Gripped in Lexi’s palm, her mom’s phone stubbornly showed no response from Ray — Grant. How fast should they expect to hear from him? The text thread suggested he replied promptly, but what did that even mean? It could be they were already dead. She flipped back over to the tracker. The dot had vanished. Lexi stopped short, with a small cry.
The others turned back to her. Malcolm immediately asking what was wrong.
She furiously tapped out a note of her own. “They’re gone off the map. The cup. I don’t know where, or how long.” He looked grim. She pulled the phone back, entered another message and thrust it toward her mother. “There must be a way to find them. What’s Dad’s number?”
“How should I know? It’s not like I ever intended to call him.” Mom’s hands shook, her signs growing loose with her tension, mingling with random gestures. “If it had been up to me, I never would have seen him again.” Her neck arched, face toward the sky, and she blinked a little too much.
“Is there somebody else to ask?” Lexi typed. “If we can get them a warning, we need to.”
Mom’s eyes rolled, her body sagging with a sigh, then her chin dropped, and finally she held out her hand. “Yes, alright. I’ll need my phone.”
Hurrying down the steps, they stood beneath the rotors where the pilot was addressing a curious gathering of children. They reminded Lexi of her students in ASL classes, wide-eyed and eager. When his passengers returned, the pilot turned instantly stern, shooing away his audience and giving his attention to Pam and her party. Eleiua walked over to him, but their gestures and expressions toward the sky didn’t seem encouraging. Lexi glanced over her shoulder to the thick, dark clouds mounting overhead like a second canopy above the jungle. The pilot swept his hand the other direction, away from the jungle and toward the city, toward home.
“Hello, yes.” Mom put on her smile. Lexi moved toward her, finding the best position for lip-reading. She motioned Malcolm closer, hating to push him, needing him nonetheless. She caught some of the words, Malcolm filled in others, using the name sign they had given Grant. “I need some information. It’s extremely urgent. It’s about Grant Casey.” Mom cleared her throat. “And Anthony Gonsalves. Gooney, you might call him.”
Malcolm finger spelled the nickname.
Mom listened for a moment, and said, “Thank you.” She waited, and perked up again. “Yes, I did. Both of them.” The gaps as she listened to responses gave Malcolm a chance to catch up and correct himself. “They’re in a very dangerous situation. They don’t know how bad. We’re trying to warn them.” A long pause, and she wet her lips, then took a deep breath. “Pamela Dionne. I hired —” She flinched and moved the phone away from her head for a moment.
“Everything okay?” Lexi signed.
“Yes, fine.” Mom tossed her hair and brought the phone back again. She wore the martyred expression so familiar from Lexi’s childhood. “You must be D.A. Grant told me you were close to — my husband.” Another flinch. “Yes, ex-husband.” As Malcolm filled in a few signs, Mom bowed her head, listening to the phone. Finally drawing a deep breath, she lifted her head, flipping her hair again. “Well, that’s hardly important now, is it?” Her face flushed.
To Lexi, Malcolm signed, “Whoever D.A. is, they are getting under your mom’s skin, apparently about your dad.”
Lexi pointed to the phone and to herself.
“What?” Her mother frowned, then she covered the microphone. “How?”
She beckoned to Malcolm. “What do you need me to do?” he asked.
“Talk to the person. Tell them about me.”
He gestured for the phone. After a moment, Mom handed it over, and Malcolm set himself up for good line of sight, then stuck the phone between his ear and his shoulder, freeing up his hands. “Hi, yes. My name is Malcolm. I’m Lexi’s boyfriend. Uh, that’s Gooney’s daughter? She’s here, too.” A moment of listening. “She’s deaf. She’s the reason he knows ASL.” He smiled a little, nodding as he listened, his eyes on Lexi as he told her, “D.A. really cares about your dad, Lexi. What did you want me to tell her? “
“I lost him before —” her hands met, then broke apart, fingers flaring as if her father had spilled out of her life. “I need to get him back.”
He relayed her message, then added, “He saved our lives, and now he’s in trouble.” Listening again, then signing for a pen.
Lexi pulled the writing things from the outside of her pack and then held it out as a writing surface. Malcolm wrote a series of numbers, then the name of an app, then said something to her mom.
“What? No!” Mom lunged for the phone, but Malcolm sprinted hard back up the stairs, paper in hand, and Lexi grabbed her mom. Whatever Malcolm needed, whatever D.A. told him to do to save her father, he needed to do it.
Malcolm put the things down on a step, and signed, “She needs to hack the phone.” Out of reach, he flipped the device and popped off the case.
Staying in front of her mother, Lexi caught her arms with both hands, shaking her head.
Mom’s blue eyes washed with tears, blinking too hard again, then she said, “You’re right.” Mom turned halfway, speaking to someone behind her, then back. She wiped her hands down her pants, and composed herself to sign, “The storm is getting too close. If we’re going to fly, we need to go. Helicopters can attract lightning.”
Oh, no. Malcolm ran back down the stairs, paper and phone in hand, giving it to her. A new map, a new dot, this one just as unmoving as the last one, but at least it was visible. He signed eagerly, “I got your dad’s number and sent the message. This is the location of Ray’s phone. Won’t work under ground.” He hesitated longer, then added. “It hasn’t moved for at least the last two hours. Your dad’s disappeared just a few minutes ago, in the same area.”
The phone had become their talking stick, the talisman of power and connection in this weird little crew.
Was Grant dead, then? They’d be together, wouldn’t they? Living or dying — she’d gotten that impression from him before he left, like he was vowing to her to bring her father home safe, or die trying. Alright then, trust them to take care of each other to the best of their ability. Or accept that they had gone down together, and now it was up to her. A sudden rush of wind blew her hair around, and the ground beneath her feet thrummed with rising power. If they were going to fly, they had to go.
“Come on.” Mom wrapped an arm around her shoulders, steering them toward the copter. Maybe Grant and her father were already dead, trying to stop the deaths of hundreds, maybe thousands of others. But Lexi knew now how to bring down the mountain on the poison Raxha was so eager to spread.
“We need to go,” she signed, and her mother smiled as they climbed into the copter. Lexi cut the air with her hand, leaning toward her mother, and pointing at the phone, now back in her mother’s hand. “We need to go there. Because he needs a hero.”
Tears streaked her mother’s face, then she finally agreed.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
* * *
Zorro cast an approving eye over her domain, and asked what she had in mind. Raxha admitted the man was growing on her, a fact apparently not lost on Dante, if his hyped-up jiggles were any sign. Still, something nagged at her mind. Why would the man from los Zetas offer to take on a job like securing a prisoner? Wasn’t even his prisoner any more. Without her own gun, she felt a little naked, even surrounded by all of her men. After all, that’s just how her father had gone down.
“There’s no ropes, Raxha,” Rodrigo said apologetically, hands spreading.
“Get some vines, just outside. Hurry up.”
Rodrigo scrambled away, and could be heard slipping on the cramped stairs. Over her shoulder, Raxha said, “Haven’t we got that door open yet?”
“Just a little. It needs some lubricant.”
“I’ll crack your head on the rail and use your blood. Get it done.”
Dante cackled, and Raxha winked at him, but truly, she needed to control herself, not to succ
umb to her excitement about the stash and the victory that lay within her grasp, a victory she would sanctify with her enemy’s blood.
Zorro turned a little, and tipped his head toward Chica. “She’s yours, Dante? I didn’t know you could tame a jaguar. There’s gods around here like that I think.”
At that, Dante perked up. “You have to catch them small. I raised her from a cub after killing her mother. She’s never known anything but me and what I give her.”
“That’s impressive.”
“How long are you here for, Zorro, do you know?” Raxha asked, then Dante’s flicker immediately told her she’d said the wrong thing. She wanted to preserve the diplomacy this Zorro seemed capable of, the diplomacy she herself lacked. If it meant giving up Dante? But he wouldn’t let go without a fight.
Zorro went still, and held up a finger, then lifted his eyes to her. “Expecting company?”
An instant later, she felt it, too: the low thrum of an engine. Must be her people from the hacienda finally here with the extra trucks and hands for the load-out. Raxha said, “They’re here. Get that door open. We’ve got work to do.” She stalked closer to the table, breaking up the awkward threesome she made with Zorro and Dante. She placed her hands to either side of the downed man’s head, staring into his face. “Then I have a ritual to perform.” She drew her machete and lay it along the near edge of her makeshift altar.
“You should have a more suitable knife,” Dante remarked, walking back into the tomb. Zorro’s glance flicked that way and returned.
“This panel, Raxha, I don’t understand this —” one of the men in the alcove started to say.
“Did you hear me? I need that door open.” Glare aimed at her interrogator. She needed her men to obey, especially with the los Zetas man right here, watching. Trying to soften her features, she said, “I have another fifteen men incoming with those trucks. Loyal people, very good. Most of them are ex-military.”
“Is that right?” He strolled casually toward the other end of the table, just as Rodrigo was coming in with the vines, so her man had to veer from his course. “So am I. Maybe that doesn’t surprise you.” He rested his palm on the table, almost matching her pose, then his hand moved. He dropped to a crouch, and came back with a gun.
Raxha fell. Just like her father had taught her, the move that had saved her life when her father had died.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
* * *
Grant dropped and fired under the table. Somewhere to his left, Dante yelled, then gave a shrill whistle. Raxha was gone, rolling aside, leaping to her feet, two of her men already rushing to her aid or protection.
Grant turned and fired again. Halfway to the closed door, the man punched forward and dropped, blood spilling. The sound of the shot echoed and bits of stone fell from the rough ceiling.
Something jarred against the table: a powerful stroke of darkness.
The jaguar leapt toward the downed man. His companion had the door open a crack, spinning around as the great cat sprang past him and seized the man Grant had shot, as if he’d tagged the guy for dinner. Huge jaws crunched into his skull. While the cat was busy, Grant lined up the next man, and squeezed the trigger. He couldn’t afford to have another fifteen men spill through that door, even if it meant his own escape route remained shut.
“Zorro’s a traitor!” Raxha shouted. “They’re together.” Little late for that. A rack of heroin bundles blocked his shot. He squeezed off a round at one of her other men.
Aiming backward, Grant kicked the table hard; it shuddered and sent a throbbing response through his leg. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty! Don’t make me kiss you.”
Gooney groaned, or Grant was just praying that he had. “Get up, Gooney!”
Movement in his peripheral vision. He pivoted as someone grabbed for the machete, and Grant shattered his shoulder. A feline snarl resonated through the space.
Men scattered for cover and a shrill whistle resounded from the tomb. Grant turned sharply toward the sound. Dante, calling for his pet. He stood just inside the tomb entrance, an obsidian point glinting in his grip as he slipped from line-of-sight.
A bullet cracked from that direction. Grant lunged away from the table, drawing Dante’s fire from the prone figure laid out for sacrifice and maybe lining up for a shot of his own.
Then a huge weight crashed into Grant’s back. Pistol flying from his grip, he tumbled on stone. The breath rushed from his chest as the rank saliva of the predator descended toward his head.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
* * *
The helicopter stayed low, the pilot keeping up a monologue of concern about the clouds, the rain that spattered now on the big front windows. Lexi stayed close to the door, staring down, hoping to see the farmer’s barricade, to see any sign that their work hadn’t been in vain, but the wind and weather prevented any glimpse. Mom rode half-turned, delivering her enthusiasm and appreciation to the pilot in big lumps, hard to swallow.
Abandoning her backpack, Lexi pulled out the gun she’d taken placing it in her lap, and Mom drew back from her.
Malcolm, listening intently on the headset signed to Lexi, “We can’t land. He may not take off again.”
She stared back at him. “Then we jump.” She reached for the door, but it took both of them to drag it open.
In the front seat, the pilot started shouting, but Eleiua, too was unbuckling.
Mom reached forward, getting Eleiua’s attention, then receiving one of the pair of matched guns the other woman carried. To Lexi’s astonished face, her mother signed, “He taught me, too. Back when I thought it was sexy.” A curl of her hand that started close to her chest and turned out. Perhaps the smoothest sign she’d seen her mother make.
“He says we’re crazy,” Malcolm signed, and Lexi agreed, but she didn’t know what else to do. The helicopter dipped a bit lower. A group of trucks appeared beneath the canopy and vanished again just as quickly. Then she spotted the slope. The pilot pulled up already, the copter tilting at a crazy angle. She saw the stela, the one Aabo showed as a landmark alongside the pyramid. Behind and to one side, a crack opened through a leaf-strewn slope, into a saddle between the hills. The secret door, opening from the inside.
Gripping the gun, Lexi jumped, already tucking to roll. Hitting a cluster of low growth, she tumbled to a halt. Malcolm slithered down beside her, the leaves already growing slick with the start of the rain.
His head jerked up, eyes edging white, then he grabbed her, the two of them tumbling the rest of the way to the jungle floor as a stone near her head cracked. Somebody was shooting at them from the trees. The helicopter returned fire, her mother hanging on, still buckled in, trying to manage the pistol. Now who was the action hero?
Lexi scrambled up, tugging at Malcolm’s arm. At the least, he needed cover. They scrambled behind a cluster of ferns as tall as her head. Shots peppered the leaves above.
“Where?” she said aloud.
Malcolm touched his ear and pointed to the gap, then signed, “Ray’s voice.”
She bolted for the cracked hillside. A blanket of dirt, leaves and small plants tipped oddly to one side — a literal blanket with pockets sewn into it to encourage growth. Clever drug lord. Lexi pressed into the gap, to the door, using it as cover as she tried to see inside. Malcolm raced up beside her, then he gave that twitch again. For a moment terror gripped her, believing he’d been shot. He pointed toward the gap, and made the shape of a gun.
Blood seeped out at her feet. Crouching, she glanced into a gloomy space full of shifting, angry shadows. Light pooled at the far side, a beam illuminating Raxha. She darted from behind a shelf, her arm upraised, and a machete in her hand. On the surface of a table between, her father lay, his legs splayed, his arms tucked behind him, unmoving. Raxha wanted to rip his heart out, but seemed willing to settle for lopping off his head. That meant he was alive — it had to.
Arm straight, off-hand supporting, leaning into the shot, Lexi fired. She absorbed the rec
oil, the bullet embedding in a beam not far from Raxha’s head, sending a shard of wood that scraped her face. Raxha turned cold eyes in Lexi’s direction.
Lexi pulled the slide for her next shot.
Pushing into the gap down low, Malcolm wrenched at the door, and spilled inside as it slid open. Why was he wrecking their cover now? Then he grabbed her arm, pulling her inside as a barrage of dirt and torn leaves puffed into the air where she’d been standing. Enemies on both sides. As she fell through, her landing softened by something very human, and very dead, she spotted Chica pouncing forward, jaws wide, onto Grant Casey’s collapsed form. Maybe the bomb would’ve been preferable — but now it was too late.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
* * *
Pulling back to the cover of the shelves, Raxha hissed at this new development. Where were her people? Her warriors ready to escort her riches? Dante whistled like a madman, trying to keep Chica on target. She lunged for Zorro’s head, her powerful shoulders rippling, tail lashing. A thin cracking sound came from the region of her jaws, and Raxha imagined Zorro’s skull punctured in a half-dozen places. Excellent.
From the door, the girl screamed. Such a peculiar voice. The boyfriend yanked her inside. The only reason to break cover would be if they were under fire. Also excellent.
The girl got to her knees, fumbling with her gun.
Raxha slid sideways from her own protection, fuming about Dante’s precautions regarding their firearms. It was fine to count on their perimeter, but if the enemy could sneak in like a fox, they needed more. She must stop indulging him with the cat. But then, the sound of its jaws crunching into an enemy skull inspired both passion and fear.
The Maya Bust Page 23
