The Death Relic

by Chris Kuzneski

  He knew it was probably for the best.

  Most secrets weren’t worth dying for.

  Tiffany wasn’t an archaeologist; she was a field operative who specialized in acquisitions. Before this mission, she didn’t know the first thing about ancient artefacts.

  Aztec. Mayan. Spanish. Whatever.

  She honestly couldn’t care less.

  In this business, all she wanted to know was enough to complete the job. Get in, get out and move on to the next operation. Anything more would just slow her down.

  At least that’s how she used to think.

  But something had changed during her tour of the plaza. Suddenly, she was interested in knowing more than just the basics. Not because of a sudden passion for history, but because Paco had mentioned something that had piqued her interest. According to legend, there was an extravagant treasure buried deep under Mexican soil – one that had never been found by explorers. Whether it existed or not, the mere possibility made her think.

  Is that what this mission was all about?

  A cave filled with gold?

  In many ways, it made perfect sense. It would explain why they had risked so much to acquire something so little. What good was an artefact unless it led to something more?

  She would try to figure that out in the hours ahead.

  38

  Payne realized his mistake as soon as he opened the door. He had forgotten to put the sunshade in the windshield when he had parked the Hummer, and now he would be forced to suffer. A wall of heat greeted him like a dragon’s sneeze. In many ways it reminded him of his days at the mill. Working near the blast furnaces in the dead of summer. Sweating so much that he had a permanent thirst. It was so bad at times that he actually looked forward to the rigours of twice-daily football practices, because they were a vacation by comparison.

  Years later, when he was stationed in the Middle East, everyone bitched and moaned about the desert heat. The air was dry. The sun was brutal. Lips cracked and skin chafed. To combat the conditions, American soldiers were forced to hydrate on a regular basis. Commanding officers were required to stand there and watch their soldiers drink their daily dose of fluids, whether they were thirsty or not. During this ritual, Payne did his best to lift their spirits by downplaying the heat. He assured his squad that it had been much hotter in Pittsburgh when he was a teenager. Everyone assumed he was kidding. But he was quite serious.

  Nothing was hotter than the mill.

  Payne reached inside the Hummer and started the ignition. Then he turned the AC on full blast. He wasn’t as worried about the weapons as he was about the artefacts. He didn’t know if the heat would damage ancient relics. He assumed it wouldn’t be a problem – otherwise Hamilton wouldn’t have stored them there – but he didn’t want to take any chances. As long as he was in charge of the items, he would do his best to keep them safe.

  A few minutes passed before he climbed into the Hummer. The engine was purring, and the air vents were spitting out cool air. It was still uncomfortable, but not nearly as bad as a moment earlier. More concerned about his cargo than himself, he angled the vents towards the crates, then closed the door with a thud. He casually glanced in the side and rear-view mirrors, looking for witnesses of any kind, then turned in his seat and opened the trunk.

  He needed to get some serial numbers.

  He grabbed the first AK-47 and inspected its receiver, the main body of the weapon. The number was stamped into the metal, right where it was supposed to be. That meant there was a decent chance that it was manufactured in a proper facility, not a second-rate sweatshop in Africa. According to World Bank estimates, there are over 75 million AK-47s in existence – many of which are counterfeit – which accounts for 15 per cent of all the firearms in the world. He quickly entered the alphanumeric code into a text message, double-checked it for accuracy, then returned the rifle to the crate. He repeated the process with the second rifle. The serial number was almost identical to the first, meaning it was probably part of the same shipment. With any luck, Raskin would be able to track both weapons easily.

  Before sending the text, Payne used the encryption feature on his phone. It was a handy little tool that he was forced to use whenever he sent a message to Raskin – even the one containing the bikini photo. Not because the Pentagon required it, but because Raskin wanted to train Payne and Jones in the latest technology. That way, if they ever needed to send a classified document to his office, they would be comfortable with the protocol.

  Once the message was encrypted, Payne hit ‘send’.

  He stared at his screen until it went through.

  From the harried tone of Raskin’s voice, Payne knew there was a good chance that he wouldn’t get his information today. But that was OK with him. He felt privileged to have someone like Raskin in his corner. He was one of the top researchers in the world, someone who was so good at what he did that the Pentagon overlooked his quirks because they didn’t have anybody to replace him. Where most military personnel went to work in business uniforms or dress clothes, Raskin usually wore T-shirts, gym shorts and canvas tennis shoes. According to Raskin, that was the price of genius. He also claimed to have gone through a two-week stretch wearing nothing but a bathrobe and boxer shorts to work, but since very few people had access to his sub-basement office, no one was willing or able to confirm it.

  Payne laughed at the image in his head as he tried to close the lid on the trunk. His first attempt was unsuccessful, so he shifted the rifles and ammunition around until there was plenty of clearance space. Unfortunately, that didn’t make a difference when he tried again. Getting annoyed, Payne was about to slam the crate shut when a horrible thought entered his mind. What if the lid wasn’t closing because he had accidentally snagged one of the relics in the back of the crate? For all he knew, something might have shifted during the drive to Tulum, and he could be smashing a priceless artefact without even realizing it.

  The thought was not a pleasant one.

  Even worse than the image of Raskin in a bathrobe.

  Cursing to himself, he climbed out of the H2 and opened the back door for a better view. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw a small gap between the two crates and realized nothing from the display case was interfering with the lid. At least, he didn’t think so. Just to be sure, he shoved the trunk against the back of the front seats, widening the gap by a few inches.

  With the back door open, sunlight streamed over his shoulder, illuminating the trunk and a whole lot more. For the first time, Payne noticed something between the crates. The manila envelope had been sitting on top of the trunk when Jones had unfastened the bungee cords in the hotel parking lot, but it had slipped between the crates when Jones had pushed back the tarp. Now, through a combination of bad luck and good fortune, the corner of the envelope was caught in the back seam of the crate, preventing it from closing.

  Payne wedged his hand between the boxes and removed the envelope by wiggling it back and forth. It was larger than letter-size – made for legal documents and small catalogues – and was stuffed with several sheets of paper. Sealed with a brass clasp, it had no address, or stamps, or writing of any kind. It was merely a vessel for the document within.

  Payne opened the clasp and peered inside.

  Several pages were stapled together, hastily assembled by Hamilton a few hours before his disappearance. Payne removed the packet and stared at the title page.

  A single name had been typed on the front.

  It was a name he didn’t know.

  Payne flipped through the document and cursed at what he saw. Everything was handwritten in Spanish. One photocopied page after another, filled with elaborate prose that he was unable to read. Every once in a while he spotted a word or two that he recognized from his high-school Spanish, but not nearly enough to make sense of things. He would need Maria for that.

  Not ready to call in reinforcements, Payne decided to run a search of his own. He typed the name into his phone’s se
arch engine and waited for the results, but a poor connection slowed his effort. His phone chugged through the data, giving him plenty of time to speculate.

  He assumed the man would be local. Maybe a member of Hamilton’s team. Or his weapons’ supplier. Whoever it was, Payne hoped they could track him down for a long conversation, because at this stage of the game they needed all the help they could get.

  Unfortunately, a chat with this guy wasn’t going to happen.

  Not without a psychic.

  Because the man was already dead.

  39

  Ricardo Córdova was a mid-level employee in Hector’s organization. He had started out as muscle for one of the local crews, but had recently been promoted to talent scout because of his eye for detail. In his new role, he was expected to spot the best candidates for flash kidnappings and point them out to his associates. Whether they were wealthy locals or foreign businessmen, it didn’t matter as long as they had money. On weekends, his favourite place to work was the Zócalo, because it was always packed with clueless tourists.

  His afternoon had started like any other. He strolled through the plaza while scanning the crowd for signs of wealth. Expensive shoes. Designer clothes. Fancy jewellery. The type of items only the rich could afford. He had just spotted an elderly couple with high-priced watches when he was distracted by a black SUV. He turned and stared as it climbed over the kerb on the edge of the plaza, then headed directly for the flagpole. Although it was uncommon for cars to be driven into the square, the intrusion didn’t catch his attention. But the vehicle did.

  He had seen it many times before.

  It belonged to his boss, Hector Garcia.

  Like most employees, Ricardo knew how important it was to impress his boss. Careers were often made or broken based on personal connections, especially in an organization where trust and loyalty were so important. At first, he was tempted to go over and introduce himself – just so Hector could put a face to his name – but then he realized it was the wrong move in this situation. Obviously something was about to go down, otherwise Hector wouldn’t be drawing so much attention to himself in the middle of a public plaza.

  So Ricardo decided to sit back and wait.

  He figured, he would keep an eye on things for the next few minutes and hope for the best. If an opening surfaced, he would hustle over and introduce himself. If not, he would go back to work, like every other Saturday. After all, there was money to be made.

  Then it happened.

  Amongst the smoke and gunshots, he spotted the opportunity of a lifetime.

  Not only did he have a chance to meet Hector.

  He had a chance to save him.

  From Tiffany’s perspective, everything was going smoothly until that moment. The money was being loaded. The medallion was in their hands. And the police were slow to arrive. Thirty more seconds and her crew would have left the plaza as they had planned.

  But one bullet changed everything.

  Because of the smoke, no one saw Ricardo until it was too late. He emerged from the haze like a thief in the night. One moment he wasn’t there, the next he was. Severely outnumbered, he knew his only chance at success was a surprise attack. No hostages. No threats. No questions of any kind. His gun would do all the talking.

  Church was feeling good about the mission until he felt the barrel of the gun against the base of his skull. A moment later, he couldn’t feel anything at all. Ricardo squeezed his trigger and the bullet did the rest, tearing through Church’s brain like a drill through wet clay. Blood splattered as Church fell, collapsing 10 feet in front of Angel, who was kneeling on the ground in agony. Still bleeding from his shoulder wound, Angel ignored the pain and rolled underneath the SUV for cover. Much to his surprise, the gun that had been kicked out of his hand earlier was now within reach. He grabbed it and looked for targets.

  Tiffany, who was guarding Hector, spun towards Ricardo and fired two shots, both of which narrowly missed. Ricardo returned the favour, firing two shots of his own. The first whizzed past her face while the second missed high, partially because she had dropped to her knee. In close combat, she knew the smaller she was, the harder she would be to hit.

  Hector didn’t know who the gunman was, and the truth was he didn’t care. All that mattered was the chance to get away. Temporarily forgetting about his kids, he scrambled from the ground and sprinted into the smoke. By then, his lone goal was to survive. Within seconds, he had lost all sense of direction because of the haze that surrounded him.

  North became south. East became west.

  Everything looked the same.

  From the flagpole in the centre, the plaza extended for several hundred feet in every direction. No cross streets. No landmarks. No signs. Just thousands of stone tiles, laid in rows, for as far as the eye could see. If Hector had taken a moment to collect his thoughts, he would have made it through the smoke in a hurry. Since the rows were straight, he could have followed any of them to the edge of the square. There was no mystery. No code to decipher. Every row led to freedom. All he had to do was pick one and he would have survived.

  Unfortunately for him, he didn’t think of that.

  He simply started to run.

  While crouching on one knee, Tiffany fired a third shot at Ricardo. It caught him flush in the stomach, three inches above his right hip. He screamed out in pain and fired wildly. The bullet struck the left side of the SUV as he stumbled forward, nearly falling to the ground before he caught his balance with his free hand. By this time, Chase had entered the fray. Known more for his driving than his marksmanship, he fired several shots at Ricardo, hoping to avenge the death of his fallen comrade. One of the shots came close – missing by less than a foot – but the others were way off the mark. Somewhere in the distance, a car window shattered.

  ‘Shit!’ he screamed in frustration.

  Tiffany glanced to her left, expecting to see Hector on his hands and knees, but the bastard was no longer there. At that point, she had a decision to make. Either risk their freedom and try to find him, or hit the road before the police appeared. For her, it was an easy choice.

  They had the medallion and the money.

  It was time for them to leave.

  ‘Clear out,’ she said into her earpiece.

  Despite the shootout raging nearby, Cash remained near his car. His job had been to deliver the girl to the plaza and to pick up the money. Nothing more, nothing less. Now he wasn’t sure what to do. His share of the ransom was in his vehicle, but so was the kid.

  He spoke up. ‘What about the girl?’

  Tiffany fired, trying to keep Ricardo pinned down. ‘Cut her loose.’

  He struggled to hear. ‘Say again?’

  ‘Cut her loose!’

  Cash rolled his eyes. He hated working for a woman. ‘You don’t have to scream.’

  She fired again. ‘Fuck you, Cash! Cut her loose.’

  Daniela had been stashed in the backseat of the Beetle, where she had been freaking out for the last several minutes. Blindfolded and gagged, she could barely make a sound – at least none that could be heard over gunfire. Angered by Tiffany’s comment, Cash reached into the car and yanked Daniela through the narrow gap between the folded seat and the door. He banged her shoulder and arm on the doorframe while he pulled her out. With her hands and feet duct-taped together, she flopped like a rag doll when he threw her to the ground.

  Cash stood over her. ‘The bitch is free.’

  From his hiding spot underneath the SUV, Angel heard something fall a few feet behind him. Using his good arm, he struggled to turn himself around, only to find himself staring at Hector’s daughter. As far as he could tell, she was still in one piece, although maybe not for long. One of the kidnappers was hovering over her in a threatening manner.

  Until that moment, Angel had planned to stay hidden, so as not to give his position away until the kidnappers had left the scene. All that changed when he saw Daniela. Thoughts of his wife and baby boy danced thro
ugh his head. If the situation had been reversed, he would fully expect Hector to try to save them, so he decided to do the same.

  Using his elbows and feet, Angel inched forward on his stomach, moving as silently as possible. Blood oozed as he crawled. The pain in his shoulder was excruciating, but he did his best to ignore it. He had to protect Daniela. He had to save the girl.

  Unwilling to expose his torso, Angel did the next best thing.

  He brought the battle to his level.

  He aimed his gun at the kidnapper’s knee and fired a single shot.

  One moment Cash was upright, the next he was on the ground – as was much of his knee, which had been blown into tiny pieces. Writhing in agony, Cash paid no attention to the man lying in front of him until he saw the gun. It was pointed directly at his face.

  The last thing Cash saw was the smile on Angel’s lips.

  Hector heard the gunshot and slowed to a halt. Somehow, someway, the shot had come from directly in front of him. Despite running non-stop since he had left the scene, he seemed to be back where he had started, like an athlete sprinting round a track.

  In his state of delirium, he interpreted this as a sign. It was God’s way of giving him a second chance. Instead of running like a coward, he should have charged forward and rescued his kids from danger. They were somewhere in the smoke. All he had to do was find them.

  Struggling to catch his breath, he spotted Church’s body on the ground. It was just lying there, missing a chunk of its head. Hector crouched down and pried the gun from the dead man’s grasp. It would come in handy for the fight ahead.

  By this time, Ricardo had lost a lot of blood. Sitting on the ground, he leaned against the front tyre of the SUV. He tried to keep pressure on his stomach with his free hand, but the damn wound kept leaking. Blood oozed between his fingers. It felt warm and sticky.