“Do we know the names of any of their members?”
“Just one. Jose Fernandez, who we believe is their leader. I talked to my counterpart at the US embassy and he forwarded a copy of all the data they’ve gathered on the Cruzados, and a timeline of their activities. Like I said, it’s not much.”
“Do you have any contacts with the policia? Someone we can talk to about this?”
John frowns. “Yes, but I’m not certain they will tell you anything useful.”
Michael looks up from the holoslate. “Oh?”
“Well, for one thing, the government of Honduras doesn’t think the theft and kidnapping are much of a priority.”
With a glance at George, Michael says, “They don’t?”
“The only reason the National Department of Investigations even opened a case file is because of pressure from USA, Inc. and the Honduras Office of Tourism.”
“They don’t think kidnapping is important?”
John shakes his head. “It’s very important, but it happens so often in this part of the world that unless there is a ransom demand or an imminent threat to a VIP, the authorities simply don’t have the manpower or resources to investigate. And so far, the Cruzados are only suspected of this crime. They haven’t taken responsibility or communicated any demands yet. As a matter of fact, according to the consul in the U.S. Embassy, the only reason we know the Cruzados are involved is because of an unsecured EPS to a contact in Houston.”
Michael and George share a grim look between them.
John shrugs apologetically. “I want to help you as much as I can, but I have to tell you I think you’re wasting your time. Until the Cruzados surface on their own with a list of demands, you’re just spinning your wheels.”
Michael has a thoughtful look on his face. “I appreciate where you’re coming from, but we have to follow through on this.”
“Of course.”
With a quick look to George, Michael says, “We thought we would begin our investigation in Copán, where it happened. Interview some of the local residents.”
“I can certainly help you with travel arrangements. There’s a bus that runs daily between Tegucigalpa and Santa Rosa de Copán. From there, perhaps you can hire an autotaxi. I believe Yaxche’s village is less than an hour away.”
George shakes his head, causing the image to bob up and down. “When I was there last, I rented a truck from the owner of the hotel where I stayed. The autotaxis won’t run rurally.”
John smiles and stands up. “Excellent. I’ll call down for some bus tickets while you get your travel documents from my receptionist.” He walks around the desk again and shakes both George’s and Michael’s hands. “And if you have a few extra days while in Honduras, you should visit Copán Ruinas. It’s quite astonishing. If you’re a history buff, it’s a must-see.”
∞
There are a series of images of the landscape looking out from inside a bus. The noise of the vehicle’s engine is too loud for anything to be heard other than garbled audio.
∞
A short nighttime shot of a hotel in Santa Rosa de Copán slowly pans to a busy sidewalk filled with pedestrians. On the street corner opposite the hotel an old beggar holds his hand out while gumming his teeth and staring into the distance.
∞
The morning sun casts shadows on the dirt road of a small village. A couple of barefoot kids kick a partially deflated soccer ball back and forth near a well which serves as their central plaza.
Michael steps into the frame. “We’re here in the village where Yaxche and the document were taken. What’s the village’s name again?”
George says, “Pueblo de Santa Brio, but most everyone here just calls it the pueblo.”
Michael makes a motion with his hand for George to follow him. “We’re going to try to find one of Yaxche’s relatives and see if they can give us any more information than what we already have.”
“If I remember correctly,” George says off-screen, “his house is the last one on the end. Maybe his daughter or his grandson is there.”
Michael heads towards the far side of the small village. As he walks, a few of the residents stop and look up at him and George in passing curiosity.
There are no more than two dozen ramshackle houses in the village, all looking in dire need of repair. The front of one of the homes has a few tables set out. On one of the tables are baskets of fruit, bread and two dead chickens. On one of the other tables a number of handcrafted trinkets are arrayed. A plump woman smiles at them and says, “Comprar?”
Michael glances at George with a helpless smile. “I forgot to pack my translator.”
“She wants to know if we want to buy something.”
Michael shakes his head. “Maybe later.”
To the woman, George says, “Más tarde. Gracias.”
She smiles and waves at them as the two make for Yaxche’s house.
The home itself is of typical construction: the walls are made of adobe, and the roof is constructed with clay tiles. Unlike many of the other houses, this one has a small porch and the floor is made of wood rather than packed earth. The front door is partially open.
George calls out into the house. “¿Hola?”
There is no answer, but one of the soccer-playing children trots over.
“La casa está vacía,” he says.
“Do you know what happened?” George asks in Spanish, immediately translating the conversation for Michael’s benefit.
The boy shakes his head. “They were taken by men with guns.”
“They?”
“The soldiers came and put Terry and his grandfather in a truck. They drove off. This was many days ago.”
“Have you ever seen those soldiers before?”
“No. I know nothing of them.” The boy pointed to a house two doors down made of thatch and clay. “Terry’s mother is there. She waits for them to return.”
“Thank you,” Michael says and passes the boy a twenty lempira bill.
Yipping with joy, the boy runs off to show his friends the money.
Michael turns to the camera. “This is news. We no idea Yaxche’s grandson was abducted as well.”
The two of them cross the packed dirt street to the house the boy had indicated and knock on the flimsy door made of wood planks bound together with a weaved rope.
A middle-aged woman opens the door. Worry lines stretch across her face; her eyes flick back and forth fearfully between Michael and George. Recognition blossoms when her gaze settles on George, who had been to the village over a decade earlier wearing similar headgear.
Behind her are two pre-teen girls who look on with curiosity.
The woman speaks in Spanish, and George translates between them.
She says, “Please come in.” She turns to her children and tells them to go play outside.
Michael smiles politely and nods as he follows the woman into her sparsely furnished house. Handmade chairs surround a carved table. A shelving unit holds plates and glasses, and on the mantle over a rudimentary fireplace is a photographic portrait of a young man.
Michael points to it. “Is that your son?”
“Yes,” the woman says, wringing her hands. “He and my father have been missing these past days. Taken by the bandits, for what reason I do not know. We have nothing of value.” She glances at Michael and George out of the corner of her eye. “You are not the police. Why have you come?”
“We want to help find them,” Michael answers. “Though we only found out today that your son was also kidnapped. Can you tell us about him?”
“Yes.” She sits down on a chair at the table. “He is my only son and I love him, though this past year he has grown apart from me and his father. Terry was engaged to be married, you see. Itzel was beautiful and brought joy to him and our family, but she was struck down by sickness and died. Terry ran away from us in grief and did not return for a month. He left a boy but came back a man. He brought a great many supplies an
d ideas to our village.”
When she spoke, she did not look proud, and Michael shot a quick look at George before saying to her, “You don’t look happy about that.”
“Something happened to Terry when he was away. My husband does not hear me when I say that he is not the same; he and the other villagers only see the improvements to the village and the wealth he brought back with him. But where did he come by this money? He says he won it gambling, but I think he may have done something shameful. I think—”
She falls silent and stares at her hands. “It is not my place to say.”
Michael puts a hand on her shoulder. “You can tell us. It might help us in our search for him and your father.”
There is a tear in her eye as she looks back up at Michael. “My husband tells me I am being foolish, but I think my son may have … stolen the money from the banditos. That is why they have taken him and my father. They will either ransom them to the village, or they will take their anger out on them.”
She grabs Michael’s arm. “Please. I beg you. Find my son and my father before something terrible happens to them.”
With a grim face, Michael says, “We will do everything we can. Is there anything you can tell us about these bandits?”
“No one saw them closely. They drove a black truck and had hunting rifles. That is all I know.”
Michael turns to George and says, “Maybe we can track the Cruzados by their truck? It might be a long shot, but if there was a satellite in the area the night of the kidnapping we might be able to see which direction it went.”
George taps his holoslate. “On it.”
Michael pats the woman’s hand. “Thank you,” he says. “We will do our best to bring your family back to you.”
∞
Inside the rented truck, George punches several commands into his holoslate while Michael drives.
“Anything yet?” Michael asks.
George nods. “Talk about a needle in a haystack. There was a geological satellite in this section of the departmental looking for mineral deposits. They pick up all kinds of heat signatures. It looks like there were three hundred vehicles traveling on the main road between Santa Rosa de Copán and the Copán Ruinas that night—maybe even double that.”
“Double? What do you mean?”
George shakes his head. “The satellite tracked in a zigzag pattern, so there are dozens of gaps in the record. The three times it passed over the village, there was no thermal activity.”
“Damn.”
George taps a few more commands. “Maybe I can run a filter. Eliminate any commercial vehicles or transports. Autotaxis. That kind of thing. Maybe we’ll get luck—”
“You don’t have to search any further, George,” Michael says. “I think they found us.”
George looks up. In the camera view is a large black van traveling towards them at high speed, kicking up a cloud of dust behind it.
Michael edges to the side of the road. The truck veers to cut them off, so Michael slows the vehicle to a stop.
“What are you doing?” George asks, his voice rising.
“Well,” Michael says. “It’s not like we can outrun them. After all, this is what we want, isn’t it? If these guys are Cruzados, maybe they’ll tell us where Yaxche and his grandson are. And the scroll.”
The black van skids to a stop a dozen meters away and four men with rifles jump out, pointing the weapons at Michael and George. The men have kerchiefs covering their mouths.
They yell in Spanish, and George translates: “Get out of the truck with your hands in the air. Do not try to run.”
Michael says, “We’d better do as they say.”
The two of them open the doors and step out. They put their hands up as Michael calls out, “We mean you no harm. My name is Michael Sanderson from Quantum Resources in Canada.”
“We know who you are,” one of the men says in English. “Keep your mouth shut.”
Another Cruzado walks purposefully toward George. He commands, “Turn it off.”
George says, “Turn what off?”
The armed man reaches out and grabs the Virtual Tourist. He pulls it from George’s head.
“The camera,” he says, as the image bounces around showing the dirt road, a pair of booted feet, the sky, and then complete darkness.
16
Lunar Lines Vessel, Diana :
Unknown Transit :
Justine could feel the Diana pulling out of the Canada Station Three dock. The massive ion pulse engines gave off severe vibrations when initially engaged, and the first jarring motion of the ship as it uncoupled from the dock was enough to knock someone off their feet if they weren’t safely fastened in their seats.
Both Justine and Clive clung to each other for balance as they quickly made their way to the canopy seats and strapped themselves in.
Lieutenant Jeffries’ men had taken up defensive positions around the cargo, in case the hijackers decided to come down to the cargo bay. When the engines shuddered, two of them grabbed on to the container’s handles to stabilize themselves while the other two, who had dropped to one knee, lost their balance and fell over.
Two of the men who had raced toward the elevators after the announcement—ion rifles up at the ready as if expecting the hijackers to burst into the cargo bay with guns blazing—were thrown from their feet into heavy metal boxes when the liner jerked into motion. One of them got right back up, but the other took a very long time to recover.
Once the liner stabilized, Lieutenant Jeffries and his corporal hurried over to the man to check his condition. He looked back and gave Justine a nod that told her, although battered and bruised, he was otherwise fine.
Justine had been through an attempted hijacking before, though the assailants had been successful in their main purpose: kidnapping Alex Manez. But Alex wasn’t on the Diana. He had disembarked safely.
Fighting back the panic welling inside her, Justine clung to Clive’s arm. His face was set in a stoic mask, but his eyes betrayed his fear.
“It’s the Kinemet.” Clive stated the obvious. “They want it.”
“Why are they letting them take the ship?” Justine asked through clenched teeth.
“CS3 isn’t really designed to stop a ship from leaving,” he said.
Justine shook her head. “I mean the flight crew. All liners have protocols against this. The cabin is self-contained and sealed—in which case they would never initiate takeoff procedures. And even if someone were to manage to get in and hold the pilot at gunpoint, the system is designed to disengage electrical if there are any other biometric readings in the cabin besides the captain and navigator.”
Clive glanced at Justine. “Unless they are a part of it.”
A dark look settled on his face and he called out, “Lieutenant Jeffries?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I don’t think you need to worry about them attacking us.”
The soldier turned his head to look back at Clive and Justine. “Why not?”
“Check the elevator,” Clive said. “I’m sure it’s been disabled. As are, I’m certain, all our communications. They have no intention of fighting with us. Why would they? We are exactly where they want us, safely tucked away in this little prison of our own making.”
Clive laughed, but it was a hollow, bitter sound. “You may as well stand down until we arrive wherever it is they are taking us, or until they initiate contact.”
∞
The forward velocity increased, and the liner’s vibrations lessened to normal levels as the ship finished its launch from Canada Station Three and started in on its trajectory.
What destination? Justine asked herself. “They can’t be heading for any of the other space stations. Everyone will be alerted to them by then. The can’t be going to Luna Station or anywhere on the Moon for that matter,” she said out loud to Clive.
After the abduction of Alex Manez had revealed the extent of Chow Yin’s infiltration into the station, securi
ty measures had tripled not only on every settlement on the Moon, but for all space traffic coming to and from the planetoid. Non-commercial or non-military vessels were under the highest scrutiny.
Whoever they were, the hijackers were obviously well organized and funded. Another thought came to her: were they hostages? Or were they incidental cargo? If all the hijackers wanted was the Kinemet, they didn’t need her and the soldiers. It would be an easy enough task for them to shut down the life support system in the cargo bay and just wait until any threat was neutralized.
She clung tighter to Clive’s arm.
Justine still had her PERSuit harness on—she would be completely lost without it—and watched as Lieutenant Jeffries and his men did a full recon of the cargo area, checking the elevators to confirm Clive’s supposition. It wasn’t that they didn’t believe him, but Justine knew from her days in the military that redundant confirmation had proved itself time and again.
Corporal Marks, the second-in-command, tested his communications equipment, and tried to tap into the onboard computer. The result was as Clive predicted. Dead air.
After stationing his soldiers at strategic locations around the cargo area anyway, the lieutenant returned to report. “We’re completely shut in and shut off. Grounded.”
As if reading Justine’s thoughts, he added, “Life support is still fully functional.”
“So they want us alive,” Justine said in conclusion.
Ever pragmatic, the lieutenant said, “Maybe.”
“What do you mean?”
The officer shook his head. “There are a lot of scenarios that could be played out. Holding us as hostages is only one of them.”
Justine let her thoughts follow some of the possibilities. They could hold them for ransom. They could release them at a later time as a gesture of goodwill. They could kill them later to serve as a warning, or a distraction. They could sell them into slavery—human trafficking was uncommon, but still an issue in the world.
Music of the Spheres (The Interstellar Age Book 2) Page 10