by Kim McMahill
He eased Olivia to the ground and leaned her back against a pack saddle. He hated leaving her and hoped the vacant look in her eyes wasn’t from shock. Needing to find Ian and verify Zara’s brother and henchman truly left the area forced him to walk away and trust her strength to maintain her composure.
Cash found Ian’s body before he reached the cave. By Ian’s position, he obviously tried to cover Cash’s unavoidable exit. Ian succeeded in preventing Cash from being shot as he bolted out of the tunnel, but the effort had cost him his life.
“This has to stop.” Cash cursed as he knelt down to check Ian’s pulse.
By the amount of blood soaking the British Agents clothes, he knew Olivia was correct, but he needed to verify Ian’s death for himself. Cash brushed a hand over Ian’s face and closed his eyelids. He liked the guy and would miss him. Ian was a good agent. Cash respected his skills and trusted him. He called few people a friend, but in the short time they had spent together, he considered Ian to be one.
Even though Ian had reminded Cash earlier that they all knew the risks and protecting them wasn’t his job, he felt responsible. Cash was in charge and they operated on his turf, but all he had done was lead his team from one dead end to another, keeping only steps ahead of a group of killers, until their luck finally ran out.
Cash was still kneeling next to Ian when Diane, Pete, and Benny approached. He stood and walked to the cave entrance without a word, not trusting his voice to expose the raw emotion churning inside him over Ian’s death. He crawled inside to where he had set the bundle down and found nothing. He wasn’t surprised. So far, the entire operation had been one disappointing screw-up after another.
“One more has slipped through our fingers. Any luck catching up with the mules?”
Diane shook her head, without looking up from Ian. “Our handguns were no match for their automatic weapons. It all happened so fast, we’re lucky we’re not all dead. I’m sure we would be if not for Ian.”
“Where’s Olivia?” Benny asked.
“Waiting where Diane told her to. She shouldn’t have been here,” Cash stated as he stooped to pick up his hat that had been ground into the dirt.
Benny shook his head. “Sorry. You warned me not to bring her. I didn’t think anyone would follow us out here, and I thought I might need her help figuring out the legend’s clues to the cave’s location. She possesses the unique cognitive ability to interpret literally, as well as figuratively, which increases the odds of understanding instructions buried in legends, but nothing is worth putting her in danger.”
Cash clapped Benny on the back, regretting he had said anything. Clearly Benny harbored enough guilt about insisting Olivia participate without Cash reminding him. And bottom line, the decision to let her come and responsibility for her safety fell squarely on his shoulders. As much as he wanted to blame Benny, he couldn’t.
“What do we do now?” Diane asked.
“Heck if I know,” Cash replied. “Our camp’s been ransacked and looted, and we’re so far from civilization, we’re a day’s hike from any cell reception at all. For now, we need to bury Ian, at least temporarily. We can’t leave him like this, and we can’t drag him back. Then I guess we try to walk out, even though they took all our water and supplies.”
“I have a better idea,” Pete interrupted. “I hid the computer to keep the sensitive components out of the sun before we hiked up to the cavern. If the equipment’s still where I stashed it, which I’ll bet it is, we can hook up the Sat Comm Link and transmit our coordinates to the CIA and they can send a helicopter for us.”
Maybe Ian was right. Pete did have his merits. But he would still argue to get Pete taken off the mission once they reached civilization. The operation had become far too hazardous for someone with his skill and experience, but the young scientist had earned his respect. He also planned to return Diane to her desk at Langley. If he had had any idea of the dangers associated with this assignment, he never would have insisted she be brought on board. The thought of losing her or her sister made him sick to his stomach, and today he came too close to both.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
September 30, 12:01 A.M.
Cusco, Peru
THE CALL FROM Heinrich thrilled Zara. He and Marabout had obtained another crystal, killed one of Cash’s team, and left the rest of the party stranded in the most God-forsaken country he had ever seen with no transportation or water. After traversing the barren landscape for the past couple of days, he reported that only a few miles stood between them and their rental vehicle.
Once they reached civilization, she ordered Heinrich and Marabout to return to Sedona and wait for verification. She doubted Cash would die—she wasn’t that lucky. He always found a way to survive, and she wanted to ensure she was kept abreast of his next move. Once Cash became involved, her quest for power had taken on the added element of a game. She loved a good challenge, especially since she always won.
Despite the success, she sensed Heinrich wasn’t telling her everything. She insisted he put Marabout on the phone and her brother confirmed her hunch. The excitement in his voice couldn’t cover the fact he too was withholding details. When she asked about Cash, Marabout quickly changed the subject and then handed the phone back to Heinrich. Whatever they were hiding would be just one more reason to make Cash suffer before he died. The thought brought a smile to her lips.
“One of yours for one of mine,” she muttered as she disconnected and went to share the good news with Mustafa.
Mustafa’s attitude dampened her spirits the moment she entered the room. Something clearly disturbed him as his fingers flew over the keyboard, concentrating on the sounds coming through the bud placed firmly in his ear.
“Reza and Ahmed have missed the last two designated check-ins,” he stated as he turned and looked into Zara’s ice-cold eyes.
One skipped status check seldom caused alarm, but any more often indicated something had gone wrong. To Zara, few excuses existed to break protocol. She insisted on being kept informed of every move, and much of her success came from always being the first to know when things didn’t go according to plan, giving her time to react before any of the other parties involved.
“Do we have anyone in Salta who can check the situation out for us?” she asked.
“No, you and I are the closest resources. In monitoring the local radio station, I’ve come across news of a shooting at Salta’s main cathedral. The report revealed one dead, but didn’t identify those involved, or state the extent of any other injuries. It sounds like the incident happened very recently, so not many details are available yet.”
Zara’s mood soured. She expected Argentina to be an easy operation, but ever since Reza reported on problems in a small village outside of Salta, a bad feeling that he and Ahmed were in over their heads nagged at her. She possessed only minimal information on Diego’s reputation in the field. Reports indicated he currently served as a supervisory agent with Interpol, so she hadn’t expected him to pose a problem for her two colleagues. Once agents left the field they always lost their touch.
“What do you want me to do? Should I focus on the shooting or keep trying to contact them? Maybe they’ve just been detained.”
Zara had no doubt the incident at the church involved her team. She hoped both men escaped without injury before the authorities arrived, but if not, she would deal with the failure. Zara felt certain Reza wouldn’t crack under interrogation if in his right frame of mind, but she hadn’t worked with Ahmed long enough to be as sure about his fortitude under pressure.
“Keep trying to obtain the details of the shooting. We need to locate Reza and Ahmed. If they’re alive and have been arrested, we must act immediately.”
Mustafa nodded and began typing on his keyboard. He kept his eyes focused downward until Zara’s door slammed shut. Looking up, he shuddered. He had worked with Zara for many years and knew her well. If his two colleagues weren’t already dead, they’d wish they were.
September 30, 2:00 A.M.
Salta, Argentina
MARJORIE SAT CROUCHED in a dark corner of one of the cathedral’s windowless underground chambers. She hadn’t moved in hours as she listened to the commotion overhead in the nave. Marjorie couldn’t believe how long it was taking the authorities to load Diego and the other men into ambulances for transport to the hospital and to secure the crime scene. It took extreme willpower to stay put and not go to Diego or follow up on her hunch, but she had to heed his instructions and her instincts in order to turn this fiasco into something that might prove helpful.
The risk of being discovered kept her focused, so she waited, praying they wouldn’t come down the stairs and discover her hiding place. When she left the main level of the cathedral, the man Diego shot remained unconscious. She assumed he didn’t speak English or Spanish, so even if he woke he would be unable to communicate with the authorities, keeping her existence secret, which allowed her to relax some.
Marjorie didn’t move until thirty minutes after the last sound echoed overhead. She still needed to be quiet and careful since the cleric was sure to be in for the night, but she no longer felt rushed, planning to stay in the lower level of the cathedral until the church opened to visitors in the morning. Then she’d attempt to exit as part of the crowd, assuming the church nave could be cleaned by then and opened as usual.
The sculpture of Jesus was even more impressive than she remembered. The first time Marjorie laid eyes on the magnificent piece of art, she was in a hurry, yet still sensed its power. Now taking the opportunity to thoroughly examine the statue, she felt humbled and unworthy of being in its presence.
Marjorie studied the figure, especially the raised hands and long elegant fingers. The appendages were massive in order to remain proportionate to the rest of the sculpture, the palms spanning over ten inches. Each intricately-carved finger curved upward, nearly touching the ceiling.
She returned to the room which held the wooden crates and assessed the various sizes and shapes available. Picking out the lightest boxes, she carried them to the base of the sculpture, one at a time, until she had enough to construct a stepped pyramid reaching the ceiling, and the hands of the Son of God. It took her several hours to build the staircase to nowhere. She didn’t hurry, having all night to accomplish her goal of constructing as sturdy of a perch as possible in order to inspect the figure without fear of falling and being discovered.
A small gap existed where the palm didn’t quite touch the ceiling as the upturned fingers did. Climbing to the top, she shined her flashlight inside the cupped hand. Stretching up on tiptoes, she peered into the bowl-shaped palm—nothing. Marjorie scrambled down her perch and scooted the wooden crates around in order to give her the height to investigate the other side.
She directed her beam into the gap. Before she could stand on her tip-toes to get her face close enough to peek inside, the fingers shattered with such force, Marjorie lost her balance and tumbled to the ground, landing on her back on the hard floor. Fine white powder from the plaster-type construction material dusted her body as she tried to sit up and catch her breath.
Marjorie hoped the thick stone walls and ceiling had muffled the noise and hadn’t alerted the cleric to her presence in the building, but she couldn’t worry about that now. Despite the pain in every joint in her body, Marjorie struggled to her feet and scrambled back up the boxes. She hadn’t been thinking when she flashed her light into the space. She should have known better after what happened in Egypt. Luckily her dim beam was broken into weak fragments by the statue’s fingers.
On the palm of the now fingerless hand rested a small translucent crystal head. The object measured about half of the size of the artifact retrieved in Egypt and looked as comical as the Egyptian head appeared noble. Its tongue protruded and its eyes bulged, seeming overly large for its face, and if Marjorie remembered correctly, this relic fairly accurately represented the Mayan head-variant number seven.
She clutched the small item and crawled down to the floor. The object felt cool to the touch and as smooth as satin. She ran her fingers over the whimsical surface and detected no tool markings on the flawless piece of art.
In the hallway she spied a sliver of light coming from underneath the door at the top of the stairs. Since the knob remained unturned, she assumed no one had heard the minor explosion, but clearly someone occupied the cathedral.
She glanced at the indigo glow of her watch and calculated approximately three to four more hours before she could attempt to blend in with the general public and escape. With activity above, probably the frantic cleaning of the nave, she needed to remain invisible until then, and try not to think about Diego or the priceless treasure she now held in her hands.
Marjorie went into the first room at the bottom of the staircase and hid herself behind an old, broken pew. She took off her baggy sweatshirt and the t-shirt she wore underneath. Twisting the small relic into the t-shirt, she tied it around her waist, pulled her bulky sweatshirt over her head, and curled into a tight ball in order to keep warm in the cool, dark room. She tried to sleep, but her mind kept conjuring up images of Diego, weak and bleeding. He seemed confident his injury wasn’t life-threatening, and she vowed to hold on to his assurance, enabling her to continue onto Peru without falling apart.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
September 30, 8 A.M.
Sedona, Arizona
IT TOOK THE CIA nearly eight hours to pinpoint their location, contract with a local helicopter, and fly them out of the remote section of the Navajo Reservation. With the small spring they dug out before chaos erupted, they had been able to keep hydrated, but they were hungry, exhausted, grieving, and feeling hopeless, unable to do anything to prevent additional tragedy while stranded in the desert.
Cash wanted nothing more than to get everyone to safety, and then hunt Zara down and make her pay for Ian’s death and for Hong Kong. But, so far, she and her people seemed to be moving at will, striking down everything in their path, while he scrambled just to keep up.
Interpol relayed the information about what transpired at the cathedral in Salta to the CIA. They confirmed that Ahmed had died as a result of wounds received in the incident, and the other man, identified simply as Reza, remained in critical condition and unconscious.
Diego was en route back to Buenos Aires with a serious gunshot wound. They expected him to fully recover and anticipated he would spend at least three or four days in the hospital. An agent was on his way to rendezvous with Marjorie in a small village in northern Argentina to help get her out of the country and into Peru, hopefully to tie in with Cash in less than thirty-two hours.
Cash hated picturing Marjorie out there alone with the likes of Zara. He could do nothing to keep her safe, not that she apparently needed his inept protection. To make matters worse, he had no luck convincing Elizabeth Ryan, the Director of the CIA, who he now reported to directly since Washburn’s death, to let him go after Zara alone. Pete and Diane argued to stick together, and no matter what Cash countered with, he had been out voted. He realized making his case while sitting on an exam table getting his ribs wrapped and multiple gashes on his head, arms, and torso stitched up probably hadn’t helped his argument that the mission was too dangerous for Pete and Diane, but not for him.
After Elizabeth refused to take Pete and Diane off the operation, they left him at the hospital to work on separate projects. Pete wanted to run a scenario on a vibration and sound wave theory his colleagues developed as a potential way to unleash the relics’ power, and Diane needed to work out the logistics of getting the three of them to Peru as soon as possible.
Cash was still fuming when Olivia walked into the room, but just seeing her smile made his foul mood instantly soften. He didn’t know why this woman always affected him so deeply. Her mere presence lightened a room, her tender touch soothed his soul, and he missed her the moment she left his side.
“The doctor
said the scan showed no internal injuries. You’re done, and I can get you out of here.” Olivia handed Cash his shirt. “How do you feel?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” he said as he grabbed her hand and pulled her toward him.
“I would, but there aren’t a lot of places to touch you that aren’t wrapped, stitched, or bruised.”
“I can think of a couple.” He cupped her face with his hands and touched his lips to hers.
He kissed her gently until her arms slid around his neck. He deepened the kiss, loving the taste of her and wondering how he could ever get enough. The thought scared him more than chasing a killer into a blind alley. He knew he wasn’t worthy of such a caring and gentle woman, even without Diane continuously reminding him, but whenever Olivia stepped within his reach, he caved to temptation, and so far, he noticed she hadn’t tried to resist.
“You’re lucky you already have two broken ribs, or I’d break a few,” Diane stated as she strode into the room.
“The doctor wouldn’t give me any drugs until he checked for internal injuries, and your sister has a way of making all my aches and pains go away.”
“Save it, Romeo. I made the arrangements to fly us to Peru. We need to clean up, get some sleep, pack, re-group, and catch a flight in a couple hours. You don’t have time to play doctor with Olivia.”
Cash saluted Diane as he listened to her ramble off orders.
“Where are we staying?” he asked.
“As much as I hate having you anywhere near my sister, we’ll be bunking with Olivia again. You can’t shower with all those stitches and bandages, and I have no intention of giving you a sponge bath. I’ll leave that to Florence Nightingale,” Diane replied as she cast Olivia an annoyed look. “I’ll go get the car. Be out front in five minutes, or you can take a cab.”
