Denzel dropped behind the smoker, using its steel casing for cover. Kotler hit the ground, still keeping the other man in his sights. He noticed, then, that the man he'd shot was stirring, getting to his feet.
He was wearing a flak jacket—probably a military surplus vest that had ablative layers of metal plates, in place of Kevlar. Old, out of service, but still useful.
The man rolled and joined his friend behind the crates, firing his own weapon in more controlled bursts that tended to be far better targeted.
From his vantage point, Kotler could see the two men, but couldn't do anything about them. He fired occasionally, just to keep them in place and keep their heads low. Beyond that, he couldn't reach them without putting himself in the line of fire.
The first man dove again for the crates he had been searching, turned one crate on its side, and seized something that Kotler couldn't readily identify, in the dark. He barked orders in Spanish at the other two men. The injured man struggled, but couldn't quite pull himself together. The other rose with his AK-47, laying heat over the area in quick bursts, taking cover as Denzel, Kotler, and even Graham fired back in turns.
Kotler ducked during one barrage of automatic fire, and when he peered back he couldn't see the first man anymore. Had he escaped? Been hit?
There was no way to know, for now, and so Kotler and the others continued to exchange fire with the lone gunman, who was doing an impressive job of holding his position.
This went on for long enough that some of Sarge's men erupted on the scene, laying suppression fire as two of their own swept in. They were on top of the two remaining guerrillas in seconds, and in no time had the men sprawled face-down on the ground, hands bound behind them.
Kotler got to his feet, and noticed Denzel and Graham making their way, cautiously, weapons raised, to where Sarge's men had the guerrillas trussed up. Kotler joined them, sweeping the clearing with his weapon as he moved, keeping low.
“Is this it?” one of the mercenaries asked.
“Two out of three,” Denzel said. “One of them made off into the jungle. Any signs of others, from the perimeter?”
“Negative,” the man said. “Reports are telling us their men just turned and lit out, all at once. Firefight is dying down.”
Denzel shook his head. “This makes no sense. Why risk this?” he asked.
Kotler answered. “They were after something. And they may have gotten it.”
“What did they take?” Denzel asked.
Kotler didn't know. But what he did know was that these men were definitely not just trying to reclaim their turf. In fact, he was pretty sure they'd been hired by someone to come here, and take whatever was in that crate. This had been a well-orchestrated hit, which was not beyond the abilities of a band of guerrillas, but the objective had been a bit too refined. All this, and now four separate attacks, just to retrieve an object hidden in one of the crates? Not to mention the intelligence—someone had provided them with the exact location of whatever it was they took.
There was someone else at work here, behind the scenes.
As predicted, the firefight in the jungle died to nothing, and the quiet following the battle was a bit unnerving. Even the night life of the jungle had gone silent, taking shelter out of fear of all the noise. Sarge and his men returned, and he bellowed orders to keep a guard rotation going, to up the number of patrols, and to make sure no one was left hanging around out in the dark.
Kotler watched all of this, and then turned to Graham. “I think it's time you told us what you've found here,” he said.
Graham was looking just north of panicking as it was, and his response to Kotler was a bit shaky, as he collected himself. “Yes,” he said, nodding and swallowing. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
Chapter 10
Kotler was pleasantly surprised to discover that numerous members of Sarge's team were trained field medics.
“What, you think just because we're guns for hire, we don't know how to patch a boo-boo?” Sarge growled.
Kotler shook his head, chuckling. “Sorry, I've severely underestimated you and your team. Clearly you are Renaissance men, with talents I hadn't expected.”
Sarge huffed and nodded, then shoved a cigar back into the corner of his mouth. “Damn straight,” he said. He walked away, off to see to other duties, muttering “Renaissance men” under his breath as he went.
It was good to have so many trained medics on hand. Not only did they have the two guerrilla captives to tend to, one of whom had actually taken a bullet, but several of Sarge's men had sustained injuries during the attack as well. Most were minor abrasions or grazes—near misses that could have been a lot worse. One man was seriously injured, however, and he lay in critical condition in one of the tents, undergoing surgery.
It wasn't an ideal scenario, in the rough and dirty conditions of this place, but he stood at least a shot at recovery with someone tending to him immediately. His chance of survival shrunk to nearly zero if they were to evacuate him through the jungle. Sarge had brought along enough medical supplies and antibiotics to give the man a fighting chance, and as it turned out, some of his men were actually quite skilled at surgery.
Kotler was standing by as another of Sarge's men operated on the injured guerrilla, removing the slug from his shoulder and sewing the wound. They had injected lidocaine hydrochloride into the tissue in and around the injury—a localized anesthetic that made it possible for them to operate while still allowing Kotler to question him.
The man spoke only Spanish, so far as Kotler could determine. Or at least, he had refused to speak anything but Spanish since his capture.
“Qué buscabas tú y tus hombres? Qué tomó tu amigo?” Kotler asked. What were you and your men looking for? What did your friend take?
The guerrilla said nothing, and the man attending him glanced at Kotler, then “accidentally” jabbed a needle into part of the guerilla's shoulder that had not quite been numbed yet.
“Ay! Madre de Dios!” the man shouted, trying to pull away. He was held firm by both the straps binding him and the solider tending to his wound.
No Hippocratic oath here, then, Kotler guessed.
“You should cooperate,” Kotler said in Spanish. “You're not leaving here any time soon, and these men have no problem with making your stay very uncomfortable.”
“I have nothing to say,” the man replied, which Kotler took as an ironic opening.
“Let's start with who hired you and your men,” Kotler said.
The guerrilla didn't respond.
“I know that someone hired you,” Kotler said. “This place means nothing to any of you.”
“This territory belongs to the Campesinos,” the man spat.
Campesinos. It took Kotler a moment to recall the word. Peasants. He rarely heard it used, due largely to it being derogatory, but also because it was somewhat archaic. Who referred to anyone as “peasants” these days?
It dawned on him, then, that this was deliberate. This wasn't a reference to anyone living nearby, or the man's countrymen. He wasn't being poetic—he was being literal.
“Ustedes y nuestros hombres, ustedes se llaman campesinos?” Kotler asked. You and your men, you call yourselves peasants?
“Sí, Campesinos. Somos pobres, pero servimos.” Yes, Peasants. We are poor, but we serve.
“Who do you serve?” Kotler asked.
“El Jefe,” the man grinned, then laughed.
The Boss, of course.
Kotler continued to question the man, and made little headway. But he was watching his body language as they spoke, gleaning what he could. It was clear that the pain and possibly the drugs were making him more talkative than he'd initially wanted to be. The strain of his injuries could be read in the beads of sweat gathering at his temples, the slight trembling in his lips, the minuscule twitches in his eyes. He was afraid, despite his bravado.
Kotler left him to be tended to by Sarge's man, and found his way back to Denzel and Graham
. Denzel had been chatting with one of Sarge's team, and as Kotler approached the other man nodded and moved away.
“Any luck?” Denzel asked.
“I can confirm they're working for someone else,” Kotler said. “He wouldn't come right out and tell me what they were looking for, but I laced our conversation with hints and leads, and watched his reactions. When I mentioned Ah-Puch, I got nothing. But he trigged on the word ‘statue.' I think that's what they were looking for.”
Denzel nodded, took out his notepad, and wrote this down. “Anything else?” he asked.
Kotler shook his head. “No. You?”
“Nothing useful,” Denzel said. “The best I got from the other one was that they'd been recruited locally.”
“Into the Campesinos?” Kotler asked.
Denzel blinked. “The what now?”
“The Peasants,” Kotler replied. “It's what they call themselves. They're working for an unnamed jefe, who ordered them to come here and find a statue, hidden in one of those crates. That last part is an educated guess, but the rest I got straight from the guerilla's mouth. I don't believe that he knows the name of the man calling the shots, but I believe he's an outsider. Not one of theirs, at any rate. There were signs of contempt in his body language, whenever I asked about the men being the curtain.” Kotler sighed. “At least we got a few useful tidbits from the conversation,” he said.
Denzel noted all of this. “You trust the information?”
Kotler shrugged. “As much as I can trust any hired mercenary.”
He glanced up to see a couple of Sarge's men, who had stopped what they were doing to look at him.
“Present company excluded,” he said, smiling.
They went back to their work.
Kotler and Denzel now both turned to Graham, who was leaning against the wooden supports of one of the water tanks. He looked shaken and still pale, but calm enough. He could still be coming down from the adrenaline of the firefight, Kotler figured. But there was something else there. His body language was throwing hints that he was worried about something. Hiding something.
“Dr. Graham,” Denzel said. “What do you know about this statue the Peasants were looking for?”
Graham looked up at Denzel, and Kotler could read on the Doctor's face that he was debating with himself.
“Don't lie, John,” Kotler said. “We can't help you, if you lie to us.”
Graham scowled at him. “That has to be one of your more infuriating traits.”
Deflection, Kotler knew. But it served to break the inner debate Graham was having.
“I believe I know what they were after. A statue that my assistants and I uncovered from the grounds, here outside of the city.” He looked to each of them, then down to the ground, sighing. When he looked up again, he said, “A statue of Ah-Puch.”
“Son of a bitch,” Denzel said, his jaw tightening.
“You had a statue of Ah-Puch, all this time, and didn't mention it?” Kotler asked. “Even once you found out …” he looked up, noted that Sarge's men were still close by, and amended what he'd been about to say. “Even after that name came up as a red flag?”
Graham took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said. “I'm sorry, but I honestly did not think there was a connection. We found the statue partially buried in one of the ash mounds that surrounded the original campsite here, left behind when the guerrillas moved on. I assumed it couldn't be what Ms. Hamilton was referring to in her note. If it had been important, I assumed the guerrillas would have taken it with them.”
“For a scientist,” Denzel said, “You sure make a lot of stupid assumptions.”
Graham huffed, and looked as if he were about to retort, but thought better of it. Kotler could see that the man knew he'd made a mistake, and whether it was professional respect or personal empathy, he felt he should extend some form of olive branch.
“It's a good point, though,” Kotler said.
Denzel turned on him. “What's a good point?” he asked, annoyed.
“Why would the first group of guerillas leave it behind, if it's what we think it is?”
Denzel considered this, then shook his head. “I don't know. But do you think that's what the man took, from the crates?”
Kotler thought back, trying to picture the scene clearly in his mind. It was difficult. It had been dark, with only campfire light or muzzle flashes from the AK-47 to highlight any details. Kotler had also been adrenalized, inducing a sort of shock-amnesia. But he'd noted the guerrilla dumping the contents of a crate, and picking something up.
“Can you describe the statue?” Kotler asked Graham.
“Small,” Graham replied, as Kotler closed his eyes, concentrating on the scene. “Black stone, probably volcanic. Carved to look like the traditional carvings of Ah-Puch. A skull-like face wearing a head dress, ribs visible in his chest, and a decorative codpiece, resembling a large penis.”
Kotler opened his eyes.
“Wait, seriously?” Denzel asked.
Graham shrugged. “The penis is a near universal symbol of virility and masculinity, it's inevitable that it would be worn as a symbol.”
“How big was it?” Kotler asked.
“The penis?” Graham replied
“Hey, c'mon now,” Denzel started.
“The statue,” Kotler said, closing his eyes again.
“Approximately forty centimeters, weighing perhaps two kilograms.”
Kotler took in these details, and went over the scene again in his mind.
Dark stone. Forty centimeters. Two kilograms.
He couldn't possibly have noted any of the details of the carving, from his vantage point, but he knew the general shape the statue would have to take. A somewhat rounded top, a mostly cylindrical shape overall, dark stone, clearly weighted enough to have some heft. He could picture the guerrilla's hands, grasping it as he hoisted it, shifting it to the splayed fingers of one hand, gripping it as he told his companion to cover his exit. Kotler couldn't picture the specific details, but he had enough of a general impression of the scene to put the pieces together, and to come to a conclusion.
“They have it,” Kotler said, opening his eyes.
“You're psychic now as well?” Graham asked, his face skeptical.
“I can remember the scene well enough to know that the guy grabbed something that fits its general description,” Kotler said. “I think we're safe in assuming it was the statue of Ah-Puch, based on the facts we already have at hand.”
Graham stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “It seems most likely,” he said. “I didn't know it was in that crate, however. Mr. Canfield's men must have stored it there.”
“So how did the guerrillas know to look there?” Denzel asked.
Kotler thought about this, then sighed. “A leak.”
Denzel shook his head. “Damn. Sarge isn't going to be happy about this.”
Chapter 11
To say that Sarge was unhappy about the news of a potential leak, among his own men, was perhaps one of Denzel's greatest understatements.
Kotler, Denzel, and Graham brought Sarge the news of the statue's theft, right from his own camp, and the details that led Kotler and Denzel to conclude there was a mole. Sarge stood, tight-lipped, eyes bulging, and patted the breast pocket of his vest for a cigar. He chewed the tip from it, spat it on the ground, and lit the cigar with a weathered and beaten Zippo. Then he uttered a stream of curses and profanity that Kotler both admired for its creativity and cultural significance, and cringed from for its unrelenting vulgarity. It was a moment of expletive embellishment worthy of scientific study.
When Sarge had calmed a bit, he called in one of his men, his second in command, Chet Knoll.
“Get every one of these shit-kicking mamma's boys in line and standing in front of this tent in ten minutes, or so help me Sonny Jesus on his birthday I will bust every single one of them in the balls and send them home in prom dresses,” he growled.
“Yessir,” the man rep
lied. “Want me to pull the men off patrol, too?”
Sarge gave him a sour look. “Knoll, have you gone stupid?”
Knoll shook his head, and left to fetch every man who was not on patrol.
Over the next hour, Kotler, Denzel, and Graham stood aside as Sarge dressed down every man, one by one, and barked at the lot of them about loyalty, honor, and the bond of men who served together. He then told them he would personally do some fairly graphic bodily harm to the one who had turned on them, unless they stepped up within the next hour.
Sarge pointed at Kotler and Denzel. “Those boys are two of the best I've ever seen at searching out maggots who turn on their own. If they're the ones who find you first, I'm going to make sure you regret it. One hour, you sorry sacks of crap. Step up like a man, or go down like a dog. Dismissed!”
The men fell out, and Kotler was surprised that there was no grumbling, no exchanges that hinted at any feelings of injustice toward the dressing down or toward Sarge himself. Instead, reading from their body language, these men appeared to feel exactly as Sarge felt. Everyone Kotler was able to study seemed indignant at the idea that one of their own had sold them out.
They would not tolerate a traitor in their ranks. It was entirely possible they'd take care of the problem themselves, before Sarge could even be informed.
“Well, what did you think?” Denzel asked, quietly.
Sarge approached before Kotler could answer.
“Yeah, squint. Tell me what you thought. Any of those boys look dirty to you?”
Kotler shook his head. “I was scanning all of them, as you …” he hesitated. “Talked.”
Denzel gave a short cough, and Graham merely remained pale-faced and awestruck.
“I didn't see any overt signs of guilt,” Kotler said. “That's not a guarantee, but I don't think any of them were involved. Call it more of a gut instinct than fact, though.”
“Gut instinct from you is as good as a fact for me,” Sarge said, and his manner was suddenly gentler. Kotler could see that, despite his initial rage and his stern address, Sarge didn't actually want any of his men to have done this. They were brothers bonded in combat, vetted and trusted. It would be the worst kind of betrayal, in Sarge's eyes. He'd clearly held out hope that they'd all be absolved.
The Girl in the Mayan Tomb Page 10