He opened his eyes just as the light flashed on. In front of him, about thirty paces away, was a dark area beneath a large tree with draping aerial roots. He walked toward it.
“. . . if we had a bloody flashlight, but the . . . Turner? What is it, lad? You see something?”
Matt ducked under the vines, took one more step into the tree-domed area, and smacked his toes against something. With a yelp, he dropped onto his backside, massaging his smarting toes. He had kicked a rock that jutted up from the ground. And he smiled. Because right next to it was another rock, sticking up at the same height, and of roughly the same pointed shape. After it, another, and another. He felt around behind him and found another row of rocks. They seemed to mark a path leading deeper into the darkness.
“Rheese! Come here!”
Matt walked, hunched over, vines dragging up his chest and over his shoulders. The little bit of flashing red that penetrated through the leaves was illuminating something—something out of place beneath a tree on a mountaintop.
“Where are you?” Rheese called.
“In here—the viney tree!”
Behind him, Matt heard Rheese pushing vegetation out of his way.
“Did you actually find something?”
Matt reached out and felt it: hard, cool to the touch.
“Hang on. Stay right there,” Matt said. “Can you pull an armful of those vines away to let that light shine in?”
“Er . . . well, let me see . . .”
Rheese grunted and strained as he gathered and pushed vines.
“Good . . . yeah, a little more!”
Rheese muttered and swore to himself as he pressed on, swatted and scratched by the hanging growth. “These things aren’t exactly light, boy!”
“No, no, that’s perfect!”
Matt pulled away a layer of ivy, broke off a branch, and swept away dead leaves and moist soil. What remained was a massive rock—but a rock that had been chiseled and shaped by men.
“Do you see it?” Matt asked.
Rheese fought to free his head from the swatch of vines. Then the tower flashed, and he gasped aloud, and Matt knew that he could see it: a giant rock shaped like a chair. It had a high back, and armrests of equal height. It was leaning forward, for the giant roots of the tree behind it had tilted it over time and might one day push it over entirely, obscuring its familiar shape.
“A throne!” Rheese breathed. Matt continued brushing debris off the surface.
“Exactly!”
“Remarkable . . . Say, careful there, lad. Couldn’t the thing—”
But the warning came too late. Matt’s fingers and palm brushed away the last layer of accumulated soil and leaf litter and touched the actual stone beneath. His head buzzed, and his legs gave out.
I am King Bodvarr of Norway. This is my land, Southland. I hold in my lap my second child, my firstborn son.
“. . . now, lad. There you go. Can you hear me?”
Matt felt his face. A new scratch, bleeding. “Well that was stupid,” he said.
They were in almost complete darkness. Rheese had dragged him away from the throne.
“What was it?” Rheese asked. “Or, rather, who?”
“It was just a real quick snippet, but it was him, the king of Southland. He had a baby in his hands. I could sort of make out the village in his peripheral vision. It was this whole area.”
Rheese ran his hand over the smooth surface. “I’m pleased you found this, lad, but I really must insist we go. Much as I’ve enjoyed our late-night stroll in our unmentionables . . .”
The unexpected imprint had left Matt a bit shaken. He planned to avoid reading anything for at least a month. “And this place isn’t quite as exciting as I’d hoped,” he muttered.
Rheese helped him up, and they burrowed out from under the canopy.
“It’s archeology, lad. This is what it looks like.”
“Looks like nothing much.”
“Precisely. Typical, really, before excavation begins. Hell, that bloody throne, up and out of the ground and intact after a millennium, is a fluke. No, this place would begin to take shape after a few weeks’ work.” He took a wistful last glance around. “Probably make a pretty penny off these trees that need clearing. A not-insignificant perk of the trade, if you know how to work the locals.”
“That’s super.” Matt said. “Which way, do you suppose?”
“Always go the way you came, Turner—best way to avoid getting lost.”
“Matty?” A man’s voice called from the far side of the hilltop.
“Good God! Who’s that?” Rheese whispered.
“Holy shit, it’s my dad!” Matt said, rushing toward the voice. “Dad?”
Rheese muttered, “Anyone else you’re meeting up here?”
They spotted each other at the same time. Behind his father, Matt saw a big guy he didn’t know, carrying a shotgun. They stopped a few paces from each other, and Roger gaped at his dirty, bloody, nearly naked son.
“Jesus Christ, son! Are you okay?”
But before he could answer, both Roger and Chuck noticed someone behind Matt, limping toward them. Chuck raised the shotgun, and Roger drew his pistol.
“No, no, it’s fine!” Matt said. “Rheese isn’t a part of this . . . uh, anymore.”
Matt could see the fury in his father’s eyes, and his friend’s wariness.
“Please,” Rheese said, his face cocked sideways and his hands before him as if they could block oncoming bullets. “Listen to the boy. We’ve already gone over this with the Cubans and were just about to head back to civilization.”
“Shut up!” Roger said, keeping the gun trained on Rheese. “What do you mean he’s not part of it?”
“Well, I guess he was in the beginning, but we’ve both pretty much been hostages of these other two guys since we got to Cuba. Everything’s changed. Just put the guns down—please.”
“Obviously, I’m not armed, gentlemen,” Rheese said gently.
Roger shined his flashlight over Rheese’s battered body.
Chuck lowered the shotgun but kept it at the ready. “Looks like he got thrown in a clothes dryer with some bricks.”
Roger lowered his pistol, too. “What happened to the other guy?” he asked. “We heard one of ’em was killed by the Cubans.”
“Yeah, Fando ran off down the hill, and a whole bunch of soldiers chased after him. We heard gunshots a little while after that, so I’m guessing he’s probably joined his buddy, Garza. Hey, so how’d you even find me? Are you here with Tuni?”
Roger frowned. “Tuni . . . what? She’s here, too? I came with Uncle J and Chuck here and a couple others. Must have been less than fifty yards from you when we went to that house outside Havana. Almost got shot by one of your pals.”
Roger holstered his gun and shrugged the backpack off.
Matt turned to Rheese. “What’s he talking about? They were shooting at my dad? You didn’t tell me that!”
Rheese stammered, “I-I didn’t know! Garza ran off with one of the guns he’d just bought! Said he was shooting at American police. I had no idea who it was, and you were, um, indisposed.”
“I’m radioing Jess,” Chuck said, turning his volume back up. “Chuck to Jess.”
“Here,” Roger said, tossing Matt’s pants in front of his feet. “See if they’re imprinted.”
Matt crouched down and tapped the pants lightly with one fingertip, as if checking to see whether a pan was still hot. They were clear, so he picked them up and began putting them on.
“Listen, Matty,” Roger said as he threw Rheese his clothes, “whatever you think about this man, and however it happened that his mercenaries turned the tables on him, it doesn’t undo his crimes. We’re taking him to the Cuban police. Don’t try and argue.”
Chuck’s radio beeped, and Jess’s voice said, “Go ahead, Chuck.”
Rheese sighed and put on his khakis but did not protest.
“Well, if there’s some kind of trial, I�
�ll be a witness,” Matt said defiantly. “I know what he did and what he didn’t do.”
“Jess, we found the kid and Dr. Rheese.”
“Turner,” Rheese said quietly, “I appreciate this, I do, but you don’t know me. I’ll get mine while you go off back to your vacation. You don’t need to worry about what happens to me.”
“Well, that is just about the sweetest shit I’ve heard all day,” Fando said, and fired a single shot through Chuck’s back.
The radio fell to the ground. “Outstanding, Chuck! What’s your location?”
Matt and Rheese dropped their shirts and jumped aside, diving to the ground as Roger spun to return fire. Fando swatted the gun from Roger’s hand, smiled, and put the muzzle of his own pistol against Roger’s sternum.
“Dad!” Matt cried.
“Can you hear me, Chuck? What’s your location?”
The red light above flashed, illuminating the wild eyes, the blood-spattered face and shirt.
“Spittin’ image, eh?” Fando said, and pulled the trigger.
THIRTY-ONE
Jess, Paul, and Núñez walked along the center of the road, shining their flashlights through the wall of trees on either side. The most recent gunshots had come from this area. They hadn’t encountered any more Cubans since leaving the little campsite where one of the perps was killed. Paul had a rifle slung over his shoulder, and a pistol in his hand. Núñez still held the bolt-action rifle.
Jess’s and Núñez’s radios beeped in sync, and Chuck’s voice said in stereo, “Chuck to Jess.”
They paused on the road as Jess unclipped the walkie-talkie from his shoulder strap.
“Go ahead, Chuck.”
“Jess, we found the kid and Dr. Rheese.”
Núñez and Paul snapped their faces toward the radio. Jess tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and inhaled a deep breath of relief.
“Outstanding, Chuck! What’s your location?”
Núñez cocked her head toward a faint rumble in the distance. “Hear that?”
Paul said, “Yeah. Thunder, or was that another gunshot? Jess was talking . . .”
“I didn’t hear anything,” Jess said, holding his radio away from him to listen. He pressed the button again, “Can you hear me, Chuck? What’s your location?”
Núñez shined her light down the road in front of them. A single figure was approaching.
“Contact!” she yelled, and aimed the rifle.
Jess and Paul followed her lead, pointing guns and lights.
“Stop right there!” Jess shouted. Another rumble echoed in the distance, but he ignored it. “Let me see your hands!”
The man stopped and raised his head slowly.
“¡Arriba las manos!” Núñez repeated.
The hands went up. Jess shined his light on both hands, verifying that they were empty, and all three moved forward with their guns trained on the man. He was about six feet tall, wearing camouflage pants and a T-shirt, both stained with blood, though he did not appear to be bleeding.
“This has gotta be our guy,” Paul said.
They stopped several feet in front of him. He squinted at the lights, but his face appeared more dreamy than frightened.
“Get on the ground!” Jess shouted, but the man didn’t move.
“¡Echarse en el suelo!“Núñez said.
The man finally spoke. “Yo no hice nada. Me llamo Rosalío.”
“He says he didn’t do anything,” Núñez said.
“Oh, phew,” Paul said.
“I don’t give a shit what he says,” Jess said. “Tell him to get on the ground before I shoot him in the leg.”
Núñez conveyed the threat, and the man sighed as he went to his knees, then sprawled out facedown. Paul walked over, dropped a knee on his back, and cinched his wrists together with two zip ties.
Jess got back on the radio. “Chuck, Jess. Can you hear me? What is your location?”
“It’s coming through on mine,” Núñez remarked. “Chuck, this is Núñez. Can you hear me?”
The man on the ground moaned and murmured in Spanish that he just wanted to go home.
“Ascoos me,” said a cautious voice from the woods to their left.
Instantly, all three guns and lights were on a middle-aged man in dark jeans and a flannel shirt. He had his empty palms out before him, and an apologetic smile on his face.
“What now?” Jess groaned.
“I no bad man,” he said. “No bad man him, too.” Pointing at the man on the ground. “We run from . . .” He gestured farther down the road.
Núñez asked him for details, and he told of the big man stabbing or shooting most of his group, and of the few who got away. He had been hiding in these bushes for a half hour and hadn’t seen anyone else come this way, so he figured the big man had gone a different direction.
Núñez interpreted for the others.
“So he knows for certain this guy is clean?” Jess asked.
“¿Está seguro de él?” Núñez asked, gesturing to the one on the ground.
“Claro que sí.”
Paul said, “Ask him if we can expect anybody else to come creeping out of the bushes.”
“This means the other perp is still out there,” Jess said. “Chuck said they only had Matty and Rheese. The fact we can’t get them on the radio when they were just talking to us makes me awful nervous.”
Núñez said, “Sir, we’ve got bodies on the road up ahead, and possibly some injured still alive.”
“Right, I caught that. Shit! If we had the damned channel the Cubans were on . . .”
Núñez pressed buttons on her walkie-talkie until it began beeping every couple of seconds, pausing on each frequency. After a minute, it stopped back at their channel. “Nothing.”
Jess pulled out his cell phone to check signal strength. A single bar. It jumped to two for an instant, then back to one.
“I have a little signal. I’m going to try to get a text out to USINT. Let’s go check out the folks down the road. Not to be a heartless asshole, but I’m hoping they’re all dead, so we can go find out what the hell is going on with Rog. I don’t want us splitting up into any smaller group than this while some psycho’s running around.”
Paul cut their captive’s zip ties, and they left both men and double-timed it down the road. Ten minutes later, they arrived at the scene of the bloodbath and found no survivors.
Núñez picked up one of the rifles from the ground and worked the bolt.
“Empty,” she said. She sniffed the open breach. “Hasn’t been fired recently, either.”
They checked some of the other rifles strewn across the road. None loaded.
“So what the hell does this mean?” Jess demanded. “They send their men out into a hostile situation with no way to protect themselves or take out an enemy?”
“Well, someone had ammo,” Paul said. “Just ask the guy up at the campsite who’s missing half his brains.”
“They’re obviously hired hands, sir,” Núñez said, “and untrained. Whoever’s paying them either didn’t want them armed or didn’t want to pay for ammo. Seems a minor expense, though. I don’t get it.”
“Maybe they didn’t trust ’em,” Paul said. “Just wanted the numbers, like for appearances.”
Jess stood and thought for a minute. He turned and peered off back up the road, where they had been.
“This is a setup,” he said. “We gotta go.”
Núñez dropped the empty rifle, and all three of them began running back up the road.
“That guy sent us down the hill,” Jess shouted. “Knew there was nothing down there. He just wanted us out of the way. Núñez, was that black guy even Cuban? The one that talked to Rog?”
“I didn’t hear him talk, sir. Could be Afro-Cuban.”
“He knew Rog’s name,” Jess continued as they rounded a curve. “Said they came to save Matty. How would they even know about him? If it was government, they wouldn’t have sent amateurs with useless weapons. Wh
ich means it’s someone else who knows Matty’s situation.” He unclipped his radio again and held it to his mouth. Panting from the exertion, he tried again. “Rog or Chuck, please reply if you can hear this!”
“Maybe he never turned up his sound,” Paul said. “Just radioed that they found them and thought you didn’t get it.”
“Maybe, but with the slasher from back there running around, I’m assuming the worst.”
They caught up with the two Cubans, who almost sprinted away when they heard someone running up behind them. But Núñez called out to them and they stopped.
Jess said to Núñez, “Ask ’em why they’re here and who hired them.”
“And keep your bullshit detector on,” Paul said.
THIRTY-TWO
Abel watched Tuni emerge from the woods out onto the road. Oliver was behind her, trying to keep up. She looked as though she was still upset since last radioing. He was just relieved to see her, knowing that Fernando Solorzano had not yet been caught. He climbed down from the truck, and she surprised him with a hug around the neck.
“We have to leave, Abel,” she sobbed. “I can’t be here a moment longer.”
He made soft shushing sounds. He could smell her hair, feel her breasts against his chest. He had to wonder about anyone who would let this woman walk away from him.
“Sorry,” she said. She let go and pulled away from him, wiping her tears on her arm and sniffling. “Can we just go?”
“It’s all right, my dear,” Abel said. “You need not apologize. Sometimes we just need a hug. It’s not as though you could embrace Matthew when you finally saw him, right?”
“What?” she said. “Oh, right. No, I couldn’t. I don’t want to talk about him, though. I’m just sick . . . he’s not who I thought he was. I . . . I don’t know how I didn’t see it. He’s like a ch—” She didn’t finish the last word, but Abel knew what she was going to say. “And I am not that person . . .”
“I’m so sorry, Tuni,” Abel said kindly.
The Opal (Book 2 of the Matt Turner Series) Page 22
