The Mayan Priest

by Guillou, Sue

  Less than one hour after the truck accident, Dale pulled into the relative secrecy of a few large shrubs and took advantage of the added foliage to conceal the bike. He was relieved that he had lost the assassins but was not ignorant enough to realise that he could not hide forever. The key to this mission was to get in and out as quickly as possible and gather as much incriminating evidence as he could on the Senator.

  A large, three storey ranch-inspired home spread widely across the centre of the manicured lawns. It was surrounded by a mix of oak and poplar trees, sported a large circular driveway and flimsy looking white fences. To the right of the house was the stable complex and a number of outbuildings including two barns, and to the left was a swimming pool and tennis court. It appeared friendly and welcoming but looks were deceiving. Dale’s trained eyes easily detected the trip-wires running around the boundary fence. He also knew that superior security would be employed in all areas surrounding the home and outbuildings. Hidden cameras and sensors would be employed as well as laser in the home.

  Entry through the front was not likely but the space between the stables and the barn could be a possibility. He quickly viewed the surroundings and noted that the neighbours property had high stone walls. It was probable that the Senator had considered this security enough and that he had not used trip wires for the one hundred or so feet bordering the stables.

  Using the high grasses as cover, Dale followed the wall until he was at the desired location. He jumped the stone and held his breath … no alarms. He had been right, although he did pinpoint five guards. Three surrounded the house and two were patrolling the grounds with the nearest being ten feet from the end stable.

  Dale lay on his stomach and wriggled away from the fence, ensuring that he stayed as low as possible. He detected no movement, but the deep, dark shadows spilling from the stable complex ensured Dale moved more cautiously than normal. He gazed at the guards and noted that two were on mobile phones, one was smoking and the other two had stopped for a chat. Their lack of concentration was clear evidence that intruders were a rarity which gave Dale enough confidence to move into the stables.

  He did not find what he expected.

  When he was a teenager, Dale had volunteered at the local police station for two months to show any future employers that he was eager to succeed. Unfortunately he had been put to work in the horse stables for that entire time and became familiar with the acrid smell of stale urine and large foul lumps of dung. Ferrero Santiano’s stables sported rubber lined stalls, paved flooring and fine brickwork. There were all the usual saddlery, rugs, straw and food bins, but something was missing. At first, he could not pinpoint what it was, but it eventually dawned on him. There was no smell of horse, and on further investigation, no horse hair. In fact, Dale wondered if these stables had ever seen horses at all.

  He edged cautiously through the shadowy building until he reached the second stall from the end. A crunching noise stopped him in his tracks. Dale dove for cover under the straw, hitting his left shoulder against the concrete floor. His bones groaned under the pressure.

  He was way too old for this.

  By the rumble of the diesel engine and fierce screech of the brakes attempting to bring a heavy load to a halt, Dale could tell that it was a truck. A number of doors slammed and within a few moments, the shuffle of many feet approached his position.

  Other than the occasional whisper, there was no noise which Dale found odd, considering he estimated at least twenty people stood only three feet from him. Temptation proved too hard to resist, so Dale pushed aside enough straw to see a group of very young children forced into a cluster. They had hackles around their ankles, ropes around their wrists and tape over their mouths and eyes. Their lack of resistance and general movement led him to believe they had been drugged which was confirmed moments later when their captor gave each one a needle in the arm.

  Dale could not believe what he was seeing.

  The captors cleared the straw away from the first stall and lifted a hatch concealed underneath. They forced the children one by one into the darkened space below. The children obliged without argument.

  Dale felt ill, sickened to his very core.

  His initial reaction was to jump to his feet, shoot the captors and free the children, but he feared outing Ferrero Santiano would cause the entire operation to close down before they could infiltrate the core. He needed to save these children and find the Senator without alerting him to the loss of his captives.

  His good friend Antony Larrami, the current DCIA (Director of the Central Intelligence Agency) was just the person he needed.

  Fifteen minutes passed until the men secured the hatch and left in the large, fully enclosed single cabin truck, normally used for furniture removal. Dale immediately rang Antony Larrami and secured the childrens’ freedom. He would have men here within the hour. This gave Dale exactly fifty-five minutes to get into the home and find the information he needed.

  With years of covert operation behind him, Dale quickly lured the two men walking the grounds by creating a small fire in the bushes. He shot them before hurrying to a large oak and using it as cover until the guard on the front porch wandered by. Dale hesitated. His best combat years were behind him and the ability to take a life without a conscience had long since passed. He had to visualise the image of the poor children, some as young as two, before he could snap the man’s neck.

  With the element of surprise on his side, Dale easily overwhelmed the inexperienced guard at the rear door and crept unseen through the living area and up the finely crafted oak stairs to the second floor. He would have normally taken the opportunity to search the den and other rooms on the ground level, but the visual of two guards on the upper balcony informed him of the Senator’s position.

  He did not have time to waste.

  The red carpet symbolised riches and power as did the family portraits and busts that lined the long bowling alley style hall. Large crystal chandeliers hung in regular intervals along with equally elaborate wall-mounted lights designed to resemble diamond teardrops. At least a dozen ornate doors were visible from the landing that gave equally exquisite views to the parquetry-inlaid galley style entrance hall below. As Dale had entered through the rear, he had not seen the glorious foyer that sported gold leaf chairs, handmade rugs and life-sized paintings, all gained at the expense of innocents. It made his blood boil.

  With his nerves on edge, Dale was fortunate that the noise of the vacuum cleaner hid his steps as he tiptoed down the hall. The two cleaning trolleys and open doors to the right of his position automatically indicated that the Senator was in the opposite direction, his deduction proving correct as a couple of male voices echoed from a room nearby.

  Dale could not stay in the hall for fear of being caught, so he moved into the room in question, noting that it had a small adjoining alcove.

  Ferrero Santiano was in the alcove.

  Dale paused and listened. A man with a small voice that reminded him of a timid mouse was busy complying to Santiano’s every whim! All he could hear was ‘yes, Sir. No, Sir,’ with the fear of not meeting the demands greater than having to live with his conscience. The man was most likely young and inexperienced, caught up by the power Santiano represented. He felt sorry for him.

  Santiano was sitting at his desk. He was a dark-haired, dark-skinned man with a large moustache, a solid upper frame and tattoos on his arms. His eyes were small and arrogant, his mouth twisted tightly in a snide grin and he had a large bulbous nose. He wore designer suit pants with an elaborate buckled belt and a short sleeve shirt, designed to belittle anyone who was of a lower social or monetary status, and an abundance of gold jewellery.

  Dale listened carefully, peering through the door as Santiano gave the young man orders.

  ‘The truck will be here by midnight tonight. The children must be prepared and loaded for immediate departure. You know how Arun is if they do not arrive on time and with a twenty-four hour journey ahead of
them, it’s going to be tight.’

  Campeche was approximately that distance from here, but their previous attempts to locate a facility in that region had been a failure. Dale wondered if it was better to let the children be taken by Santiano to the facility and then follow them, but twenty-four hours was too long a time. If he was to assist his daughter at all, he had to uncover Arun’s lair in less than twelve hours.

  ‘Yes, Sir. I will ensure all is ready for you. We will leave right on schedule under the cover of darkness,’ said the thin young man with a mop of blond hair. When he turned, Dale also noted the darkened circles around his eyes and the intense expression of sadness and loss. He was not a happy man.

  Seeking cover between the wall and door, Dale waited for the boy to depart before drawing his semi automatic pistol and boldly entering the small room. He closed the door behind him.

  ‘You better have a bloody good excuse to interrupt me,’ said Santiano, presuming it was the young man who had returned and not bothering to look up from his paperwork.

  ‘Too right. A better excuse than you could imagine,’ muttered Dale, his voice neither malicious nor angry as he pointed the muzzle directly at the Senator’s forehead.

  He was simply doing his job.

  Santiano looked up in surprise, the expression of astonishment quickly becoming anger at the unexpected intrusion and threat on his life. ‘Who the bloody hell are you?!’ he spat heatedly.

  ‘Just someone who has a little bit of sympathy for the children you are holding in your stables.

  Santiano’s dark skin flushed with anger. The veins on his forehead expanded and he clenched his fists. His dark brown eyes fired daggers as Santiano tried to collect himself.

  ‘You are trespassing. Get out of my home before I call my guards.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ taunted Dale. ‘I neutralised them when I entered your home. Right now it’s only you and me.’

  Santiano blinked uncertainly, contemplating his response.

  Dale moved around and buried the muzzle into his ear.

  ‘I know about you and Arun Keane, your little cocaine business and the use of children as your slaves. You take them when they are too young to remember, bring them to your little camp and brainwash them to do your bidding.’

  Dale was winging it now, but the look of disbelief on Santiano’s face told him he was right. ‘I want to know where the camp is. If you tell me, I’ll let you live. If you don’t, your brains will make a nice addition to that wonderful painting on your wall.’

  Dale looked down momentarily, prompted by Santiano who had begun to wriggle uncomfortably in his chair. He had wet his pants. The strong man with the tattoos who allegedly feared no one had pissed himself.

  Dale chuckled and Santiano looked mortified. He grabbed a piece of paper from his desk and shoved it at Dale. A quick glance revealed a detailed map.

  Dale had no intention of killing the Senator; he was far more valuable alive. He bound the man’s hands securely behind his back, taped his mouth and eyes and pushed him out of the room.

  Unfortunately he could not risk leaving him in the home as it was likely he would be found by the maids and released, putting his scheme in jeopardy. The last remaining well-meaning guard witnessed their hasty departure and attacked Dale from behind, but Dale was prepared. His ageing body somehow managed to swing around in record time, allowing him to outstretch his hands and collect the man across the neck. The guard fell heavily to the ground, hitting his head on the Italian porcelain tiles and dying on impact. Blood ran from his ears as Dale pulled him outside and pushed him under the rear deck.

  Securing the Senator to a metal ring inside a stall of the stable complex, Dale rang Antony Larrami and informed him that he had an extra person to collect.

  He had made it out in fifty minutes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  Richard did his best to steady his nerves, but to be honest, he was incredibly scared. He felt the full weight of responsibility to save his friends and partner on his shoulders and he feared failure. Their lives hung on his next few decisions and even the unwavering love and trust in Julia’s eyes did nothing to quell the uncomfortable sensation of fear.

  He glanced at Julia and she dipped her head in the same manner he had seen many times over the years. It was her way of showing support even if she feared the outcome.

  Richard sighed. His only regret was that he had never asked her to marry him and he had no idea why. To him, life was complete. He had a loving, supportive partner who shared his passion about archaeology and they had a beautiful family and home – everything he wanted! Yet Julia had often intimated to the fact that it was the only thing she felt was lacking. He owed it to her to correct his mistake and vowed to surprise her when they escaped.

  Richard weighed up the situation at hand. He had only one grappling hook at his disposal and no more than an hour to move four people. He did not need to be a mathematician to know that he was short on time, taking into account that it took Redmond twenty minutes just to reach the roof. If he was able to climb and save Redmond, this would allow him access to a second hook which he could use to haul two people up in quick succession. A spare twenty minutes would remain for the final person.

  The only question was: who was going to be the last person?

  ‘Okay, people, we have a decision to make. I have calculated that we have an hour before the rope breaks. I will go first and try to obtain the grappling hook from Redmond which I will drop along with mine. Two people will go next and one person will have to be last. My only demand is that Julia comes after me.’

  ‘I will go last,’ offered Fred as Mitchell’s face lit with a mix of relief and guilt.

  Richard eyed Fred with deliberation. His offer was chivalrous and brave, but the speed in which it was delivered took him by surprise. There was no way that anyone in their right mind would want to go last, yet Fred seemed very comfortable with his decision.

  It was an odd reaction, but he wondered if he was misreading the situation. Richard shook his head in disgust. What was he thinking? There was no way Fred would have an ulterior motive. Predicting this situation would have been impossible and there was definitely no way out.

  Richard accepted the offer with thanks.

  ‘Good luck,’ whispered Julia as she handed Richard her belt and grappling hook.

  Richard quickly blew her a kiss before aiming the hook into the path of the preceding rope and holding his breath.

  The hook flew straight and true, lodging itself less than an inch away from the clasp that precariously supported the unconscious Redmond.

  With the agility of a much younger man, Richard employed his ascender and began to climb the cable. He made good time, reaching the desired height in less than eight minutes before swinging loose and catapulting himself towards the tool room. Redmond had already completed the hard work by opening the small space, making it easier for Richard to gain momentum and hurtle himself forwards.

  His first attempt was unsuccessful, but his second effort brought him close enough to the obsidian wall to allow him a last minute grab at the rock before gravity yanked him away.

  Richard held on for dear life, using all of his remaining strength to draw his body forwards and up into the small room before switching on a torch.

  He had to think quickly. Redmond’s lack of movement meant that he would need to reel him in unaided. He shone his small torch about the interior of the cave in search of an item that would suit his needs, quickly locating a long wooden pole amongst the pile of antiquities. It sported a strange hook that left no clue as to its intended use, but on this occasion it was perfect.

  His worn and tired muscles screamed in pain as he stretched out towards his companion, taking two attempts before success. The hook slipped over the rope and the remaining archaeologists cheered from below as Richard hoisted and pulled, edging Redmond ever closer to the room. It took a further two minutes and an extreme lather of sweat before his young friend could be heav
ed to safety.

  Even then, Richard did not delay. He ensured Redmond was secure and checked the time. Forty-one minutes remained when Richard threw the grappling hooks down to the stricken lift. His aim was true, but he held onto the rope from his end until he could be sure that Mitchell had secured it correctly.

  All that was left was to wait. Success rested solely on those below.

  Richard turned his attention momentarily to Redmond who had just started to make incomprehensible sounds and slight body movements. A touch of his forehead and feel of his pulse revealed a lack of temperature and even blood pressure, giving him an immediate sense of relief.

  Redmond was going to be fine.

  At least that was one less worry for him although the sound coming from the shaft immediately overrode any respite he may have experienced. Julia and Mitchell had used one grappling hook and ascender, each arriving at the correct horizontal angle to swing over to the room at the same time. Unfortunately Mitchell had swung sideways, entangling his rope with Julia’s who was desperately trying to twist around and free herself. Richard checked his time. Twenty-five minutes to go and the rope holding the lift had started to unravel. Time was running out for Fred who was still waiting patiently on the roof of the lift although Richard could see the tension in his body.

  It took a further five to six minutes before Julia and Mitchell swung one at a time to the safety of the small room and quickly unhook their lines, which Richard threw immediately to Mitchell. To his dismay, his first throw was unsuccessful and Richard was forced to re-launch. He also noticed that only a few strands of rope stood between Fred and death.

  It was happening again.

  Richard recalled the death of a colleague at the beginning of his career during the archaeological dig in Mycenae and drew comparisons to this situation. The man in question was being lowered into a concealed well when the rope caught on a sharp piece of protruding iron, causing it to break and the man to fall to his death. Although it was not his fault, the dig had been Richard’s idea and he was never able to forgive himself for not checking for obstructions.