The Fifth Kingdom

by Caridad Piñeiro

Miranda pointed to the stone which Deanna continued to hold. “There is only one way out–use the stone again.”

  Her daughter stared down at the relic, clearly hesitant. Miranda could understand why. Going back again could change the outcome of where they were now—with her lover alive and well.

  “If we do not do this, we may all die,” Miranda urged, comprehending her daughter’s reluctance.

  Deanna shot an uncertain glance at Bill, the fear apparent on her face.

  Bill returned to her side and slipped a hand on her waist, his touch meant to comfort. Instead, it only seemed to unnerve her daughter more. Especially as he said, “What’s important is getting the relic to a safe location. Especially now that we know what it can do.”

  Almost as if to prove his point, the sounds of stone scraping against stone reached into the chamber. It wouldn’t be long before the Primera Mexica cell dislodged the boulder holding the door shut and made it into the burial site. If they did and got their hands on the sun stone….

  Miranda laid a hand on her daughter’s as it rested on the relic. With a gentle stroke, she said, “Losing someone you care about is never easy.”

  “Did you care? When you left me, did you care?” Deanna challenged, her emotions battered by the loss she had experienced just moments earlier in addition to her abandonment as a little girl.

  “It broke my heart,” Miranda admitted, then reached up and stroked her hand along Deanna’s hair. “But I knew that it was for the best. Your father raised a remarkable woman.”

  The rasp of the rock door moving intruded again.

  With a sniff, Deanna pulled back her shoulders and turned into Bill’s embrace, the stone still clutched in her hands. “I love you,” he said and the words seemed to propel her into action.

  “We need blood. That’s what activates the stone,” Deanna said, peering up at her lover.

  Bill nodded and reached into his pants, pulled out a small pocketknife. With no hesitation, he cut an inches-long line along his forearm. When his blood flowed from the cut, he laid the open wound on the surface of the sun stone.

  The relic awoke again, almost singing with energy with the fresh supply of blood. Like before, a buzz began beneath her palms and was followed by a surge of power through her hands. Then the center of the relic loosened. She twisted the obsidian counterclockwise and the room began to shift around her. Her mother and Bill vanished and then reappeared in the outer chamber, Bill hale and hearty. She paused to memorize that scene, unsure of whether changing the past would alter the happiness of that moment in time. She continued spinning the wheel, watching time turn backward and the images play before her eyes.

  As she worked the relic, she realized that the blood was beginning to dry, making the wheel resist her efforts to turn it.

  She had hoped to go way back in time, even possibly to that morning where they could arrange for additional manpower to meet them at the location of the fake base camp. But as the blood dried on the relic, the wheel became harder and harder to spin.

  Difficult choices that had to be made immediately.

  Stop before Bill was shot.

  Rewind to where they entered the tomb.

  Force time farther back, she thought, fighting the center ring as it became more and more difficult to rotate and the images flying around her decelerated, almost in slow motion.

  With a final hard twist, Deanna brought the wheel to the point in time that she hoped would alter what had already happened. A moment where a different decision might save all their lives and safeguard the relic.

  She released the center ring. The images stilled around her, suspending her in time for a heartbeat before life resumed at its normal pace.

  Deanna stood beside Miranda while Bill fiddled beneath the hood of the 4x4 as steam wafted around him.

  “It’s the radiator,” he said and then slammed the hood shut. Facing her, he jerked back as he took note of her condition and the relic in her hands.

  Miranda tracked his gaze and likewise seemed startled by what she was seeing. “How did you get that?”

  “Down that arroyo in the tomb that you found,” Deanna explained, pointing to the path they had taken barely an hour earlier. A fateful hour that she had somehow recovered with the relic.

  “I don’t understand,” Bill said, staring down at the sun stone, whose gold and silver outer ring and pure black obsidian center gleamed as the rays of the sun kissed its surface.

  “I can explain, but we need to get going.”

  “Into the arroyo?” Bill asked, motioning in the direction she had indicated earlier.

  “No. We couldn’t find an exit out of the tomb, so we need to go in a different direction,” Deanna said and met her mother’s puzzled gaze. “You’re familiar with the area. We need to be able to contact someone for assistance.”

  “There are some small buildings along the bottom of the hillside. They may have phones and it’s not more than a half an hour down the slope,” Miranda advised, shielding her eyes from the sun to likewise track the progress of her kidnappers.

  In an eerie moment of déjà vu, Deanna almost lashed out to say that Bill was in no condition to go anywhere on foot. It was what she had said before when they had decided to go through the arroyo to the tomb.

  “With the GPS devices still in the knapsacks, we should be able to quickly get help to one of those locations if I can contact someone,” Bill advised, leaning back against the vehicle, still clearly unsteady on his feet.

  Unsteady, but alive, she thought, going to his side and slipping beneath his shoulder to offer support. “Are you sure you can make it that far?”

  “We have no choice, mi amor.” He ran the back of his hand along her face, consoling her with that achingly familiar touch. With the words that had put them on a path that had cost him his life along another timeline.

  Glancing at her mother, Deanna noted the raised eyebrow from Miranda at Bill’s gesture. Waited for what she knew would come next.

  “Just who are you?” Miranda asked.

  “CIA Agent Bill Santana,” he replied and held out his hand.

  Miranda peered down at his hand and then followed the line of it to where he stood with Deanna tucked beneath his arm. “What are you to my daughter?”

  Deanna bit back her earlier caustic reply, recalling her mother’s tenderness when she had consoled her over Bill’s dead body. Began to realize that there was more to her mother that she wanted to understand.

  “Bill is my lover and if we all survive this, I’d like to think we may have a future together,” she replied.

  Her mother narrowed her gaze and considered him. Nodded, but also took a moment to warn, “Don’t hurt my daughter.”

  Deanna bit back another rejoinder about Miranda’s suddenly reawakened motherly instincts. While she wished that they had the time they needed to deal with the emotional baggage they were both carting around, now was not the moment to delay.

  “We need to go,” she said before Bill could, but he started, almost as if sensing that something was wrong.

  “Why do I feel as if that’s my line?” he asked.

  “Maybe because it was.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The hillside was at a thirty-degree angle to the flat ground below, making for an arduous trek down the slope. The various upheavals of the earth over the centuries had created deep gouges along the incline that they had to slowly traverse. The ground beneath their feet was a combination of loose rock, dry, dusty soil, and short, sharp-bladed grasses. Scattered here and there were low shrubs with stinging needles as well as assorted cacti and large agave plants.

  They had to pause once or twice for Bill to allow a bout of dizziness to pass and it was during one of those breaks that the distant sounds of gunfire snagged their attention.

  Their pursuers had discovered the abandoned 4x4 and one of the men had noted their location near the base of the hillside. He was firing at them futilely since they were at least a mile away. Lu
ck was with them since, based on their decision to go down the hillside, the rugged terrain prevented the PM members from following using their Jeep.

  “Let’s get moving,” Bill urged, pushing back up onto his feet. Deanna was about to slip beneath his shoulder to offer assistance again when Miranda took up the job.

  “You need to go ahead. You can move faster than either of us and hopefully find a way to communicate with someone,” she said.

  Deanna’s gaze locked with hers. Miranda seemed determined to try and make things right. Deanna would not argue and waste yet more valuable time. Perusing the base of the hillside, she noted a small shack about half a mile away. The sun-bleached wood and rusted-tin structure was barely a ten-by-ten and yet it boasted a satellite dish. In addition, an assortment of wires ran to the building from a neighboring shed about a dozen feet away.

  She pointed to the structure. “Meet me there as quickly as you can.”

  She took off, nearly sliding down her ass the remaining fifty or so feet of the hillside. The scraggly grass and shrubs tore at her with their prickly edges, scratching the skin on her hands and arms. Biting through the fabric of her khaki pants. But she ignored the pain and itch, propelling herself forward at breakneck pace. Every second counted now and if she could find out how to make contact, they might be able to get assistance before PM caught up to them.

  When her feet contacted the flat earth at the base of the slope, she broke into a run, the dry heat of the air searing her lungs with each step she took. Her throat was parched and sore by the time she reached the shack and outbuilding.

  Both were padlocked and although there were windows in the structures, the openings were too small for her to climb through. Peering through one window in the larger building, she realized it was some kind of line shack, possibly for one of the cattle ranches in the area. Inside were the basic essentials, as well as a woodstove, phone and radio of some kind.

  Beside the smaller shed was a portable generator, likely to power what was in the line shack. Beside the generator was a small pile of sticks and logs for use in the woodstove and a hatchet.

  After checking that the generator had gasoline, she grabbed the hatchet and went to the door of the building. Hacked at the padlock and door clasp over and over, but hadn’t made a dent by the time that Miranda and Bill arrived.

  “There’s a phone inside,” she said.

  Bill nodded and waved at her to step away from the door. He pulled his weapon and with one perfect shot, blew apart the lock. Then he went to the generator and pushed the start button. The sputter of the engine was followed a second later by the roar as the generator kicked to life.

  Their joy was short-lived, however. The shouts of the PM members warned that they were already too close. They had been slowed by the stops they had made for Bill, while the PM members had raced headlong down the slope.

  Bill cursed beneath his breath and urged both of them inside the shack. Once inside, he closed the door and then moved a nearby dresser across the entrance in an attempt to secure the entry.

  “Let me have the pistol,” Miranda said, holding out her hand.

  Reluctantly he handed it over together with the backpack. “There’s one more clip of ammo inside.”

  Deanna grasped the strap for the rifle slung across his shoulder and at his worried glance, she said, “You know who to call to get us the help we need.”

  Bill couldn’t argue with that, although he was filled with worry that either of the women would be injured if a gunfight ensued. Luckily the back of the shack was almost built into the hillside, so they would have to guard fewer lines of approach. He hoped that help would arrive before the PM cell could surround the building because with their firepower, they’d turn the shack’s walls into Swiss cheese in no time.

  “Don’t fire until—”

  “We see the whites of their eyes,” Deanna teased, clearly using humor to deal with her fear.

  “You got it,” he confirmed and walked over to the rickety table holding the communications equipment.

  Saying a prayer, he picked up the phone, but the line was dead. Biting back a curse, he sat at the radio beside it. He flipped the switch and a crackle erupted. A dim green power light confirmed it was on, but would it be functional? he wondered.

  He flicked a switch on the mike and spoke into it. “This is Special Agent Bill Santana. Do you copy?”

  At the silence that followed, he repeated his call, assuming that it was set to a frequency someone was monitoring back at the home base for the shack occupants, but he had no luck.

  The first ping of gunfire came against the tin of the shack, but thankfully the metal held.

  Bill gently eased the dial, hearing the snap and crackle as the frequencies changed. Repeating his call again with no success. As he spun the dial a little farther, the squawk of the radio was followed by the sound of human voices. Two to be exact and speaking in English.

  He repeated his call and this time one of the men on the line answered, “You’re five by nine here, Old Man. This is Dan in Laredo, Texas.”

  “And this is Miguel in Colonia Santa Fe in Mexico City. We’re copying your transmission just fine,” the second man responded.

  More gunfire came, a burst from an automatic weapon that took out the side window, sending shards of glass flying into the shack. The bullets that had come through the window ricocheted dangerously against the inside walls of the building.

  “Is that gunfire?” Dan from Laredo asked.

  “Listen, carefully,” Bill said and provided the men with the contact details for his ADIC in addition to a special code which would confirm to his boss that it was not a prank call.

  “Tell ADIC Williams that we immediately need backup and air support at the GPS locations from which we’re transmitting.”

  “Copy that,” both men replied.

  Another burst of gunfire spewed more dangerous missiles through the windows. After the blast, Miranda jumped up and awkwardly fired the gun through the hole.

  “I’ve got to go, but will keep this line open. Please report back if you can,” Bill said.

  There was a thick oak table in the center of the room and he flipped it onto his side and rushed over to where Miranda and Deanna crouched beneath the windows. Kneeling beside them, he said, “Hand over the guns and get back behind the protection of the table.”

  Both women seemed inclined to argue, but with a sharp “Now,” they obeyed.

  Bill scrambled quickly to the woodstove and yanked on it. His arms were still weak from the blow to the head. It took a few pulls for him to drag it over to a spot beneath one window. Then he checked the other two windows, but luckily the PM members were still concentrated along the path leading up to the shack from the hillside.

  He returned to the windows facing that direction, hoping that if he could pin them down long enough, help would arrive in the meantime. He opened fire carefully, aware that he had limited ammo. Picked his shots for the most impact. He managed to take down the man closest to the shack.

  The man dropped to the ground and his friends retaliated with a blast of automatic weapons fire that rattled like deadly hail against the tin wall. The barrage was so great that it actually weakened one part of the wall enough to allow a few bullets to pierce the metal.

  A bullet slammed into the thick oak of the table behind which Deanna and Miranda were taking cover. Another struck the bottom of the woodstove, but the cast iron was thick enough to stop the round.

  Bill waited only a second after the fusillade to peer out the window and gauge the location of their attackers. They had kept their positions during the volley, but now one of them slipped out from behind a small outcropping of rocks about thirty feet from the shack. He had gone only a few short steps when Bill fired, killing him with one shot.

  Bill dropped down again, shrinking into as small a ball as he could as another onslaught of bullets tore into the structure. The wall weakened further, but the stove and oak table survived,
shielding them against the attack.

  In the silence that followed, the squawk of the radio came.

  “Agent Santana. Do you copy?”

  Before he could move, Deanna was racing across the way, answering the man. “We copy. Did you reach ADIC Williams?”

  Another burst of gunfire drowned out any response and Bill jumped up, returned fire in order to keep them from advancing.

  “Can you repeat?” Deanna asked the men and the words that followed were sweet.

  “Copy that. Help is on the way.”

  “ETA is ten minutes,” the second man added and with that, Deanna raced to Bill’s side. Crouching beside him, she said, “Only ten minutes, Bill.”

  He forced a smile to his face, not wanting to kill the hopefulness in her gaze. “I can hold them off, love. But you need to get back behind the protection of the table.”

  Deanna nodded and did as he asked, but he sensed that she realized that the only way he could hold them off for ten more minutes was by sacrificing himself.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Deanna plopped down beside her mother, her heart breaking as she acknowledged what he had not said.

  “I can’t let him die again,” she mumbled, reaching for the knapsack at her feet.

  Miranda stayed her hand while she fumbled with the leather ties on the pack. “You must let this play out, Deanna,” her mother said, her tones low so only they could hear.

  Deanna glared at her. “Do you understand what that means?”

  “I understand that we were not meant to play God,” she replied, grasping her daughter’s hand in hers.

  Another salvo shook the shack and bullets ripped along the edge of the table, sending dangerous splinters of wood flying through the air. Although they ducked down, the small shards tore at them, slicing into their arms and shoulders.

  In the silence that followed the fusillade came Javier’s voice, taunting them. “Would you rather die by a thousand cuts than give up the location of the tomb?”

  Bill responded, but his voice was weak. “Montezuma sought peace for his people, unlike you.”