There was no sense in Alex using the eggshell treatment when Gwen was so upfront on the subject. “I’m surprised they allow it if it will hamper his performance at their gathering.”
“Honestly−” Gwen gave Mitch a sheepish glance, and Alex felt her heart thump at his supportive smile. “I am the reason we went to Guatemala. I had some courses on Maya geography, and an ancient Maya course, but I never graduated. Joe came along on this trip to share in the adventure, and I think he fancied himself as my protector.”
There was still love in those discouraged eyes, Alex thought. The Pastorellis just needed to get out of this cavernous dungeon and they would be alright.
“I believe they let Joe drink to keep him…” Gwen’s hand floundered while she searched for a word, “−docile while I work.”
“When we get out of here,” Mitch inserted, “he will be fine, Gwen.”
Gwen smiled with cheerless eyes and nodded to motivate herself. “Come on, let’s get some fresh air.”
The laugh she emitted at her own joke was laced with a dash of madness.
***
Exiting the double doors of the museum, Mitch stepped into what resembled one of those gaudy theme casinos. The sound of waterfalls mingled with the symphony of birds and an occasional croak of a frog−but what struck him as lacking was the rustle of palm fronds and the scrape of tree limbs that had tormented him inside the camp tent. Night sounds. Though ventilation entered this facility from air shafts, it was regulated, whereas the jungle quivered under unexpected wind patterns.
Mitch searched the vaulted ceiling. It spanned the distance of at least two football fields and was painted to resemble the sky at dusk. The sphere shape lent itself to remarkable authenticity with the emergence of stars and faux lighting to cast lavender shadows at the far ends of the dome. The walls mimicked the craggy rock texture of a cave, but in spots, the rough injection of tinted concrete could be discerned. From one of the rock faces, a waterfall erupted, pouring down into a lagoon that fissured into a small stream circling the grounds, its bed replete with black and yellow-flecked fish.
“Guapote Amarillo,” Alex said as she stooped down beside and dipped her fingers into the water. “Interesting.”
“This place is on crack.”
“Succinctly phrased.” Alex’s hair fell forward as she leaned over. “See these purple blooms? Balche trees. The Maya made alcoholic beverages out of its bark.”
“Like the bark you used to make your mosquito death potion?”
Alex tossed her hair back and grinned at him over her shoulder. The momentary slope of her eye made him swallow and wish they were anywhere else in the world. She was so damn beautiful, and what was even crazier was that she just might like him a little. It awed him that Alexandra Langley just might like him a little. How appropriate that he should come to that conclusion in this subterranean hell−in a place locked in perpetual twilight.
“There’s no security down here?” Alex turned to ask Gwen.
“Oh, they’re watching you.” Gwen confirmed, glancing up at the dusky canopy. “Trust me.”
Mitch stepped off the stone sidewalk and hiked through the grass for the simple pleasure of feeling the turf beneath his feet. He breathed in its scent combined with the sweet floral aroma emanating from the whatever trees Alex had referred to. Keeping to the perimeter of the lagoon, he was aware that Alex lagged behind. She was consumed with a stone sculpture resplendent with skulls−quite a charming piece if you liked skulls.
The mist from the nearby waterfall dusted across his face. It felt good, but it smelled of chlorine, a necessary chemical to combat bacteria in this stagnant pool. Retreating further from Alex and Gwen, Mitch reached the bottom of the waterfall as moisture started to stain his shirt. The temperature in Xibalba was regulated so that this spray caused a chill unlike in the jungle when it would have provided a respite from the heat. The waterfall cascaded two stories from sculpted and glazed boulders that formed a series of ledges to act like a water baffle. At its base, a white froth effervesced in the palm-fringed pool and beneath that, a zebra-striped fish darted by, disturbed by Mitch’s shadow.
Mitch’s attention reverted to the peak of the waterfall which had a short retention pool, its source derived from a fissure in the rock wall behind it. Aware that the cameras targeted him, he didn’t want to be caught staring at this structural flaw. He jerked his head away so that it wasn’t so apparent how much that gap in the wall piqued his interest.
“Mitch.”
Alex called out to him from ten yards away. He was about to respond when he noticed that her back was to him and her head was craned like an untamed creature smelling the approach of danger. The solitary gate to hell chimed to announce the arrival of the elevator as the gold-plated wall slid open and poured light onto the limestone floor. Two silhouettes emerged−the tall, hulking profile of the Cheshire Cat, and the compact physique of Miguel Solis.
A short distance away, Mitch saw Gwen tremble and take a tentative step closer to Alex. He closed in on both women and met the black eyes of his scarred nemesis over Alex’s head.
“There has been a change in plans,” Miguel announced, surprised to see them all. “Guests have begun to arrive,” he addressed Alex as if the others did not exist. “They want to explore the museum as soon as possible.”
Turning towards Gwen, Solis barked, “Get her ready.”
Solis then glanced at Mitch with disdain. “You keep Pastorelli in his room. You are only alive because the hombre grande wants to meet with you.”
Oh really? Well, he wanted to meet with the big man as well.
***
“Seriously? I look like a ten-year-old.” Alex met Gwen’s eyes in the mirror.
They were both dressed in white polo shirts with a black stitched insignia of the temple and the word, Xibalba written beneath it in bold script. Their black skirts were inappropriately short, falling about mid-thigh. Alex possessed tan, well-toned legs from hiking, but on Gwen whom she estimated to be in her early fifties, it just looked awkward on pale legs that had received little exercise over the past year.
“Well, look at you two.” Mitch entered Alex’s room.
“Don’t look so complacent.” Alex swept her eyes up from his black shoes and black slacks all the way to the polo shirt to match their own.
He looked so handsome all dressed up, with his rich chocolate hair still damp from a recent shower, and his freshly shaved jaw, rugged and strong with only a hint of a bruise left. His eyes coveted her, their steady gaze caressing her as if even now he struggled not to step forward and pull her into his embrace. That gaze dropped to the hem of her skirt and lingered, but his grin disappeared. Self-conscious, Alex looked down at her legs and the black sandals with a small heel.
“What?” she asked.
Mitch hesitated and Gwen sensed the conversation needed to be private. “I’m just going to go check on Joe,” she excused herself. “Alex, we have ten minutes.”
Alex nodded, but didn’t break from Mitch’s stare, caged by that gravity.
When they were alone, she repeated, “What?”
Mitch stepped in close, his hands engulfing her shoulders. “From what I gather, you are about to meet with some of the most unsavory, affluent lowlifes in the world, and Solis is displaying you just like the rest of the art. Alex, you damn well are not for sale.”
His hands felt so strong and she reached up with her own to touch his chest. Under her fingertips she sensed a muscle spasm and traced it to the collar of his white shirt where the bronze skin beguiled her. So mutinous were her thoughts at such an inopportune time. How nice it would be to brush her lips there and taste the warm flesh and then to trail her kiss higher, up the chord of muscle in his neck and beyond until she touched his mouth and captured the heat she had tasted before. In that impassioned solace she could lose this reality.
“Stop that.” His voice was husky.
“I’m not doing anything.” But her eyes were stil
l on his lips. They were full and parted and she could feel the erratic pattern of his breath, the effect making her dizzy enough that her eyelids grew heavy.
And then those lips were on hers. Mitch used his grip on her shoulders to haul her tight against him, enshrouding her in the bounds of his embrace. One hand slid down her back to produce an epidemic of goose bumps that flared over her arms. His hand established its goal and rested on top of the swell of her bottom. The other hand reached out and closed her door before joining its mate at the base of her spine. His kiss was urgent and she grabbed hold of his shoulders and met that need head on. He kissed her until tears formed behind her closed eyes and the sound of the visceral growl deep in his throat made her crave more.
“I want you.” His words dusted against her mouth.
He pulled back and if it weren’t for the restriction of his rigid embrace, she would have swayed beyond the point of balance.
As if he had exhausted all his strength, Mitch’s forehead dipped forward, connecting with hers and she wanted desperately to angle her face so she could touch his lips again.
“Alex,” he whispered.
“Hmmm?” Her mouth was victorious as she caught the corner of his lips and urged him open for something deeper.
Again he pulled back, just enough that the thinnest bit of air slipped between them. “Trust me,” he commanded in hoarse desperation.
The words struck like the lash of a whip. Alex jerked back, her throat gurgling out a protest.
“Mitch.”
His command confused her, and the overwhelming weight of what she was about to partake in with the criminal elements started to seep into her conscious and make her blood coagulate into a concrete stream.
“I tried to convince myself that I had been coerced into coming down here,” he explained. “And I wanted to have nothing to do with you, Alex. I was pissed that I had so been so easily manipulated.”
He stared at her shoulder. “But you−you were so beautiful and so intelligent, and I knew that you were in danger. If I confided in you at that point−you would have charged straight into peril, and I wanted you to stay naïve. I wanted you to stay safe. I don’t know what I’m trying to say here, but Alex, I am sorry I deceived you. I want you to know that. And God help me I don’t want you to go out there right now. I−”
“You’re trying to tell me that you have feelings for me, and you’re trying to get me to trust you.” Alex felt a smile struggle to surface. It was as difficult as a seed attempting to germinate in this sunless grotto. She was tired, and she knew in her heart what Mitch was trying to say.
“I’ll think about it.” Part of her was teasing. Part of her was sincere. Most of her was scared. Judging from the tightness in her chest, the latter part was the victor.
Mitch stepped back, his face pensive. “I understand.”
“Look,” she began. “I trusted Phillip. I considered him a friend. I am a bad judge of character so I can’t dole out frivolous faith anymore.”
“That’s what people know you for, your frivolous trust issues.” His grin was lame.
“Mitch, I have not been with a man in three years. I have not dated a man in three years. I have never been in love, and I am not sure that I ever will.”
“Why is that, Alex?”
Why? Go ahead. I’ll probably be dead by tomorrow. Tell him what a freak I am.
“It would make me weak.” It would make me into my mother.
“You know what, Alex,” Mitch reached out and tipped her chin up with his finger. He smiled. “You are not weak, and I happen to think that love would look very good on you.”
He gave her a soft kiss and pulled back to search her eyes. “Trust me,” he whispered again.
With a soft exhale she murmured, “I’m trying.”
That token of surrender seemed to relax him. He kissed the tip of her nose and said, “Good, because I think I know a way out of here.”
“How!”
“Alex.” Gwen called through the door. “It’s time.”
Alex stared up at Mitch, tracing the wrinkles of concern on his tan forehead and the rigid muscles scoping from his cheeks to his chin. She watched his mouth as it opened to say, “We can’t try it till later, Alex. Until they are all gone.”
“What, Mitch, what? The only exit to Xibalba is the elevator. Gwen said that she’s searched for janitorial access, storm doors…anything, but everything comes and goes through that elevator. People. Supplies−the whole lot. And there are cameras inside and outside of it. If somehow we made it into the elevator, they would be waiting when the doors opened.”
Alex shifted her eyes to glance at the clock. 5:55pm.
“Gwen said that someone tried once. Someone made it into the elevator…” she swallowed, “−and that Solis returned that person’s shirt and threw it at her feet.
“Trust me,” Mitch whispered.
“Damn you.” She pumped her fist against his chest, but felt the first licks of optimism.
Her shoulders were seized by those burly palms again. “I can’t do this. I can’t let you go out there.”
“I have to do this. Even if it’s just to buy us a little time.”
Pain flooded his eyes and his hands squeezed for emphasis. “If anything happens, Alex, you scream my name as loud as you can. As loud as you can. Scream it over and over until I am there.”
Alex shivered, the gravity of their predicament bearing down on her. She nodded and touched his lips with her fingertips.
“It’s show time,”
Chapter Eleven
For as much as Gwen had prepared her, Alex was astounded by the tableau on the grounds outside the museum. At the base of the limestone ramp leading to the museum’s entrance, a bandstand was erected, and a small ensemble of musicians sat in black tuxedos rifling off soft jazz with their brass and strings. Not far away, a bar was set up and a Latin-looking man in a crisp white shirt and bowtie stood behind it, shaking a silver mixer and pouring the contents into a martini glass. Miguel Solis was dressed in a black tuxedo, his hair slicked back with gel, his face shaved and glowing under the artificial light. Leaning an arm against the bar, he flashed white teeth and nodded at someone that passed by in a suit.
Was that the Vice President of Venezuela?
Solis met her eyes and grabbed his martini glass, making his way towards her. “Hola, Señorita Langley.”
“Mr. Solis.” She nodded, and slid her eyes over the crowd.
Naturally she could not place all the well-dressed men, as she had not committed every militant leader and modern day mobster to memory. But she could recognize Central American and South American politicians if they were in the crowd, such as the Vice President of Venezuela who arrested her attention in his blue Italian suit. He had no accessory like most of the other men with their exotic, coifed-to-perfection tall beauties. There was no woman that stood on her own−all were ornaments much like what these men would pick up at this museum. Alex wondered which would cost them less.
Rafael Calderon, the man she recognized, stood off to the side, his polished leather shoes gleaming in the grass as he inspected a stone sculpture that was not old enough to qualify as one of the showcased exhibits in the museum. In essence, the piece was just a common lawn ornament.
Solis followed Alex’s eyes and grunted. “Pick someone better to start with. This man is cheap.”
“It’s the Vice President of Venezuela.”
“Si, and he has a wonderful collection of Mayan art. A beginner’s collection, but one to be proud of.”
“These are stolen!”
A willowy woman with gleaming blond hair and a shiny satin dress turned at the pitch of Alex’s voice. Solis flashed his signature grin and threw in a wink for good measure. The woman volleyed with an anorexic simper−a practiced gesture straight from a fashion runway.
“Quiet,” he ordered out of the side of his mouth.
The blond was ushered away and Solis resumed. “What is the saying you have?
” He flailed his hand and Alex noticed that tonight he wore gold rings on three of his fingers. “If a tree falls in the woods, does anyone hear it?” Solis quoted, and then added, “If a piece sits in a private exhibit…who is to say that it is stolen?”
“Your days are numbered, Señor Solis.” She managed a tight smile to match his own.
“Go ahead, Miss Langley. Go and sell Rafael Calderon something.” He waved her off with a crook of his head. “Your life depends on it.”
Eager faces now shifted en masse towards the limestone entrance, cocktails still clutched in their hands. The pitch of the conversation in a host of languages reached a crescendo as they entered the complex with universal murmurs of approval. Alex fell in behind them, noticing that a semi-circle of enthusiastic patrons had already crowded around Gwen as she used game show gestures while discussing the circular stone with Cancuen's king engraved on it.
With her eye on Venezuela’s Vice President who distanced himself from the throng in front of a display of less lavish pieces, Alex started in that direction, but felt the tight tug of fingers on her bare arm.
“Excuse me−” She yanked on her arm and then choked at the sight of the short, pockmark-faced man in a beige, double-breasted suit. The top three buttons of the white shirt beneath it were unfastened to reveal two gold chains on a bed of black hair.
El Ojo. The Eye.
It was impossible not to identify this man. He suffered from Heterochromia iridium, a condition that resulted in two different colored irises. His left eye bore the chocolate shade indicative of his Panamanian heritage, but the other orb was much lighter, nearly golden in hue. It was said that he was not born that way, and that possibly he experimented too much with his own drugs. The more accurate summation however, was that his eye was struck with the barrel of a rifle during a skirmish inside his stockade. Known for cocaine and heroin smuggling, and money laundering to name a few of the public offenses, El Ojo, or Felix Acosta was said to have on staff a group of assassins to eradicate any potential threats. He was also of such great wealth that Forbes magazine had ranked him in the top ten richest men one year.
Jungle of Deceit Page 15
