by Lynn Shurr
Ancona started up the precarious steps and waved Junior and Tom around the back. He went slowly, giving them time. Connor trailed him. So far, so good.
At the rear of the building, Junior and Tom climbed in tandem and flattened themselves on either side of entry to the altar of Ix Chel guarded by El Animal engrossed in the ceremony. They meant to wait for Tony, not as in shape as either of them since they’d left him puffing at the base of the pyramid, but the chanting stopped. The outlandish priest facing in their direction spoke to Xochi in English, his words entirely clear. He held a very authentic obsidian knife high above Xochi’s naked breasts. They had no choice but to act at once.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Xochi lay on her back, her breasts exposed again, her arms too weak to cover them. She’d been stripped of the ridiculous crown and beautiful feathered cloak. Must not get them bloody. Some sensation returned to her feet, prickling up her legs, allowing her to feel the raw spots where the metallic sandals had rubbed against her ankles and toes. Splayed as she was on the altar stone, any of the men could have raped her. Diaz certainly smirked at her from a corner as if the thought had crossed his mind. She doubted if she would have felt a thing. But no, they needed a virgin—to do what? Oh yes, restore El Jefe’s health.
Xo blinked to clear her vision and turned her head. Esteban Miro stood by her shoulder reverently holding his trembling hands cupped as if to receive the sacrament—not a wafer but her beating heart. His aura continued to dissolve, drifting away like the smoke of the small fire the priest had lit in a bowl-shaped depression on one of the stones. Indio had carried a bundle of twigs under his cloak, but lit them with a Bic. The anachronism made her smile as much as she was able, but control of her facial muscles was definitely returning. “Mumbo jumbo,” she managed to say. “Fr-Fraud.” She should have felt terror, but only a weak defiance surfaced, the drug perhaps suppressing her true emotions.
“Do not fear, Don Esteban. Soon she will carry our request for your restoration to Ix Chel.”
“Won’t,” Xochi vowed.
“She will have no choice. She is our virgin sacrifice. You will live again, and she will pay for the death of my son, Miguel, killed by the man who adopted her. Let him feel the pain of losing a child.” The obsidian knife he drew from a sheath at his waist rose high into the air to gain power from its downward thrust on its way to cut out her heart.
Xochi wished she were sleeping, but did she dream? Some mighty force shoved the Animal from the doorway and sent him facedown onto the stone floor. Junior filled one of the small entries to the sacrificial chamber. Not bare-chested, not wearing a bandoleer, but gripping a weapon in his hands. His deep violet aura clothed his entire body as he rested a heavy foot on the back of the thug.
“My father killed Miguel, not hers!” All eyes turned his way. The leering red devil on his shirt grinned in the moonlight, the rest of him dark in the night to all eyes except hers.
At her shoulder, Xochi heard Esteban Miro whisper, “El Diablo.”
His cupped hands broke open. The last of his aura evaporated. Xochi swore she saw a final flash of red in his eyes before the man crumpled to the floor of the temple. Let him ask Ix Chel for his own favors!
His darkness was replaced by the blazing yellow light of Tom’s aura as her brother ducked under Junior’s arm and fired at the priest’s hand as the knife moved downward. Shards of the jade breastplate filled the air. The tip of the sacrificial knife broke off, propelled by the bullet toward Indio’s eyes where it lodged, blinding the man. Yet, the lethal obsidian blade continued to descend. Junior discharged his pistol. Xochi believed he hit the man dead center where the mouth of the screaming man on the pectoral created a perfect O of a target. Junior walked over El Animal, moved into the chamber, scooped her from the altar, and threw her over one broad shoulder before he pivoted and darted toward the way out.
El Animal rolled over and raised his weapon to destroy them both. Tony Ancona took him out with a shot to the head. The man fell back like the dead beast he was. That left only Diaz alive, either fleeing or in pursuit, spraying bullets at Tom to gain exit. Had any hit her brother, extinguished his brilliant light? Xochi lost sight of him as Junior took three of the precarious steps at a time, gripping the gnarled trees at the side of the pyramid for balance. He jumped to the ground and hit the pathway running, the greatest speed trial of his life. His great heart pumped hard against her breasts. His lungs heaved beneath her ribs as he zigzagged down the path. Xochi felt the warmth, the connection between them, overcoming any numbness, any fear.
With her head lolling over Junior’s shoulder, Xochi watched him put distance between them and Diaz. Still the man fired at them, coming amazingly close to Junior’s feet and aiming higher. One bullet glanced off the automatic weapon he had strapped over his shoulder. Junior bucked but kept running as if he carried an intercepted ball toward the goal line. Nothing stopped his strides, not even the peccary in the road clacking its tusks in defense of its young. He vaulted over the pig. Diaz gunned the animals down to clear his way, but their fallen corpses scattered across the pathway slowed him and made the stones treacherous with their blood. He slipped, scrambled, regained his balance.
Junior reached the plaza where the road curved slightly, putting the bulk of the ruins between them and the gunman, but they could hear his running footsteps gaining as Junior slowed. “The ruin with the red hands, remember?” Xochi whispered in Junior’s ear. His breath coming hard, he nodded against her hair. “A little house with two rooms sits behind it. Go there. Hide us. He might have more men waiting to meet him at the entrance.”
“No, I can do this, keep running until you are safe.”
“Junior, we need to hide. Please listen to me. You are running on adrenaline and going to crash.”
Without breaking stride, Junior veered off on a little side path and stooped inside the building. He laid her tenderly on what Xochi knew to be another altar. Doubled over, his hands on his knees, Junior gasped for air. Diaz’s footsteps passed and headed for the visitor’s center where he might summon reinforcements of his own kind.
“If he doubles back, I’ll stand in the doorway and shoot.”
“No, I want you to take me.” Xochi found she could sit up on her own as the herbal potion wore off helped along by her own adrenaline rush.
“Take you where?”
“No, Junior, take me. They wanted a virgin. I refuse to be one any longer. I will not die a virgin.”
“Any other time, Xo, but not here, not like this. A virgin, I didn’t know. I’d have to be more careful.”
“Junior, come here and put your hands on my breasts.”
Laying his weapons aside, he moved to stand between her legs and obeyed. His hands were big and hot on her skin. He massaged gently, making her nipples press against his palms. His eyes closed as if he’d dreamed of this forever. She thought perhaps he had.
“Now kiss me.”
He did. Again, their lips fit perfectly, sealing with mutual passion. She licked the salt of his sweat from them. Xochi felt the warmth rising in her loins, spreading from a central core. She lay back against the stone of the altar taking Junior with her, pleased to feel his arousal in this most dangerous of situations. One of his hands deserted a breast and probed into the V of her skirt. She opened wide for him as he tested her with a broad thumb that sent bolts of pleasure through her body. “Hurry,” she said, arching for him.
“Soon.”
He continued the delicious torment of the thumb and inserted one broad finger inside of her, stretching her, trying to make this easier for her she knew, spreading the wetness he found around her opening. He paused, fumbling with the stubborn zipper of his jeans.
“Just do it, please, Junior!”
He gave one tremendous thrust of his pelvis and pushed through her virgin’s membrane. She’d felt worse pain when she skinned her knees playing soccer as a child. This was more of an extraordinary fullness that made her move her hips be
neath his, seeking comfort.
“This is going to be fast, sorry. Later, I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” Junior pulled back and thrust again, two, three times. He kept that thumb in place, though, bearing down, and Xochi felt the surge of completion other women talked about, but new to her. She clawed at his back in excitement. He flinched and withdrew. Her right hand came away bloody.
“You’re wounded, and yet you did this for me.”
“I would do anything for you. Take a bullet. Well, I guess I did.” With nothing to see him by but the moonlight of the goddess, Ix Chel, his smile still charmed her.
Footsteps approached. Their friends or Miro’s men? Junior tucked himself in, drew up the zipper, and grasped the automatic. “Get down behind the altar.”
Xochi pulled the embroidered band across her breasts, covering what she could, and crouched, but the running steps and heavy breathing passed to be followed a bit later by a more measured tread and Tom’s voice complaining, “Jesus, Connor, I can walk by myself.”
Calm and self-possessed, the doctor answered, “I’ve heard more than one man say that and then collapse. Accept the aid.”
“Here, in here!” Xochi shouted. “Junior needs help.” She crowded up behind her savior, trying to leave the small sanctuary and bring him assistance. Junior did not move. Blocking the doorway, he remained ready to fight. The conversation stopped, and the footsteps turned their way.
Xo saw the somewhat muted glow of Tom’s aura through Junior’s akimbo arms as her brother entered the first room of the shelter. He had a startling white sling on one arm and an equally pristine bandage on a bicep where his shirt had been torn away revealing a pressure pad on his shoulder. His attitude, not scared, but grouchy.
“Put that weapon down, Junior. You are damned intimidating when armed. Tony went ahead to pursue Diaz. He’s called in the FBI, too. Big mess to clean up back at the temple. Miro is dead—of natural causes, Connor says. El Animal and the Indian, they died of gunshot wounds. Tony took out the Animal. I fired on the priest, but I think Junior did the kill shot.”
Connor crowded in still toting the medical kit and the automatic weapon on his shoulder. “I only had to use one of these, and Tom is exceedingly ungrateful as well as lucky. A graze on the upper arm, and a bullet that passed clear through his shoulder without hitting anything major. Junior, let me take a look.”
“A bullet in his back. He’s been bleeding all this time, and I might have made it worse,” Xochi confessed. “Junior, take off your shirt and show him.”
“I’m fine. Just leave it, Xo. It felt like a bee sting.”
“Adrenaline kicked in just as it does when you are making a big play.”
“Yeah, I know that.”
“Right now, the bullet is plugging the wound, preventing too much bleeding. Now, give Tom the gun and show me your back—or I can just go around you if you stop blocking the way.” Connor waited with exasperated patience.
Xochi pressed hard against Junior’s hip trying to turn him like a stubborn revolving door. Finally, he yielded and passed his weapon to Tom while Xo stripped him of his red devil T-shirt and gathered the bloody shirt against her chest.
Connor took a flashlight from his bag and examined the wound. “Some scratches that don’t amount to much, and a bullet hole that needs to be probed somewhere with better light and much more sanitary conditions. I suggest we go to the clinic. It doesn’t look as if it’s embedded deeply, possibly a ricochet. On the whole, you are fortunate to have the musculature of an ox, Junior.”
“Gosh, thanks. I worked hard for my—musculature.”
They filed out, Tom and Connor and Junior. Xochi held back a moment. She’d left the goddess an offering of a small, brown stain on her altar. As she passed the wall of the red hands, she pressed her bloodied palm firmly against the stucco, then drew the T-shirt over her head to hide any accidental nakedness if the band should slip. They’d been here that imprint proclaimed, Xochi Billodeaux and Junior Polk, the man she loved.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Junior Polk only winced as Dr. Bullock captured the bullet in his back and tugged it free. The slug made a metallic sound, clanking into a metal pan at the clinic. The rest wasn’t so bad. Even if it had been, he would never give the doc the satisfaction of hearing him scream or let Xochi know how badly he might have been hurt. Bullock closed the wound with the help of a local anesthetic, slapped on a dressing, and administered a huge dose of antibiotics into Junior’s round, brown hind cheek. He wondered if the pants-down humiliation was necessary since Xochi stayed by his side, holding his hand, lending her warmth, as he lay on his stomach on the examination table.
Connor offered her a lab coat as a coverall, but Xochi refused to relinquish the bloody T-shirt. “I’m fine, not a scratch on me. I had to be kept perfect for the goddess. Lucky me.” She dropped Junior’s hand and hugged her arms tight around herself.
“Except for your feet, obviously.”
Xo wiggled her toes inside a pair of paper slippers, now washed clean and coated with antibiotic ointment. Ordinary stick-on bandages covered the shallow cuts on her ankles. “Those sandals did kill my feet. Being a human sacrifice is no picnic.”
Connor eyed her stance. “You should also see a psychiatrist for PTSD. Not only soldiers suffer from it.”
“I’ll see someone.”
“Someone better than a traiteur.”
“That’s up to me.”
Tony Ancona slouched in and propped himself up against a counter. He’d shed his jacket and wore the tight, black T-shirt and his shoulder holster, gun at the ready. Mucho macho, Junior thought.
Folding his arms across his chest, Ancona reported, “Diaz got away. The Feebs probably passed him on the road. That security guard hunkered down behind a counter as soon as he heard shots fired and left the entrance open. He said Diaz got into a white van with a bunch of other men. There must have been a plan to escape after the sacrifice and make for the yacht. The agents watching the ship couldn’t stop them. The Siete Pecados was all stoked to go and left without permission. She almost rammed several harbor patrol boats on her way out.”
“Where’s Tom?” Xo asked him.
“Calling Alix and your folks to tell them everyone is okay. I’m bushed. I really need to take up jogging again,” the police officer said as Junior pulled up his pants, shooting the athlete’s firm behind a look of envy. “I barely made it up that pyramid when Junior jumps into the doorway to say his daddy killed this Miguel, Miro’s right hand Mayan man years ago. By the way, a diversion is a few thrown pebbles, not baring your chest to a room full of gunmen. Maybe you’d go running with me, Xo, once your feet heal, to give me some encouragement.”
Xochi stared intently at the man, and Junior wondered what she saw as he had so often. “Tony, you believe strongly in what you do protecting the citizens of New Orleans and taking down the bad guys, but the work is already staining your soul. I see small black spots in your…never mind. I couldn’t live with what you do every day of the week. Take care not to go too far over the edge of darkness.”
“Yes, I never did hear you shout, Police,” Connor said.
Ancona shrugged. “Must have been too much noise with all the shooting going on.” He turned his attention back to Xochi. “Are you trying to tell me we don’t have a future together, Xo?”
“You will always be a hero to me. You and Tom, Connor and Junior who came so far to rescue me, but I intend to return to Chapelle and pursue my studies in—folklore.”
Junior inhaled, expanding his chest, and felt a slight twinge in his back. One rival down and one to go for Xochi’s affections.
“Mumbo jumbo,” the doctor said.
Xo stared at him with a sharp obsidian edge to her glance. “As for you, Connor. You have great confidence and self-esteem and will go far in your field, but I won’t be going along with you. You have no respect for things you do not understand.”
The remark hit home, and for a brief moment, his
green eyes betrayed disappointment, quickly gone. He fell back on his medical training, detached and clinical. “I suppose that’s settled then. Tom and Junior, no kicking, no pumping iron until those wounds heal.”
“Hey,” Tom protested. “I kick with my feet, not my shoulder.”
“But you do when you analyze it. Check with your trainers.”
“Okay, fine, but I really wish I could kick a few balls into the net right now and pretend they are the head of Esteban Miro.”
“Actually, the ancients often played ball games with the heads of their enemies,” Connor elucidated as he packed his supplies. “I’d suggest a few day’s rest before we take Wideout home.”
“Sounds good,” Junior agreed. He had no desire to draw Xochi’s attention to himself since she’d already dispatched two suitors as neatly as Bullock probably performed amputations. He knew what she’d asked of him back in the ruins was a favor, not a promise of love to come. Much as he wanted to take her into his arms this minute, he had to allow her to stand there in his bloody T-shirt hugging herself.
****
As it happened, they were required to stay in Cozumel until Agent Baldwin sorted out the situation. Choosing a different hotel from the one where Xochi had been imprisoned, Connor footed the bill for himself and Tony. Junior picked up the tab for himself and Tom while Tom paid for Xo’s room adjacent to theirs. “Just a scream away,” he jested, but his sister did not smile.
Following hot showers, sponge baths for Tom and Junior, and precious little sleep, the day progressed from sheer horror to the annoyance of long, separate interviews, to a mundane shopping trip amid the boutiques of Cozumel. Xochi begged for her underwear, purple dress and scarf and exchanged them as evidence for the Mayan garb she’d been forced to wear for the sacrifice. Junior offered to go first into the interrogation room as Xochi dressed and partook of a light continental breakfast with as much milky coffee as she wanted charged to her room.