“The rings are high and the holes are small, but anybody with the Celtics should have no problem scoring.”
“Using only their hips, elbows, or knees to control the ball?”
“Say what?”
“No hands or feet.”
Tony let out a low whistle. “Now that would be an interesting game to play.”
“Not bad to be a spectator either. You need to walk down to the other end of the stadium. I’ll stay put.”
“And leave you alone?”
“What do you think is going to happen to me in this hive of international tourism?”
Tony frowned. “I’m not budging until you tell me what this is about.”
“Very well, Señor Kill-joy. The acoustics are an unexplained phenomenon. It’s possible to hear a conversation taking place at one end of the stadium from the other end. Now you’ll never know what sweet nothings I would have said to you from here when you were over there. I’m not in the mood anymore.”
“Get back in the mood, because this I’ve got to try.” He strode up the dirt field.
Desi waited until he was about twenty feet away. “Can you hear me now?”
He threw a backhanded wave, and she read his thought like she was in his head. Smart-aleck wife.
She was still laughing when a group of Japanese strolled past, snapping pictures of carvings. They were too polite to stare at her, but a couple of them glanced at the crazy, giggling woman out of the corners of their eyes. Maybe they thought she was touched by the heat. She wandered over to the wall and leaned against it.
The hairs at the base of her neck prickled. These ruins were fascinating, but they gave her the willies sometimes. In Chichén Itzá she sensed the brilliance and depravity of the biblical city of Babel. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but in spirits most definitely. This place was loaded with them. Goose bumps rose on her arms, though the temperature had to be in the nineties. Now she was spooking herself. Get a grip, girl.
“Desiree Jacobs.”
An icy fist squeezed her insides. Then she realized she’d heard the voice with her outer ears, which meant flesh and blood had spoken. “Tony?”
Was he talking to her from the other side of the field already? Nope, he was still trotting toward the end, his figure too far away for comfort. Who in Mexico would speak with an American accent and call her by her maiden name? She licked dry lips and looked up.
Atop the wall stood a bearded man staring down at her. He wore a pair of binoculars around his neck and a furious sneer. “The rings on your finger are sharp, Des, but that display on the pyramid was a little too much.”
Twenty-Three
Tony neared the far end of the ball court. Pretty nice jog. Interesting in a twisted sort of way with all the carvings on the wall of gods and warriors and ball players—even one of a player getting his head lopped off. Did the winner or the loser end up as the sacrifice? As Desi had promised, he could hear any number of conversations going on, near and far away. The problem was sorting them out to make sense of what was said.
He turned and stared up the field. Where did Desi go? He stepped around a tour group and craned his neck. There. Near the jaguar temple, looking up at some guy on the ledge.
A word pierced the tourist jabber. “Clayton.” Desi’s voice. And the scum looming above had to be that missing link Greybeck.
“…wrong man. I told you…” The man’s snarl reached Tony garbled and incomplete.
“Out of my way.” Tony shoved through a knot of gawkers, ignoring angry protests. In the clear, he broke into a run. He couldn’t see Desi. Was she hidden behind another tour group? Or did Greybeck grab her? Why did he let that woman talk him into dumb moves like splitting up? And why had he decided Mexico was safe in the first place? This was his fault. Nobody else’s.
PleaseGodpleaseGod. The incoherent prayer kept pace with his pounding feet. But the harder he pushed himself, the slower he went. Or was that his imagination?
Someone holding a camera stepped into his path. Tony whirled in a complete three-sixty like a running back avoiding a tackle. He ignored a twinge in his middle and stepped up his pace.
His gaze searched the grounds. No Des. A tour group stood at the end of the field acting unconcerned, so there couldn’t be unfolding drama in the area. Greybeck might have dragged her off, but why hadn’t she screamed bloody murder? Seconds counted if he hoped to catch them. He raced around the corner of the wall, and—oof!
A petite body flew backward and sprawled on her hind end. Desi!
He grabbed her up. “I’ve got you. It’s okay now.” He spoke into her ear while he scanned the area outside the ball court. No Greybeck in sight.
Desi wriggled against him. “Ow! Ow! Ow!”
He held her away and looked her up and down. “Did he hurt you?”
“You’re the one who knocked me halfway across the continent and then squeezed the stuffing out of me.”
“Did you see where Greybeck went?”
Tony stared in the direction she pointed. Nothing but gaggles of grinning tourists.
“He went past the Platform of the Skulls,” she said, “heading for the path to the cenote.”
“Grab any security guards you can find. Tell them they have a fugitive on the grounds. I’m going after him.” He took off.
“Tony, wait! You’re not armed. What if he’s got a gun?”
Her cry spurred him on. As long as that guy and his gangster crowd were on the loose, Desi was in danger. Unacceptable. She’d lost enough—too much!—and Tony was through letting it happen. Catch Greybeck, and they’d get the location of the jungle headquarters. He had enough agent inside him to tackle one computer geek, didn’t he?
Carved skulls grinned at him as he swept past a tall platform. The chill of their mockery followed him into a forested path beyond.
Excited Australian-accented voices and the sound of crying drew Tony forward. A group of older men and women and a guide came up the path. An elderly woman clutched her arm to her chest as tears streamed down her cheeks. Greybecks work?
Tony strode up to them. “What happened?”
A white-haired man pointed into the forest. “Some big bloke with a beard charged through. Tossed us aside like we were sticks. My wife fell down. I think she broke her wrist.”
“I’ll get him, ma’am.” Tony nodded toward the injured woman.
The tour guide grabbed his sleeve. “Leave the matter to the authorities, señor. We do not need someone else to get hurt, and we cannot have tourists fighting on the grounds.”
Tony pulled his arm away. “Im an FBI agent.” He ran on.
The path ahead was deserted. Deep into the trees, Tony slowed, then stopped and listened. A bird called, insects hummed, shadows flickered under the waving limbs.
Snap!
Something bigger than a bird moved up ahead, but not in a hurry. A straggling tourist? A jungle creature? Not necessarily Greybeck. If that lowlife had a grain of sense, he wouldn’t slow down until he was in another country. Tony trotted on, gaze sweeping both sides of the path.
From above, a heavy object drove Tony to the ground face-first. Air whooshed from his lungs and pain speared his ribs. The weight on top of him grunted. Human predator. Tony surged onto his elbows, and an arm wrapped around his throat. He rolled, putting Greybeck on the bottom, and clawed at the forearm crushing his windpipe. Was this joker Popeye’s twin brother?
Tony rammed an elbow into the attackers gut, and the chokehold loosened. Wrenching free, he lunged to his feet in a crouch, but a leg sweep whumped him onto his back. His head bounced off a tree trunk, and the jungle canopy spun like a green Frisbee.
Greybeck landed on Tony’s chest, knees pinning Tony’s arms to the dirt. The guy must be part elephant. Ice-blue eyes bored into Tony as vise-grip hands closed around his throat.
“Desiree was supposed…to follow me…but you’ll do.”
Dark spots danced before Tony’s eyes. He bucked, and Greybeck sat like a rock. The
man’s fingers tightened. Weakness flowed through Tony’s limbs the way it had when he lay in that hospital bed hovering between death and life. Greybeck leaned closer, and coyote breath fanned Tony’s face. He groped for something—a rock, a stick—anything. Blood roared through his head, and the pulse pounded in his temples. His hands found nothing but grass and dirt.
A twig snapped. A rush of air—craaack!
Greybeck toppled off him, limp as a wet towel. Tony sucked in a breath, and his vision cleared. Desi’s tood over him, a fat branch in her hands, a ferocious snarl etched on her face. She’d never looked more beautiful. He sat up, rubbing the back of his head where a knot was starting to form.
She dropped the stick and knelt beside him. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” He cleared his throat and tried to swallow, but saliva was in short supply. “You sure have a gift for clocking bad guys.” His voice sounded buffed with sandpaper.
“I’ve been aching to take a stick to Clayton for a long time.”
Tony struggled to his feet. He stared at the inert body sprawled on the ground faceup. Down for the count. “Whew! I’m weaker than I thought. Couldn’t fight off one electronics nerd.” He laughed, but a sour feeling settled in his stomach.
“Clayton’s no mere nerd. He’s the Mr. Atlas of Nerds. Raw physical strength? He would’ve overpowered you when you were at your best.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“It’s not about feeling better—it’s about fact. But you’re faster and smarter. Not Mensa-smart. People savvy. And that’s a quality Clayton couldn’t beg, borrow, or steal. If I were a betting woman, I’d put the whole wad on you any day of the week.”
Tony shook his head. “Except today.” The man on the ground moaned. “Lets get this guy wrapped up. We’ll have to use his belt for handcuffs. You did let security know about the fugitive, right?” Tony bent over Greybeck and started loosening the belt. When Desi didn’t answer, Tony glanced over his shoulder.
She was tracing an aimless pattern in the dirt with the toe of her sandal. “No way could I let you take on Clayton by yourself, so I told one of the other tourists to get help.”
Tony went back to loosening the belt. “Des, you needed to—” Pain exploded in his solar plexus as a blow from a fist flung him into Desi, and they went down in a heap.
Greybeck rose like some groggy colossus, a trickle of blood snaking down one cheek from under his hairline. At the sound of approaching voices, his nostrils flared, and then he whirled and raced away.
“Stay here.” Tony shoved to his feet and tore after the fleeing fugitive. Fat chance she’d do what he said, but maybe she’d bring a security guard with her this time.
He spotted his quarry racing up the trail. A wobble in the guys run indicated continuing effects from Desi’s blow. Way to go, darlin’.
The way opened into a dirt clearing with ruins to the left and a drop-off ahead. Greybeck stood at the edge. He glanced back, and their gazes locked. Greybeck telegraphed a potent mix of desperation and fury, and then jumped. A grunt followed, and the smack of feet on stone.
Tony reached the drop-off and halted. Greybeck had landed on a ledge about five feet below, the first tier in a pair leading toward a pool of green water surrounded by sheer rock walls and jungle foliage. No way out except where Tony stood. The musclebound geek glared at Tony and goat-hopped onto the lower tier. The next hop would be into the water.
“Give it up, Greybeck.” Tony wiped sweat from his eyes. “There’s nowhere to go, and security is on the way.”
The man spouted a string of obscenities, bared his teeth, and leaped. The splash overlapped a shout behind Tony.
“Policía Federal Preventiva! Put your hands in the air.”
Tony stiffened. The federales? Didn’t Desi explain the white hats from the black hats? He looked over his shoulder. A tall, wiry man in camo pointed the business end of a Walther P99 pistol at Tony’s heart.
Tony lifted his arms. “A wanted fugitive jumped into the cenote. Catch him, and you’ll be a hero.”
The federal sneered. “You are the only gringo I see. A woman is injured, and someone will answer.”
Desi appeared at the head of the trail, hands behind her back, another armed federal gripping her shoulder. “I’m trying to tell you—”
“No more talk.” Her captor shook her. “We will sort this out our way.”
Tony stepped forward, but the pistol cocked, and he froze. “My name is Anthony Lucano. I’m an agent for the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation. The man you need is in the cenote.”
“There is no one in the water, bribón. You will come with us.”
Three hours later, Desi’s at beside Tony in front of the desk of the local jefe Cancún police headquarters. The chief sorted through a sheaf of papers and paid them no attention. Tony flickered a smile at Desi.
She bit her lip. How had honeymoon turned to horror so suddenly? Cuffed and humiliated, she and Tony had been led out the gate at Chichén Itzá and shoved into a police cruiser. After a long, miserable ride, they ended up in stinking cells, followed by a nightmare interrogation. Tony wore a fresh bruise on his cheek, evidence that questioning methods in Mexico weren’t required to meet U.S. standards. Desi had probably been lucky to get by with a slap from a testy jail matron.
The chief put the papers down, and his cold black gaze settled on Tony. “Your office in Boston confirms your identity as Special Agent Anthony Lucano. However, they are clear that you are not in Mexico in an official capacity. You should not have interfered in police business.”
“Clayton Greybeck threatened my wife, and hes wanted on both sides of the border. What would you have done?”
A smile no warmer than his eyes widened the chief’s lips. “Exactly what you did, and I would have been taken to an American jail. We are releasing you and your wife to continue your honeymoon. Kindly confine yourselves to tourist activities.”
“What about Greybeck? You never found him. He could still be a threat.”
“If you don’t feel safe, go home.” The jefe lifted his chin. “But be assured that if the man did not come out of the water, he is still in it. We are dragging the cenote for his body. Unfortunately, the pit is deep, and there are many nooks and crevices.”
Desi gripped the arms of her chair. “The cenote is fed by an underground river. What if there’s access to the river from the pool and a way out?”
The jefe stared at her like she’d just belched in public. “Señora, I tell you, the cenote has been scientifically explored, and no such escape route exists.”
“The last thorough excavation took place decades ago. Maybe something’s changed or something was missed before.” The chief’s face flushed, and Desi closed her mouth. Why was she acting so contrary about a wild theory?
Tony grabbed her hand and squeezed. Desi pressed her lips together. Hint taken.
“Can we go now?” he said. “We need to return to Chichén Itzá and pick up our car.”
“Ah, the Ferrari. One of my men brought it to town, and I inspected it personally.”
Took it for a test drive, you mean. Desi kept her gaze lowered and her thought to herself.
“You will find the car in the impound lot,” the chief continued.
Tony sighed. “How much?”
El Jefe shrugged. “I do not concern myself with such things.”
Sure, as long as you get your cut. Desi crossed her arms. “If you ran the license plate, you know that the Ferrari belongs to President Montoya.”
“The vehicle is registered to the government, of which I am a servant.”
If steam could blow out her ears, she’d be a locomotive. “Didn’t you call his office to verify that we are his guests? He may have an opinion about our treatment in your jurisdiction.”
Tony shot her a glare.
The chief lowered his head. “It was not possible to contact El Presidentes office, and we do not know when communication will be
restored.”
“What are you talking about?” Desi unwound her arms.
“Haven’t you heard? This afternoon an earthquake hit Mexico City—worse than 1985. The damage, the loss of life, unknown as yet, but many of my men have been dispatched to help. So please, be on your way, and do not cause for us any more trouble.”
Shock gusted through Desi, then sorrow. Families devastated, homes lost, businesses destroyed. And the primitive conditions that followed a natural catastrophe… “Can we help?” The words slipped out before she could give them a second thought.
Tony wrapped an arm around her shoulder and ushered her from the office. “Lets go back to the villa. We’ll learn more on the television news.”
Desi let him handle the business of retrieving the Ferrari. On the road at last, she bowed her head to her knees and prayed as if her heart were torn in two. Tony’s hand rested on her shoulder, and he prayed with her.
Faces appeared before her mind’s eye—President Montoya, Señor Corona, the smiling concierge at the hotel, the maid, the room service waiter. God help them! People from the open market where she’d shopped for a few pleasant hours before the caper at the Museo de Arte Mejicana. The museum! Was the beautiful building still standing? And what of the treasures inside? Her mind reeled from visions of fire and looting. She pictured the boardroom, the men gathered there, the chairman twisting his heirloom ring. God protect them! She hadn’t liked the board members, but did personal feelings matter when tragedy struck? Tears washed down her face.
When they arrived at the villa, Tony helped her inside, settled her on the sofa, and brought her a cup of hot tea. By then, her grief had subsided to little hiccups.
She sipped the tea. “I’m sorry. That was a bit extreme. I don’t know what came over me. My family and loved ones, except you, are safe in the United States. And yet it was like I felt the pain of those people in Mexico City as if it were my own.”
Tony settled on the sofa and gathered her close. “Months ago you lost your father and weeks ago, your home. You prayed from your own suffering. It was beautiful. Don’t apologize.”
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