The Maya Bust

by E. Chris Ambrose

  Gooney snorted. “Bullshit. You hated me from day one, Chief.” He held the word, just the way he used to do, but Grant shook his head.

  “We didn’t get along, fine, but you were pushing my buttons like a madman with a pipe organ that trip, just after you got back from leave.” He tipped his head toward the door where Lexi had vanished. “Did you want me to fight you, put you in the hospital and get some kind of medical discharge?”

  “I was stressed, okay, is that what you want me say? Leave is meant to be relaxing, and it wasn’t. Pam and I fought the whole time she was home, which was hardly at all, and I was trying to make it up to Lexi and Kyle, and it was fubar from the start — and if you want to really go for a guy’s jugular, have his little girl who looks just like him beg him not to go with tears in her eyes.” Gooney’s color looked wrong, the green of his eyes gone mossy with exhaustion. They squeezed shut and he pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “You blamed me,” Grant said. “Told everyone I was forcing you out, a pissing contest that I won. I think you managed to imply it was some kind of affirmative action that the brass even listened to me.”

  His head shot up at that. “I never. The bias stuff, that was the other guys; it wasn’t me.” The other guys: the ones who slipped away from the Unit after Grant was named its CO, a handful too hidebound, or too loyal to Gooney to shift their allegiance.

  “So you committed career suicide by cop, and you chose me as the trigger man?”

  Gooney glared. “What, are you gonna punch me this time? Couldn’t figure out if I should stay or go — but you knew. You wanted me out so you did what you had to. End of story.”

  “If we’d known what you were going through, Gooney,” Grant said, his voice dropping very low. “We would’ve cut you some slack.”

  “Some of the others maybe, but not you. No, you wouldn’t. You look back and you think you would, but it’s crap, Casey. And it doesn’t even matter from the brass perspective. It’s one thing to have an upstart lieutenant calling for a shake-up of the team, coming in with his own ideas, his own agenda; it’s a whole other game to say your CO’s losing his shit. That he’s mentally unfit for command.”

  Worn tiles measured the floor between their feet: six tiles, maybe four inches each, plus the grout. Figure twenty-eight inches between them. As close as they’d ever been in the Unit.

  “After that, I had to go,” Gooney continued softly. “Sure as hell couldn’t work for you. I thought if I went stateside, it might change things with Pamela. And it did. It got worse.”

  The world shifted a step to one side, the past illuminated by this long stroke of Gooney’s misery, like Grant had kicked him off a cliff years ago, and it had taken him this long to see it. All these years, taking credit for the kick, never thinking maybe Gooney had jumped. Gooney used him, a fact that burned, a fact that jibed with everything he’d ever believed about the man. Fit perfectly: belligerent, asshole commander always riding too hard, pushing everybody’s buttons. They had to fly to the other side of the world for him to see the truth, to wonder who the hell had been pushing Gooney’s buttons all along, and how his own actions contributed to the man’s downfall. The angle of Gooney’s head showed the little shiny scar at the corner of his jaw left over from when he died last year in an op to save Grant’s family, and only Jamie Li Rizzo’s intervention brought him back to life.

  “I’m sorry,” he said at last.

  “Give it a rest.” Gooney rose. “Speaking of — Permission to go?”

  Grant shifted back, giving him space. “Take the second bedroom.”

  “Oh, for — Yes, sir.”

  No need to look up to catch his sarcastic salute, then he marched across the floor, collected his bag, and slammed outside. Grant counted the footfalls, catching the pause and the quiet oath at the second door. That, too, slammed open, then shut. Objectives from here out were two-fold: get the rest of the group out of the danger zone: capture, destroy or conceal the stash such that it could never be sold. He tracked the tiles toward the door, as if the vibrations of its closure lingered in the air. Three objectives. Win for Gooney the chance to change the future, regardless of the past.

  Rising, he slung his duffel over his shoulder, gathered up the tequila bottle and a pair of opaque clay cups. At the sound of footsteps, he turned holding the cups. In Spanish he said, “Okay for me to use these?”

  Eleiua blinked at him. “Si. That’s what they’re for.” She gestured toward the pictures. “You want me to write some translations? I see you have some already. I might be able to add some things, given that I know the area.”

  “I’d appreciate that. Any information you can give me.”

  “If we find that tomb, it could make all the difference.”

  “Do my best.” He smiled a little. “I can’t promise, depending where the drugs are hidden, that I’ll leave it better than I found it.”

  She smiled, too, the weary expression of someone used to sending men into the jungle, not knowing if they’d come back again. “I sent some food out to Ramon. Pitiful, how eager he is now to be a friend.”

  “Before we head out, I’ll see what he knows, if anything. Don’t know how forthcoming he might be, under the circumstances. This Aabo, do you think he knows any more?”

  Sitting down, taking a pair of reading glasses from her forehead, she said, “Maybe. It’s hard to get anything from what he says.”

  “Could be worth asking, if you get a chance. In the meantime, what do you make of the cup?”

  She slid the photos into a line as if they were able to rotate the cup in front of them, then pointed to a glyph at the top, near the head of the royal figure. “This here is the White Way — that’s the paths through the jungle the Maya have made a long time ago. Stone paving, and stone steps, to make it easier to get from the cities to the temples without so many roots. There’s different parts though, different directions.”

  “It must’ve been close to here, for Hernan to visit when he needed to.”

  “The closest section runs through the hills a little west of here. It’s not in great shape, doesn’t seem to go anywhere, but it must, I think.” She moved the photos and pointed again. “Sacred mountains, and this glyph repeats. Two heads? Two mountains?”

  Sunset was coming on, and Grant had an appointment. “Knowing the direction of the White Way is a good start. We’ll have to keep an eye out for matching symbols for these other paths it mentions.”

  “You should get some rest. You’re in for a hike.”

  Hiking a Maya road to find a pyramid. It was the kind of walk he dreamed of, but not with a drug cartel walking the same road. He straightened away from the table. “Thanks for all you’ve done.”

  “I don’t know if I have earned your gratitude.” Her head rose, her mouth drawn tight. “I know that I am responsible. It was I who sent this thing with Malcolm. I pushed the stone down the hill, and now I don’t know how to stop it rolling before it kills many more.”

  “Do what you can with the pictures. We’ll do what we can for the rest.”

  “If they had been hurt, or killed … I wouldn’t forgive myself. Thank you.”

  “Lexi’s father needs to hear that — tell him when you can.” Grant started toward the door, then added, “But a few pounds of that dark cocoa wouldn’t go amiss.”

  He left to the sound of her laughter.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  * * *

  Raxha leaned on the horn to clear the traffic, startling knots of people out of the way. The town looked all wrong, like a tangled loom, clusters of citizens instead of people shopping and strolling, old men smoking on doorsteps. Her advance in the truck began to feel more like the days when her father had entered a room, sweeping the crowd with his gaze, like an eagle from a height, until everyone fell silent to hear what he would say. She hungered for that level of respect, but they gave it now for her vehicle — and from their fear. She jammed the accelerator, bumping over the curb when a tuk-tuk didn’t
get out of the way fast enough. “What do you hear, Dante? What do they say?”

  Hunched over his phone, thumbs tapping and scrolling, Dante said, “Somebody says shots fired, somebody else says they didn’t hear anything, but did you hear about the cemetery. The cops have picked up our man from the gate, his body.”

  She slapped the wheel. She’d suspected the father had taken out their watchman. Damn it. Damn Lexi for lying to her. Damn the father for his itchy trigger finger. “More shots fired, though, not the same thing? Not the cemetery?”

  Dante scrolled fast, but his head was already shaking. “Must be different, it’s like a half-hour later they’re saying shots again. But that was all a few hours ago now. Should’ve brought Chica to the monastery, let her take care of it.”

  “She’s not like a guided missile, Dante. She takes anyone who gets shot.” Barely slowing, she squealed the truck around the corner toward the jungle track. The buildings ended abruptly here, and she scanned the jungle to the right, the encroaching trees growing rapidly from a few ferns to a towering — She slammed on the brakes. Dante caught himself before hitting the dashboard, and she pointed out the window across his chest.

  Dante followed her arm, the both of them looking down, to the ditch at the side of the road. Branches, both broken and whole, stretched over the gutter. Dead leaves cluttered the verge, obscuring the distinctions between stone and dirt, between the ways of man and the power of nature. More green down below, but this was the green of camouflage pants and a matching shirt. At least it used to match, but now a dark stain spread from the center, from a darker hole. The man, her man, lay face down, his gun underneath him. Taken from behind, in the coward’s way.

  She pushed the accelerator and they rattled down the road further, reaching the tumbledown corner of the ruined monastery. A man’s body protruded from the gate, his arms extended and his gun close to his hand. Bits of glass and a lot of blood spattered that time, like the guy bled out from the wound in his gut. Whoever shot him didn’t even bother to claim his weapon, or to take it away in case he wasn’t dead. Confident son-of-a-bitch, Lexi’s father. She dodged the body and parked in front of the church. The door hung open. Another body splayed back from the corner, head-shot.

  Raxha let the engine tick down, tracing back from that man to the one by the cell, its door still closed. Sniper post on the roof? Or had the father just taken this man, then the other one. But there should’ve been two men on the door.

  “Looks safe,” said Dante, with a curl of his lips to acknowledge the irony of this statement.

  The father was gone now, and looked to have taken his daughter with him. “Check the cell, see if she’s still in there, then do a circuit. Get to the radio and call in the others — we’re gonna need them.” Whether to follow the map, or to follow the father.

  Dante jumped out of the car, his gun at the ready. Raxha climbed down more slowly on her side.

  Would be nice to get her hands on Lexi, to get some answers, but he was the real threat. What if he just took his family and went home? The window of time for her vengeance grew short. And vengeance was only part of it. If los Zetas caught wind of this disaster, they’d never trust her to handle their routes. “Dante!”

  He stopped short and turned expectantly.

  “Where’s your friend Zorro? Did he stay with the crew?”

  “Dunno, Juan didn’t say.” He continued toward the cell. “I’ll keep an eye out for his body.”

  Alone, she walked toward the church, pistol held low in her sweaty palm. The light wouldn’t come on, but gunfire had shattered the last stained glass window, shedding a dull beam of green jungle glow across the floor. Juan lay just inside, a neat hole in his chest, arms outflung, his cellphone still in one hand, and his gun in the other. How many of her men had gone down like that, their weapons to hand, without getting off a shot at their attacker? Toward the altar lay a corpse with a hole instead of a face. She didn’t even know who it might be. Raul? Jacqui? The one on the other side, where the girl had been hanging in the last picture Juan sent, had been a cleaner hit, a crisp hole in the side of his skull and streaks of blood across the wall with a gap in the middle where Lexi must have been standing when the man was hit. Would she see it in her dreams? Would men without faces, men who wore blood for a boutonniere, be the escorts of her dreams for months or years? Or was it different, maybe, when you didn’t know them, when it wasn’t your uncles and playmates, your admirers … your father.

  From the dark chapel came a whimper and a scrape. Raxha turned sharply and fired at gut level. The shot chipped into stone.

  Whoever occupied the floor stilled immediately, face down, with little raspy breaths like a chihuahua who had to run up a hill.

  Raxha stalked nearer. “Who are you?”

  The man gave a sharper cry, turning his head to reveal a panicked eye. With her foot, she rolled him to his back, heedless of his bound hands. She put her gun away, and knelt, plucking free the gag. “What happened?”

  “A man came, an American. He shot them all, and he says anyone who touches his daughter will die.” He gulped for breath, his whole body heaving with the effort.

  “So you lay down and he bound you.”

  An eager nod.

  “Was he alone?”

  Hesitation and a frown. “He came in alone? I was on my face. He speaks in English, and somebody else in Spanish.”

  “The Black man speaks Spanish, was it him?”

  “I — I don’t know.”

  “Start at the beginning.”

  He bobbed his head. “When the truck pulled in, I came in here, to get ready, and Juan comes in with the others and the two Americans. Juan tells us they need to be an example. He says it’s important because of the new guy, the Zeta who’s keeping an eye on us.”

  “Did you see the Zeta? Do you know where he went?”

  A quick shake of the head. Watching him bob and shake and shiver was making her ill. She grabbed his forehead and pinned it down. “You don’t even know if the man came alone — Do you know anything? Anything at all we can use to get this man?”

  His chubby lips parted, then closed, twitching.

  A wide beam of light bounced into the room, from a giant flashlight.

  “Raxha.” Dante entered smoothly, glancing at her operation, then delivering his report. “No other survivors. Pablo was in the cell, shot. The window was torn out the back, and another guy got his head bashed in with a crowbar. Signs of a struggle in the barn. The big truck is gone, the radio’s dead, and the operator. No sign of Zorro and Ramon, but I haven’t done the full circuit. If they went out the back, their bodies could be anywhere, and night’s falling — it’s already dark under the trees. No point doing the search now.” He lifted his chin toward the downed man. “What does he say?”

  Raxha made a disgusted sound. “Nothing worth hearing. Can’t even tell me if the guy came alone.” She pulled her gun and put it to the man’s ear.

  “No, no, please!” He cried out, eyes screwed shut before she’d even pulled the trigger.

  Maybe she was being too quick. She drew back, and he let out a babble of relief. “On second thought I have a better idea. Here, take my phone. And give me your knife.”

  Dante complied, his boyish grin returning as he made the exchange. “Tell me what to do, Raxha. Can’t wait to see what you’ve got in mind.”

  The prisoner, the man who had failed her, squirmed on the ground, his gaze flickering desperately from one of them to the other. This worm hadn’t even gotten off a shot, had he. He’d done just what the American wanted. Los Zetas dismembered their enemies and wrote their threats in their victims’ blood. An effective way to send a message, but crude given today’s communications systems.

  She took the big knife in hand, tilting it one way and another, to see what felt good. “Hold the light steady, Dante, and get ready to hit record.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  * * *

  A little later, with his things
stowed, Grant pulled the two chairs further down the veranda along with a small table. He popped the bottle of tequila and slumped down in the chair closest to the door, leaving her the one by the window, one foot extended, shoes off, stocking feet stretching in the chilling air. Should do some tai chi, something to integrate the events of the day. Except it wasn’t over yet. Pam didn’t keep him waiting long. She emerged into the sunset’s crimson and gold, striding from the far end of the veranda past the first few doors.

  “Thanks for coming. Have a seat. That’s a helluva view, isn’t it?” Grant indicated the sunset with the base of his bottle. “Pour you some?”

  Hugging the cashmere sweater she’d thrown on, Pamela regarded him coolly. “It seems you’ve already gotten started.”

  Grant shrugged and sank back into his own seat. “Just a nip. You’re probably used to better than this.”

  She looked amused. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s the finest bottle of tequila available on the open market.”

  He flashed her a smile, and poured her a tumbler, then turned to his own, setting down the bottle with a soft thunk, exaggerating everything just a bit. “Look. I appreciate you letting Gooney — sorry, that’s Gonsalves —”

  “Call him whatever you want. Most of the words for him shouldn’t be said in polite company.” She tossed back the drink and her eyes flared, then her lips turned up, and she held out her tumbler for another. “I shouldn’t let him get to me.”

  “All honesty, Ms. Dionne, I think he gets to everyone. I don’t like seeing a soldier get disrespected, even him, and I went too far. I’m sorry.” He met her eye. “He’s a damn fine shot, a good operative, gotta respect that, but … he’s loud, abrasive, obnoxious. Hard to say if the good outweighs the bad.” Grant clinked their glasses and brought his to his lips. The vapor insinuated itself into his nostrils, and he swallowed without drinking.

  “And you weren’t married to him.” She took another swallow. “Though I expect working for or with him wasn’t much easier.”