The Phoenix Apostles

by Lynn Sholes

  "I was going to try getting out to Scarrow's big event, but it was all over the news that the roads were blocked and the area sealed off. I would never have gotten near the place, so I watched it in the bar on TV. It was beyond belief."

  "I can imagine. Well, actually, I can't. Other than that Mel Gibson movie, I've never seen anyone crucified."

  "It's not pleasant." The traffic was thin in the early morning hour as Matt picked up speed. "It took him almost three hours to die."

  "I'm surprised the networks would even broadcast such a thing."

  "It's all about ratings."

  Al agreed. "But I'm missing the point here. If he wants to save the world, why did he allow himself to be crucified?"

  "Good question. After they took Scarrow down, an international team of doctors pronounced him dead. They hooked up a ton of medical equipment. There were no vitals whatsoever."

  "You think it was some kind of illusion?"

  "Anything's possible. But there were extreme close-ups of his hands and feet. You could clearly see the bleeding from multiple angles in high definition. The guy looked dead to me. There were millions of people watching and they even had a rep from every network as close-up witnesses."

  "What did they do with him?"

  "This is where it gets creepier. They took him down and put his body in some kind of clear plastic or glass coffin. The cameras are all aimed at it right now. When I left the hotel, there were no signs of life."

  "So what's everyone doing out there?"

  "Praying. Crying. Sleeping. I don't know. There's a huge mass of believers waiting for something to happen. Your guess is as good as mine."

  "And nothing about Seneca?"

  Matt shook his head. "Since you called, I've been trying to sort everything out. You were pretty frantic on your way to board the plane. Tell me again what happened?"

  "I got a call from someone who said he had seen and talked to Seneca, and that she wanted him to contact me and tell me where she was. He claimed she was being flown down here and that she was in imminent danger. He said her captor is the Phoenix Min istry guy, Javier Scarrow-the guy who you say was just crucified. And the caller said that Scarrow intends to sacrifice her."

  "What did he mean by that?"

  "I pressed him for details and a motive, but he didn't divulge anything else."

  "And you believe him?"

  "What else do we have to go on?"

  Al reached for his pocket as his phone rang. Glancing at it, he said, "Unknown caller." He pushed talk. "Palermo here." He listened for a moment. "Wait! What's this all about? Who are-"

  Matt glared at Al. "What's up? Who was it?"

  "Same guy. Said to meet him near Zocalo Plaza."

  "For what?"

  Al shrugged. "I don't know. Just that I need to meet him at five a.m.

  Matt checked the clock on the dash. "Doesn't give us much time. Why won't he just come right out with it?"

  "He must have his reasons."

  "What if his reasons are to sidetrack us and delay any attempt to find and rescue Seneca? You don't know who the guy is or if he even talked to her. If Scarrow really has her, we should be busting our asses to find a way to get out there."

  "That's another reason I tend to believe him," Al said. "He knows about the Scarrow tie-in. Plus, in his first call, he said he was the one who contacted Seneca in Paris with the El Jaguar tip."

  "Yeah, and because of that, we almost got killed."

  "It did lead to the Flores library and the connection to Groves. You gotta give him credit for that."

  "Maybe. I don't know."

  Al held up his phone. "Don't forget, he has my cell number. Who else but Seneca would have given it to him?"

  "I still don't like it, Al. We need to find a way to get to Scarrow."

  "I think we need to do what this guy says. He's our only key."

  "And it could turn out to be a huge waste of time, time Seneca doesn't

  "Either keep driving or stop and let me call a cab. I can't ignore the possibility that this guy knows where my daughter is and how I can get her back safely."

  "Jesus, you have faith in some anonymous asshole who won't even tell you who he is and you completely disregard the fact that we've made a positive connection to Scarrow and Seneca's kidnapping? Common sense tells me, and I'm no super spy like some people in this car, that we ought to be doing everything in our power to get out to that Phoenix Ministry thing. Can't you and your big shots at ILIAD figure out a way to do that?"

  Al reached over and placed his hand on Matt's shoulder. "Listen, I can tell you care a lot about her and you know I do. But one thing I've learned over the years is that in my line of work you can't let emotions dictate decisions. You have to keep a level head and evaluate the situation objectively."

  Matt raked his fingers through his hair. "You're right, I do care about her." His voice rose in volume. "And I'm fucking afraid we're not going to get to her in time."

  "Arguing won't solve anything. That's just squandering our time. We both want her safe. But the bottom line is, I'm her father and I'm going to make the call. Matt, all I can ask is that you trust me.

  Matt slammed his palm on the steering wheel and blew out his breath in a long windy stream. "I just hope you're right." He turned onto a side street. "Zocalo Plaza is a big place. Did he give you any specifics?"

  "That's another reason I think he's for real. Remember I told you about the report from ILIAD on the Groves Consortium property and business holdings? That there are hundreds, all large multi-million-dollar corporations and manufacturers? Except for one. Then I asked you if you liked tacos?"

  Matt turned to Al. "The taco shop. Los Sanchez taco shop. The one I was going to check out?"

  THE TUNNEL 2012, MEXICO CITY

  MATT PARKED THE RENTAL on a side street near Zocalo Plaza. Getting out, he and Al moved rapidly across the cobblestones of the 240-square-meter plaza. It was well lit in the pre-dawn hour, but only a handful of others were out-most were street cleaners and employees heading to restaurants and bakeries to prepare the day's food.

  The chilly air caused Al to zip up his light jacket as they passed the Metropolitan Cathedral and the ruins of Templo Mayor to the site where Daniel and the dig team had died. The area was located just beyond the main excavation and was surrounded by a wood and chain link fence that kept the area of the bomb blast sealed from the public. Notices in Spanish and English warned of no trespassing by order of the Policia Judicial del Distrito Federal.

  Walking east from the ruins, they continued along a street that during the day would have been lined with vendors, locals out for the day, political activists, Aztec dancers, street musicians, and hordes of tourists. In the hours before daylight, it was empty and dark.

  Just as they turned onto Calle del Carmen, a roar caused them to look up.

  "Damn, he's low," Matt said as a helicopter streaked overhead just above the rooftops and disappeared in the direction of the Plaza.

  "Had to have snagged a few TV antennas that low." Al turned and they continued south along the deserted street. Within a few minutes they stood in front of the taco and souvenir shop called Los Sanchez. A padlocked, metal roll-down door covered the entrance. By the looks of the graffiti, faded signs, and unkempt condition, the store had been abandoned for a long time. Of all the shops, Los Sanchez was the only one permanently boarded upthe rest appeared to be ready for the bustling crowds to come a few hours from now.

  "Looks like it's been shut down for years." Al reached out and took hold of the lock, shaking it vigorously but with no indication it would give.

  "He said to meet in the alley behind the shop, right?"

  "Let's try down there." Al led the way along the sidewalk until they came to an alley. It was littered with black plastic garbage bags and stacks of cardboard boxes filled with trash. Even before they started down the pathway, the sickening stench of rotting food made the air almost impossible to breathe.

  Two stre
etlights cast gloomy pools of light along the alley as they navigated to the rear of the shops. The smell of the garbage mixed with a variety of cooking odors, stale alcohol, and urine. It overloaded Matt's senses as he navigated around the heaps of trash and rubbish. At last, they entered a narrow alley running perpendicular to the first one and passed the back entrances to a number of businesses.

  Matt turned on his penlight. There was no mistaking the rear of the Los Sanchez taco shop. Just like the front, it appeared to have been closed for quite some time. Graffiti and sporting events posters covered a metal door padlocked shut.

  At the sound of voices, Matt switched off the light. He and Al backed in the depth of the shadows. They watched two men emerge from the rear entrance of a shop a few doors down and stand under a streetlamp. The glow of a struck match illuminated their faces as they lit cigarettes. Matt and Al remained motionless while the men chatted and smoked their cigarettes twenty feet away.

  Eventually, one of the men noticed them and called out. "iHola!"

  Al gave them a half-hearted wave and staggered slightly as if he had drunk one too many cervezas. Then he unzipped his pants and started pissing on the wall. Matt quickly followed his example. One of the men laughed. A short time later, a gruff command from inside the store forced the men to grind their smokes on the pavement and head back inside.

  Al motioned down the alley in the direction they had come. "We've got a visitor."

  Matt squinted in the darkness until he finally saw the figure of a man almost totally hidden in the low light.

  The stranger walked toward them until he was only a few feet away. Tall and lanky, he was dressed as a cowboy: jeans, boots, a suede and fleece vest over a long-sleeved plaid shirt, a Stetson, and carried bolt cutters and a flashlight. To Matt, he appeared abnor mally thin and fragile-his face almost skeleton-like. His skin was pale and papery. Only his eyes held any reflection of life inside.

  "Are you Al Palermo, Seneca Hunt's father?" His voice sounded like it came from a cheap transistor radio, weak and slight.

  "I am."

  The cowboy pointed at Matt. "Who is he?"

  "Matt Everhart. I'm a friend of Seneca's."

  "They blew up your boat."

  "You know about that?" Matt glanced at Al then back at the stranger. "Where is Seneca? Can you help us get her back safely?"

  "She's in a bad place."

  "Who are you?" Al asked.

  He didn't answer. Instead, he handed the bolt cutters to Al. "Cut it."

  Hesitating for a moment, Al took the tool and severed the lock.

  The cowboy kicked the door with the toe of his boot, and it cracked open. A few seconds later, the three stood inside the dark interior of the Los Sanchez taco shop.

  Matt quickly shone his penlight around the room. They were in a storeroom lined with metal shelves. There was also a food processing work table, sink, a mop and bucket, numerous cardboard boxes filled with rubbish and trash, a small walk-in freezereverything in a general state of disarray. Discarded papers and flattened boxes cluttered the floor, and the air was heavy with decay and the smell of mildew. A flash of a rat moved through his light beam. Everything looked as if it had been abandoned quickly and not touched in years.

  Al faced the cowboy. "So what's the deal? Why did you tell me to meet you here?"

  The cowboy ignored the question. He pointed to a wood door on the wall next to the freezer. That one also had a padlock. "Cut it, too."

  Al obeyed, and with a forceful snap of the bolt cutter handles, the lock broke. He pulled open the door.

  The cowboy moved beside Al and switched on his flashlight aiming the beam into the darkness. There was no storeroom or closet on the other side, just four steps leading down to a platform. The steps turned and continued down. He turned to Matt. "You go first."

  Matt led the descent, finding that past the platform eight more steps ended in a small basement. Al and the cowboy followed.

  The basement smelled of damp dirt and old stone. Similar to the restaurant above, the room was cluttered with junk and discarded objects. Matt saw a neon Pepsi sign, stacked restaurant tables and chairs, more boxes filled with dust-covered newspapers, and wooden crates of empty soda bottles.

  Once they stood at the foot of the steps, the cowboy pointed his flashlight. "Check under the stairs."

  Matt noticed a mound of dirt and chips of stone debris underneath. He moved closer and found a portion of the floor and a section of the wall had been dug away revealing a four-foot-deep opening. The hole had a floor of cobblestones resembling the ones surrounding the Templo Mayor ruins. Off to one side was the entrance to a narrow tunnel.

  The cowboy stood beside him. "It's down there."

  THE TOMB 2012, MEXICO CITY

  "You WANT US TO go down there?" Matt thought about the catacombs as he aimed his light into the dark hole in the basement floor. Someone had dug it out, exposing a set of stone steps leading to the entrance to a tunnel-a narrow tunnel. From where he stood, it looked like he would barely be able to squeeze through. That is, if he even tried.

  "No. Just you. It'll take someone spryer than me or your pal, here." The cowboy stood beside Al. "Want to save her life or not?"

  "What's down there that's so important?" Matt examined the area around the hole and spotted a shovel and pickaxe. But the excavation had not been recent. Like everything else in the boardedup restaurant, the tools were covered in dust and dirt.

  The cowboy gave Matt a get-going nod. "Follow the passage. There's a chamber at the end. Somewhere in the chamber is a small silver box with a Latin inscription on top. Bring it to me."

  "What's in it?" Al asked.

  "Your daughter and I made a deal. I deliver what's in that box to her, and she uses it to end my pain and destroy Scarrow." He turned to Matt. "You're wasting precious seconds."

  "Destroy Scarrow?" Matt said. "He's already dead. I watched him being crucified on TV."

  The cowboy laughed. At least that's what Matt thought it was. But not a laugh of joy.

  "Trust me, Scarrow is very much alive. Go." The word set off a hacking cough as the cowboy covered his mouth and bent over.

  Taking a last look around, Matt climbed into the four-foot- deep hole and shone the light down the steps into the tunnel entrance. The walls and ceiling were stuccoed, the floor dirt. His light only penetrated for a few feet, but he saw that the tunnel had suffered the same effects as many other ancient structures in Mexico City. Having been built over what was once a lake bed, the soft clay soil had caused many buildings including the Metropolitan Cathedral to slowly sink. The uneven floor and walls of the tunnel gave it a warped appearance and confirmed that age had taken a toll on the passage. There were also signs that water had seeped into the tunnel in the past. The floor was damp, and the walls bore watermarks where flooding might have taken place. He remembered Seneca saying she had asked Daniel why Montezuma's tomb was not flooded. His answer was that the tomb was originally built above ground, same level as the temple-the Spanish constructed the city on top of it and all the other Aztec structures.

  He could see that the width of the passage was narrow-his shoulders would rub both sides, and he would have to bend to proceed along its length. He squatted at the entrance and wondered if this was really such a good idea. Whispering a prayer that what lay ahead would not involve floods, earthquakes, or rats, he took his first step into the tunnel.

  Matt felt like a hunched-over old man. He couldn't look up because of the low ceiling, so he moved slowly, examining the uneven floor as he went and feeling for any protrusions that could scrape his head. Twenty feet beyond the entrance, the tunnel made a slight bend to the right and sloped downward. The floor was spotted with small chunks of stone, probably broken off from the constant traffic and centuries of construction overhead. And after another fifty feet, the passage took a hard left turn. A short distance ahead, Matt saw three steep steps leading up into a rectangular space just big enough for him to fit through. On the far s
ide of the space was blackness.

  With great care, he climbed into the void. Then he aimed the light into the darkness beyond.

  What he saw caused him to suck in his breath.

  It was as Seneca had described-exactly what she and Daniel witnessed on the video monitor. He had just walked through an ancient corridor leading to Montezuma's tomb.

  Shining the light around the chamber he saw Aztec artifacts and art objects, the altar, and the burial shroud lying on the floor beside it. The beam of light finally came to rest on a single object sitting atop a wooden table.