On Deadly Ground (Devlin Security Force Book 1)

by Susan Vaughan

  They picked their way past a smashed flower pot and returned to the bar.

  As the bartender mopped up a broken bottle of tequila, he called out, “No es un terremoto, solamente un advertencia de Kizin.” He crossed himself.

  Kate blew out a breath. “I understood the first part, that it wasn’t an earthquake. What was the rest?”

  “He said it was only a warning from Kizin.”

  Her lips curved in a wobbly smile. “Ah, now you see how strong the belief is here.”

  More than he wanted to, he got it. This expedition had started on shaky ground that was getting more unstable by the minute. What other beliefs did people here have about Kizin’s so-called powers and how far would some go to get those powers for themselves?

  The bartender delivered new beers, then swept up the broken glass by their table.

  Kate downed a healthy swallow of her new Sol. “Sorry I panicked.”

  “I was damned scared too. But your reaction shot to the top of the fright-o-meter at Terrified. It’s not El Día Maldito yet. What gives?”

  “I grew up with stories about the earthquake that killed my great-grandfather. You’d be terrified too.”

  “And the curse? Are you a believer?”

  Those vertical thinkin’ lines between her brows, she stared at a condensation circle on the table. “Like I said, I grew up with the stories. More than that, the curse legend has been told and dissected around the Fontaine dinner table since before I was born. It’s practically part of my DNA. I consider myself a sensible person, but this...” She looked up and shook her head. “I can’t say I believe, but I can’t say I don’t.”

  “Too many things in the world can’t be explained.”

  If there was a word for earthquake phobia, he didn’t remember ever hearing it. In spite of her fears, Kate came to fault-line central on her risky quests that included some nebulous challenge to herself. A hell of a determined female. “You know the tremors are increasing in strength?”

  “And frequency, yes.”

  Shit, now he was scaring them both. “Change of subject.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” She lifted her bottle.

  The kidnappers’ demands bugged him. Too much made no sense. “Why Maya guides? They could be in danger from the kidnappers. We could use GPS and guide ourselves.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t lost sleep over that. When Doug and I originally set up the return of Kizin with the archeologist, the Jaguar Priest had certain requirements. One is that a descendant of the foreigner responsible for losing Kizin must return the figure in person.

  He quirked a brow. “Another is Maya guides?”

  “Exactly. And walking there on the limestone road built by the ancient Maya. The priest insisted. And now the kidnapper insists I follow the same instructions.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why, and I don’t much care. I want my brother out alive and the Kizin statue back in its temple.” Her face crumpled. “Why hasn’t the kidnapper called me?”

  “Don’t head down that bad road. Possible he doesn’t know we’re here. Or he could be waiting for us to head into the interior.”

  In that case, it was possible the guides were involved in the kidnapping. Or not, and the whole priest thing was legit. DSF had tracked Fontaine’s flight from D.C. but had zip on anybody accompanying him or meeting him. Security cameras in the Cabo Blanco airport were nonexistent. Thomas’s supposition was that the kidnappers had hidden their captive somewhere in the jungle. But insist Kate stick to the priest’s orders? To draw her into the jungle where she’d be more vulnerable? Or—

  Max was getting nowhere. Only guessing. He lifted his beer to his lips. “I’ve read some on the contemporary Maya. In the remote villages they follow a mix of the old beliefs and Christianity. People have both kinds of priests bless their babies. The priests of the Classic period wielded enormous power that included predicting the future and averting famine, plagues of ants, and earthquakes. A good bet the imminent threat of earthquake increased the Jaguar Priest’s role.”

  “I agree, and many of those remote villages have only the Jaguar Priest. But again you surprise me. Your knowledge about the Maya seems to go beyond antiquities study.”

  “Not just a pretty face.”

  She laughed, low music that tightened his body. Again. “I’m beginning to see that. So how do you know to say Maya for the people and Mayan for their language?”

  He studied her expression. Open, curious. No harm in telling her. “When I was a teenager, I worked after school mowing lawns and trimming hedges with a Guatemalan guy. Nestor insisted I had Maya blood and the idea I might got me interested in Maya history and culture.” Nestor had done more than that. The old man’s encouragement and trust had given him a direction in life.

  Grinning, Kate looked him over. “You’re no short Maya. One of your parents gave you the height gene. Your dad?”

  “Probably. I never knew him.” Shouldn’t have opened the door but thinking about Nestor had distracted him. He hitched around in his chair. His mom had been short, or did she just seem that way because he’d been tall for his age?

  She leaned forward, sympathy shining in her eyes. “Did he die when you were young?”

  He stifled a hoot. “I meant I don’t know who he was. I doubt my mom did.”

  “I shouldn’t have assumed. Your mom raised you alone?”

  Her question was natural enough. Her blue gaze fixed him with interest, not pity.

  He wasn’t about to spill about being dumped at age ten or foster homes or any of that. He could barely remember his mother’s face or the sound of her voice. The anger had faded, leaving an occasional aching hollow behind his ribs. Like now.

  He wagged his head. “We did okay. Happens all the time.”

  She shifted, crossing her legs.

  Better if he focused on the slide of the short skirt on her thighs rather than the implications of his maudlin history.

  History? What a laugh. A half-Mexican-half-Anglo kid from the barrio? He’d made it out but had a history shallower than a Houston bayou. A reason to explore ancient history, like Nestor used to tell him.

  Her smile was soft. “Well, Max Rivera, kid of a single parent, I’d say you’ve done damned well for yourself.” She placed her hand on his arm.

  Tingling, and not from embarrassment, swept up his arm. He covered her hand with his. “Don’t worry about the guides, Kate. I’ll figure out a way to send them ahead once we make contact with the kidnappers.”

  Her good humor vanished at the reminder of her brother’s plight. She withdrew her hand. “Do you think he’s still alive?”

  What could he say? “You’ve followed their directions. When they call, we’ll get proof of life and go from there.”

  “All we can do, I guess.” She set away her beer and stared at the tabletop.

  A few minutes later two men, ball caps in hand, entered the hotel bar. They wore T-shirts and baggy shorts. Short and stocky, their dark skin and broad features marked them as Maya.

  Man, did they ever resemble their fierce-looking ancestors portrayed on countless stone walls of ancient hidden cities. Flatten their foreheads with tight headdresses and dress them in tunics, and they were the same people thousands of years ago who built cities and temples and invented a perpetual calendar. Hell, if Nestor was right, he shared their ancestry.

  “Here they are.” Kate stood and beckoned. “Hola, señores. ¿Cómo está?” She repeated the greeting in Yucatecan Mayan. “Bakoosh.”

  Max leaned closer. “You speak Mayan?”

  “As well as I do Spanish. Un poco.” A little.

  The two men approached. “Señorita Fontaine?” said one. A shy smile gleamed beneath a bushy mustache.

  She replied to his question and introduced Max. On a sigh, she said, “You’ll have to take over.”

  “¿Qué onda?” Seeing the men’s blank expressions, Max wanted to take back his street greeting. Mexican Spanish differed from other Spanish dialects
more than British English did from American. He needed them to relax so he could take their measure. “Buenos días.”

  “Me llamo Arturo Gomez.” The one with the mustache introduced himself. Arturo’s dark eyes were gentle, like his voice.

  The other man was his younger brother Constantino. He’d slicked his hair back with styling gel or thirty-weight. His T-shirt bore Kiss’s black-and-white painted faces. He ogled Kate for a second before wilting under Max’s death stare. So much for relaxation.

  Everybody shook hands, and Kate gestured for the brothers to take seats.

  Arturo explained in halting phrases that he and his brother were still learning Spanish. In their village the people spoke only Mayan.

  For the next few minutes, Max and Kate questioned them in a jumble of languages. Both men knew their prescribed route and the jungle as well as a couple of villages along the way where they’d be welcome to stay if they didn’t want to camp.

  Morales, the archeologist, had told them only that two norteamericanos needed guides to reach K’eq Xlapak along the old routes. Nada about Kizin. A good sign... if they told the truth.

  Arturo struck him as competent and earnest, the younger brother as careless, a little wild. After another round of handshakes, they left.

  Max watched them hustle across the plaza. They’d do—under his supervision.

  “Finally something has gone right,” Kate said afterward as they climbed the stairs to the second floor.

  “Once we stock up on equipment and food, we’ll be ready. Arturo said they’d meet us here tomorrow morning to show us the best places to buy supplies.”

  “Perfect.” She stopped at her room door. “Presidente Aguilar’s gala starts at nine thirty tonight. We have plenty of time to rest and have a leisurely dinner.”

  Max groaned.

  “Yes, the gala. I know you’d like to forget it but I need you.” She removed her purse from the camera case and dug inside for her key.

  “Wait,” he said, tugging her aside. “I need to check the rooms first.”

  He motioned to her to wait while he unlocked his door.

  Scratches marred the metal around the keyhole. He wrapped his hand around the Beretta in his pocket. “Hold on. Somebody’s been here.” Could still be here.

  Kate gasped. “Inside?”

  “Maybe. Stay back.” He withdrew the semi-auto and pushed open the door. The mattress lay sideways against the wall. Luggage linings had been slashed. Clothing and toiletries strewed the green tile floor. Heat blasted through his blood. “¡Cabrones!” The bastards!

  She surged forward into the doorway. “Oh, my God!”

  He tucked her behind him and scanned the room. More mess. Stuff scattered over the floor, under the bed. He’d had his tablet with him, so no breach of DSF security. “Somebody searched. A damn thorough job and they didn’t care who knew. Nobody here now.”

  “They must’ve gone into my room too. My computer!” Another gasp, of indignation.

  When she started to rush past him, he stepped in front of her. Blocked her. “No, you don’t, darlin’, not like in Sedgwick’s vault.”

  Keeping himself between her and the connecting door, he crossed the room. Flung the door wide.

  Chapter Ten

  By the time the police finished with the crime scene and interviews, eight o’clock had come and gone. Both their rooms had been trashed and searched, but nothing was missing. Kate couldn’t say so to the officer, but the burglar was obviously searching for Kizin.

  The police officer dismissed her question about fingerprinting, saying a hotel room either had layers of prints or none because some industrious maid had wiped everything clean. He’d said detectives would investigate thoroughly, but she thought his hasty assurance stemmed from Max’s fierce insistence.

  Apologizing for his hotel and for every member of his ancestry, the hotel manager moved Max and her to new adjoining rooms on the third floor. He had a complimentary meal delivered to their rooms—fish grilled in banana leaf, a local delicacy. Delicious, but she could choke down only a few bites.

  The new room was identical to the last—peeling turquoise paint, chipped tile, bed, bedside table, chair, and a small bureau. Shabby but clean, and the ceiling fan moved the air wafting through the open shutters.

  She slipped on her gown for the gala, a metallic gold knit that shed creases—unlike the rest of her clothes, wrinkled as prunes. When she picked up her gold drop earrings, she fought to steady her hands. A shower had removed the sense of violation, but good God, what else could go wrong?

  She lifted the small jade carving from the bed, where she’d laid it after checking to reassure herself it hadn’t been damaged in their wild ride to the warehouse. The emerald eyes sparkled and the gold inlay gleamed in the lamplight. “Quakes every twenty years a result of rhythms in the faults, or is your curse real? Not answering, huh?”

  She sat on the hard mattress and brushed the tablet screen. But she could concentrate on her notes no better than on her dinner. She kept wondering about the next setback, wondering about Doug’s condition.

  He embraced buying and selling artifacts with same enthusiasm he’d had collecting baseball cards. He’d practically levitated with excitement at the biggest find of his treasure-hunting career. Kate pictured the gleam in his eyes, the same blue as hers. Until she’d played the guilt card about family honor and returning Kizin to K’eq Xlapak instead of selling it. If only she’d gone with him to England.

  And why the hell hasn’t the kidnapper called? She glared at the satellite phone, willing it to ring.

  When she heard two sharp raps, she jumped, pulse racing like a frightened bird’s. God, she was an idiot. It was only Max knocking on the connecting door. She sucked in a deep breath and rolled her shoulders. She’d have to hold steadier than this. Who knew what would happen tonight at the palace or in the jungle? “Come in.”

  He charged in, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. He ran a finger around the inside of his starched collar. “The manager damn well better have the rest of our clothes cleaned and pressed by nine A.M. like he promised. I’m not wearing this monkey suit one nanosecond longer than I have to.”

  Kate’s mouth went dry. Her fingers stilled on the keyboard. She swallowed. Curls of heat wound through her.

  Her reaction must have been apparent because he grinned and struck a pose. “Like what you see?”

  His Texas drawl melted into her like butter on a hot croissant. The midnight blue silk looked tailored to fit his perfectly sculpted body, and the pleated white shirt complemented his bronze skin. The chin cleft looked oh so touchable. Why did she ever consider his blunt features unhandsome? Testosterone oozed from his pores, making her acutely susceptible to his maleness... more than to any other man. Another flutter of awareness flared.

  Damn, she shouldn’t let herself think this way about him. He was her employee, her protector, and that was all. Even if she couldn’t forget that kiss. She needed the same determination against Max’s charm as she had against thieves.

  His response when she’d confronted him about pressing her on Doug’s business dealings had been too quick and too dismissive. He hadn’t asked again, but how could she trust him enough, let alone act on her attraction to him?

  She cleared her throat. “I’ll be the envy of all the women at the president’s palace.”

  “Your servant, ma’am.” His languid gaze caressed her body. When he met her eyes, he lowered one eyelid in a slow wink. “As long as I get to escort you in that gold paint masquerading as a dress, wearing this strait jacket is worth it.”

  “Why, thank you, sir.” All she could think of was getting him out of that “strait jacket” and licking every inch of those muscles. She lowered her gaze to the computer screen. “I’m just reviewing my notes on the president and his wife.”

  He crossed to look over her shoulder at the screen. Scant inches from him, she could feel his body heat and smell his aftershave. Oddly comforting. Her pulse l
eaped. Be tough, Katherine.

  He continued around the bed and settled on the straight chair. “Aside from the statue’s curse and its history, could somebody be after the emeralds?”

  “Possibly, but intact it’s worth much more. There is one suspicious character in the hotel. You know, the hard-looking man who hangs around the lobby, the man with the gun on his hip. The police officer just shrugged when I mentioned him.”

  Max cleared his throat. “The cop didn’t care because that man is house security.”

  Now she felt foolish. Except for her concern about the man’s drinking on duty. But she’d leave that particular battle aside. “Anyway, thank God I had Kizin with me.” She picked up the statue and extended it toward Max.

  He accepted the heavy object, turning it this way and that and examining the fine craftsmanship. “Amazing that somebody created this to sit on an altar for only a short time.”

  “Even more amazing that this one wasn’t smashed and dropped in a cenote with the others. They must have been interrupted.”

  “By an earthquake?” He passed the figure back to her.

  “Maybe. Appropriate or ironic, I’m not sure which. We’ll never know. He has other names and other guises, the god of death, for one. The earthquake connection seems to come from depictions showing him uprooting trees planted by Chac, the rain god. Other stories, later ones after the Spanish conquest, merge him with the Christian devil.”

  She wrapped the small statue and re-inserted it into the false base of the camera bag.

  Frowning, he shoved to his feet. “This break-in was about Kizin. I hope you see just how dangerous your enterprise is. Things could get a whole lot worse on the trail.” When she started to speak, he held up a hand. “Nope, not trying to talk you out of anything.”

  “Finally, you get it.” She held up the camera bag. “I can’t take this with me to the gala.”

  He frowned, looking dubious. “The SUV’s glove box locks.”

  She gripped the bag’s strap. “Secure enough?”

  “All I can offer short of waking up a banker and renting a safe-deposit box. But I wouldn’t trust that much more than the glove box. Plus, tonight’s thieves are probably following us.” He grinned. “Ready to go dazzle los selectos? The elite, that is.”