by Stephen Cole
‘Play?’ echoed Patch. ‘Sounds like this Kabacra don’t know the meaning of the word.’
Con looked knowingly at Coldhardt. ‘Then we must teach him – yes?’
Jonah stared blankly at his PC, eyes stinging, head still hurting like hell. He’d been online for hours, breaking through firewalls and security protocols, trawling through encrypted postings from all kinds of weird and worrying newsgroups, trying to find some trace of Sixth Sun’s existence. But about all he’d dug up after near-enough twelve hours was some background on the amulet design and a possible reason as to how Sixth Sun came by their name. He felt so guilty, just sitting round while Tye was God-knew-where, so useless and frustrated that he couldn’t find them another lead –
‘Yo, geek!’ came a holler from downstairs. ‘Your nursemaid’s here. Where are you?’
‘Mot?’ Jonah jumped up from his chair and gasped as the world rocked about him. The back of his head hurt so much he felt sick. He sat down on the bed before he fell down.
‘Hey.’ Motti was standing in the doorway dressed in washed-out black, a distressed Punisher logo screaming from his T-shirt, a smudge of stubble infringing on his goatee. He seemed concerned, and Jonah felt pathetically grateful that he should care. ‘You look dog rough, man.’
‘I know.’ It all spilled out of him, everything that had happened last night. The only stuff he skipped was the close-call-clinch with Tye and the mysterious vault in the wine cellar. Motti listened in silence, nodding from time to time, his face grave.
‘I let Sixth Sun take her, Mot,’ Jonah finished hoarsely. ‘I screwed up. Maybe if you or Con had been here –’
‘C’mon. You think I didn’t spend the whole of the flight over here blaming myself for them getting past security?’ Motti sat down in the chair. ‘I got scanners, I got motion sensors, I got microwaves … I got goddamned Canada geese with spy cams wrapped round their beaks –’
‘You do?’
‘Well, no, but I thought about it. Look, geek, it ain’t no good blaming ourselves.’ He snorted. ‘So let’s blame Coldhardt instead. There’s more than five hundred acres to police here, man, including a goddamned river. And does he let me supervise the security installations? No, he’s gotta get contractors in …’
Jonah thought of the vault hidden down in the wine cellar. Tye was right, he thought, he didn’t want you to see. And for now, Jonah decided to keep quiet about it – he had to be in enough trouble with Coldhardt already.
‘Could the contractors have sold the details of security here to Sixth Sun?’ he wondered.
‘Con wiped their memories with her hypnotism act. They won’t remember jack about this place.’ Motti shook his head bitterly. ‘Nah, Sixth Sun musta had the place under surveillance for some time. We were here, what, four days before Coldhardt sent us off to Guatemala. That ain’t long enough to test all the sensors, the alarms, the infra-red …’
‘So they’d have known the place wasn’t totally secure yet,’ Jonah realised. ‘But how’d they find out Coldhardt was setting up here at all? And why take Tye?’ He picked up the amulet from his bedside table and tossed it over. ‘They took a piece of me. But at least I got something in return.’
‘Saw this on Coldhardt’s computer,’ said Motti, studying the amulet. ‘Looks old. Real antique. Guess Coldhardt attracts a better class of housebreaker.’
‘Crazy thing was, one of them seemed more like a professor or something than a burglar. Short little guy.’
Motti looked at the design on the front. ‘Birdwatcher maybe?’
‘Apparently that’s a hummingbird.’ Jonah rubbed the back of his neck, felt the muscles all bunched up there. ‘It features on a lot of Aztec pottery and jewellery and stuff. Aztec warriors believed that when they died in battle or got sacrificed, they would transform into hummingbirds and flutter off to join the Sun God.’
‘Sounds fun,’ said Motti. ‘What kind of outfit’s gonna want that as their emblem?’
‘I’ve been reading up on it – Aztecs were big on blood sacrifice. They killed thousands of people each year, even their best warriors. The priests chopped out their hearts while the victims were still alive.’
‘Nice.’
‘Creepiest thing is, the victims were cool with it. They believed that by giving their life force to the gods, they would go to heaven and live with them.
Motti snorted. ‘Eternity as a hummingbird? You can keep it.’ He looked down at the amulet. ‘Coldhardt said priests would have worn these. So is that what these guys think they are – priests or something?’
‘Priests or warriors,’ Jonah agreed. ‘Or maybe both …’
‘Anyways.’ Motti chucked the amulet on to the bed. ‘You find out anything a little more current that could help us?’
‘Not really,’ Jonah admitted. ‘But get this.’ He crossed woozily to the computer and called up a page in Explorer. ‘Apparently, the Aztecs had this weird calendar going on. Believed that the history of the world could be divided into cycles of hundreds of years, that they called Suns. And at the end of each Sun, the Earth was pretty much wiped out by a different disaster – flamed up one time, flooded by water another … and humanity only just survived.’
Motti fidgeted impatiently. ‘Just how bad was your knock on the head, geek?’
‘Right now, we’re meant to be living in the fifth cycle of creation – and the last. The age of the Fifth Sun. The Aztecs reckoned this age would come to an end in the twenty-first century with a load of mega-earthquakes. No get-out for the human race this time. The end.’
‘So, what,’ said Motti, ‘these guys call themselves Sixth Sun ’cause they think they’re going to cheat the predictions and see in a new age?’
‘Could be. But what kind of new age would it be?’ Jonah frowned, staggered back over to his bed. ‘Suppose it depends if they’re priests or warriors …’
‘Whatever the hell they think they are,’ said Motti, getting up. ‘How come they need Tye? As a hostage to use against Coldhardt?’
‘Then why not take me along too?’ said Jonah. ‘Two hostages are better than one. They just beat me up and dumped me.’
‘They got taste,’ Motti joked. ‘Or else not enough room in their transport. Their best chance of getting past the defences was if they took a chopper, and that would mean limited space …’
‘Oh God,’ said Jonah. ‘I did see a helicopter a bit before – but it was miles away.’
‘Nah. You’d have heard it touch down.’
‘But we … we were down in the cellar.’
Now Motti’s eyes widened. ‘You and Tye were down in the cellar?’
Jonah blushed. ‘We just … fancied some wine to drink.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Motti’s voice had hardened, he clearly didn’t believe a word of it.
‘It wasn’t like that, Mot,’ said Jonah, getting to his feet – and wincing as the world pitched and tilted.
‘Just stay in bed, lover-boy,’ said Motti gruffly, getting up too. ‘I’ll go out and see if I can find any evidence of that Sixth Sun ’copter. And you’d better hope I turn up a better lead than anything you’ve found so far.’
He stalked from the room and shut the door behind him. Jonah curled up on the bed and closed his aching eyes. ‘I’m hoping,’ he breathed. ‘God, am I hoping.’
Chapter Five
Con sat in the front of the Range Rover, shooting a pained glance at the chauffeur every time he took a bend too fast or drove over one of the many deep ruts in the road. He was a local, stuffed into an ill-fitting uniform and clearly wishing he was a thousand miles away. His presence was a constant unpleasant reminder that Tye had been taken from them.
Poor, serious Tye, always agonising over everything instead of milking the moment for all it was worth. It didn’t seem possible to Con that she might never see her again.
She glanced over her shoulder at Patch and Coldhardt but they hadn’t shifted; one wearing out his good eye and blasting both ears with his Game Boy
, the other apparently asleep. Con sighed. Coldhardt looked so much older when he slept. Frail and vulnerable.
The road was near deserted as they climbed and swooped through the dramatic landscape of Baja Verapaz. They had driven for hours along the Carretera al Atlántico, scrubby bush and cacti slowly giving way to lush pine forest and alpine meadows. Now, as they descended into the heart of the Salamá valley, there was an almost sinister stillness about them. Con’s unease grew as the car drew inexorably closer to Kabacra’s hidden lair. Hemmed in by parched hillsides, the hard, featureless sky like pale ceramic high overhead, she felt more and more isolated from the real world.
The sat-nav suddenly spoke up, making her jump, warning the chauffeur to turn left at a turning two hundred metres ahead. A chequered flag had appeared on the display, telling them their long journey would soon be over. Quickly Con checked her long, dark wig in the vanity mirror, and put on a pair of chic sunglasses. Being recognised by some random guard as the bogus backpacker from the nuclear power station was something she could live without. Although considering the men had spent more time looking at her legs than her face, she was probably safe so long as she didn’t lose her jeans.
The turn was well hidden by straggly, overgrown bushes, but the Range Rover pushed through and on to a track crowded by dense vegetation.
‘We there yet?’ asked Patch, not looking up from the Game Boy.
‘Almost. But keep playing.’ He got car sick, and from bitter past experience Con knew that he was prone to throwing up the moment he lost concentration. She allowed herself a weary smile. That would certainly wake Coldhardt up with a jolt.
As they rounded a sharp corner she saw two armed sentries come into view. They both raised their rifles, ready to fire. The chauffeur stamped on the brakes and the car slewed to an awkward halt.
The hum of an electric window broke the tense silence. ‘Let us pass,’ rapped Coldhardt from the back. Con turned to see he was sat bolt upright, looking alert and confident, a changed man from just a few moments ago. ‘Kabacra is expecting us.’
One of the men fished a radio from his pocket and spoke into it. After a brief exchange he nodded to the other guard and they stood aside to allow the car through.
The chauffeur started speaking angrily in Spanish as he pulled away again. Con translated for the others. ‘He says he’ll wait for us outside for one hour. After that he’s driving straight back to Livingston, no matter what we’re paying him.’
Coldhardt dabbed at his forehead with a black handkerchief. ‘Tell him one hour is all we shall need.’
They were greeted at Kabacra’s gate by more armed sentries. Patch buzzed his window open and noisily threw up down the side of the car. The guards stared at him with disgust.
‘You’d think they’d be used to people throwing up at the sight of them,’ Patch muttered as Con gingerly helped him out.
Once they’d been frisked for anything antisocial, Con, Patch and Coldhardt were ushered inside a large, modern mansion. White and bare with a black carpet, the entrance hall held about as much charm as the stairwells at the nuclear power station. The heavy wooden door creaked like a coffin lid as it was shut behind them.
Coldhardt was carrying the holdall with the swords. One of the guards snatched it from him and disappeared through a doorway without a word. Two more guards remained to watch them.
‘They are checking the swords are genuine, yes?’ Con said quietly.
‘For surveillance devices and signs of damage too, I imagine,’ Coldhardt murmured. ‘Which is why I brought only those eight that survived the journey to Livingston entirely without harm. Like I say, I want Kabacra in a generous mood.’
‘So he might not shoot us the second he sees us,’ Patch muttered, still looking green.
A good ten minutes later, the door opened again and Kabacra appeared. Con tried not to grimace, but he was strikingly ugly – thin and bony, with a face like scarred chicken skin stretched over a skull. His sunken eyes were as black and shiny as his lank hair.
‘So you’re Coldhardt,’ Kabacra said in grave, accented English. ‘You brought your kids?’
Coldhardt smiled. ‘My associates. Con and Patch.’
Kabacra did not acknowledge them. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘Likewise, Señor Kabacra.’
‘Enough to make me want to kill you.’
The guards released the safeties on their weapons, the metallic clatter echoing around the hall. Con held herself absolutely still, and Patch closed his eye.
Coldhardt simply smiled. ‘Is that any way to show your gratitude? You have seen for yourself I have recovered certain merchandise that was stolen from you recently.’
‘And very swiftly, too.’ Kabacra folded his arms. ‘Perhaps because you were the one who stole it in the first place?’
‘Oh, I hardly think I’m the only suspect. What about Sixth Sun?’
Con wished Tye was here to study Kabacra’s reaction to the name – or rather, lack of reaction.
‘Sixth Sun?’ he inquired.
‘News reached me – through my usual secret sources – that they were seeking a particular relic in your possession,’ Coldhardt said amiably. ‘The sword of Hernando Cortes.’
‘Is that so?’
‘I had believed it lost for ever. And I imagine the purchase price is very high.’ Coldhardt smiled. ‘I was concerned that perhaps Sixth Sun’s agents might try to steal it and not pay you a damn.’
Kabacra looked no prettier when he smiled. ‘And this is why you have tracked me to my private home?’
Coldhardt nodded. ‘I am here to make you a better offer.’
‘You have come a long way for nothing, Coldhardt.’ Kabacra said. ‘The deal is struck. You will have to approach the sword’s new owners.’
‘Really? And how do I set about that?’
‘I am afraid I must respect my clients’ confidentiality. But thank you for safely returning my swords. For that, I will not use them against you.’ His scarred skin puckered further as he bared his teeth in a jackal’s grin. ‘And I shall allow you to leave here with your arms and legs intact.’
Coldhardt looked unruffled. ‘How gracious. But I’m not ready to leave, Kabacra.’
‘That is unfortunate.’ Kabacra took a threatening step towards him. ‘But consider how much more unfortunate if the boy here found his good eye speared on the end of a rapier.’
‘Yeah, that’d be well clumsy of me,’ Patch squeaked.
‘Or if charming Connie here needed stitches in those pretty cheeks of hers.’
‘My name is Con,’ she told him quietly, looking into his blazing eyes. ‘Call me Connie again and you will be the one needing stitches, yes?’
Kabacra’s eyes narrowed, but then Coldhardt calmly stepped between the two of them. ‘Since you’re so fond of threats, Kabacra, perhaps I should mention that I have also recovered the other swords stolen from your collection – the cavalry sabre, the Civil War cutlass –’
‘I want them back, Coldhardt.’
‘Should my associates and I suffer so much as a scratch in your company, they will be melted down for scrap and dropped on your head from a great height.’
Kabacra leaned up close to Coldhardt and spoke in a low, dangerous voice. ‘You test my patience.’
‘I’d sooner test a dry Martini while we talk business,’ said Coldhardt. ‘I’m willing to pay, and pay well, for information that will get me the sword of Cortes.’
Kabacra held himself still for a few seconds. Then he straightened and gave his grisly smile. ‘You know, I deal with so few people who truly live up to their reputation. Just be careful you don’t die because of yours.’
‘Oh, I’ll be careful,’ Coldhardt agreed. ‘For a start, I’ll fix my own drink.’
‘Your associates will remain here, under guard.’ Kabacra ushered Coldhardt through the door and into a large living room done out in purples and crimson, like the whole space was bruised and bleeding. One of the
guards followed them inside and closed the door behind.
Patch looked nervously at Con. ‘Well, that went well, then.’
‘Let’s just hope Coldhardt keeps him occupied for long enough.’
‘Shut up,’ said their guard.
‘Sorry, was that too loud?’ Con smiled, lowered her voice, fixing him with those incredible pale blue eyes of hers. ‘How about I speak softly. I don’t want to be any trouble to you.’
‘No hablo inglés,’ he said grouchily – Con imagined that ‘shut up’ was as cosmopolitan as he got.
At once she switched to Spanish. ‘You must be tired, no? You are tired. So sleepy …’ She smiled as he nodded, staring back at her, unblinking. ‘And you would like to help me, I think. Yes, of course you would …’
Patch looked on as Con did her hypnotism trick. He had no idea what she was saying, but her accent sounded so mindblowingly sexy it actually distracted him from wanting to hurl again for a few minutes. And he felt better still when the guard lowered his gun, a glazed, restful look in his eyes.
‘OK, he’s under,’ Con announced. ‘The stupid ones take no time.’
Patch nodded. ‘But does he know where Kabacra keeps his client list?’
She asked the guard in Spanish and he answered dreamily, pointing to a flight of stairs. Then, when Con prompted him with another question, he spoke in halting English: ‘We tie you up.’
‘What’s he on about?’ said Patch warily.
Con set off for the stairs. ‘Up here and second door on the right. The room is locked but not guarded.’
‘OK, but what does he mean, “We tie you up”?’ Patch bounded lightly after her up the stairs and on to a long landing. ‘Is he into bondage or something?’
‘He thinks it’s the password for Kabacra’s computer. Seems the other guard has hacked in before now, looking for scraps of information to sell.’
‘Why use an English password if you’re Spanish?’
‘To make it harder for others to crack?’ She shrugged. ‘How should I know? Just thought I should ask. I doubt there’s a hard-copy of the client list.’
