by Stephen Cole
Especially once she’d kicked in the French windows.
Gritting her teeth she swung her hips round in a circular motion, snapped her knee upwards so her kicking leg was parallel to the ground, pivoted on her supporting foot and struck the glass with all her strength. The ball of her foot jarred with the impact, but the crash of the pane exploding was like applause in her ears. She recoiled and recovered, then gasped as her ribs flared white hot with pain. Get going. Clutching her sticky side she ran through into the dark penthouse and threw open the front door.
Just as the biggest bodyguard burst out on to the landing.
He threw a punch at her but she feinted back, swung herself round and used her other leg this time to snap-kick him where it hurt – where it really hurt, judging by the way he squeaked and fell with a thundering crash to the floor. Tye was already sprinting for the stairwell. She threw open the door, and by the time it had crashed against the wall she was halfway down the first stack of steps, taking them three at a time. A knifeblade of pain jabbed between her ribs with every footfall – but adrenalin was sweeping her on as she swung herself round flight after flight, faster and faster, pounding down the steps.
And then suddenly she was out in the lobby, tearing across the marble, exploding out through the revolving doors. She looked all round, clutched the stitch in her side and gasped as her fingers closed on the sticky wound there. Her head was tingling, pins and needles were creeping into her arms and legs. She forced herself to breathe more deeply but it was so hard when she was running again, across the street, trying to get out of sight.
The other bodyguard would soon be after her, no question. But she knew Traynor wouldn’t stop there. Who knew what resources he could put on her tail with a single call?
One thing was sure – she couldn’t have long to get the hell out of here and back to Coldhardt’s base. Either Traynor would get her back, or she would black out from blood loss.
Feeling sick and scared and close to tears, Tye forced herself onwards. She risked just one look back over her shoulder at the penthouse that had been both her palace and prison for days now. She could see no sign of Ramez up there. But still his last frantic shouts echoed on in her ears.
Echoes hard enough to bruise.
Chapter Twelve
‘Screen break.’ Jonah looked up at the hub’s dark ceiling and moved his head all around to ease his stiff neck. ‘My eyes are killing me.’ The rush of euphoria that maybe he and the others were about to solve the statuette’s enigma had long since passed. The ugly thing was clinging on to its secrets with all the strength in its obsidian claws.
‘No delays,’ Motti complained, turning the angle-poise lamp he held so it shone into Jonah’s face. ‘Let’s just get this crap over and done with.’
‘I wish!’ said Jonah. ‘Don’t forget I’ll still be here long after you’ve packed up and gone to bed.’
‘Aww.’ Motti put the lamp back in its carefully marked position on the table. ‘I think the world’s smallest tear just rolled down my cheek.’
Truth was, Jonah could cry with frustration himself. The night was not going well.
His discovery of the shadow-symbols had got Coldhardt fired up, and everyone else had welcomed the apparent breakthrough too. It helped clear the air of awkwardness that still lingered from the night before – though sadly for Patch, his hangover was a lot harder to shift.
Con had located a plan of the Great Temple where the little idol had been discovered, and recreated the layout on top of the meeting table. Coldhardt had calculated the position of the sun as seen through the various temple windows, and it soon became clear there were only two likely places in which the statuette could have caught direct sunlight. Now Motti was training an anglepoise desk lamp on the statuette a careful distance away, while Patch feebly manned the camera phone mounted on the table. He was capturing images of the silvery veins that rose in the shadows of the special symbols.
In turn, these were Bluetoothed in batches over to Jonah at Coldhardt’s PC. He was tracing the patterns in Photoshop each time and rearranging them to see if they formed any recognisable shapes or symbols. But of course the shadows – and so the shape of the veins – varied depending on the time of day. Motti had started by simulating sunrise through the eastern window of the temple (a spice rack balanced on an encyclopaedia), and now he was shining his light through a square AM aerial balanced on a box of tissues, doing sunset. Jonah half-smiled. And doing his nut too by the sound of it.
‘This has gotta be the dullest day of my life,’ Motti complained. ‘Most of the day searching through papers and pictures looking for symbols that don’t mean nothing, and the rest doing my impression of a frickin’ sunbeam.’
‘Stop shouting,’ Patch mumbled, fumbling with the phone keys to catch another image. ‘Why’s everyone gotta shout?’
‘We aren’t,’ said Con breezily, not bothering to look up from her catalogue of Aztec symbols. ‘Your hangover only makes you think we are.’
‘You know, Con, I once heard an old wives’ tale that the sight of a pair of boobs heals a hangover just like that.’
‘So ask some old wives to flash their boobs at you,’ Con recommended.
‘Just keep taking the snaps, cyclops,’ Motti growled. ‘You wanna look at a nice rack, check out the east window of this dumb imaginary temple.’
Suddenly the computer chimed, and Jonah’s attention was riveted back to the screen.
Con was by his side in a moment. ‘You have rearranged the silver lines into the new symbol, yes?’
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘But I think we’ve got a result on the Nahuatl code. I patched the decryption program into this ancient languages database they use at Yale, right, and –’
‘Geek,’ Motti burst in, ‘just tell us what it says, huh?’
Jonah shrugged and clicked on the dialogue box that had sprung up from the desktop. Con leaned in beside him and read aloud: ‘When the earth shakes the sun from the sky. When the bloodied sword is wiped clean. When Perfect Sacrifice is made. When her attendants reach into their hearts, Coatlicue will arise from her temple and feast on the poison in men.’
Silence hung a while in the air, till Motti broke it. ‘Well, that’s nice to know.’
‘The bloodied sword,’ Jonah muttered. ‘Cortes’s sword?’
‘Yeah, but what’s that stuff about the sun falling from the sky and reaching into hearts meant to mean?’ Motti snorted. ‘Mystical crap.’
Jonah nodded. ‘And nothing about the temple’s location.’
‘I wish I could say I was having more luck finding a match for the third pictogram on the codex,’ Con added, straightening and stretching. ‘But there’s nothing. I mean, it looks like a heart dripping blood into a box, but there’s nothing like it anywhere else.’
‘And we should know,’ said Motti with feeling. ‘Since we musta studied just about every Aztec relic in the world.’
‘There are still many more documents to check,’ Con reminded him.
Patch clutched his head in both hands. ‘I just wish everyone would stop shouting.’
At that moment, an alarm went off – high pitched and piercing. Motti swore and jumped up from the table. ‘Intruders!’ he shouted, and ran over to some controls beside the lift. ‘They’ve breached the perimeter defences.’
‘Not again!’ Jonah looked anxiously at Con, and they both stood up. Patch on the other hand, did his best to curl up into a ball.
Motti switched off the alarm. ‘Need to hear myself think,’ he muttered.
Then Jonah realised he could hear the sound of the lift descending. ‘Jesus, they’re coming down here!’
Con stared at Motti in horror. ‘How could they get past every sensor in –’
‘I dunno!’ he hissed, rushing to Coldhardt’s desk and elbowing Jonah aside so he could get the security controls on-screen. The twelve monitors on the wall of the hub switched on, showing views around the ranch and grounds. Nothing untoward showed on any of them. ‘How
many of them are there? Where’re they hiding?’
Jonah looked around for anything he could use as a weapon. ‘That lift will be here any minute.’
Patch was still holding his head. ‘I knew I should never have got up today.’
‘They can’t open those lift doors unless they’ve got the proper passcode,’ said Motti, calling up a different menu.
‘Tye could have given it to Sixth Sun,’ said Con.
‘She wouldn’t,’ said Jonah automatically.
‘C’mon, we’ve got to get out the back way,’ said Motti.
Patch frowned. ‘Back way?’
‘After the Siena base got busted that time, Coldhardt insisted on having a hidden exit built into every hub. It’s in his data centre through there.’
The lift doors glided open – to reveal Tye standing inside. Everyone stared, speechless, as she took an uncertain step forwards and collapsed face-first on the floor.
‘She’s hurt!’ Jonah shouted. ‘Come on!’
Motti grabbed hold of his arm. ‘Don’t touch her, man.’
‘Are you crazy?’ Jonah pulled himself free. ‘You can see she’s –’
‘It’s a trick,’ Motti insisted, looking round at Con and Patch, who were also hanging back. ‘She’s brought her Sixth Sun buddies straight to us.’
‘Right, and I suppose that’s just ketchup all over her top?’ Jonah hurried over and crouched beside her. ‘Tye? Can you hear me?’ She was sweating hard and breathing shallow, and his stomach turned as he clocked the messy wound in her side. ‘We need bandages or something. Who knows first aid?’ Jonah stared up at the others, still staying put the other side of the hub. ‘For God’s sake, we’ve got to do something!’
‘Indeed we have.’ Coldhardt stood framed in the doorway to the data centre, his face unreadable. ‘The question is – what does she deserve?’
The night passed for Tye in a delirious blur. She remembered Jonah and Patch carrying her to a bland, spacious room with white walls and ceiling and dark floorboards. She realised it was her room, though there was nothing but her coat and her suitcase to say so. She’d spent more nights in Ramez’s penthouse than she’d ever spent here.
They’d laid her on the bed. A doctor, some old guy Coldhardt produced out of nowhere, had come up and warned her that the needle would hurt. But by then she felt like she was floating, could hardly feel a thing. There had been some talk of how much blood she’d lost, and Tye thought back to the way it had stained the seat of the car she’d stolen to get here. She felt a twinge of guilt for the owner – then she realised that Coldhardt would have already arranged for the car to be destroyed. The ranch was the only property anywhere near to where she’d stolen it, and an international criminal would hardly welcome the police making inquiries about a missing Buick.
Strange dreams licked around the edges of her unsettled sleep. She pictured Ramez laid out across the bonnet of the car, Traynor with a knife held over his head. But then Ramez was Jonah, yelling her name, disgust in his eyes. She was begging him not to hate her, but now he was Ramez again and he was telling her he loved her, how they would go away some place and be together, but Motti and Con were barring the way, their faces livid with rage and bruises, and Patch was like a puppy yapping round her ankles, and Coldhardt was driving the Buick straight for her, forcing her to run towards a misshapen figure, a huge, terrifying figure who stank of the dead, who wore hands and hearts and skulls around her severed neck, whose claws were swiping down to tear her flesh and –
‘No!’ Tye shouted, sat bolt upright – and almost passed out with pain. She felt the skin just below her bra, brushed her fingers over the stitches, the surgical stubble sprouting from the puckered wound. Wincing, she closed her eyes and sank carefully back into her pillow.
The door to her room opened a little. ‘Tye?’ Jonah stuck his head through the gap. ‘Are you OK? Can I come in?’
Tye nodded, pulling the covers up over her chest, too glad to see him to worry about how much of a mess she must look. She opened her mouth but found she couldn’t think of a thing to say to him.
He didn’t seem to mind, just looked down at her, his blond hair all mussed up, his smile crooked with concern. ‘We’ve been worried to death. Is the pain bad?’
‘Well, it’s not good.’ She forced a smile. ‘But it is good to see you.’
‘Course it is!’ He grinned back at her, and held up a thermos. ‘Tea? Hot and sweet.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘And that’s just the waiter.’ He grinned and poured her a cup. ‘You pushed yourself too hard getting here. You lost a lot of blood.’
‘I had an argument with a broken window. I had to leave quick before –’
Jonah shushed her, dragged a chair over and sat beside her. ‘You can tell us all about it later. The important thing is that you made it back to us. Right now, you need to rest.’
She sipped the hot tea and looked to the window, where pink streaks were flaming across the dark grey sky. ‘Oh God, how long have I been out? Is that sunrise or sunset?’
‘Sunrise.’ His smile faltered a little. ‘Though I hear there’s nothing like the sunset.’
‘You got my message, then.’ Tye gulped the tea too quickly, burning her mouth. Can’t handle emotions right now. ‘Where’s Coldhardt? I’ve got to speak to him.’
‘He wants to speak to you too. In the hub. Soon as you’re feeling well enough.’ He shrugged. ‘So just tell me when you’re ready, and I’ll tell him.’
Tye checked the clock on the wall. It was only six something. ‘Have you been up all night?’
‘Had stuff to do,’ Jonah explained. ‘Trying to make a picture out of little lines and squiggles. There was this Aztec statuette, see, with weird carvings on it, and …’ He must have caught the frown on her face. ‘Long story, and an even longer process. But I think I’ve cracked it now.’
‘What picture did you get?’
‘Looks like four trees and a giant egg.’
Tye blinked. ‘And what the hell does that mean?’
‘I think it’s a code. Either that or I’ve got it completely wrong.’ He was drifting off into his own thoughts, burbling aloud – he was always like this when he was trying to crack something. ‘But it must be right – the shadows cast at the start of sunset pick out the lighter veins, and if you trace them and slot them all together, that’s what you get – an egg surrounded by four trees. So what the hell does it mean?’
‘Jonah, I have no idea what you’re on about.’ Tye squeezed his wrist. ‘But that’s good. That’s normal. It’s good to be back.’
‘But are you back? To stay, I mean?’ His eyes looked wide and hopeful. ‘What happened to Ramez?’
‘Something bad is going to happen to him. We’ve got to stop it.’
‘We?’ Jonah’s eyes hardened. ‘Right. Got it. That’s why you’ve come back.’
She sighed and put down the tea. ‘Do the guys hate me? Think I’m a fink?’
‘I stuck up for you. I didn’t want to believe it.’
‘Believe what?’
‘That you would pick Ramez over us.’ He slumped back in his chair. ‘Was I wrong?’
Tye felt a spark of anger. ‘You have no idea what I’ve been through.’
‘Yeah? So come on and tell me. Tell me how hard you’ve had it, lying in your bathrobe with your old flame!’
‘What happened to, “Tell us about it later, you need to rest”, Jonah?’ She closed her eyes, suddenly so, so tired. ‘I guess this is what I’m going to get from all of you, isn’t it?’
‘Must have been sooo good, being back with your true love. I can guess how the two of you passed the time.’
‘Can you?’ She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘He’s going to die, Jonah. It’s some crazy ritual, he’s going to be sacrificed to an Aztec goddess or something –’
‘Sacrificed?’ The anger suddenly drained from Jonah’s face; he looked puzzled like a kid in class. ‘Perfect sacrifice?’
‘How would you know that?’ asked Tye slowly. ‘What do you know about it? What’s been going on?’
‘I guess we’ve all got some catching up to do.’
The silence that grew between them was thick enough to smother.
Jonah looked down at the floorboards. ‘You need some sleep. I should go.’
Like I could ever sleep now. She nodded. ‘Tell Coldhardt I’ll come to the hub at eight-thirty.’
‘I will. See you then.’ He crossed to the door, hesitated there. ‘I really missed you, Tye.’
I missed you too, she wanted to say. So much. But the words wouldn’t leave her lips, and after a few seconds he went through the door and closed it quietly behind him.
It was only minutes later, when she was certain he wasn’t coming back, that Tye allowed the first tears to fall.
Chapter Thirteen
Somehow, it didn’t seem real to Jonah that Tye was back.
There she was, dressed all in black like a widow in mourning; even the wide headband that held her braided hair from out of her eyes was black. She’d sat isolated at one end of the hub’s meeting table as Coldhardt had brought her up to speed on all they had been through.
Now it was her turn to talk. Coldhardt sat directly opposite her, Jonah and Con to his right and Motti and Patch to his left. Patch looked to be listening closely, while Con sat stony-faced. Motti was a study in surliness, but then he was never exactly sparkly before nine.
Coldhardt himself remained as impassive as ever. He inclined his head now and then to show he was listening, but gave little else away.
As for Jonah, he felt the same about Tye’s homecoming as he had when he’d finally put together the hidden pictogram – elation giving way to the realisation that he’d simply swapped one puzzle for another. The question in his mind was no longer, ‘Why did Tye stay behind?’ It was, ‘Why did Tye really come back?’, and it was no easier to answer. Ramez had meant a lot to her once, and now the guy was in big trouble – facing death, for God’s sake. How could he expect her not to want to save him? She wasn’t like Con, always ready to cut her losses and run; she cared about people.
