The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  Then there were the eyes, not warm but cold. The eyes of a waitress.

  And a murderess

  *

  The old woman was sitting alone in the bedroom, surrounded by the new things.

  All her life she had dreamed of them.

  The gold was still to be recovered in its entirety; it would take months to complete that task. One small case and rucksack was all her granddaughter had been able to manage.

  She had learned to prioritise.

  The Stone of Fire was the greatest prize; its purple light was dazzling, seemingly able to light the entire room. There were markings on the stone. Her failing sight could no longer read them clearly, but her seventy-seven years of life had taught her everything she needed to know.

  And her granddaughter.

  Valeria entered, looking radiant and refreshed. She had washed her hands, face and hair, her appearance every bit that of a princess.

  “Put it on,” her grandmother requested. “Show me.”

  The headdress was located in the rucksack; bringing it back had been a major priority. She raised it out slowly, its various feathers swaying from side to side as she lifted it.

  Slowly she brought it above her head, then down. It stayed, albeit heavy.

  A perfect fit.

  She turned away, first to her grandmother, then the mirror. The feathers were complete, the inner section covering her head like a bridge above water. Nothing of the type had been seen for many years.

  Perhaps it never would again.

  She was the last, but she had succeeded.

  Montezuma had his revenge.

  The Cortés Revenge

  John Paul Davis

  1

  Chris Maloney awoke, startled. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, for his tired mind to recall his last location.

  What he saw was completely new to him. The four walls that surrounded him were of stone construction, visually quite interesting but clearly not built for comfort. The floor was cold, hard: a rough wooden surface that ground against his lower back. A shrill whistling noise penetrated gaps in the stonework, creating a persistent, irritating echo that showed no sign of abating. It was a familiar sound, one he associated with the sea.

  But one he had not heard recently.

  The last thing Chris remembered was being back in his room at the Gibbous Moon; Ben standing in the doorway, saying something about Walter Raleigh and the graveyard in Old Town. Then he started to recall events from earlier in the evening: ordering lasagne, Valeria’s dress, the acute feeling of sickness in his stomach apparently caused by bad garlic bread . . .

  How long ago that had been and what had happened since, he had no idea. Only one thing he was now sure of.

  He was no longer in his room.

  Nearby, two people were engaged in animated conversation; the noise seemed to be coming from the floor above. The exact words were muffled despite the loud volume. Slowly his ears became more attuned to the sounds; both participants were adults, a male shouting loudly at a female. The male voice was familiar: strong, masculine, the accent definitely Massachusetts. Ben was in the same house, shouting at someone.

  Valeria.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw cobwebs in the dark recesses, blowing like nets caught in an updraft. Below them, an old wooden staircase flanked the wall to his left, connecting the boardwalk-style floor to a sturdy wooden door; closed, he assumed locked. All the signs indicated the room was located underground, possibly a cellar.

  Everything about the location indicated he was in a lighthouse.

  Ben’s voice had become progressively louder, his tone anxious. Chris attempted to call Ben’s name but failed, realising he had lost his ability to talk. Something was also restricting his wrists; cold, heavy, shackling him like a prisoner. As his tired mind struggled back to awareness, his blurred vision adjusting to the darkness, he realised thick iron bonds were digging tightly into his skin, chaining him to the wall behind him. Whatever they were, he sensed they weren’t modern. The first thought that entered his mind was of the dungeons of old: thieves, murderers, traitors, prisoners of war left to rot in the darkest pits.

  The room certainly wasn’t intended for normal habitation.

  Panicked, he pulled hard with both arms, creating a heavy metallic sound as chains bounced against the floor. He tried shouting again, but sound failed to leave his throat. Beyond the door, Ben was demanding answers about something. Ben mentioned the name Smethwick; it meant nothing.

  Failing again to speak, Chris banged hard with the chains against the floor, praying that Ben would hear him, that any second the door would open and his cousin would rescue him from his bizarre captivity. Taking a deep breath, he called out again. Still he failed to articulate words.

  What the hell is happening to me?

  Two thundering crashes echoed from the room above, as if cannonballs had ripped through the walls. Chaos ensued, a torrent of sounds: banging, struggling, screams . . .

  Amidst the tumult he heard Ben shouting, then a new voice, far calmer. Listening more intently, he made out another conversation, this time between two males.

  Speaking in Spanish.

  Chris struggled to retain consciousness. He awoke again sometime later, his head throbbing with a migraine-like pain. A light was shining at the top of the stairs, creating a glowing outline of the door. The house was quieter than it had been, reminding him of the usual lull between dusk and dawn. Whatever had been responsible for that strange episode he had previously experienced had long since ended.

  Ben and Valeria had clearly moved on.

  Something was moving beyond the door, shuffled footsteps, possibly slippers. A key turned in the lock; as the door slowly opened, brightness flooded in from the top of the stairway. Chris’s eyes hurt from the new sensation; it seemed like weeks since he had last experienced it. A figure moved against the yellow backdrop, clearly a woman. The intrusion of light offered a new view of the surroundings, casting the wood and stone combination in a warm glow. The room was smaller than he had anticipated, the décor shabby.

  He guessed from its layout, it had once been used to store wood or coal.

  The figure lingered in the doorway, standing, watching. As the seconds passed, the woman began to descend the stairway, her footsteps causing an unexpectedly heavy thumping sound as if created by something, or someone, of huge stature. As she reached the bottom, however, he was able to make out her features: a small physique, silver hair, hazel sunken eyes that carried the spectre of age. She reminded him of Valeria.

  Only much older.

  As the woman approached, he noticed other things, a peculiar expression that he couldn’t quite make sense of. She carried what appeared to be a lunchbox, its contents for now a mystery. As she knelt down in front of him, he breathed in her scent: a hard lavender fragrance – again he associated it with age. As she opened the lunchbox, he saw a bounty of snack food: soup, bread, perhaps some form of chocolate. She looked at him, her bony fingers feeling his forehead and temple. Slowly she smiled at him.

  And spoke for the first time.

  2

  Ben Maloney was bleeding. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious. It was a strange feeling, like being trapped in a nightmare. His head was spinning, his vision cloudy, the pressure points in his temples and neck throbbing wildly. He felt pain everywhere, worst of all at the top of his left thigh. As his senses began to return, he realised that blood was pooling beneath him and sticking to his tattered jeans. Then he remembered.

  He had been shot in the left leg.

  The blood felt warm and sticky between his fingers, though fortunately it was no longer gushing. Despite a slight numbness, he still had feeling in his thigh. He tried to move it from side to side, using his hands to support himself. Struggling, he tried again.

  Standing would be difficult without assistance.

  He heard a noise to his left, footsteps. Someone was walking up the long, w
inding pathway that led up the slope from the end of the iron railway tracks to the start of the lake of coins. Gazing to his right, Ben noticed a large number of bodies lying on the pathway close to the Montezuma statue. Nearest to him, the eyes of Fernando Pizarro stared lifelessly up at the cavernous ceiling, his expression now permanently angry. To his left, Busquets and Alvarez lay with their backs to one another, their muscular frames deathly still. Closer to Ben, Juan Cortés was equally silent. His head also faced away from him, his long hair covering his ears and cheeks.

  Again, Ben saw no signs of movement.

  He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Unable to stand, he shuffled closer to the path, stopping as the footsteps became louder. A figure emerged beyond the nearby ridge, bald and bearded, a cruel expression on his wrinkled features. The man was white, average height; Ben placed him in his late sixties. In his hands he carried a large rifle. Whoever he was, it clearly wasn’t Colts or Valeria, which begged the question.

  Who was he looking at?

  As the gunman made his way up the pathway, the angelic light of the Aztec coins starting to illuminate his features, he noticed the man had a small scar on the side of his cheek, partially masked by his thick facial hair. Ben had seen the beard before, recently.

  He was looking at the owner of the Gibbous Moon.

  *

  Nicholl sensed movement to his right within seconds of shooting the fifth man. Close to the wall, he made out the silhouette of a tall male among the shadows, the outline of an old revolver visible in his right hand.

  He fired instinctively and walked over to him, looking down at the man he had just shot. The face was familiar, everything from the nose to the brim of his hat. The man always wore a hat, he mused – always the same hat. It was as though it had become an additional part of his body, a necessary limb.

  Like the cowboys of the American West, his appearance had become almost iconic.

  Below him, Colts lay bleeding, his breathing ominously loud. As the echo of the gunshot faded, their gazes became locked, as though their minds had become engaged in an unspoken conversation. For the first time since entering the mine, Nicholl was uncertain of his next move. In thirty years of knowing the man, he had never expected such a situation to arise. Despite the archaeologist’s well-documented interest in the Aztec treasure, Colts had never posed a significant threat to his personal property.

  Until now.

  The bullet had entered Colts’s body close to his stomach, perhaps even close enough to puncture the digestive system. Even if the vital organs remained intact, it was still a dangerous place for a flesh wound.

  Without medical care, death would surely come quickly.

  *

  Colts knew he was in trouble. The feeling of hot lead penetrating his skin was a new experience, the last he had ever wished to encounter. The impact had been swift, like being injected with a large needle. The pain was immediate, rapidly becoming more fiercely intense, like a vortex in his stomach, wreaking havoc through his colon.

  Life experience told him he had entered the early stages of shock and that the following moments would be critical.

  Nicholl was looking down at him with a bemused expression, almost as if to say what the hell are you doing here? The shot had been clean, precise; the lines on the innkeeper’s face confirmed that only now were the ramifications beginning to hit home. A series of thoughts entered Colts’s mind: had this whole thing been a set-up? Had the shot even been intended for him? He guessed more likely his subtle approach had not been subtle enough, causing Nicholl unnecessary alarm. Either way, he knew there would be no apology.

  He cursed his recklessness.

  Sound echoed from lower down the path, rocks falling, recently disturbed. Instinctively, Colts glanced to his right, fearing Valeria had just made a similar, terrible mistake. Returning his gaze to his left, he saw Nicholl was spooked, an alarmed expression etched across his cold features. Lying in silence against the wall, Colts watched with escalating fear as Nicholl’s thin, bony fingers moved slowly against the barrel of the rifle, loading two fresh cartridges. He took a deep breath as Nicholl looked him squarely in the eye and cocked the rifle.

  Lingering for less than a few seconds, he headed along the pathway to where the sound had come from.

  *

  Valeria held her hands tightly over her mouth, successfully suppressing a scream. The latest gunshot had been particularly close; the sound echoed in her ears, leaving her both dazed and terrified. Her immediate fear was that the sound would attract attention; that her voice would create a never-ending echo that would surely lead to her discovery and probable death.

  Colts had fallen to the floor, wounded. Less than fifteen metres away, up on the winding pathway that overlooked the heart of the mine, she saw him moving erratically against the wall, as though he was shivering from extreme cold or experiencing some form of seizure. She guessed there was blood, but the light was so poor she couldn’t see where on his body the wound was located.

  There was further movement up ahead, appearing so suddenly she felt her heart beating violently. Whoever it was, was coming her way; if they continued, they would head straight into her.

  She knew she had to think rapidly. The pathway was flanked by a series of natural pillars, which supported the rocky ceiling like colonnades. She guessed from their strange appearance that the gaps had been taken out deliberately to provide extensive views across the mine. While the opposite side of the pathway consisted of nothing but thick granite, the areas surrounding the pillars were badly pitted with crevices, potentially offering a hiding place. Her only other option was to sprint to the bottom.

  Even if the shooter didn’t hear her, she knew it was only a matter of time before he saw her.

  She moved to the nearest crevice, back to the wall, holding her breath, now precariously close to the ledge. Beyond it was a sheer drop to the lower reaches of the mine; she guessed no less than sixty metres, a fall almost certainly fatal. Inside she was crying, but outwardly, she was still to shed a tear.

  Her heart pounding, she strained to keep out of sight as the man with the gun passed, heading down below, into the heart of the mine.

  He passed.

  She watched.

  As the figure came close, she caught a glimpse. Light on the side of his face revealed something. Was it a scar? An injury? Perhaps something more defined, like a birthmark.

  No.

  She recognised it straightaway. It was indeed a scar, thick, its redness hindered by elements of a white beard.

  A beard she knew.

  Had come to adore, as though it covered the face of her father.

  *

  Colts saw a shadow move to his right. His initial fear was that Nicholl had returned, deciding he daren’t allow any witnesses to leave alive.

  His fears were dispelled the moment he saw Valeria’s face. Her eyes were moist and red, her hands shaking.

  She looked down at him, her smile one of utter sympathy. She removed a packet of tissues from her rucksack and placed them on his wound, desperate to stop the bleeding.

  Colts was still conscious. His shirt was stained, crimson and sticky, but his mind remained alert. He saw the thin tissues begin to fall apart in her hands, disintegrating into a wet ball. He touched her hand, holding it and guiding it away from the wound. He didn’t stop until they reached his pocket. She looked at him, suddenly understanding.

  He offered her the gun with his full blessing.

  *

  Nicholl had disappeared along the pathway, heading down into the heart of the mine. From her improvised hiding place, crouching alongside the epic pillars that overlooked the great mine below, Valeria had been able to avoid detection, watching in intense fear as he passed by, a cold expression marking his features.

  She sensed from his expression that the identity of the American had surprised him.

  The logos she had witnessed less than five minutes earlier on the boxes stacked neatly along
the nearby tunnel now made perfect sense to her, as did other things Colts had tried to explain. After seven years working for Nicholl, she knew that he owned several businesses throughout Cornwall, none of which she had ever considered to be remotely relevant.

  Colts released her hand and removed a small pouch from his inside pocket; she looked inside and saw it contained over twenty bullets.

  She loaded six into the cylinder and smiled at Colts, vowing to return.

  Then she set off down the pathway, heading for the heart of the mine.

  *

  Danny couldn’t believe his eyes. Nicholl’s accuracy had been impeccable, incredible for such a primitive weapon. He remembered Nicholl had once invited him to one of his lodges on the edge of Exmoor National Park that he used in the hunting season. A day in the company of the wannabe gentry had taught him Nicholl had a talent for a kill.

  He now knew the talent extended to human prey.

  He watched from the mouth of the tunnel that connected the mine to the pub, close to the summit of the pathway. From so high up the view was incredible. The gaps between the natural columns offered a clear sight of the mine, like gazing down from a minstrels’ gallery. Even from a distance of over a hundred metres, the statue of the great emperor was clearly visible, his face brilliantly illuminated by the radiant glow of the nearby coins.

  And revealing the bodies of five intruders lying in a heap close to its feet.

  Nicholl reappeared close to the railway tracks, heading for the main path that led to the lake of coins. Taking a deep breath, Danny chanced leaving his position and sprinted towards Colts. The archaeologist was still alive, albeit in serious trouble. He had a dreamy look in his eye, accompanied by an expression of peculiar amusement. Danny studied the wound and removed a handkerchief from his pocket. Anything to stop the bleeding.