On Deadly Ground (Devlin Security Force Book 1)

by Susan Vaughan

K’eq Xlapak

  Esteban Morales sighed as he disconnected the call. Nothing and no one must be allowed to stop this restoration. Forces of nature were one matter, but worse were human greed and cruelty. Poor Constantino. How much of what happened in Cabo Blanco should be shared? His chest ached with the dilemma.

  He stood quietly outside the king’s palace and let his gaze pan the expanse of the great plaza. His tour of the project’s work was his favorite part of the day. Seeing the entire city, not just the plaster floors and ceramics in the palace, reminded him of the grandeur they were restoring.

  The city was laid out around the broad limestone square, with the king’s palace on one side opposite the temple. Stelae the height of the church steeple in Cabo Blanco’s central plaza demarcated the other two sides. Beyond them the vegetation-buried remains of dwellings and other buildings only beginning to be mapped. To the east, the archeological team’s camp. Turning his face upward, he let the history of K’eq Xlapak wash over him with the sun’s rays.

  Boots scraped across the plaza. He turned to see his wife hurrying toward him.

  A smile lit Pilar’s fine features. “I have no patients this morning. No stitches needed from chisel cuts and no broken toes from dropped stones. Yet. I thought I’d join you for your morning tour.” She handed him a mug of coffee.

  He shook off his thoughts. Suddenly he felt very old. Caffeine was the boost he needed. “Thank you, querida.”

  They’d taken only a few steps across the stony ground when Pilar said, “You seem distracted, sad. Was it your phone call?”

  Temporizing, he sipped his coffee. Ay, so she’d noticed him talking on the phone. And she was too perceptive not to notice his mood. Not because she was the project physician, but because after so many years of marriage, she read him like a stela. He needed to decide what to do with what he knew. But if anyone could be trusted, it was his wife.

  He halted midway across the plaza. They stood far enough away from the work teams that no one would hear their conversation. He passed a hand over his face. “Sí, the phone. I will tell you because you may have advice for me, but you must promise not to share this confidence.”

  Her dark eyes solemn, she nodded. “What concerns you so?”

  “The call was from Kate Fontaine. Constantino was found murdered in an alley this morning. Beaten to death.”

  Her hand flew to her throat. “¡Dios mío! How could this happen? And Arturo?”

  “The señorita said they do not know. Perhaps he is hiding or perhaps he is coming here.”

  “What will you do?”

  “That is my dilemma. This disaster will delay the return of Kizin.”

  Pilar flipped her braid off her shoulder. To him she still looked young, but white strands now muted the bright red of her hair. She stared at the ground, pushing a pebble with the toe of her boot. “And the news might frighten the villagers.”

  “They are frightened now and every day grow more anxious.” As did he. And Pilar, judging from her tight expression. He downed the remainder of the black coffee. “The priests will see omens in Constantino’s death and alarm the people even more.”

  “If that is possible.” She shook her head. “What about Señorita Fontaine? Is she coming?”

  “Sí, but I do not know much. When I told her there was not enough time to send new Maya guides, she said only they would work out something.” A deep breath didn’t ease the tightness in his chest. “So should I keep the news a secret—at least until I know more—and say that Señorita Fontaine and her guides are on schedule?”

  “Perhaps that is wise. But Constantino’s family should know of his death. They will want to bring his body home.” Her voice was gentle.

  “Sí, I don’t like keeping it from them.”

  Pilar stared past him. “You must decide fast. Don Luis and his assistant are headed this way.”

  ***

  Cabo Blanco

  Alistair Sedgwick watched the two sods he’d hired to be sure they left.

  Unfortunately he’d been forced to make his arrangements long distance before seeing the pair. They slouched down the hall, their sandals scuffing the tile. They could as easily stab him in the back as rob him. Surprisingly, they’d accomplished what he’d asked, but they’d brought him a new problem.

  Fortunately the one called Zaga—appalling name—was just the sort of unscrupulous type he needed. If all went well, he’d have Kizin in two days. Then he could leave this backwater.

  He closed and locked the room door. Not that the thin wood could keep out either brigands or noise. He crossed the creaking floor and paced in front of the window with its peeling shutters and view of stray dogs picking through the spilled garbage. Staying at the same hotel with the Fontaine woman and her bodyguard had been out of the question. If this posada was the best alternative, a good earthquake might bloody well improve matters. What a pit.

  He was no safer here than within reach of Le Noir. But if he didn’t return with Kizin, he was a dead man. He shoved that morbid thought away. Now that the men had gone, he prepared to leave for dinner. Not that he could find a decent establishment.

  Knuckles drummed on the thin wood. The innkeeper, no doubt coming to apologize for the shoddy accommodations.

  When he opened the door, his heart took a flying leap into his throat. He couldn’t manage more than a croak. “Le Noir, what are you doing here?”

  The burly man’s lips curved in a sword-sharp smile. “I protect my employer’s interests, naturellement.”

  Bloody hell! Sedgwick hadn’t anticipated this turn of events. He eyed the Frenchman up and down, clad not in one of his silk suits but in a perfectly pressed tropical shirt and white trousers. “You don’t expect to go into the jungle with me, I hope.”

  “If I must, certainement.” Le Noir closed the door behind him. “But first, you must inform me what you ’ave planned with the two chameaux who just left.”

  ***

  West of Cabo Blanco

  Max steered over and around potholes. The limestone road arrowed straight through the canopy of trees. What had once been a major Maya thoroughfare was now a country lane that neglect had nearly returned to the jungle. What would’ve been an easy fifteen-minute drive on any U.S. highway was looking like an hour’s drive on this Maya ruin. Like on Afghanistan’s bomb-pocked roads, he could drive no faster than fifteen miles an hour.

  But dammit, they’d make it to within hollerin’ distance of K’eq Xlapak later today. Kate—and Kizin—would be safe. Barring anymore disasters. Still no word from Del Rio about rescuing Fontaine. He worked his tight jaw.

  “Jungle looks thick,” Kate said. On both sides of the road, trees and vines formed a wall of green. Decaying vegetation and new growth feathered the humid air.

  Max’s forehead hurt from scowling at the eccentricities of the no-frills pickup as they drove through the heat of the day. Larger than the SUV, it held all their food, camping gear, and other equipment. The hot air blowing in the windows plastered his neck and nibbled at his eyes.

  “Strange,” he said. “October usually means the end of the rainy season. I expected thinning foliage and more brown. Kizin must like rain with his tremors.” Vines and spider plants draped spiny acacia trees and thin-barked copas. “I’d hate to have to hack my way through those vines with a machete. They cover everything.”

  “There’s a bright spot after all. You won’t have to.”

  The concern in her tone suggested she was thinking of Constantino’s death three days before. He wished he had a word of comfort for her but he didn’t want to offer false promises. A miracle if Arturo made it to his village.

  He slanted her a glance. A white-knuckle grip on her camera bag, frown lines to rival his. She hadn’t recovered from the tremor at their lunch stop, a tin-roofed open-air dive beneath a sign reading Gas-Bar-Food. He’d scarfed down his lunch but she’d eaten only half of hers when the shaking knocked their plates to the floor.

  To his surprise, she l
ooked natural in hiking clothes. Good to go. Snake-proof boots. Moisture-wicking pants that cupped her sweet tush. Insect-repellant cotton shirt and pocketed vest over a form-fitting camisole. That meant no bra. His blood heated and he shifted in the seat.

  “Are you sure we can trust this man?” she said.

  She must be balancing on a thread. She was used to controlling events, not having events stampede her. He passed her a hand-held global-positioning-system device, more complex than the one she probably had in her car. “You know how to handle this?”

  “I do.” She pushed buttons to bring the screen to life. “I used GPS on my digs out west.”

  “I’ve keyed in the coordinates for our destination near K’eq Xlapak. You can see whether we’re headed there or Alaska.”

  Her eyes shone with purpose. “Leave it to me.” She yanked back her hair, secured it with an elastic thing, and threaded the gathered hair through the slot in her yellow cap. Finished, she paid him no mind as she became absorbed in the GPS.

  During their few days in the humid tropics, Kate’s hair had morphed from disciplined and tame to unruly. Sexy and soft and all windblown. Wild. He curled his fingers around the steering wheel.

  Heat—but not from the climate—trickled sweat down his back. His body tightened. He wanted her. And worse, he wanted to know what made her tick. Dangerous to involve himself for more than sex, but the woman had mysteries. And when he wanted something, he went for it.

  Shit, this expedition would be over before he ever saw her naked again or got to know her better. And she’d never speak to him again once she learned the rest about her brother.

  “Amazing that most of these ancient sacbéob are straight. Some are more than sixty miles long, leading to trade centers or religious sites,” she said.

  He grabbed his canteen—his old army one, lightweight like hers but in camo—and sucked down water like a desert rat. Between the muggy heat and the fucking road hazards, the muscles in his neck tightened into steel rods. At the speed they were traveling, a gang of bandits could waylay them on foot. If bandits could find them. Or Sedgwick. Or Lopez. Or Aguilar. Or any other greedy bastards. “You know why they topped the roads with limestone?”

  “You have me there.”

  “Unlike crazy gringos, the Maya knew enough to travel in the cool of the night. The white limestone reflected the moonlight so they could find their way.”

  Kate curled sideways in her bucket seat and regarded him for a silent moment. “Your ancient history courses?”

  He shrugged. “Worked my way through an associate degree before joining the army. Didn’t want to be just a grunt. Figured a degree’d get me in Special Forces.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me, you working the angles, I mean.”

  That was as much as he’d share. He’d already told her more than he usually divulged. “All Devlin field operatives have background related to art or ancient history. I haven’t studied much modern history of this part of the world. I wish I understood more about Costa Verde’s politics so I could figure out the who and why of Constantino’s death.”

  She bit her lower lip as if biting back emotion. “Did someone kill him to keep him from guiding us? Or were they trying to beat information out of him?”

  “It could be either. Or both. General Lopez is at the top of my list. He wants power. He has men who take orders without question.”

  “That description fits President Aguilar. And don’t forget Sedgwick.”

  He squeezed her hand in reply and withdrew so he could shift gears. Again. “It sucks, but men like him can always find low-lifes willing to do anything for money.”

  Then there was the Centaur syndicate. No point in piling onto Kate’s load of worry with yet another bad guy. Or team of bad guys. Shit. “Constantino’s murderers won’t bat an eye at killing us to get Kizin. You sure you won’t let me carry the statue?”

  “It’s my responsibility.” She glared at him. “We’re still in that much danger?”

  “No question. In Cabo Blanco, killing us would’ve caused an international incident. Out here, no law, no witnesses. If we disappear, we drowned in a cenote or a jaguar got us or bandits killed us—the possibilities are endless. And if Kizin happened to show up later at the K’eq Xlapak temple, they’d announce the find as a miracle.

  “The pistol you bought yesterday, it’s for jaguars?”

  “My Beretta’s okay as a concealed weapon. But this Glock 17 will take down a jaguar or a javalina.” He gripped the holster at his side. “Or a human.”

  Kate shuddered and lowered her gaze to the device in her lap.

  “There’s the air field sign.” The marker reading Aeropuerto was barely discernible in the weeds. He nosed the truck onto the dirt road. A series of bumps forced him to slow the pickup to a crawl. “This is no road. It’s a damn goat trail.”

  Soon the jungle opened into a clearing, weeds covering the stubble and rocky soil of what might’ve once been a farm field. An ancient Jeep stood beside a tin-roofed hut, over which a windsock sagged.

  “Hardly qualifies as an airport.” Kate’s eyes narrowed when she spotted their transport. “That looks like a military helicopter. An old one.”

  Smaller four-passenger helicopters looked to Max like beetles with rotors. This craft was a dragonfly on steroids. The helicopter’s rotors spun with a low whirr as the engine idled.

  The fifty-foot-plus chopper was a thirty-year-old U.S. military surplus UH-1H, better known as the Huey. According to the pilot, the Costa Verde military bought this bird years ago and recently sold it to him. He swore he had to use this remote field because only the government had access to the airport. The junk heap better be as flight-worthy as Julio swore on his mother’s grave it was and not Aerolínea Suicida.

  “Military surplus.” He stopped the truck a hundred feet from the chopper. Kept his expression neutral, hoping she wouldn’t ask for details.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Despite Kate’s hat, the full violence of the sun attacked her head like a laser as she descended from the truck. She peered at the helicopter over her shades.

  Dented and scratched fuselage, faded camouflage coloring, a swathe of bright blue on the side that contained a crude painting of a hummingbird in flight. Her stomach pitched. “We’re going to fly in that? That derelict?”

  “Perfectly safe. Refurbished and retrofitted. Room for all our gear.”

  At the strain in his voice, she pivoted to face him. “More of the Texas bull you employed to convince me this was a good idea?”

  “No bull, Kate. This is the only private chopper in the whole country.” His voice sounded reasonable as he swung on his backpack. “You got an alternative?”

  “You know very well I don’t.”

  Flying was their only choice. Dubious and risky to boot. When Max had said maybe his Maya blood would qualify him as a Maya guide, she couldn’t work up a smile. A search on his tablet located a cleared field where they could land within ten miles of the restoration. From there, they’d call Morales and arrange for real Maya guides for the last leg.

  Finally, she’d agreed because they had only eight days before El Día Maldito, not enough time to make it on foot.

  A slight, shaggy-haired man stepped away from the bird’s shadow. He wore shorts, a khaki shirt with epaulets, and the ubiquitous flip-flops. Ambling closer, he waved. “¡Hola, Señor Max!”

  Max waved. “That’s Julio.”

  “Not Maya.” Dust from the whirlwind kicked up by the rotor’s wash tickled her nose.

  He placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’ll be okay. This way we get there on time. Ahead of time.”

  “Heaven help us.”

  Heaven wasn’t listening, but maybe Hell was because without warning, the ground quaked and shuddered. She stumbled, and Max caught her to his tree-trunk-sturdy body and held on.

  His arms held her firmly. “Just another buckin’ bronco, darlin’.”

  Broncos that kicked up their heels with
more and more frequency and strength. Heart pounding like the rumbling ground, she gripped his biceps and waited while the surrounding trees swayed. The pilot hooked an elbow around a strut, and the helicopter’s rocking lifted him off his feet as if he were a child.

  When the rocking and rolling ceased, everyone breathed a deep sigh and brushed off dust.

  The pilot released his hold on the metal support and crossed to them.

  “Hola, Julio.” Max shook the man’s proffered hand. “¿Como está?”

  Kate didn’t hear Julio’s reply. She was still staring at the helicopter. But she pulled her attention back to the men as Max introduced her in English.

  “Mucho gusto, señora,” Julio said, shaking her hand and grinning widely. “Uh, happy to meet you. Thank you for hiring my beautiful colibrí, my hummingbird. She flies like the wind.”

  Kate returned the pleasantries and complimented Julio on his enterprise. “I hope she wasn’t damaged in that tremor.”

  He crossed himself. “No, no señora, all is well.”

  A second man descended from the co-pilot’s side. Taller than Julio, the square-shouldered newcomer looked fit in black T-shirt, jeans and new white Nikes. Sunlight gleamed off his opaque, black sunglasses and his bald dome, lending it an oily caramel sheen.

  Beside Kate, Max stiffened. “Didn’t count on an extra passenger, Julio.”

  The pilot snatched his ball cap from his back pocket and jammed it on his head. “This is my cousin Rufo. He will be my company on the return.”

  “Hola.” Rufo swept off his dark shades. His black eyes didn’t change expression when he smiled. “My cousin is superstitious. He does not like to fly the jungle alone.” He poked Julio in the arm. “I think he fears the old Maya gods will reach up and get him.”

  “I hope you do not mind,” Julio put in. Sweat budded on his forehead. His shoulders rounded in tacit apology.

  “I will help load the gear.” Without waiting for agreement, Rufo traipsed around to the truck bed.