Dawson considered this. “I think there has to be more to it,” she said. “We just don't have all the information yet.”
She stood straight, and smiled back at Denzel and Kotler. “This is really good luck, though! With a sample of the original transmission medium, and the virus itself, I may be able to make faster progress on an antivirus.”
Kotler let out a breath. “You'd better hurry,“ he said.
“We'll do everything we can to save Dr. Graham,” Dawson assured him.
“I'm glad of that,” he said. “But I'm more worried about what the bad guys will do with this virus, now that they have so much of it.”
Dawson considered this, nodded, and turned back to her work. Liz took a seat beside her, and the two of them concentrated on everything they could learn, and everything they could try.
Kotler looked to Denzel. “I think I'll just cool it in here for a while,” he said, trying to genuinely smile.
Denzel nodded. “Sarge has men tailing the mercenaries. I'm taking a team to join them.”
“Can't wait until I'm out of here?” Kotler asked.
“Wouldn't have let you come anyway,” he said.
Kotler laughed. “Figures. Alright then. Be careful out there, Roland.”
“I'm always careful,” Denzel said. “Try not to get trapped in any more ancient tombs before I get back.”
Kotler shrugged. “No promises.”
Chapter 31
Masters watched the distant, undulating blue waters as he sat on his balcony. The chateau was elevated enough that the humidity wasn't as cloying here, and breezes from the ocean combined with those from the mountains to chill the air to a comfortable 72 degrees Fahrenheit. It was cool enough that the sun's warmth was welcome and inviting.
He sipped a brandy as he reclined in one of the deck chairs. He was still wearing most of his suit—this momentary respite wasn't entirely casual. Once he took delivery of Ah-Puch, he intended to make his way out of Mexico by private jet, as quickly as he was able. He would personally deliver Ah-Puch to the facility in Manhattan. And then, everything would change.
For five years he'd struggled with this derailment of his plans, but it was finally happening. The men he'd hired confirmed they had not one but numerous statues of Ah-Puch in their possession. Crates and crates that offered Masters opportunities he had barely considered. They'd also mentioned something about weapons and drugs, and Masters waved this off. Let them have it all as an additional bonus. He only wanted the prize.
He stood, smoothed his trousers, and pulled on his jacket, working the top button. He stepped into the chateau's third-floor living space, which he'd had designed to his tastes. The furnishings were imported, and exquisite. The rugs, the draperies, the hand-crafted touches that decorated every corner of the room—luxury was less a reward for him than it was a reminder of how high he'd risen, and why. This was why. Ah-Puch was why.
Or rather, what Ah-Puch would grant him.
The knock at his door finally came, and he smiled. “Come,” he said.
The door opened, and the mercenary entered.
Masters had never bothered to learn the man's name, and wasn't entirely sure he'd be given an honest answer if he asked. And it did not matter, of course. The man was a professional, and had done exactly what he'd been hired to do. He'd delivered. A refreshing shift from the results Masters had gotten with the mercenaries, or with that clod, Derek Simmons.
It was simply proof of what Masters had always known about business: Good resources are more important than good planning. Plans can be disrupted and derailed by chance, but a good resource can adjust as needed, and keep the objectives in mind.
It was the underlying principle of what Masters was trying to do here. It was why Ah-Puch was so valuable.
“Sir,” the mercenary said. “We've delivered the crates to the airfield, as you asked.” He shrugged off a bag he'd had hanging at his side, and reached into it to retrieve what Masters had waited so long to see.
Ah-Puch. The Mayan god of death.
Masters reached out slowly, and the mercenary gently placed the statue in his hands. Masters turned with it, holding it up to the light from the window, studying it. Unlike the aborted attempt from the guerrillas, this time Masters had exactly what he'd wanted. The statue and its contents were intact. Masters was now holding the future in his hands, and it made him giddy.
He smiled at the mercenary. “Your payment was satisfactory?” he asked.
“Oh, yes sir,” the mercenary said, smiling in return. “The bonus was unexpected, and the boys really appreciated that. Along with the weapons and the drugs we retrieved, this was a very nice haul.”
Masters nodded. “Good. Now, one last thing, and we'll call the contract complete. Get me to that airfield, and make sure I get back to Manhattan safely.”
“I've already arranged for transport,” the mercenary smiled.
Masters turned and placed the statue of Ah-Puch into the padded interior of a small, hard case. He closed and locked this, and then cuffed it to his wrist by a length of cable. It would take several hours to cut through this, if it came down to it. It would be quicker for someone to simply saw through Masters' arm. A grisly thought, but he wouldn't let it deter him. Masters would take no chances, from here out. The statue stayed with him until he could deliver it, in person.
He and the god of death had an appointment to keep.
Denzel, Hicks, and Wilson entered the cantina as casually as three FBI agents in a Mexican town possibly could. There were very few people present, which helped them keep a lower profile, but they still got stares. It couldn't be helped. Time was a little narrow at the moment, and they needed every minute they could get.
Denzel spotted one of Sarge's men, Forrest, sitting alone at a table in the back of the cantina. He was near the back door of the place, and was seated so he could see both exits as well as the large mirror that gave him a view of the whole establishment. Denzel and the others joined him.
“Subtle entrance,” Forrest said.
“Take it up with the bad guys, we're out of time.”
Forrest nodded. “We tracked them to an airfield about three miles outside of town. It's where a lot of private jets tend to land. Rich folks come in that way, and take a back road up into the mountains, or down to the beaches.”
“Any ID on who's taking delivery of their cargo?” Denzel asked.
Forrest shook his head. “They split up, too. Took some crates to the airport, took others to a rental property in town. We're kind of rolling the dice here, but I'm pretty sure the statues went to the airport. The rest of it was guns and drugs and whatever else they found in that tomb.”
Denzel considered this. “Are you keeping an eye on those guys at the rental property? Keeping them in check?”
“I got one guy there, watching,” Forrest said. “We're stretched a little thin.”
“I can help with that,” Denzel said, nodding to Wilson.
“On it,” Wilson said, taking out a smartphone and tapping the screen, sending a message to their local contacts in law enforcement. The locals would be very grateful for the easy handoff, and it would salve any bruised egos about the FBI running an operation within Mexico's borders. The locals would get all the credit for bringing down a bunch of drug and gun runners, and that was good PR. Denzel didn't care about the credit anyway. He had a much bigger, and much scarier problem to deal with.
“I got boys watching the airfield, but we can't get in there without starting a ruckus,” Forrest said. “You going to bring in more Feds? Locals?”
“I'll have local law enforcement move in as soon as we can verify those statues are there,” Denzel said. “But I want whoever is behind this. I can't risk us going in with sirens blaring. I want to catch him unaware.”
Forrest nodded. “Taking those crates out by a private jet is smart. It's a lot easier to sneak cargo out of the country that way, even with inspections and restrictions. Pay off the right guy and they
could be out within an hour. Plus, it's a bunch of statues. Nobody cares about ‘em.”
“There are restrictions on exporting antiquities,” Hicks said.
Forrest laughed. “Sure there are.”
Denzel knew what he meant. Just as with drugs, weapons, even human beings, anything could be taken over the border without much challenge, if the price was right.
“You have a visual on any of the statues?” Denzel asked.
Forrest shook his head. “Best guess. That's it.”
Denzel considered this. It wasn't enough, officially. But there were some serious risks here, and a danger that could threaten millions. It might be time for things to get a little unofficial.
“Ok, get us to that airfield,” Denzel said. “And I'd appreciate some backup, if you're willing.”
“I got orders,” Forrest shrugged. “And a paycheck. I'm willing.”
Denzel nodded. He knew, when this was all over, he'd owe Sarge big time. He already had some ideas on how to thank him for his help, though.
For now, he just had to focus on keeping those statues on the ground, and on taking down whoever was behind all of this.
Forrest finished up his beer just as the waitress came by with the check. He looked pointedly at Denzel, who rolled his eyes and took some cash out of his pocket, dropping it on the table.
“Big tipper,” Forrest said.
“I'd rather not give anyone a reason to be irritated with us,” Denzel replied.
Forrest nodded, then stood and led them out through the rear exit of the cantina. There was a gravel lot out back, and parked beside a dumpster was one of Sarge's military surplus trucks. It had seen a lot of action, as evidenced by the bullet holes and other damage. Denzel hoped that wasn't a sign of things to come, but deep down he knew there was a good chance they'd be adding to those blemishes by the end of the day.
They rode for several minutes before Forrest slowed and turned into a long drive, leading to an abandoned house, hidden from the road by a thick copse of unkempt trees and brush. Three of Sarge's men emerged from the house, armed and ready, and joined them in the truck.
They got back on the road then, and made their way to the private airfield outside of town. As they approached, Forrest slowed, and started taking side roads, keeping as many houses and buildings as possible between them and the airfield. They stopped on a dilapidated block where a collapsed house gave them some cover, as well as a view of the airfield in the distance.
“I figure we can park here, and use that right of way to get to the field. There's a lot of tall grass, and a deep drainage ditch that runs through there. We can use that to cover our approach.”
“Guards?” Denzel asked.
“Locals only, as far as I can tell,” Forrest said. “All those mercenaries hightailed it after dropping off the crates. We got a head count. Doesn't mean none of them came back, of course.”
“Seems weird they would have dropped that off and just left it unguarded,” Wilson said.
Forrest shrugged. “I think it's pretty likely that the security folk here are more than just yokels. This is where a lot of money flies in.”
Denzel nodded. “Makes sense. Ok, let's get moving.”
They parked the truck behind the ruin of the house, camouflaging it with debris gathered from the yard. The block was oddly quiet, with no one around. No children playing, no dogs barking, no one outside of their homes at all as far as Denzel could determine. Signs of extreme poverty were everywhere, of course.
They stepped down into the drainage ditch that led in the general direction of the airfield, and kept low as they moved forward. As they approached an outer fence, they rose and crawled toward it, using the high grass for cover. One of the mercenaries crawled ahead and took out a pair of bolt cutters, using them to snip through the links of hurricane fence and create a gap at the bottom. He motioned, and the rest of the men crawled through.
It took some time to cover the distance between the fence and the hangar, where Forrest whispered that the crates had been delivered. And though they had plenty of cover, Denzel couldn't help but feel exposed, out in broad daylight with planes approaching and taking off. They were, thankfully, on the far side of the airfield, away from the landing strips, and unlike a commercial airfield, traffic was light.
They were making their final approach, when several vehicles appeared on the side road leading to the hangars. One was a limousine, signaling someone of importance was inside. Preceding and following it were two armored vehicles, more military surplus that hinted at heavy artillery. Though these showed no signs of battle damage, the way Sarge's vehicles did.
“It's them,” Forrest said.
“Move now!” Denzel bellowed.
They rose, and as a unit raced forward. They made it to the back of the hangar, which provided them with cover and kept them out of sight. Denzel and Forrest took the lead, and moved to a vantage point where they could take everything in. They watched as the three vehicles stopped, and armed men climbed out of the two armored vehicles. There were four men bearing M4s, as well as body armor.
A fifth man stepped from the limousine, with a hard case chained to his wrist.
From within the hangar, the roar of a jet pitched up, as it prepared for flight.
“Move, take down those guards and get that man on the ground!” Denzel shouted over the din.
Forrest and his men rushed forward, weapons raised, and laying suppressive fire. The mercenaries immediately took cover and fired back. Denzel and his two FBI agents used the chaos to gain unchallenged access to the hangar itself.
The man with the case was racing forward, and two body guards emerged from the plane, wearing dark suits and sunglasses. They drew handguns from their jackets, and began firing at Denzel, Hicks, and Wilson. Hicks shot one of the guards, who dropped, unmoving, to the hangar floor.
The other guard was shielding the man with the case, guiding him in through the airplane's doors. The jets of the plane rose to a high pitch then, and it started moving even before the doors were fully closed.
Denzel fired a couple of rounds at the open doors. He looked frantically around the hangar, hoping to find any way to prevent the plane from taking off.
Too late. It was moving now, and picking up speed. Denzel and Hicks chased it, firing futilely at it from behind, with no effect. In moments, it had enough speed to make air, and it rose into the sky, tilting away from the airfield as it became smaller and smaller on the horizon.
The gunfight between Forrest's men and the mercenaries died down, and Denzel turned to see that Forrest had won. They'd taken out the enemy and secured the hangar. The four mercenaries were dead, as was one of Forrest's men.
“Agent Denzel,” Hicks said.
Denzel turned to see him kneeling beside Agent Wilson, who was gasping and clutching at a bleeding wound in his chest.
“Medic!” Denzel shouted.
One of Forrest's men rushed forward, and pulled off a pack, digging into it to retrieve medical supplies.
Denzel put a hand under Wilson's head. “You're good, Tim. You're going to be fine. Stay with me.”
There was an injection, possibly morphine, and Wilson relaxed but continued breathing. The medic then got to work, cutting away Wilson's shirt around the wound, cleaning it, and getting to work on removing the bullet.
Denzel helped as best he could, but after a time he rose and stepped back, his hands covered in Wilson's blood. He looked around the hangar, at the men who were securing the place, at the bodies on the ground.
Hicks was on the phone with the head of airport security, explaining what had happened here, and Denzel found himself wondering exactly how it was possible to even do that. Because as far as he was concerned, this had gone sideways so badly, there was no explaining it.
“Agent Denzel,” a voice said behind him.
He turned to see Forrest, who strode up with one of his men beside him. His normally jovial expression was replaced with something serious
and grim, and Denzel knew where that was coming from. He'd lost a man, but was still doing his job. It was one of the things Denzel respected about the men Sarge employed. They were soldiers, as true as any who still wore the uniform.
“We got the crates,” he said.
Denzel's breath stopped for a moment, and he coughed and then laughed, a sharp bark that he wasn't sure he fully understood. “We what?”
“We got ‘em,” Forrest said. “We found them in the back of the hangar. They hadn't been loaded yet. Every crate is still full. Statues in all of them.”
Denzel again laughed, then checked himself. Things were still serious. Lives had been lost. He meant to respect that.
But they'd done it.
They'd kept those statues here, in Mexico. And now they had them in their custody. They'd done it. They'd won.
Except …
“What was in that case?” Denzel whispered.
“Say what?” Forrest asked.
“The case attached to that guy's wrist? What was in it?”
Forrest shrugged and shook his head. “No idea,” he said. “But I got a dead friend over there, and you might have one yourself, and both took hits for getting us to these crates. The bad guy got away, but I think we better call this a win. For now.”
Denzel studied him. “For now,” he said.
Sirens were blaring, coming closer, and Denzel got ready to take charge of the situation as best he could. He needed some answers, before anything else could happen. He needed to get some information, so he needed to be on his best behavior with the locals.
He had a feeling that their victory was only temporary.
Chapter 32
Kotler stepped out into the icy air of Manhattan and took a deep breath.
And regretted it instantly, in nearly every way possible.
He coughed, shivered, and pulled the thin jacket tighter, crossing his arms in front of him. He wished he'd thought to bring a real coat—but then, there'd been no need for one in Mexico.
The Girl in the Mayan Tomb Page 26