The Maya Bust

by E. Chris Ambrose

  Her heartbeat grew more even, the spate of tears drying on her cheeks.

  “A friend?” Malcolm suggested.

  He made her think of The Illustrated Man from the Ray Bradbury story they’d read in school years ago. So, “Ray” but there wasn’t a specific sign for that. She indicated him with her chin, then made the sign for “illustrate”, scribing with her pinky down her palm, as if she were illustrating him. Malcolm looked confused, but he accepted this new name into the lexicon of references for their captors: the devil, the small man, jaguar — with the “R” of Raxha’s name linked to the sign of the cat.

  The truck rolled to a halt, a good deal short of the camp where they’d been kept for the last two nights. Oh, no.

  The engine vibrations ceased, and the canvas at the back pulled up, the tailgate popped down. Ray and the other man jumped out, Ray talking to the men on the outside. Three from the front seat, three more from a second vehicle. Even if they had a friend, and he had a gun, she couldn’t imagine how the three of them could take on seven — no, two more gunmen lounged in the shadow of a wall, rifles held low, but ready as they guarded the entrance. Cracked plaster, old stone: they had been taken to the old monastery she spotted yesterday.

  Before they could manhandle her out again, Lexi scooted to the tailgate and hopped down. She hadn’t been manhandled getting in, she realized, not like the first time. Ray’s hands had been deft and almost professional. One of the gunmen moved forward as if to put the back up without freeing Malcolm. What were they doing to do with him? Hell to the no.

  Lexi turned and jumped back in, yelling. After the last twenty-four hours, they didn’t expect her to use her voice, and she appreciated that now, as the men startled and pulled back. She pointed to Malcolm and made the sign for a key.

  Ray was laughing, and a young man they just called “Boy,” joined in, though the putative leader, Juan, scowled at the both of them. Ray turned his hands in a very Mexican shrug. Juan grumbled at them, but he didn’t have nearly the level of authority Dante did. His glance went to Ray more than once, but Ray appeared unwilling to take sides, folding his arms, and regarding Juan like a judge on a high bench. Management indeed, and everyone seemed to know it.

  Juan passed a keyring to Boy who clambered up and freed Malcolm’s leg, taking the opportunity to shove him toward the exit. Lexi put up her hand to steady Malcolm’s descent, and he pulled her into the circle of one arm. The barrel of a rifle pushed them toward the ruined church, and she noticed it had a new, solid door. Toward the back of the compound, another gunman leaned against the wall by what might have been a monk’s cell. Could this be where they moved Eleiua? She needed a way to signal the fact to Ray, assuming he really was on their side. She dipped her chin and bit one of the collar buttons, yanking down on the hem of the shirt to pull the button free. Malcolm gave her a curious look that turned to alarm as she fell into a coughing fit, and turned her head aside, spitting the button in the direction of the other cell. No way of knowing he’d see, or interpret the gesture.

  What would her mother think of her now, spitting in front of strangers? Vertigo swept through her, suddenly an orphan, her uncaring father a thousand miles away, oblivious to her circumstances in spite of her imagination earlier, her mother dead in a pool of blood and shattered gravestones.

  The rifle prodded her onward, and they arrived at the threshold, the space beyond it dark and chill, at least ten degrees lower than the ambient temperature. Her skin prickled, she faced the men, and her hands asked the question. “Is my mother alive?”

  Boy started laughing again, imitating her words. Malcolm made the sign that asked her to repeat, then he spoke her words out loud.

  Gesturing angrily, Juan pushed for them to go inside, shouting. At the back of the group, Ray’s glance caught hers, and his hand turned again. She hoped against hope that he would make the fist of agreement, or just give her a nod, instead, he gave her nothing, then she was pushed into the darkness of the church by other hands.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  * * *

  Raxha watched as the trio hustled Lexi out of sight, two other men covering their retreat.

  Quedarse Atras!” they shouted, as if the woman understood Spanish.

  Raxha had what she wanted, and more. Time to go. Raxha shifted position, ready to depart and meet up with Dante to claim her prize.

  Another shot, this time, from behind. She glanced back to see her man by the gate collapse out of the way.

  A big man rushed out of nowhere. “Jesus Christ! You trying to get yourself killed? Get down!” American.

  Raxha swapped the girl’s cellphone for her own weapon.

  The man launched himself at the American woman, hauling her back behind the tomb and dropping her down, his body covering her, hunched over, his arm extended across the tomb and a pistol in hand, and his jawline resonated in Raxha’ mind. Lexi’s father, the cop. So the girl had lied about her father being gone. Something to confront her with when next they met, and a bit of a gray area when Raxha lay down the rules for this meet: no CIA, no cops, hadn’t taken into account that the girl’s father might be one.

  More shots peppered the graves around, and the man ducked down. Her people didn’t want to damage the grave — they weren’t that stupid — just to keep the man pinned down while they retreated.

  The American seemed oblivious. “Back off, and nobody dies!” He repeated himself in something like Spanish. As if he had any power over that.

  Oblivious, she thought, but his gun wasn’t aimed at the men who were shooting at him: it pointed at her. Hmm. She considered taking him out right then, but the man was an unknown power, and she did not intend for her own life to end in a firefight at a cemetery, not when she already had what she wanted.

  Raxha slipped along the side of her own cover, toward the narrow track at the back. Her people faded back. With a hand signal, she called off the sniper on the roof. No point killing the raging bull if it damaged the cash cow at the same time.

  “You fucking idiot! You just blew the whole thing!” the woman was squawking from somewhere beneath the man’s bulk.

  He didn’t answer, his green eyes fixed on Raxha until she flipped him the finger and strutted away.

  As if she had severed the strings holding the place under tension, the meet collapsed. She cut through the trees, the father’s voice sagging with relief and frustration as he said, “Jesus, woman, you had one job — all you had to do was exactly what they said.”

  “All you had to do was stay out of it!”

  Tempting to stay and listen to the explosion. Sounded like a juicy drama, but she had a treasure to hunt for. Dante sat behind the wheel of the truck as Raxha opened the passenger door. The satchel with the cup lay on the seat. She pulled it into her lap and slid in next to him, then he gunned the engine and took off.

  “Juan’s got the kids to the church. You want him to kill somebody, maybe shed some blood? Seems like we got to punish the screw-up back there.”

  “That was her father who showed up, and it sounds like the mother didn’t want him. Maybe we can split them up, drive a wedge and still get our bonus.” She pulled off the covering and stared at the vessel.

  Dante chewed something over. “Yah, maybe. But there’s got to be consequences. Los Zetas, they’re not gonna mess around, especially now we got this new guy, Zorro, keeping an eye on things.”

  Flicking her phone on, Raxha made the call. “You’re in? Good. Gag them, bind their hands. No communication. Make it clear we’re angry — but no permanent damage, we’re still hoping to squeeze the mother.”

  “Si, si.”

  “We should track down the father, get him pinned down, out of the way. Send a couple of guys.” She rang off, and returned to studying the vessel in her hands.

  “You want Eleiua? I bet if we cut an ear off the boy, she’d tell us what the cup means.”

  “She’d make things up to get us to stop.” Raxha tipped her hand one way and the other. �
��I don’t think she knows anyway. If she knew, she’d’ve gone after it — for the tomb, if not for the drugs. The commisario, he’s all about the Maya history.”

  At the end of the rough track, Dante cranked the truck to the left, down the hills toward the next village where the department’s old military commisario kept his house full of native things, half of them bribes for his silence as los señores took care of business in the jungles around the border. A couple of hours, and a bottle of rum, and the man would put her on track to claim her mantle and turn her “z” from a screen name into a title. A better one than “princess,” most definitely, and with a power no princess could wield.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  * * *

  Five men bundled Lexi and Malcolm into the old church. Two more outside, two still on the gate, two guarding the other cell, the one Lexi wanted Grant to look at. Dang, but she reminded him of Gooney. Middle of a firefight, and Gooney’s finding new ways to communicate what his team needed to know. Never would’ve described his old CO as a good communicator, but now it came to that, it seemed obvious, and Grant would lay odds that Lexi was the reason why. The man worked hard, learned more, tried anything, to communicate with his daughter who understood everything but his voice.

  The gunmen around him settled into expected roles, and Juan, their leader, had gone inside without assigning him anything. “I’ll have a look around.” Grant indicated a circuit of the walls, the kind of thing that a newcomer might be expected to want: a good sense of the arena they occupied and what dangers or assets it might offer. Gun in hand, Grant moved with a purpose.

  Eleven men to Grant’s one. Was Pam still alive? If Gooney played his part, she was, and he’d be on the move to locate Grant’s position, doubling their firepower. Once out of visual range, Grant could start relaying intel, and hoping for the same. Still couldn’t help envisioning both of Lexi’s parents dead in a pool of blood in a cemetery. Put that aside: he still had a job to do.

  “Zorro! Hey, Zorro, tell me about your tattoos.” Ramon trotted to catch up with him, all gangly arms and legs, his rifle bouncing against his back. Oh, shit.

  “That’s kind of personal.”

  “Oh, sorry,” Ramon said, but with an edge. Here he was trying to make nice and help Grant feel welcome. Might as well permit the overture.

  Grant flashed a grin. “Let’s just say, blood spilled for every one of them. And it mostly wasn’t mine.” He lifted his chin toward the closed cell. “Another prisoner?”

  “This local woman, she’s the one who started it. Knew about the stash, but didn’t tell anybody.”

  “Oh, really. Does she know how much is in there?”

  “From what I hear, the last shipment was a mixed load heroin and cocaine. Worth about 40 million American.” Ramon looked pleased with himself, and Grant registered approval.

  “I didn’t know you were so close to the operations here.”

  “Si, si. I know all kinds of things.”

  “How about the tour, then?” Grant waved his gun to take in their surroundings, an old monastery half-reclaimed by the jungle. “Oh — who’re those two guys? I better start learning names.”

  “Pablo and Raul.” Ramon waved to them as they strolled by, and the older men glanced over, one of them rolling his eyes. Letting Ramon get a step ahead, Grant offered a shrug in reply, like he was indulging the kid, and the others chuckled.

  “There’s twenty rooms, but most can’t be secure, and a barn back here for vehicles and such.” Ramon’s skinny arm led the way.

  “How many men on the perimeter?”

  “Right now?” He gave a little shrug. “Usually three. One at the corner, one down the track, one behind the barn in case he needs to start up the truck or use the radio, like that.”

  “Street corner, you mean? I didn’t realize we were so close to town.”

  Ramon bobbed his head eagerly. “Just far enough they don’t hear the gunshots usually.”

  “You’ve got a good set-up here. Nice work.” Talking to the kid like he was command, watching him puff up a little in response.

  “Could you really take down Dante, you think?” He giggled. “Sorry, sorry, another bad question.” They ducked through a rusty metal door into the open space of the barn. Smelled of motor fuel, and contained another jacked-up jungle truck, probably the one the first batch of kidnappers used to get here. The loud crackle and occasional voice from a radio rumbled from a door at the back corner.

  “Sure — couldn’t you?” Grant looked around, then holstered his weapon. “You’re strong enough, fast on the court, I bet you can. Here, let me show you.” He beckoned Ramon forward.

  “Do we need a basketball?”

  Both of them did a quick scan, then Grant came up with a dried cacao pod from a burlap sack — probably used as cover to smuggle drugs across the countryside. He tossed it in the air. Almost as large as his head, and with a thickly ridged exterior, the thing must weigh a couple of pounds. “Might hurt, though.” Grant made as if to replace it. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “I can take it, it’s fine. Besides, you show me, then I get to practice on you, right?” He grinned.

  “Fair enough.”

  Ramon slung his gun the same way Dante had, one-shouldered for easy access, tucking his bandana out of the way. “You were there, Dante — me — I am here.” He thrust up his chin and tossed his hair around, trying to get his shorter locks to do what Dante’s would. “Ready.”

  Kid was making it way too easy. Grant felt a twinge at what he was about to do. But it wouldn’t stop him from doing it. He slammed the cacao pod into the kid’s head, whipping him around. Kicked his knee, dropping him to the ground. The kid tried a breathy laugh of bravado. Grant grabbed the gun, letting it fall as he brought up the kid’s bandana and jerked it into his mouth.

  Ramon’s eyes went wide as the demonstration turned deadly-serious. Grant pushed him all the way down, finishing up the gag just as the kid started to struggle. Out came the pea shooter, pressed to the back or Ramon’s head. “I won’t kill you unless I have to. Don’t make me have to.”

  Trembling, the kid went otherwise still. Zip ties from an inside pocket trussed the prisoner’s hands and feet.

  “Hey? Somebody out there? They kill these Americans yet or what?” Footsteps shuffled in from the back. The man on the radio, but not any more. Grant sprang up and sprinted to the corner of the truck. The radio operator came around, and the peashooter took him in the ear. He dropped like a sack. On the ground nearby, Ramon’s eyes glazed and he watched Grant with growing fear. Grant put the gun to his lips and said, “Shh.” Good news about the small weapon: it hardly made a sound. Still took the rifle for speed and distance.

  He lifted Ramon under the arms — the kid stiffened and whimpered, then slumped into the back of the truck, maybe starting to believe Grant’s promise. Dragging the other guy back to the radio room, Grant stuffed him inside, and took a moment to tear a few pieces from the radio inside, just in case somebody made it this far. That done, Grant glanced through the back door into the jungle. Narrow tracks led along the crumbling walls in both directions. He pulled out his cell, already silenced, and brought up Gooney’s number.

  >You copy?

  Insects hummed and a monkey shrieked somewhere nearby.

  Come on, come on. Grant’s thumb twitched to repeat his message, as if that would help.

  >Still here. Where?

  Grant let out a breath. >ruined monastery, close to town, slightly west of center.

  >On the move. Sitrep?

  >two/15. Three prisoners. Lexi/Malcolm in the church

  >three and thirteen?

  >Yes. Clearing path to church. 5 hostiles inside

  >next comm on target

  God, he hoped so. Gooney wouldn’t answer until he was in range. No way of knowing when Dante would show, or how many of these guys he could take down before somebody noticed. They were spread out, that was the good news. At about shoulder height, t
he old walls had gaps where window frames should be. A few frames remained, giving him a sense for what to expect. He slipped back to the barn for a crowbar, then, with that in one hand and his pea shooter in the other, started around the wall in the direction of the closed cell. He tried to move carefully but fast, dodging roots and ducking vines. A large tree grew against the wall, pushing against it like a very slow battering ram. Grant stepped out around it.

  As he started forward again, he heard an unmistakable click from behind. Then a voice. “Who the Hell are you?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  * * *

  Shoved into the chill darkness, Lexi stumbled on the uneven flooring. Stone tiles pushed up, one of them carved with a skull and inscription. More graves, like Death was taunting her for clinging to hope. A light flicked on in the nave, a bare, yellow bulb that only served to exaggerate the shadows. A giant crucifix hung on the wall behind the altar, the worm-eaten arms of Christ made hideous by time. A wheel-shaped candle holder hung from the ceiling by a rusty chain. Green pallor crept in from the corners of the ceiling where gaps in the shingles showed hints of light. Mold and algae stained the wooden fixtures. Worse than dying in a graveyard in the open air.

  Malcolm started to sign to her, then stopped abruptly. “Are we —” and nothing more, his attention drawn back to their captors. He put his hands up, shaking his head, speaking aloud to the gunmen. From this angle, she couldn’t follow his words, but his attitude and expression were clear: trying to placate an implacable enemy.

  Lexi thought of the ice cream parlor and took a few quick steps, turning to face their kidnappers, her back to the stone altar. Two of the men held ropes, and the gags they had used earlier. Lexi, too, shook her head, then one of the men lunged toward her.

  The altar dug into her hips. She propped her hands on the surface and heaved upward, landing a solid double kick that folded him and knocked him to the floor. Maybe they were under Raxha’s orders and maybe they weren’t, but she still believed they didn’t want to kill her. She pulled her legs up onto the altar, and rose, knees slightly bent, prepared to smash some teeth in.