Riccio nodded. “A search grid, just like we do on archaeological digs.”
“And in Clive Cussler novels.” Balaga grinned again, reptilian fears forgotten for the moment.
She chuckled with a wry expression that wasn't quite a smile. “Yeah, Joe, like in Clive Cussler novels. Anyway, it does seem like a dead end. But I can't helping thinking that—”
She slipped without warning, legs flying into the air. She got her hands out to help break the fall, but still landed with a thump on her rear.
“Ahhh, damn it, I can't believe … hold on, what's this?”
Her fall had torn loose a foot long clump of some sort of grass, and exposed the rock beneath. Her hand rested on a small loop of metal, painted black to match the surrounding stone. Hitchcock bent down to get a closer look.
“I have no idea. Looks quite a bit like a crampon, the kind you use for rock climbing.”
He ran the surface between his thumb and forefinger. “Very smooth, clearly protected with some kind of galvanization.”
Riccio stuck her index and middle fingers in the loop and gave a tug. It didn't move at all. She put her hands on her knees and stood up, then used her feet to start clearing the sod from the area. The others joined her, and soon they had a five foot by five foot square denuded of vegetation.
They didn't see any other pieces of metal. Balaga did discover evidence of a crack in the rock spanning one side of their cleared space. It was a straight line, suggesting something other than natural origin. But the crack wouldn't even allow a fingernail in it, let alone any way to pry it open.
Riccio returned to the metal loop. “It's gotta have something to do with this.”
She pulled and pushed and still nothing happened. She jerked it to one side and then the other. Finally she twisted it. The loop spun, almost like a nut on a bolt. Frustrated, she stood upright again and took a step forward.
The rock slipped under her feet as if sliding on the ice in a hockey rink.
With one foot on the moving surface, Hitchcock fell on his back, away from the moving rock, taking Balaga down with him. Galdon jumped out of the way and managed to stay upright. Riccio had no time to react, no time to do anything except fall straight down.
Her cry of surprise dissipated as she vanished into a gaping hole in the earth. The others scrambled to their feet, and peered into the void. They saw nothing except rock walls.
Beyond that, darkness.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
December 14, 2012: Chelemha Cloud Forest, Guatemala
Simon wondered if things in the stone building could get any stranger. First they find the kidnapped President in bed with Cimil. Then Cimil uses her as a human shield, but she bashes him in the family jewels. She goes away dazed and Cimil acts like everything's under control. Then Andrea's brother shows up to save the President. Just another typical day.
For the first time since meeting up with the marines that morning, Simon had five minutes to himself. He lay on a futon on the floor in what must have been the room where the security staff slept. Those who had surrendered rather than facing death at the hands of the marines were packed into another area of the building, with two marines standing guard.
Three days ago, he'd resigned himself to giving up on Cimil. Revenge wouldn't happen in this lifetime. Then two days ago, he'd met Andrea at the Baltimore Airport. His closed eyes served as a vortex attracting the images he tried so hard to avoid. Images of a summer day in 1983, and a sultry evening in the jungle. The laughter of a girl, and his heart pumping with the heady rush of infatuation.
And then, the blood.
His eyes opened, and his chest heaved with shallow breathing. He needed to calm down. A few breaths later, he stood up. It would be so easy to go down there and snap Cimil's neck. He'd do it so fast, the marines wouldn't be able to stop him. But that kind of death was too easy. Simon wanted Cimil conscious for a few seconds after realizing he would die. For now, he'd have to settle for a little vigorous interrogation.
He walked down the hallway, past where Andrea was talking to her brother. No one knew quite what to do with him, but when they'd told Andrews about him, the FBI man had begged them to place Amos under arrest. For now they simply ensured he didn't leave the building.
Richards was in another room. She had recovered from her shock and asked for a phone and privacy. She'd called Vice President Davidson, and Simon knew he wasn't the only one who would have liked to overhear the conversation. After that, she called Linda Yarrow. As Simon understood it, Richards was working with Yarrow and Davidson to stage some sort of rescue with the Secret Service as the heroes. The plan was to get some agents down there and film a raid around dawn the next morning, complete with a return to Air Force One at the Guatemala City Airport.
Politics. Simon had seen plenty of it, and it always disgusted him. Before his brief rest, he had spoken with Braxton, who'd told him that the kidnapping and the nukes weren't the main concern any more. The CDC and Davidson were concerned about the potential for a massive death toll from the virus. Simon had asked about Guatemala and Braxton confirmed it. Deaths in Guatemala as well.
Just what we need, something else to worry about. He shook off the thought as he opened the door to the master bedroom, where two marines were interrogating Cimil. Cimil sat strapped in a chair, the pain on his face not fully masking his arrogance. His cheeks had reddened, and clearly he'd taken some blows to the face. Between the kidnapping and Billings, Simon knew the situation demanded something beyond the confines of any Army Field Manual.
Contrary to the media portrayal, even after 9/11, America's military and spy agencies engaged in very little torture. They knew it generally didn't work. The big change was that they were more willing to use it when other methods failed. With a few prisoners at Guantanamo and some of the so-called “black sites” around the world, torture had yielded valuable intelligence. Most of the professionals he knew would take information of questionable veracity over no information at all.
In this case, they all knew Cimil wasn't likely to talk. They also knew that no one would go to jail for roughing up the man who had nuked an American city. The abuse was no surprise.
Simon walked straight to Cimil and pushed over his chair. Cimil's head bounced off the floor, and he groaned. But the noise had barely diminished when a grin appeared on his face. His words slurred through the bruises around his mouth.
“Come on Simon, violence is the last resort of the hopeless.”
Simon put a foot on his chest and bent down towards him. “You're right.”
Simon hit him in the nose with a closed fist, and he felt the cartilage give way. Blood seeped onto Cimil's septum, and he opened his mouth to suck in air.
“Tell us about the other nukes.”
Simon took his eyes off Cimil for an instant, and noticed the marines watching with their arms folded over their chest. If anything, they looked jealous. Too bad, thought Simon, I've been waiting almost thirty fucking years.
Cimil spat in Simon's face, and his voice was thick from his damaged nose. “I'm not saying anything if you leave me lying on the floor like this.”
In one motion, Simon reached down with two hands, grabbed the back of the chair, and flipped it up. Cimil's head flopped forward and back like a crash test dummy.
“You're up. Where are the nukes?”
Cimil's grin appeared once again. “Tell you what, get Richards back here and I'll tell her. I don't like dealing with the help.”
Simon controlled his anger with two deep breaths. He had to allow himself the rage, but he also had to control it or he'd get nowhere. “What about the cure, Yum?”
“Ah, the cure. Our ticket to the Fifth World.”
Simon scanned his brain for any technique that might work here. They had no leverage. They could kill him, but first they needed these answers. A thought occurred to him.
“Let me see if I get this. You got the cure and gave it to a few thousand of the chosen ones. Your fellow d
escendants of the Maya. Well, I just got off the phone, and word is that the virus is already killing Guatemalans, even a lot of your people.”
For a second, Cimil's dark skin went pale and his eyes showed fear. Then he recovered. “Fuck, you, Simon. A nice try, though.”
“Hey you don't have to believe me. Call anyone you like, anyone who would know. We can get you on the phone with the President of Guatemala, he'll tell you the truth.”
Cimil's voice lowered to a growl. “Lies! My people will inherit the Fifth World.”
Pushing his advantage, Simon dropped to his knees so his face was level with Cimil's. He shook his head, a parent disappointed in his child. “Oh Yum, I wonder about you. About whether you've thought this one through. How can you be sure the cure you got actually works?”
“I saw the demonstration. Gonzales said he was from the Amazon, and—” He stopped. Simon's smile covered his whole face, and Cimil's cheeks turned red.
“I'm not talking any more. Get me Richards.”
Simon got up from his knees. “I don't think so, Yum. The Amazon, you say? I bet we can work with that.”
Without warning, his fist shot out, catching Cimil in the temple. The Guatamalan's eyes rolled, and his head slumped to the side, unconscious. Simon knew he wouldn't be out long, but he'd been itching to do it. Now he'd go call Braxton, who could pass the news about the Amazon on to his analysts. Maybe someone would come up with something.
“Andrea, that guy who kidnapped Susan has gotta pay.”
Amos Schmidt paced back and forth along the stone wall. Andrea stood a few feet away, watching him with her hand near her gun. She'd learned a long time ago that you didn't spend time with Amos unless you were prepared to defend yourself. He had the same lightning reflexes that Andrea herself did, and he knew how to kill as easily as standing still. The marines at the door would never make it in time if Amos decided to attack.
“Don't worry, he will. I suspect they're beating the shit out of him as we speak.”
Amos' voice rose to almost a falsetto. “That's not enough! He needs to die for what he did to her.”
“That's not for us to decide. We need to find out what he knows first.”
“But—”
“Amos, what the hell is going on? Why do you care about the President so much?” He opened his mouth, then it shut without a word. He dropped his chin and looked at the floor. Andrea could see that his shoulders and arms remained tense, but his mouth had softened. She took a step closer.
“Look, Amos, I'm not gonna pretend that we're gonna be all lovey-dovey. You've had your problems, I've had mine. They're saying you killed some women and I don't care much about that. But when you start calling the President ‘mom,’ you need help.”
He looked up, brown eyes filled with pain and confusion. She felt something, a trace of compassion, even though she knew how dangerous he could be. She needed to keep her distance, but she could—
Then he had her gun. She didn't know how he did it, but he swept her legs and she wound up on her back on the floor. She'd expected something like this and she still hadn't stopped it. Stupid not to have put him in cuffs.
Amos fell on her, and she grunted as her ribs compressed under his weight. She gasped for breath and watched him roll onto the floor and come up firing. His first two shots missed the mark, embedding themselves in the door frame. The next two bullets found their targets in the foreheads of the two marines.
Andrea pushed herself up onto her hands, but Amos was already out the door. She stumbled towards the fallen soldiers.
“Goddamn it!” She yelled out loud even though no one remained alive to hear. Amos had knocked the wind out of her, and she shook her head to clear the dizziness. She reached down and grabbed the pistols from both marines. They wouldn't be needing them any longer. It wasn't her fault, they should have been paying more attention, but she still felt some guilt. She glanced back at them before she left the room, and her voice was soft.
“Sorry guys.”
Simon heard the shots a moment after he knocked out Cimil. His first thought was that more more guards had arrived and started firing at the marines. But when the four quick shots weren't followed by others, he settled on the only other likely scenario. Amos Schmidt. He'd only had a brief exchange with Andrea about her brother, but she'd indicated that he was unpredictable. Would he kill his own sister? Maybe, maybe not.
Simon felt tightness in his chest when he considered the possibility. He hadn't realized until now that it mattered to him. But he remembered the feeling from combat in other times and other places, where the stress and danger created a closeness that otherwise would take much longer to form. From the time she got off the plane, Andrea had earned his respect and at least some of his trust. He hoped she was OK.
He turned to the two marines. “The President.”
They all ran for the door. One of them reached for his walkie-talkie and keyed the button. “Captain, possible hostile loose, secure POTUS, we're on our way.”
The marine stopped outside the door. “Wait!” Simon watched him close the door, turn a key in the lock, and ensure that the handle wouldn't turn. “It's locked now, plus between being unconscious and tied up, he's not going anywhere.”
Simon ran down the hall. He could hear the footsteps of the other two pounding on the stone floor behind him. The distinctive sound of government issue boots running brought back his days in the Army.
He nearly crashed into Andrea as she came into the hall. They looked at each other and both spoke at the same time. “Amos!”
Simon took off again, relieved that she was unhurt but more concerned than ever about Richards. As he turned one corner, he ran right into another marine. He recalled the man's name.
“Otto, where's the President? Amos is after her.” The man's eyes grew wide, and at the same instant, they heard two more shots. Simon didn't wait before moving on. He made the last turn and came to the room where Richards was making her calls.
He took in the scene with a sense of deja vu. Not because he'd expected exactly this, but because he'd expected something to go wrong.
Afterwards, he pieced together what had happened. The President needed protection, but the marines were not bodyguards. They'd spent their entire careers training for asymmetric warfare in Iraq and Afghanistan. So one marine had been stationed at the door, while two more stood inside the room. Not a bad plan, but the Secret Service would have put two on the door.
Amos Schmidt's status had proven the biggest problem. He wasn't a prisoner, and it seemed clear that he wasn't a danger to Richards. Certainly the marines wouldn't afford him any trust, but sometimes they had to prioritize their threats. When they heard the four shots, they sent the man at the door, Otto, to check it out. He turned out to be the lucky one.
Otto had run into Amos at the corner, and Amos had said, “Andrea sent me down here, you gotta go quick, Cimil escaped. I'll tell the others.”
Otto's brain had processed the options, and come to the wrong conclusion. He continued down the hall. Amos had seen Richards and raised his gun for two quick shots. Two more marines down. He dropped to his knees.
“Mom! I've missed you.”
Simon burst into the room at that moment. Richards took the phone off her ear and put it against her chest, glaring at Amos.
“You again? Jesus Christ, you're a nutjob. I'm not your mother. Get the hell outta here, you moron.”
Amos' head shot up. Simon couldn't see his face, so he reached for his gun. It was too late. Amos leaped for the President, grabbed her from behind and put his gun to her head. When he spoke, the pitch of his voice was at least an octave high.
“How can you say that? After all I've done for you. I'll kill you right now.”
His head jerked a couple of times every second, almost like a facial tic for his whole head. His gun dropped a fraction. Then the sound of a shot exploded in Simon's ear, and only his training kept him focused on Richards instead of the source of the shot. A r
ed hole appeared in Amos' temple, and the gun dropped from his hands. He crumpled to the floor like a rag doll.
After another few seconds, Simon did turn. He saw the barrel of Andrea's gun inches away. He couldn't think of a single thing to say. Her face showed no expression, her eyes cold. Andrea Schmidt had killed her own brother.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
December 14, 2012: The Amazon
The proto-humans didn't need an alarm system on the concealed trap door. Even before Riccio had fallen in, they'd sensed a presence creeping into their minds. They were used to it, but had never before experienced an actual breach. At first, none of them realized it.
Ronin Gonzales lay in bed with his companion, Teena. His people generally partnered for life, and their exposed emotions eliminated most cheating. They didn't suppress their instincts, but over a million years, individuals with destructive tendencies had selected themselves out. The emotions of jealousy and insecurity that led to real problems were foreign to them.
The bed they lay in was similar to a futon, though its stuffing was different. A fiber extracted from a type of Amazon reed proved both soft and durable. As was their custom, the bed featured no blankets.
He talked with Teena about the future, how everything they'd worked towards was finally happening. She smiled and looked into his black eyes.
“What do you think it'll be like, the return of the homeland?”
“I don't know exactly. Assuming it really happens, it will be barren. We'll have to start from scratch.”
The mutual gaze carried them through a period of silence. No words could match the emotional sharing their species took for granted. Ronin knew she could sense his anxiety, and he felt her opening her mind to him with a wave of love. A telepathic invitation. He let himself drift, lost in her mind. He was aware of nothing else, no other being except her.
The connection shattered with a knock on the door, and a surge of anger filled his chest. It faded quickly, and he knew whoever it was would have sensed their private moment and not intruded without good reason.
The Mayan Legacy Page 23