If he survived this day, the gods be damned, these men and their families would be welcome at his table until the day he died.
29
South of Tepich, Mexico
Present Day
Acton stared at the jungle floor, picking his footing carefully, maintaining his balance difficult with his hands tied behind his back. The only advantage to the situation was that it was slowing everyone down. With three of the party bound, their captors were getting frustrated, the couple of times they had urged them forward faster, he had made a point of falling, delaying them even further. The longer it took them to reach their destination, the better.
He had a feeling death awaited them, not some long, drawn-out ransom negotiation.
He needed to give Laura time to get to the police and send help, and any delay could only benefit them—unless the men became too frustrated and decided any potential ransom simply wasn’t worth the inconvenience. He hoped before any such frustrations might boil over, they would instead cut them loose to speed things up.
And if they made that mistake, it would at least afford him and the others the chance to escape, or to fight back when the authorities finally did arrive.
Laura had to be in town by now. It had been at least an hour since she had left. The students and the women would know where to go, all spoke Spanish, and by now she would have called their friend, and his boss, Dean Gregory Milton, a man used to contacting US and foreign governments on his behalf, Acton and his wife far too often getting into trouble through, in his opinion, no fault of their own.
Milton often begged to differ.
So absorbed by the math of calculating how long it would take her to reach town, find the police station, find someone who would listen, get them to organize a rescue party, then have that party arrive at the site, he had tuned out the conversation carried on by their captors. A stray word caught his attention and he listened.
“We should have told them to come back for us.”
“Why? We had the trucks. If anything, we would be picking them up.”
“Yeah, I guess. You know those idiots won’t even notice we’re not there. They’ll dump the bodies then hit the first strip club they can find. They’re probably already shitfaced.”
Acton tensed. “What bodies?”
The leader, who he had heard called Diaz, looked at him. “The two trucks with our people and some of yours, I guess.”
Acton stopped, his stomach flipping, his pulse pounding in his ears. “Are-are they dead?”
Diaz grinned. “Every last one of them. El Jefe doesn’t want any witnesses to his operation.”
Acton dropped to his knees, his mouth filling with bile as he struggled not to throw up. Reading knelt by his side, grunting from the effort of dropping to his knees without the benefit of free hands.
“What’s wrong?”
Acton stared at the ground, his eyes burning as he translated for Reading. “She’s dead. They’re all dead.” He bent over, his forehead hitting the cool ground as his shoulders heaved.
“What’s wrong with him?”
Reading replied, his own rage and pain barely contained. “You killed his wife.”
“Women are trouble. You’re better off without her.”
Acton rose, pushing to his feet with a roar, and barreled toward the man. Someone coldcocked him from the side, sending him to the ground. Reading crawled over to him, shielding him from any further blows.
“Save it, Jim, he’s not worth it. Let’s just get through this, okay?”
But Acton didn’t care, for at this moment, he had no will to live.
30
Leroux/White Residence, Fairfax Towers
Falls Church, Virginia
CIA Analyst Supervisor Chris Leroux loved The Big Bang Theory. Penny and Leonard reminded him a lot of the relationship he had with his girlfriend, CIA Agent Sherrie White. She was way hotter than he was handsome, she had the street smarts while he had the book smarts, and they were madly in love.
And while watching a rerun not ten minutes ago, Penny had made mention of Leonard soaping her up in the shower. This had led to exchanged grins, a DVR put on pause, and a hastily run shower.
And lots and lots of soap.
He moaned as Sherrie cleaned and cleaned. He returned the favor though was too distracted to do it effectively. He gave up, leaning back against the wall, propping himself up with both hands.
His phone rang from the pocket of his abandoned pants, the coded ring telling him it was somebody too important to ignore. Sherrie recognized the pattern, standing and letting go of his apparently very dirty bits.
“I think he has a camera in here somewhere so he knows when to call.”
Leroux took a nervous glance around, not putting the possibility past one of his few friends. He pushed the shower curtain aside and stepped out, water and soap soaking the floor as Sherrie tossed him a towel. He dried his hands then grabbed his pants, fishing out his phone and swiping his thumb. “Hello?”
“Hey buddy, it’s me. Hope I’m interrupting something good.”
Leroux glanced at Sherrie who pointed up, mouthing the word, “Cameras.”
“Just, umm, watching some television.”
“Uh huh, then why do I hear a shower?”
He thought quickly. “Oh, Sherrie’s in the shower and I left my phone in here.”
“Hi, Dylan!”
“Say hi for me, and whatever you do after this phone call, it better involve getting in there with her.”
Way ahead of you, buddy.
He had known Kane since high school, he the geek, Kane the jock. He had tutored Kane and become friends, Kane his protector for two painful teenage years before leaving for college. They had lost touch, bumping into each other at Langley, rekindling a friendship that he valued almost as much as the one he had with the spectacular Sherrie, a relationship for which Kane was partially responsible.
“What can I do for you, Dylan? You rarely call to just say hello.”
Kane chuckled. “You know me so well. Straight to business. I got a message from Laura Palmer. Looks like she and the Doc are in trouble again.”
Leroux shook his head, these two archaeologists on his radar far too often. “What is it this time?”
“Looks like something in Mexico.”
Leroux’s eyebrows popped. “How the hell do you get into CIA level trouble in Mexico?”
“I don’t know, ask whoever their puppeteer is. I got this message. ‘Jim, Hugh, Prof Morales taken hostage by Mexican drug gang. Have their phone, mine lost. Many dead. Send help ASAP. Laura.’”
Leroux’s eyebrows narrowed. “And that’s it?”
“Yup. I’ve got the GPS coordinates from the metadata in the text message. I’ve tried calling back but it goes straight to some generic voicemail, so the phone is either dead, or she’s keeping it off, perhaps so she can’t be tracked by whoever’s phone it is.”
Leroux frowned. “You don’t think she’d be dumb enough to try following them, do you?”
Kane grunted. “Dumb enough? No. Brave enough? Absolutely.”
“One man’s brave is another man’s stupid.”
“True enough. I’m on an op so can’t do anything to help them. I’ve sent you the encrypted message. See what you can do, okay buddy?”
“Will do.”
“Good. Now go help your woman in the shower.”
Leroux blushed. “Umm, okay.”
“Good boy. Don’t forget to send me the photos.”
Leroux glanced around for cameras. “Ain’t gonna happen.”
31
Pacific Coastal Region
Maya Highlands, Maya Empire
1092 AD
Cheng Jun spun away from the new arrivals, instantly recognizing they were about to lose. “Retreat!” he shouted, yet it was too late. His men were quickly felled by the overwhelming numbers. He ducked a blow, and rather than respond, instead raced toward the burning horde that had been his comrades. S
printing as hard as he could toward what he hoped might be survivors, he reached the edge of the devastation, any hope of finding reinforcements lost, corpse upon charred corpse all he found, those still alive begging to be killed.
The massacre had been complete, the death from above a tactic he had never experienced before, and was certain never would again as he was unlikely to survive the day. His only hope now lay in the boats still offshore. If he could only reach the beach, he may yet survive, though the sounds of his pursuers continued to get closer.
He tore at his armor, tossing it aside as he ran for his life, for his homeland, for his family. Dreams of riches and glory were gone, now he only dreamed of the home he had left behind, now realizing he had already been a rich man, there no need for this journey at all.
He burst through the trees at the edge of the forest and onto the beach, the boats still offshore, their sails being raised. He spotted Captain Tai at the shore, struggling futilely to push one of the boats into the water. Another, filled with men, rowed toward them, though it was still several minutes away.
“Captain!”
Tai glanced over his shoulder, Admiral Khong’s gold mask still in place. “Come! Help me!”
Cheng sprinted as fast as he could, slamming his shoulder into the boat, the pain surging through his body ignored as he grunted, the two of them slowly pushing the boat into the water. A spear embedded itself in the hull and he peered over his shoulder, all hope leaving his body as he spun, drawing his sword, placing himself between the enemy now encircling them, and his captain.
Yet it was futile.
They were defeated, even if the entirety of the skeleton crews left behind were to join them on shore. He closed his eyes and dropped his sword, tearing the stifling mask off his face and tossing it aside. He fell to his knees and opened his eyes, gazing upon the man clearly the leader of the supposedly primitive natives, natives who had soundly defeated a mighty imperial army.
And was shocked by the surprise on the man’s face.
32
Municipal Dump
Tepich, Mexico
Present Day
Officer Hector Santana yawned then pressed deeper into the thinning seat of his police-issue SUV. It was nearing the end of his shift, and he was parked around the bend from the city dump, avoiding the public. Driving through town near the end of one’s shift was an amateur-hour move—the risk was too great you’d get flagged down to deal with some petty dispute, chewing into your personal time.
And tonight his wife was preparing him his favorite, papadzules, a recipe thought to predate modern enchiladas, perhaps going back to the Mayans themselves—and he had no intention of being late.
She’s too good to me.
And she was.
Even after twenty-five years of marriage, celebrated only three weeks ago, they were still in love. Four kids had grown and left home, all either in college or working in the city, all having avoided the temptations of the easy life offered by crime. He was proud of each and every one of them, especially young Julio, studying law on a scholarship program he had pulled a lot of strings to get.
He’s going to change this family’s station.
If Julio succeeded, which he had no doubt he would, his part of the family would forever be out of the slums, forever out of the constant struggle that was life in Mexico. Santana understood the appeal of running the border security gauntlet and trying for a life up north in the United States, but it had never held any appeal to him. He loved his country, his family was here, and he had made a good if simple life for himself.
He had a good job with the police department, and had managed to find a balance between refusing to be bought, and refusing to target the gangs. It was a fine line that kept him alive, his family untouched, and gave him the respect of those on the wrong side of the law, enough that when they saw him coming, rather than shoot, they instead packed up and left.
El Jefe and Galano had things tense in the town, though a truce had been maintained for several years now, his efforts at keeping the peace paying off so far. There was word of an altercation last week, but whatever had happened had been cleaned up by those involved before police had arrived, leaving only uncooperative witnesses.
This was one of the reasons he was sitting where he was. He had driven around the piles of trash, carefully eyeballing the tons of garbage in the hopes of spotting something, anything, that might suggest what had happened last week, the dump a popular cleanup spot for the gangs, bodies and other evidence far too often found months or years later.
Doors slammed nearby followed by some shouting. He checked his watch and sighed.
Three minutes until my shift is over.
Yet he had to check it out.
Nobody should be here at this time, which meant either scavengers, or those up to no good. Though technically illegal, if anyone were to successfully salvage something useful from the discarded waste of others, he personally had no problem with it, and if that was what was happening here tonight, he’d drive on, his mouth already watering at the thought of papadzules.
Though he had a feeling, a sinking feeling, that he wouldn’t be that lucky.
He turned the key, the engine roaring to life, then put it in Drive, slowly pulling out from his hiding place and turning gently to the left, rounding a massive pile at the edge of the dump. Two trucks, one an SUV, the other a pickup truck, were parked, and two men were carrying something toward the nearest pile.
He stopped and climbed out, removing his shotgun from the rear gun rack. He pumped the weapon, the distinctive sound finally drawing the attention of the two men who turned and gaped at him, still carrying what was definitely a body.
No dinner for me tonight.
“Hola boys, what’s going on?” One dropped the legs of their victim, reaching for a weapon. Santana squeezed the trigger, punching a hole through the man’s chest, leaving him in a quivering heap waiting to die. He aimed the barrel at the partner, still holding the arms. “Care to join your friend?”
The body dropped to the ground with an unceremonious thump as hands were raised.
33
Pacific Coastal Region
Maya Highlands, Maya Empire
1092 AD
Balam Canek stared at the man, for it was a man. His face may have appeared slightly different, his eyes shaped oddly, yet it was those same eyes that told him all he needed to know.
This was a man.
This was a man who was scared, who was defeated, and who was finished fighting. The other, their leader, growled then leaped to his feet, charging at him. Four spears sliced through the air from behind Balam, their hurlers’ aims true as all embedded themselves into the man’s torso. He collapsed, his last gasps gurgles of tortured pain as he writhed on the beach, his bright red blood staining what had once been a beautiful, peaceful shore.
Balam knelt down and removed the leader’s mask, again revealing the face of a man. There were no demons here, no gods, just men. He rose, showing the mask to the others. “See, he’s just a man.” He motioned toward the other of their enemy who sat on his knees, his hands clasped together, his eyes wide with fear as he clearly pled for his life. “As is this one.”
“So they’re not demons?”
Balam shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
The thick golden skins worn by the leader were tossed on the ground beside him, his men having picked up the discarded items in the forest. He kicked a piece with his foot. “Gold.”
Shouts from the water drew his attention away from the defeated enemy, another group now approaching in a small boat, perhaps ten. He stared past them at what his mind couldn’t fathom yesterday, yet today seemed so plain to him. A group of boats, massive, yes, but boats nonetheless. They were tied close together in the calm waters of the inlet, perhaps because the bulk of their crews were here, ashore, yet he couldn’t take that chance. There could be hundreds more, and they were but a few dozen. He pointed.
“B
urn them.”
Dozens of arrows, their cohune oil-doused tips aflame, sailed overhead, embedding themselves into the decks and hulls of the clustered boats. The fires quickly took hold, and he watched as dozens of men desperately fought the flames, their efforts futile. Screams carried over the waves as those aboard burned or leaped into the water, abandoning their lost causes. The smaller boat had halted its approach, the men aboard now uncertain as to what to do.
I’ll make it easy for you.
He pointed. “Kill them.”
Dozens of tiny darts fired at the lightly clothed new arrivals, winces and slapped hands indicating his men’s skill. Within moments all had slumped where they sat, the poison continuing to do its work. They were no longer a threat, and would be dead in good order.
He slid his thumb across his throat. “Kill any who reach the shore.”
His men quickly spread along the beach in both directions, those swimming for shore no longer a threat, each now a mere individual against his small force.
The priest stepped forward, taking the lone survivor’s chin in his hand, tilting the man’s face from side to side as he examined him. “This is no demon, though he may be in the service of one. We can never really know for sure without sacrificing him. Should killing him bring rain, then we know our gods are pleased.” The priest turned to Balam. “We should hold the ceremony tonight, before more can come.”
Balam shook his head. “No. We must warn the others.” He removed the green talisman from his pouch, the prisoner’s eyes widening at the sight of it. “I will take him and this to Chichen Itza to warn the King. Everyone must know, should any like this attempt to land on our shores, that they should be stopped at once, for they do not have our best interests at heart.”
Nelli and several of the women from the village emerged from the forest, and he stared at her for a moment, longing to hold her.
Wrath of the Gods (A James Acton Thriller, #18) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 8
