The Maya Bust

by E. Chris Ambrose

  Some distance below, Gooney pushed forward, stumbling up a few steps, already grumbling from the hike it took to get that far. The labor of the steps dragged at Grant, too, even as his marathon-muscles carried him easily enough. Grant waited as if he weren’t waiting. He took a good look around, as if they didn’t both know he could go faster alone. Gooney glanced up at him from time to time, eyes narrowed as if he knew exactly what Grant was doing. Good thing Gooney didn’t have the machete, he might be chopping the wrong things.

  Roots erupted through old paving stones and thrust between the steps around the corner. Gooney moved to step over one, and it writhed, then undulated away — a snake as thick as his wrist, longer than he was tall. He froze, breath held, like the thing even cared about the men moving through. He cursed softly then, and again aimed his glare at Grant.

  “There’s something you’re not telling. Something you don’t want me to know. You get like this, y’know, Chief. Turning inside when you think —” In the depths of the jungle light, Gooney’s green eyes took on a different gleam. “You think one of us is gonna die.”

  “Chances are high.” Grant squatted down. “We’ll do our best to even the odds.”

  “You planning on another trip to the Lazarus club?” Every step brought him closer. Fifteen feet. Fourteen. Thirteen. “I can’t let you go in there alone. No way.”

  Grant turned and jogged up a few more stairs. “We do what we have to do.” Or die trying. Always part of the contract.

  The Guatemalan jungle consumed entire cities and civilizations. The stairs they were climbing stretched onward from oblivion to oblivion, between mounds dense with foliage and leaf litter. Those mounds might contain the greatest works of generations, pyramids meant to connect men with their gods. How many people worked to build them, cutting the stones and hauling them, raising up these mighty monuments they must have thought would live forever. Bodies lay beneath, moldering back into the mud they came from. The jungle devoured them. As slow as that snake, it just kept on coming, growing and spreading. Centuries of rain beat down the stone; trees colonized, fertilized by what lay below; dead fall concealed the corpse of the culture, grinding it back into nothing.

  “Oh, hell.” Gooney stopped short, and Grant turned around, scanning for a snake, for some other danger he hadn’t spotted. “You take me prisoner. I’m what they want. You take me all the way in. You’re the traitor and I’m the bait. Shit.” His shoulders slumped. “So damn obvious. I should’ve seen it.”

  “You’re the one who’s been having flashbacks to Arizona.” Grant wanted to look away, not to acknowledge Gooney’s last death, or the fact that he might be marching to the next one. Instead, he watched Gooney absorb that, shrinking a little at first, rubbing the scar at the corner of his jaw. Was he thinking of Lexi, and all the things they never shared? Of Jamie Li Rizzo and all the things they wouldn’t share? Everything he had to lose? Thinking of Kevin, the brother he’d already lost, and the thousands of people who might suffer the same if the drugs got through.

  Thank God Grant had never loved as Gooney had.

  Gooney’s chin tucked, his breath left him. He swallowed hard, then breathed deep, as if he drew resolve along his spine. Chin up, shoulders back. The grim determination of the warrior kindled in his eyes. “So be it.”

  “Everybody’s out for your heart these days, Gooney. Thing is, if anybody asked me a few years ago, I’d’ve said you didn’t even have one.”

  He almost laughed. “Check again tomorrow — you might be right.”

  “C’mon, Gooney, get up here.” Grant gestured toward the unseen top of the stairs. “You’ve got a date with a princess, and they always put the altars at the top.” Talk about your gallows humor.

  With a shake of his head, Gooney pinned the final badge on his uniform of courage: his grin returned. “When I get up there, Casey, I’m gonna kill you myself.”

  “Gotta catch me first.” Grant kept moving, Gooney always a little behind, a little below, steady as a tank.

  They walked the White Way together, looking for an entrance to Xibalba, the underworld, on a death march in a landscape made of tombs.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  * * *

  Cleaned up, somewhat reluctantly, and wearing fresh clothes suitable for bush-whacking, Raxha slashed the machete into the brush ahead of her. A helicopter had flown over a while ago, and she checked her phone to see if she had any news from the hacienda. Reception out here was shaky at best. Nothing. Too bad she didn’t know the gods to sacrifice to for better cell phone coverage. In the meantime, they took turns breaking trail. They’d had to abandon the trucks when the tracks they were following dwindled to nothing. Her men looked uneasy when Dante let Chica leap down from the back of the truck, a slender chain lead around her neck. They were looking for the Jaguar Path, maybe a real one would help. At the very least, Chica made for a triumphant return to the top.

  The jaguar blinked into the gloom beneath the trees, and gave a wide, toothy yawn. The two nearest men cringed a little, and Raxha laughed, then slashed again, decapitating a patch of new growth.

  “Don’t worry,” Dante told the others, “The tranquilizer takes about fifteen minutes to wear off, so she’ll be groggy a little longer. Besides, she’s trained to a gunshot, like a hunting dog. Only bigger.” He fed her a scrap of something from his pocket, a finger, maybe, and scratched her head. “Just don’t shoot anybody you don’t want her to eat, and you’re fine.”

  Some of the men crossed themselves as the jaguar performed a languid stretch. A troop of monkeys shrieked and hollered as they bounded off through the treetops. Some of her men were little better than that, spooking at the sight of a predator. As if they, themselves, weren’t the most dangerous thing for miles around.

  Her shoulder ached a little from her work last night and again today, but she envisioned his throat and struck harder. She pictured the jade eyes of the enemy, the man so brazen he drew down on her instead of her men. The image invigorated her. What if he’d pulled the trigger? He and his woman go down in a blaze of blood and fire, of course, as Dante, Juan and all the others wreak vengeance on her behalf. The sort of American-style Bonnie and Clyde ending such a man might even desire. Only she was Bonnie, and Dante, her Clyde, and they had no intention of losing. This American recognized the danger, and failed to act. Americans had no stomach for what must be done.

  Her blade hacked through the new growth, the foolish little things that fought their way into the jungle when the great ones had gone. One of these passages, one of these places where the vegetation looked thin, weak and small, one of them would point the way. She, too, had grown into the space vacated by something larger and more vigorous, but she would not be cut down. Had she not dozens of men to do her bidding? An ever-expanding number who respected her strength and authority in spite of her gender.

  A brief astonishment followed the next slash of her blade. That man, Lexi’s father, instantly recognized the danger of her. To many other men, she would have been only a woman with a cell phone, either a thing to be rescued, or a distraction to be ignored. Not to him. Only went to prove him a worthy opponent. Just like the old days. Only a warrior’s blood was worthy of the gods. Really, she honored him with his eventual slaughter.

  The tip of the blade chinked into stone. Raxha wiped sweat from her forehead and drew back the machete. “Clear this.”

  The nearest man slung his rifle back and yanked at the vines that obscured the thing before her. The outlines of a towering column grew clear. Glyphs incised its surface, and a large figure with the familiar, somewhat dour expression of a Maya noble. Raxha traced its gown of strings or beads, and the headdress that towered up. “Close — we’re getting close!”

  Her phone trilled. The ground had been steadily climbing — they must have hiked back into range. She passed off the machete. “Take partners and spread out, anyplace the vegetation is newer. We’re looking for a cave, something like that.”

  Picking up th
e call, she watched her men fan out, the sound of their blades swishing through vines and saplings. “Talk,” she ordered.

  “Did you get the —” the voice disappeared, and Raxha glared at the phone as the call dropped.

  “Dante! Going up!” She pointed, and Dante strolled over to join her, as relaxed as the jaguar he led. Passing the stela, she dodged between trees and vines, scrambling over another low mound, perhaps a wall. They were close. Close enough to taste it. But she could see no sign of caves here, not like the grottoes. No cenote. Bah. She entertained the thought that her father had done a bad job of his clues. Or perhaps had hired an artist who couldn’t reliably copy the glyphs. Likely, the artist was among his lieutenants, the ones who died. She had a Maya-style painting done by one of them, made for her special party and opened years later. A Maya princess. Finding a rough shoulder of earth and stone where rain must have washed out part of the hill, Raxha checked for a signal and hit “redial.”

  Already, a few messages popped into her queue, then the line connected. “Raxha. I’ve been trying to reach you. We broke the gate and got through, but they had a helicopter.”

  Raxha’s entire body clenched with a rush of fury. That damned copter.

  Her man hesitated on the other end, and she said, “Go on. Tell me.” They didn’t know what she’d done to the last coward she found, for good or ill.

  “We fired and tried to stop it flying. There was another man on the ground and he went after it. He must have gotten in, because we didn’t see him.”

  “Which direction?”

  “Over the jungle at first, it went low, flying badly, then off again. A charter, out of Guatemala City.”

  So the girl and her family had likely gone home.

  “What’s your will?”

  Raxha prowled her small hillock, still under the cover of the trees. A few sacred ceiba trees dominated here, their vast branches spreading wide, and their thick roots clumping out of the ground like a hundred legs they’d use to crawl away on. They must have been growing, undisturbed, for a long time. Her father respected the trees, and left them standing in keeping with local beliefs. She had hated them since she was a small child, playing in a park, and had gone beneath the roots of such a tree, giggling to herself, hiding from her friends — only to find a hideous colony of bats dangling just over her head. She ran out, screaming, hands waving over her head to keep them away.

  “Come here,” she told the man. “I’ll send my location. There’s a track to get you most of the way. Bring some chainsaws and all the trucks. We’ll need them to haul our treasure.” She tapped the phone off, sweeping her eye over what she could see of the jungle.

  “What do you see, Princessa?” Dante called up. He lounged a little down the slope, a big gun in his lap, a big cat at his feet, head cocked to look up at her.

  “The Bats’ Way. It’s not a cave, it’s a tree. We’re right on top of it!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  * * *

  Grant spotted the end of the staircase — for the sixth time since they had started climbing. The tree cover grew less dense, the lace of ferns and the tendrils of vine obscuring less of the ominous sky. To the left, crumbling walls emerged and vanished again from the leaf litter. A troop of monkeys screeched suddenly from the canopy and started bounding and brachiating, swinging wildly through the trees. He dropped down, waving Gooney down as well.

  In a few quick steps, Gooney caught up and squatted beside him. “Danger call,” he breathed, and Grant nodded. He pointed to his eyes, then to the right. They scanned the jungle high and low, and Grant caught a murmur. A drift of voices? But his and Gooney’s presence, and their voices, hadn’t caused that kind of ruckus from the other primates. File that away. He flicked his fingers, and they started moving again, keeping low, heading up.

  The path leveled into a pavement obscured by centuries. Heavy tree cover to the left. To the right, a drop-off, maybe. Another hill? And the source of the sound. A partial stone wall angled into a jagged structure, the ruins of a hut or something like it. They slipped inside. A few windows pierced the walls, and vines provided a partial roof.

  Checking the tracker, he found the blue dot creeping closer, a fact that confirmed his methods at the same time it tightened his stomach. Go time closing in. Each man drained his water bottle.

  From the go-bag, Grant pulled a pair of thermal-vision goggles and handed them over. “See what you can down there.”

  “What’re you gonna do?”

  Setting down the map and phone, Grant shed his weapons — most of them. Instantly he felt taller and lighter, the breeze chilling his sweat. He pointed back toward the trees. “Look down.”

  “Better you than me.” Gooney pulled on the goggles, getting close to one of the windows.

  Outside the building, Grant selected a towering fir tree thickly embraced by vines, and started climbing. Air plants occupied most of the junctions. Lizards scuttled out of his way, and the tree smelled of damp and rot. A vivid pink orchid sprang up from one pocket of life, and Grant tucked his hand away from it, choosing a different spot for his foot. His watchtower looked down onto the broken structure Gooney now occupied, but the structure was nearly invisible under its drapery of vines. All the better. Also made it clear how a pyramid could go unnoticed around here. Eleiua’s notes on the glyphs referred to sacred mountains, pyramids, two heads. Like a two-headed mountain. Just below the ruin, Grant noted the changing elevation of the tree cover, like a second shaggy head to match the one he occupied. Bingo. Couldn’t make out much beyond the trees, though, that was Gooney’s department. Grant lifted his gaze, scanning outward, still wondering about the other paths referenced on the cup. Far left, the trees dipped in a narrow, curving line, back toward the distant shapes of town. A few similar dips suggested roads, painstakingly carved out of the jungle and, even now, barely visible. What he wouldn’t give for LIDAR capability right now.

  Further away, at the junction of a few such tracks, a series of clearings and structures formed some sort or farm or plantation, separated from town and countryside by ripples of rough ground. Glimpses of a narrow bridge that crossed the gulf between. Sweeping right, a rise barely a mile away, a hill stripped of trees and topped by a few structures. Grant leaned down his supporting branch, wishing he’d brought binoculars. Sure looked like Eleiua’s hacienda, the one that Hernan set her up with — definitely: the big white “H” of Gooney’s makeshift launchpad still occupied the side yard. No wonder Hernan liked to spend a lot of time there, if his major stash was so close. Except that a mile of jungle without any roads leading the right direction still made for a tough commute. That one narrow track was the nearest, and Grant couldn’t tell how close it actually came to the base of the hills. No sign of the copter. Hopefully it was halfway to Guatemala City by now. The faint echo of engines murmured from somewhere below and left. Incoming.

  Descending more rapidly, Grant reached the ground and hurried back to the ruin. “Eleiua’s place is a mile or so south-east as the crow flies. Narrow roads and plantations — nothing else — but the second mountain is dead ahead.”

  “Copy that.” Gooney kept the goggles on. “I got eight, maybe ten hostiles — working in pairs, moving in and out of trees, maybe valleys. Hard to track and get a solid count. If that’s the pyramid, they’re all over it, and they’ve got a big enough crew to find the way in. At least three vehicles, cooling down. And there’s something else. Big freaking cat, I think.”

  They spoke softly, barely a murmur. “We’re not running a safari here, Gooney.”

  His head turned, the goggles making him half-alien. “I’m giving the intel here. You don’t like it, hire somebody else. The cat’s working the search. Like, with a guy.”

  Could explain the behavior of the monkeys earlier. “So, we’re taking on the Tiger King now. Love it. Guess we’re stuck with the worst-case scenario. Let’s suit up.”

  Gooney pulled off the goggles and dropped them into the bag. “What’s the
scene?”

  “We know she had people at the hacienda, we don’t know how much they saw. So.” Grant got comfortable, pulling a few things out of his tactical pockets. The cosmetics he’d gotten from Pam. Gooney chuckled. “I saw you board the copter, and went after it. I forced the pilot to let us off. You came along so I wouldn’t shoot Lexi. We get to the ground, we fight, I win.” He started opening the kit, seeing what he had.

  “Bruises?”

  “Big-time. I hope the rain holds off long enough not to wreck the set-up.” He chose his palette. “Get closer.”

  Gooney settled, their knees touching. Grant guided his face to a good angle. “Hold that pose.” Gooney’s skin felt a little clammy, his heartbeat pulsing at his throat, and that small, smooth scar under Grant’s touch. “Dude, you’re freaked out by the threat of losing your skin. Last time a guy threatened to skin me, he was planning to slice off my genitals and cut out my tongue, along with the flaying. I think you’re getting off easy. You’ll only last about 4 minutes after they cut your heart out.”

  “Didn’t know this was a contest,” Gooney muttered without moving.

  “Of course, I didn’t have to watch the preview.”

  Eyes closed, Gooney submitted to Grant’s touch, the brush layering red and purple around his eye. “When I surrendered to J-li, she didn’t paint me up with bruises.”

  “That’s because she didn’t know you well enough to want to punch your lights out — besides, you were hardly resisting that arrest.”