Juan and Sam stood back to back.
“The hell?” Sam said.
One of the men drew out a knife.
“No. We bring them back alive,” one of the men said. “They can be part of the demonstration. He would like that, I think.”
“Yes. He would.”
“You ready?” Sam said over his shoulder.
Arms flung and bodies connected and were swung into other bodies. Faces were crunched in and boot heels caved in bellies. When the frustrated assailants started to draw their knives anyway, the knives were knocked easily from their hands, their heads smashed against the brick walls of storefronts or the sidewalk. The last man standing lunged at Sam, and Juan knocked the man out with a pistol whip from behind.
“That was fun. We should do this more often,” Juan said when the men were a heap of black rags on the sidewalk. He clutched at his chest and rubbed at his shoulder, his old wounds protesting.
A robed man tried to get up with a groan, received a swift kick from Sam across the jaw, and collapsed back to the sidewalk.
“There’s few things more satisfying in life than busting up a cult,” Sam said.
Juan leaned against a brick wall. He almost had his breath back.
“You’ll be good,” Sam said, and Juan nodded, resting for a few more seconds. “Now why don’t we don some black robes and find out where they’re holding this black mass?”
With robes on, they peered out from under drawn hoods. Juan put both palms together so that his arms formed a straight line as if he were some dark monk in an old film.
“It’s probably underground somewhere,” Sam said as they walked the streets. “It’s so weird, the dark apartments and streetlamps. And no one around.”
“We should probably call for backup,” Juan said, finally giving in to the notion.
While not normally a squeamish person, his skin was crawling. He’d seen too many horror movies in his life and knew that if there was such a thing as snake people, as Marta had said, they would be nearby, hiding somewhere among the old streets of Barranquilla.
“Why don’t we see what we can find first,” Sam said. “Then we’ll call them. If we lose the trail and can’t find out where this thing is going down, there’s not much they could do to help.”
“If you say so. This might get a little dangerous, though.”
“We can handle this,” Sam said. “It’s probably some small local cult following. A bunch of sicko amateurs paying the guy who looks like you to kidnap their human sacrifices or some kind of shit. We’re all Josephina has—we’ve got to keep looking. Besides, imagine us bagging your doppelgänger while he’s sipping the Kool-Aid. End this whole thing quickly for once.”
“Right,” Juan said.
Even though he couldn’t see Sam’s face, he could tell the man was enjoying this. He had been able to see it from the way Sam dispatched the robed assailants earlier, the savagery of the blows, the disregard for any pain he might receive when charging into battle. When Juan had glanced over at Sam in the midst of the fray, he had seen the snarling smile of a hungry wolf on his face.
Juan was glad Sam was on his side.
He just hoped he’d be able to keep him on his side when they finally confronted Paul.
Juan thought if things went well tonight, Sam would stop harboring doubts as to Juan’s identity as Paul. Maybe, in time, Juan could grow to replace Paul completely. He did feel a bit guilty at the notion, but if Paul had gone Dark Side, wasn’t Sam better off with him than Paul?
Things would be so much easier if Juan could just come clean to his team about who he really was. I’ve dug myself in too deep now to get away with that, he thought. They’d kill me for lying to them over these past months. Of course, Rockwell had vouched for him in the beginning and even now. If Rockwell told the team that he and Paul had orchestrated this operation, maybe they’d be able to forgive him.
Eventually.
Juan heard a soft scuffling up ahead and couched his thoughts. Thinking could get a guy killed. He held up a hand to signal Sam to stop and crouched low. Then he crept toward a garbage heap leaning against a building wall.
A large white rat burst out through a fat black trash bag, part of a hamburger bun in its mouth as it scurried toward him and darted around the corner down an alley. Juan held his breath and slid his gun back into his waistband.
A rusty fire escape ladder sat above the trash heap, and Juan called Sam over. Sam came forward and boosted him up, and Juan quickly scaled it, creeping over the edge of roof. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness when a hissing snarl sounded behind him. He turned in time to see a man in a black robe lurch at him, a curved silver blade whistling downward.
Juan dodged, knocked the knife arm away, and dealt the man a blow to the trachea. The robed man stumbled backward toward the edge of the roof. Stepping forward, Juan grabbed the man’s wrist, took the curved blade from it, and let him tip backward, plunging silently to the sidewalk below.
The man probably would have screamed if his throat hadn’t been injured. However, the impact of his body hitting the street below did make a sound. And as the crunching thud resounded through the nearby streets, Juan scanned the darkness below. Two figures in black garments paused to look around, and then a door opened in a sort of semi-inclined surface. It might have been a cellar door. There was a momentary glow of light, and then the figures were replaced by darkness. Juan descended the ladder, hung from the bottom, and dropped like a cat to the ground.
“The hell was that?” Sam asked.
Juan held up the curved snake sword as if that were explanation enough. “I know where they’re heading.”
He led Sam through the dark alleys until they were looking out around a corner at the cellar from thirty yards. It was positioned next to an old stone building with an unfamiliar insignia above the stone archway. They waited until a man in black walked down the cobblestoned street toward the building and rapped on the cellar door four times at oddly spaced intervals.
Then the cellar door swung upward.
A guard clad in a black Kevlar jacket with a submachine gun slung across his chest appeared from the steps below. He said something that Juan thought sounded like, “You were almost too late,” and the black-robed man held up a curved knife. The guard nodded and allowed the man to descend.
“I’m going in,” Juan said, holding up the knife.
“Me too,” Sam said.
“We have only one of those curvy blades. Besides, if something goes wrong, there needs to be someone who knows where I went. I think it’s time to call Rockwell.”
“Hell no. I’m not missing out on this.”
Juan thought about waiting for another black-robed figure to wander by so Sam could relieve him of his curved blade, but he didn’t want to let Paul get away. He had to be down there, and if he’d heard the guard correctly, the doors might be closing at any moment—it was almost at the top of the hour.
Juan hid his gun behind a dumpster and looked at Sam. “Look. I’m going in. I’m Paul Ramírez, the hero.”
Juan made to step out from the shadows and into the street when Sam grabbed his shoulder and turned him back around. “I’m coming, too, once another of those black robes comes and I take his blade.”
Juan nodded. He thought the door would probably be locked by then. “Sounds good.”
“Save some action for me, will ya?”
“I’m actually going to try to keep a low profile,” Juan said with a wink, and started across the cobblestone street for the cellar door, adjusting his gait so he wouldn’t trip over his robe. He wasted no time in knocking on the metal door in the four-knock pattern he had heard from the previous entrant. The cellar door opened upward, and the burly black-clad guard looked down at his watch, then back up at Juan.
“Traffic,” Juan mumbled as he held up his curvy sword.
The guard waved him in and patted him for weapons. “You cut it close,” he said, then reached into a recess on the da
rk shelf beside him. He handed Juan a flimsy piece of black plastic. It appeared to be a simple black mask with two eye holes and an elastic string connecting both sides.
Juan walked down the damp throat of the tunnel, hearing water dripping to the stone floor as well as the guard behind him throwing multiple locks across the inside of the cellar door as well as sliding a heavy beam in place. From up ahead came the muted chatter of a great multitude. It almost sounded like a banquet hall.
Juan was silently thankful that Sam wouldn’t be able to follow now. Even though Juan could use the backup, it ultimately made things simpler for him when he reached Paul. He’d just have to rely on his instincts and hope that Sam called for backup in case things went sideways. He also reflected that this would probably erase any goodwill he’d gained with Sam after beating up the robed men on the sidewalk. Sam would be furious for having missed out on whatever happened down here. Then again, Juan wouldn’t be surprised if Sam found a way to break through the fortified cellar door.
Lightbulbs with patches of red, orange, and yellow glass glared at Juan in the stone passage. The effect of the multicolored lights lent the illusion of torches without the smoke. Juan could now see that the plastic mask in his hands looked like the mask from a masquerade ball in some old movie. It was simpler, though, almost like what Zorro wore.
The Zorro movies had enthralled Juan and his brother when they were young kids. The hero was like the Spanish version of Robin Hood, and Juan realized that perhaps those movies had some impact on Juan’s career choice. He shook his head to clear it before he got too sentimental and lost his focus. Then he donned the mask and continued down the passageway.
A sudden throaty scream perforated the darkness ahead—a woman crying out in mortal anguish.
They can be part of the demonstration, Juan remembered the robed thugs saying.
He hurried his stride. Up ahead, the stone tunnel terminated at a solid-looking oak door. By the glow of the artificial torchlight, the pull handle on the door looked heavy and iron. Juan reached out and lifted the handle. It was surprisingly lightweight and actually made of plastic, and the door opened with almost no resistance.
What he saw stunned Juan nearly senseless.
19
Bazaar of Nightmares
The first thing that struck Juan was the loudness. The same torch-like bulbs illuminated a sort of expansive marketplace with figures standing behind foldout tables, their wares spread out before them as at a farmer’s market. But instead of fresh produce, they sold clear bags of powder in assorted colors, vials of dark liquids, knives both new and old (but all sharp), and guns, among other items. Behind the displays was a maroon-wallpapered wall spaced with gray fleur-de-lis designs as if to simulate a respectable selling hall.
The lights were brighter in this room than out in the dim hallway, and Juan counted at least fifty people in this room. Black-robed figures cast flitting shadows amid the cold artificial firelight as they turned and talked to each other, the loose flaps of their robes swishing. All of the figures wore their hoods up, and when his line of sight was just right, Juan could see their matching black masks. He grinned when he realized he wouldn’t have to work too hard to hide his own identity, but his grin faded into a frown when he realized it would be just as difficult to identify Paul.
One problem at a time, Juan thought, and diverted his mental focus to finding the “frequency” of the people in the room and then adjusting his own body language and mannerisms to match those around him so that he could blend in and move about freely without causing a disruption. He wondered how Sam would be reacting had he been here. There was so much illicit activity being conducted, so many people behind and in front of the tables. There was no way Sam could fight them all.
A woman’s scream tore loose over the roar of the room, and several black hoods turned toward it, so he figured it was safe to look as well. He found the source of the scream coming from a corner of the room where a sort of 6’x6’ arena lay enclosed by plexiglass walls. Inside the glass walls, two young women wrestled with each other.
Their eyes were almost glassy, the muscles in their arms and legs contorting as they rocked back and forth, trying to break free from each other’s hold. Blood seeped out of rivets in their forearms dug by each other’s fingernails, and bluish-green veins stood out along their skin as their bodies flushed with the heat and arousal of trying to throttle the other woman. They bared their teeth at each other as they struggled, the ripped remains of their transparent clothing mostly flapping from their shoulders or ankles like toilet paper as they moved.
The suddenness and grotesquerie of the scene caused Juan’s stomach to twist and tighten. There was a sepulchral obscenity to it that profaned life and human dignity.
A black-robed man standing out front of the glass display case raised his hands for everyone’s attention. “For those just joining, these two women have been injected with the ELEPHAS serum. For nearly twelve hours after the injection, the victim is willingly compliant to your wishes. These women were each injected about an hour ago. They were commanded to fight each other to the death with no rules. As you can see, they are young and healthy but not heavily muscled. The serum enhances testosterone production while blunting the peripheral nervous system’s ability to control motor functions so that the mind is pliant and the body obedient. Once they are injected, they are still capable of rational thought but will adhere to any rules or stipulations you put on them. If you tell them to stand still and do nothing, they will.”
The man tapped on the glass wall, and the women glared at him as they continued to fight, neither of them gaining the upper hand as their bare feet negotiated the slippery spots of smeared blood on the floor. “I want you both to stand still now and watch the crowd. Be nice to each other.”
The fight seemed to abruptly leave the women’s bodies, but their muscles were still engorged, veins still showing through their skin. They both panted, drawing in deep breaths as their chests rose and fell, their lungs grabbing up the oxygen they required. Their hot breaths fogged up the glass in front of them as they stood looking out at the crowd, and eventually their ragged panting turned to calm, slow breaths. They stood straight and tall, erect, as if on display.
This isn’t right, Juan thought as he averted his eyes and surveyed the crowd for their reaction.
“This is unbelievable,” one man said from under a hooded cloak next to the glass case. He seemed to be ogling the women behind his mask. “How long did you say this effect lasts?”
“Between twelve to twenty-four hours, although the effects start to diminish after twelve. As you can imagine, the uses for this serum are innumerable. You could turn street thugs into ‘super-guards,’ women into the best prostitutes money can buy, or—”
“Can you use it on your own self?” someone asked.
The showman paused. “You could. But I don’t see why you would want to. After twenty-four hours the subject starts to shake, and they must either be injected with the cure or another dose. Our scientists are working to enhance the formula.”
“Is there lasting damage,” someone asked, “if given the cure?”
The black-robed man tilted his head so-so. “Tests still need to be performed since results have been mixed. Some victims appear to be healthier after the dose. Sometimes their bodies degrade quite rapidly, and they start to have trouble breathing a day or two later. I hope I’ve answered your question. Any more?”
“Do they hear hissing?” Juan said, sidestepping after speaking, blending in with a cluster of robed people so that any one of them might have asked the question.
The showman’s masked face searched the masked faces, looking back at him for who might have spoken. “Well, they certainly could if you commanded them to hear hissing. Such a command might, however, drive them mad before they could carry out their main command. I think you would be better off with one of our other serums for that purpose. There’s hallucination serums and death serums, all deri
ved from natural sources in South America, of course. And I can personally assure you that we do not test on animals—only people.” He paused as this elicited some chuckles from the crowd. “Each serum contains a proprietary synthetic blend that breaks down any trace of it in the target’s system so that it cannot be analyzed or identified. Our serums are very high-end stuff. If anyone would like to discuss any we currently offer, please see me in a moment.”
The man searched for further questions. Hearing none, he turned back to the women. He placed his face next to some perforated holes in the plexiglass so that the women might better hear him. “I want you both to fight.”
Suddenly, both women’s eyes went wide in understanding, but one of them was faster. She sidestepped behind the slower one, slipped the crook of her arm around the forward-facing one’s throat and jerked back. The woman in front of her was slammed up against the glass before the crowd’s eyes, her skin mashed up against the glass. Some of the men in the crowd hooted. Juan discerned some women in the masked crowd expressing their glee. With the loose-fitting robes, Juan had assumed there might be some women in with the men, and now he was certain of it.
These are some sick individuals.
Juan’s mind sought a way to help the women, but no solution came to him. There were too many robed figures down here, and any action on Juan’s part would elicit a multitude of shiny curved swords drawn against him. He was just glad neither of the women was Josephina—Sam would never forgive him later if one of them had been her. He hoped Sam had called Rockwell. He glanced at his phone; there was no signal, so he slipped it back inside his robe. Of course they’d be jamming cell service down here. Since he hadn’t yet heard Sam crashing through the crowd, he knew he was truly on his own.
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