It was by these means that Masters could control men such as these. They gave him the power to control them.
Before him sat Servando Lopez, the leader of this group, and potentially the template upon which all of his men were modeling themselves. He was leaning back in a wobbly kitchen chair, its legs sinking somewhat into the soft loam of the jungle floor. His feet were propped on a small breakfast table before him. The furniture was an oddity to Masters. It looked like set pieces from a ‘60s period drama, dragged out and placed strategically among the vines and foliage of the reeking jungle as if part of an art installation. It added to the surreal feeling of the place, which was likely to be exactly as Lopez intended.
Masters was glaring down at the man, giving his best boardroom stare. He felt confident enough. Surrounding him was a contingent of some of the most highly trained and most deadly mercenaries available for private hire. They could take down this ragtag group of guerrillas in minutes. They could even retrieve Ah-Puch for him, if it came to that. But Masters had another plan—one in which these guerrillas would play a vital role.
It had been a group very similar to this one that had delayed his plans in the first place, five years earlier. Their missteps and petty greed, not to mention their arrogance and ignorance, had set Masters back by a decade. It seemed fitting that he use their ilk to correct the record.
“Señor Jefe,” Lopez said, grinning. Mister Boss. Masters had carefully avoided identifying himself to these people, and the title was Lopez's way of addressing him and mocking him all at once. Masters could ignore the insult. He was the boss, after all. Letting Lopez joke about it would only enforce the idea among his mouth-breathing brethren.
Lopez was cleaning his fingernails with the fine tip of a large knife. “It is a pleasure.”
“All mine, I assure you,” Masters said, with unmasked sarcasm. He glanced around at the ramshackle collection of men and boys spread throughout the camp. Filthy, rancid-smelling men, every one. “El Campesinos,” Masters said, trying the word. Spanish for “the Peasants.” It was an apt name, though Masters had no idea why anyone would choose it. “Mr. Lopez, I trust that the information Mr. Simmons supplied will be enough for you to retrieve the item?” He nodded to Derek Simmons, who looked both incredibly uncomfortable and alarmingly out of place, stationed between the two armed and rugged looking contingents of guerrillas and Masters' own mercenaries. He looked afraid for his life. Which was appropriate.
Lopez brought the tip of his knife from one grimy fingernail and directly to the gap between two of his teeth, prying at some unseen food particle. He sucked his teeth then, pointing the knife at Simmons. “You are sure this one can be trusted?” he asked.
Masters regarded Simmons, who had gone white as sea foam when Lopez had pointed the knife his way. “It is in his best interest to be so,” Masters said.
Lopez nodded. “The information was good, as far as it went,” Lopez said, with mock geniality. “But we found that there were many more armed men present than we were told.”
“How many more?” Masters asked.
Lopez shrugged. “Many. We tried to retrieve the item two nights ago, and were fought back by many well-armed men.”
Masters glared at Simmons, who shrank back.
“I … I’m sorry, I didn't know they'd still be there in force. We were all ordered back to Valladolid, by the authorities. We …”
Masters raised a hand, and cut him off. He turned back to Lopez. “You were informed there would be armed men,” he said. “You assured me you were prepared.”
“For a small contingent, si,” Lopez said, nodding. “But these men were well trained. They fought us back, twice.”
“Twice?” Masters asked. “You took two runs at them, and failed me both times?”
Lopez bristled. “We were surprised the first time. The second time, we lacked the information that your man provides. We will not fail a third time.”
“It's advisable that you do not,” Masters said.
Lopez seemed to be fighting the urge to sneer, and Masters noted that some of the men close to him were tensed, ready to attack if he gave the command. Masters glanced at one of his mercenaries, who gave a barely perceptible nod. Assurance that things would go as Masters needed them to go.
“If the information is good,” Lopez said calmly, cueing his men to relax, “then we can do as you ask. But the presence of these armed men, señor … this raises the price.”
Masters considered Lopez for a moment, then nodded to the mercenary standing to his left. In a fraction of a second the man had Lopez sprawled on the ground, with the muzzle of a handgun pressed to his throat. The knife had been swept up in a fluid motion, and the mercenary held it expertly, the flat of the blade pressed against the skin of Lopez's cheek, its sharpened point perilously close to the guerrilla's eye.
Lopez let out a stream of curses in Spanish, and his men leapt up, weapons raised. They were intercepted by the rest of Masters' mercenaries, however, each bearing fully automatic weapons that could singly remove all of the men present from the comforts and burdens of the mortal coil.
“A Mexican stand-off!” Masters said cheerfully. Then he winced. “No, forgive me. That's horribly insensitive of me. To have a standoff, there would have to be some level of equality between two forces, correct? As I see it, however, there will be no Mexicans to stand, in three … two …”
“Estate quieto!” Lopez ordered.
His men reluctantly lowered their weapons, glaring at the mercenaries and at Masters himself. Masters gave no order for his men to lower their own weapons, however.
“Very good,” Masters said. “Now we have made some progress, haven't we Mr. Lopez?”
Lopez, having been released from the grip of the mercenary and assisted to his feet, scowled and nodded.
“I am a man of my word, particularly when it comes to money. You have already received payment for your services, Mr. Lopez. I prefer to pay upfront. No debts that way, you see. I abhor debt. No risk that the people I employ will go unpaid. But in return for that trust, I do have expectations. The price we discussed is the price, do you agree?”
Lopez, glaring, said quietly, “Sí. The price is the price.”
Masters smiled. “Excellent. But don't worry, Mr. Lopez. I understand that terms were set before all the facts were known. So, as fair compensation, I will pay an additional one hundred thousand, upon delivery. Agreeable?”
Lopez's eyes widened slightly, and he nodded, smiling. “Sí, that is agreeable, señor.”
“Good, I hoped it might be. And now, I expect that you will retrieve the item this evening, correct?”
Lopez looked at one of his men—the one who had served as a strategist, as far as Masters could determine. The man nodded, and Lopez looked back to Masters, smiling.
“Excellent,” Masters said. “Now we are doing business.”
Chapter 8
It was five in the morning when Kotler and Denzel loaded themselves into Graham's Range Rover. He had procured three travel mugs filled with what Kotler mentally labeled “adequate coffee,” and which both Kotler and Denzel appreciated for its caffeine if not for its quality.
Thanks to the one-hour difference between Eastern and Central time, the early hour didn't feel quite as early to either of them. Sleep had been a little rough, but they were far from groggy. Things were starting on a good note.
That would change.
The first half of the journey hadn't been so bad, with mostly paved roads, and only the occasional pot hole to jolt them. Eventually, though, the roads thinned to mere slender and worn dirt tracks, cutting through barely tamed brush. These signs of modest civilization eventually devolved altogether into a near-invisible trail through jungle growth. Tangles of vines often intruded into the lane, limiting visibility to inches in any direction that wasn't strictly forward or backward. More than once, they'd been forced to stop and move a fallen tree or some other obstacle from the road. Graham cautioned them to be
alert.
“There are all sorts of deadly natural dangers here,” he said in a dire tone. “But there are also guerrillas in the region. Be cautious, and be careful of traps.”
Denzel had nodded along with this advice, and had answered by ensuring his weapon had a round chambered, ready for use. Kotler, of course, was once again short of a weapon of his own—a chronic condition that he was slowly growing tired of experiencing. Here, in the wilds of Central America, he would be foolish to go unarmed for long.
Graham agreed, and informed Kotler that there were multiple handguns stashed throughout the Range Rover. Kotler found one attached by Velcro, under his seat. He held it up, giving Graham a quizzical look.
“You can never be too careful,” Graham shrugged. “Or too well armed.”
Kotler looked to Denzel, who had a disapproving expression. The agent shook his head. “You know what you're doing. Just don't shoot me. The paperwork is brutal.”
Kotler chuckled, chambered a round, and tucked the weapon into his belt, at the small of his back, ensuring its safety was engaged. Not a recommended way to carry a weapon, he knew, but it did keep it out of the way as he and Denzel assessed the current obstacle—a tree, fallen across the road, showing signs of natural breakage, at least. It didn't feel like a trap, but the two of them remained cautious as they approached, scanning the tree line on either side of the path, alert to any movement.
Together they hefted the top end of the tree, pivoting it on its ragged, broken trunk, and sliding it out of the road to clear the way for Graham to drive through.
This, or something very similar, was repeated several times as they bumped their way along the trail, and it made for sore and aching muscles in their backs, shoulders, and arms. It made the journey all the more grueling, particularly as they began to keenly feel every jolt from the road as they traveled at a snail's pace ever deeper into the jungle.
They hadn't encountered any crocodiles or snakes, at least. And, best news of all, no signs of guerrillas lying in wait.
All of these stops and the plodding pace added to their travel time, however. What would have been a three-hour drive, as the crow flies, was now inching into six hours. The wisdom of leaving at sun-up was increasingly apparent—they would not want to make any part of this journey in darkness.
When they did finally break through the jungle growth, into a bright and sun-dappled clearing, all three men were visibly relieved. Kotler hadn't realized just how tense he and his companions had become, making sporadic leaps from obstacle to obstacle in the jungle, without so much as a clear view of the sky, most of the way. It could be a nerve-wracking experience, to find yourself surrounded by unrelenting nature, particularly when you are aware that most of the life around you saw you as either a threat or as food.
The clearing they entered wasn't a natural phenomenon, of course. Like the trail they had used as a road, the clearing had been initially carved from the jungle by Graham and his team. They had hacked their way through the relentless growth, with far more than the occasional roadside obstacle to deal with. And though it was true they'd had equipment that helped make short work of the tangles and fallen trees, progress to this point would have been torturous.
Kotler had done treks like that, in his time, pushing through seemingly impenetrable natural barriers by sheer force of will, occasionally aided with tractors and front-loaders. Those journeys weren't his favorite.
He preferred getting to a site that was already in motion, of course. Who wouldn't? All the same, and despite any sense of rivalry that may have been felt between him and Dr. Graham, Kotler respected men like Graham for their perseverance and determination. Any arrogance they may exude was, at the very least, well earned. It took a special sort of person to push through jungle like this, just to get to some abandoned buildings made of stone, with no guarantee that anything good would come of it.
A special sort of person—Kotler couldn't help but wonder, then, what had driven Maggie Hamilton out to this place.
They parked the Range Rover near a small fleet of other vehicles, including a couple of surplus military transports. There was something about these that seemed familiar to Kotler. In particular, when he saw that one of the transports had an array of bullet holes in the door, it nagged at him that perhaps he'd seen it before. Then again, he'd seen many military transports, and many bullet-riddled doors, over the years. His, somehow, had become a career in which bullets and surplus military resources were abundant.
They left their gear in the Range Rover for the moment, and ventured into the camp, where dozens of green canvas tents were set up on pallets, giving them a few inches of rise above the rough-hewn ground. These would help keep out runoff from rain and, more importantly, help to deter snakes from entering the tents. Cots and continual vigilance would do the rest—checking boots and blanket rolls and anything else before sinking in for a night's rest was always a good idea in the jungle.
The collection of tents formed a ring around a central area, where large containers of water were elevated and mounted to wooden stands, their spigots accessible to anyone who needed to refill a canteen or other container. There was a large ring of stones in the middle of the space, where a fire had burned down to ash and embers, ready to be stoked back to life as night drew closer. A large, home-built smoker was set up in one end of the camp, surrounded by collapsible tables covered in cooking supplies and utensils. Ice chests filled with food and beer and other essentials rested on the ground, close at hand.
It was a fairly comfortable camp environment, Kotler thought. And the men seemed comfortable enough as well, though they all showed signs of being continuously alert and aware. The men had watched as Graham led the way into the camp proper, and Kotler had picked up the slight tension that eased from hands reaching for weapons, resting beside each man as he sat in an otherwise casual repose. They recognized Graham, but were ready for anything.
There were a few men on patrol as well, brandishing rifles and looking very serious about their jobs, which was a comfort, given the high rate of guerrilla activity in the region.
Others were clearly off duty, or at least at ease, chatting quietly and amiably amongst themselves as they ate lunch. Each man was dressed much like Denzel—jungle fatigues, but olive-green T-shirts, and many of them wearing wide-brimmed hats that had mosquito netting rolled up and ready to deploy. Night time would be the domain of the insects, Kotler knew. He'd packed plenty of repellant and mosquito netting himself.
“Well shave my balls and call me Dixie,” a loud and boisterous voice said from behind them, as Kotler and the others stood assessing the scene.
They turned, and Kotler grinned, shaking his head and hardly able to believe his eyes. “Sarge?”
Will “Sarge” Canfield was a tall and well-muscled bulk of man, with shocking red hair and a handlebar mustache that had grown in length and impressiveness since Kotler had last seen him. To Kotler he resembled the “overly masculine man” meme—an image of a mustachioed and bare-chested boxer or circus strongman from the twenties, baring his fists and saying typically “manly” things. Things, Kotler mused, that Sarge himself was likely to say.
Sarge and his men had headed security at the dig site in Pueblo, where Dr. Eloi Coelho had discovered his infamous medallion. This, in turn, had led to the discovery of a Viking presence in central North America, far inland from the Northeastern coast of North America, where a Viking presence had been established.
The discovery had triggered a series of events that put millions of lives in jeopardy. It had been the first time Kotler and Denzel had worked together, and had essentially set the tone for their relationship, for good or ill. Mostly good, by Kotler's estimate.
Kotler had great respect for Sarge and his team, who had helped put down a serious threat to national security as “all part of the job.” He was a coarse but honorable man. Though the emphasis could well be placed on coarse.
“What in the five Burroughs of hipster hell are you t
wo dingles doing way out here?” Sarge grinned around an unlit cigar, clamping his powerful hand onto Kotler's own in a painful but oddly comforting grip.
He turned and repeated the gesture with Denzel. “We're investigating Ms. Hamilton's death,” Denzel said.
Kotler noted he did not mention Ah-Puch, or the potential of a biological weapon. They hadn't discussed it, but Kotler took this as confirmation that the details behind their being here were “eyes only.”
“I knew they were sending in the Feds,” Sarge said, shaking his head. “I had no idea it'd be you two.” He looked at Kotler, sizing him up and down. “What about you, squint? I hear you’re working for the FBI now?”
“Consultant,” Kotler smiled. “Got a gun and everything.”
“For now,” Denzel said.
Sarge chuckled. “Well, good deal,” he said. “It's not a bad idea to be armed out here. We've had one or two tussles with locals, mostly the boys who had this place set aside as their own personal hidey-hole.”
“How many tussles?” Denzel asked.
“Three, so far,” Sarge said. “First one came right after Dr. Graham here went to the States.”
Graham was standing just to the side, and at the mention of his name he stepped forward. “Was anyone hurt?”
Sarge shook his head. “No. I don't think they were expecting us that first night. Or they weren't expecting us to be so prepared,” he grinned. “Scared the shit out of them and they left. The next two runs came over the next few weeks. I've had patrols and perimeter guards runnin' since we got here, and the skirmishes tend to happen out in the weeds.” He waved a hand at the jungle. “Good thing we sent all the civvies home, though. I don't have the resources to babysit you folks.”
This last was clearly meant as a warning, Kotler decided. While Agent Denzel might not be a “civvy” by Sarge's estimate, Kotler and Graham certainly were. And the warning was that he would do his best to protect the site, and anyone in it, but their personal protection was largely up to their own judgement and skills.
The Girl in the Mayan Tomb Page 8