined walls filled with an assortment of tomes with titles that would likely bore most people to death.

  His question ignited her anger once again.

  “Here?” she said and her voice escalated in volume with each word that followed. “As in teaching history—something that I love by the way—at one of Manhattan’s premiere prep sch
ools?”

  While he had to acknowledge that Halcyon Prep was certainly that, her credentials and background were better suited to an Ivy League college, making him wonder why, if she loved history so much, she chose to hide here.

  “You’ve got several doctorates and are one of the foremost authorities on Mesoamerican cultures. Not to mention that you’re the daughter of Gonzalo Vasquez and—”

  “Miranda Adams. It seems like we’ve come full circle back to my mother once again.”

  “Yes, we have. Inevitable since your mother is the reason I’m here,” he finally admitted.

  She plopped back into her chair and steepled her fingers, brought them to her lips. Her fingers were long and elegant despite the fact that her nails were short and plainly done. She bounced her fingers against her full lips, clearly considering his words before she said, “As I mentioned before, my mother and I are estranged. I haven’t spoken to her in some time.”

  He nodded, but as he did so, he pulled his notepad from his suit jacket pocket and flipped through the pages until he got to the notes he wanted. Notes that said otherwise about when she had last spoken to her mother.

  “Cell phone records show that your mother placed a call to your apartment two weeks ago. It didn’t last very long—approximately two minutes—so I assume your conversation was a short one.”

  “Our conversation was nonexistent. My mother left a message on my answering machine,” she advised.

  There was no hint of deception in her tone, Bill decided. “Did you listen to the message?” he asked, although he knew what her likely answer would be. If things were as bad between them as her father had said during their earlier conversation, he suspected Dr. Vasquez had deleted the message as soon as she had realized who had left the call.

  Deanna shrugged and the shoulders on the overly large suit she wore on her slender body barely moved. She surprised him by saying, “Miranda was carrying on about a discovery. She sounded almost manic about it, but that’s par for the course. I didn’t listen to the whole message.”

  “You call your mother Miranda?” he pressed, which just earned him an annoyed glare.