If he were in charge, perhaps he would have taken a seat in front of the old man and had tea and food brought out. Invite the man to a peaceful, civil act, to establish trust. After all, if they were here to establish contact, to see what riches may be found, wouldn’t it be easier to have the native population show them where the gold and jewels were, rather than search for it blindly?
But he wasn’t in charge, and never would be with thinking like that. The Admiral was in command, he was their leader, and Cheng had to trust that he knew best.
The Admiral drew his sword and swung, slicing the old man’s stomach open, his innards spilling onto the pristine beach.
The forest went silent
Then there was a single cry.
12
Quintana Roo Cartel Lab #3
South of Tepich, Mexico
Present Day
Rosa Carona wiped the sweat off her brow, the heat stifling inside the lab where she worked. There was no air conditioning here, though there were large fans providing ventilation at the far end of the underground complex. Unfortunately, only one of the three was working at the moment. Her eyes were red and tearing despite the goggles she wore, and her nose, throat, and lungs burned, the thin mask she wore clearly not effective against the fumes allowed to build up due to the faulty ventilation.
Yet she kept her mouth shut.
They all did.
This wasn’t some cushy factory job in the United States. This was Mexico. This was a drug lab.
And she was a criminal.
Not by choice, of course, though perhaps that was putting it rather naively. She was here, by choice, in that she had asked for and got the job, knowing what she was getting herself into. But not by choice, in that she had been so desperate for work, and this the only job available, she had been forced to take it.
Her husband was a diabetic and had recently lost his foot, no longer able to work the fields. Their children, all four of them, were under the age of eight, unable to support the family.
That left her.
They had no family here to help them, having spent all their money to move here thanks to her husband’s job offer from an old friend. Things had been good for the past several years, a roof over their heads, food on their table, a little drink in the evenings. It was a small, friendly town they had found, and she was happy—they all were happy.
Until her husband became sick.
They had saved for a visit to the doctor and found out he was a diabetic. The medicine was too expensive, and after injuring his foot in the fields, it had quickly become infected, his high blood sugar preventing the healing process. Gangrene had set in after a few weeks, and the foot was amputated to save his life.
Thus ending theirs.
The same friend helped once again, giving her the name of someone to meet for work, a job only those who were desperate would take. She had refused at first, though when she dished out the last of the rice to her family, her children’s bellies rumbling from hunger, her husband refusing to take his portion, instead dividing it up among the children, she had made the call.
And began making more money than she had ever dreamed possible.
There was value in keeping one’s mouth shut, and that she did. She didn’t make a fortune by any stretch, yet she made more than her husband ever had. Food was once again plentiful, her husband had the medicine he needed, and she had even managed to save a little with the hopes that one day they might escape this madness and move to the United States.
It was a dream, one that would probably never come true, but what was life without dreams?
Shouts from the entrance had her frozen in place, gunshots erupting followed by panicked screams. She dropped the beaker she was holding and it shattered on the floor with a hiss. Glancing over her shoulder toward the emergency exit tunnel, she grabbed her friend Louisa and ran, weaving between the long lines of tables representing millions of dollars of drugs belonging to one of the most vicious drug lords in Mexico. It didn’t matter if it was the police or a rival gang, all that mattered was she couldn’t be here when it was all over.
The door to the tunnel was already open, several having already entered, but the screams of terror behind her as the gunfire continued, had her realizing too few would be able to take advantage of it. She burst through the door, hauling Louisa in after her. She spun, her eyes wide as half a dozen gunmen methodically moved through the factory, killing everyone they encountered, the two guards already dead, and only a handful of women like her still alive, rushing for the exit.
She gripped the door handle, one of the gunmen spotting their escape route. He raised his machine gun and fired. She yanked the door closed, locking it like she had been taught, one of her coworkers slamming into it, hammering on the other side with her fists as she screamed for someone to open the door. Rosa reached for the lock when Louisa grabbed her arm.
“If you open it, we’re all dead.”
Rosa nodded, placing a hand on the door and closing her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Gunfire silenced the cries.
“Rosa, let’s go!”
Louisa tugged on her shirt and Rosa reluctantly followed, sprinting down the narrow tunnel. They reached a ladder at the end, and she climbed up through a hatch that opened deep in the jungle surrounding the underground lab, the trees thick and shielding them from view. Rosa glanced about her and found only five other survivors.
Her heart sank.
There had been thirty, just like her.
“We have to get out of here before they come looking for us.”
A horrific ripping sound had them all spinning toward the buried complex, a fireball erupting into the sky, black and deep orange, billowing upward and out. She gasped as the trees snapped, flattened by the explosion, tossing her off her feet. Her head hit something hard as a rush of heat and debris washed over her, and her world faded as the screams of the others died out around her.
13
Pacific Coastal Region
Maya Highlands, Maya Empire
1092 AD
“Father!”
Balam Canek watched in horror as his father gripped at his stomach in a futile attempt to stop the flow of blood and entrails. Balam collapsed to his knees as his father did, tears burning his eyes and rage filling his heart. His father fell to his side, the demon who had killed him so callously, glaring at the members of his tribe, holding a green talisman over his head and shouting something in defiance.
Balam pushed to his feet and looked at the others who now awaited the orders of their new chief. “Attack!”
He spun toward the demon and raised his blowgun to his mouth, loosing a tiny arrow laced with curare poison. The others followed suit, dozens of darts and spears rushing toward the murderous horde invading their land.
At first, none seemed affected, then one fell, then another. The enemy formed a circle around their leader, shields held high against the spears. A line formed behind the shields and a group of archers unleashed their arrows.
“Take cover!” Balam stepped behind a thick tree, his men doing the same, though one chose poorly, a cry of agony soon falling silent. Balam turned to see an arrow sticking through the dead man’s chest, having pierced the tree he had been hiding behind.
How is that even possible?
He poked his head out from his much larger tree and took in the battle. At least a dozen of the enemy had fallen, and they were now retreating toward the water’s edge, boats pushed into the sea. His eyes fell upon the green talisman, now held under the arm of their leader. He turned to the priest. “Could that green talisman be the source of their power?”
“Absolutely.”
Balam stared then made a decision, a decision that could be his last as chief. “Target their leader!”
Darts and spears rained on the group of soldiers surrounding the demon responsible for his father’s death, several collapsing, the circle surrounding him spreading out to fill the gaps, leaving him more exposed.
A dart made contact, the demon grasping at his neck, yanking it free and tossing it with derision to the sand as if it were nothing to be concerned with. He fell to a knee, the green talisman tumbling from his hands onto the blood-soaked sand.
Balam darted forward, racing toward the cluster of demons now concerned with their fallen leader. They dragged him toward the boat, the talisman forgotten in the sand, if only for a moment. Balam rushed past his father’s body, unable to resist the urge to look upon his still form as his men rushed after him, providing him with cover. He skidded to a halt, grabbing the heavy object as the first of the enemy finally noticed him and turned to challenge him.
Balam threw his spear, puncturing the oddly thick skin, the creature’s eyes bulging in shock, the fear and pain obvious, leaving him to wonder if it was but a mask covering a man’s face. He grabbed his spear, yanking it from the creature’s stomach, then raced back toward the trees, holding the green talisman over his head.
“I have it! I have their power!”
14
Universidad Veracruzana Archaeological Site
South of Tepich, Mexico
Present Day
The floor rumbled, dust from overhead shaking loose and gently falling toward them, highlighted by the battery powered lamps deployed about the chamber.
Agent Hugh Reading stared up at the ceiling. “Bloody hell, what was that?”
Professor Morales shook his head. “I don’t know.” He started for the stairs, Reading beating him there as everyone rushed for the open air. At first, James Acton was certain it was some type of earthquake, though having experienced those before, this felt like something different. He followed Laura out into the sunlight, several of the students outside already pointing to the horizon.
He turned and gasped, a massive dark cloud of smoke and flame rising to the north. “What’s over there?”
Morales slowly shook his head. “Nothing. There shouldn’t be anything there at all.”
Acton’s eyes narrowed. “Well, there has to be something. The jungle doesn’t just explode like that.”
“Whoever it is will need help,” said Reading. “Can we get there by car?”
Morales vigorously shook his head. “No! We should leave it. Whatever it is, it can’t be good.”
“There could be people hurt!” insisted Reading. “We need to go see.”
“No, there’s only one thing that could be, and you don’t want any part of it.”
“What?”
“A drug lab.”
“Or it could just be a car accident, maybe a fuel truck.”
Morales sighed, conceding the point. “Yes, that is possible. But in these parts, you don’t take chances.”
Reading drew a deep breath, expanding his chest, his frame reaching its formidable capacity. “I’m a police officer. It’s my duty to check. I’m going.”
Acton stepped toward his friend. “I’ll go with you. I speak Spanish.”
“And I’m going with you too.” Laura held out her hand. “Keys.”
Morales frowned but tossed her a set. “Take mine. We’re going to start packing. We can’t risk being here if it’s something bad. We’ll head back into town when you return, just until things settle down.”
“Okay, we’ll be back soon.”
15
Pacific Coastal Region
Maya Highlands, Maya Empire
1092 AD
Cheng Jun rushed to his Admiral’s side, grabbing him by the arm as several of them dragged their fallen leader toward the boats. He glanced over his shoulder and spotted the imperial seal lying in the sand. “Someone get the seal!”
A man to his right turned, stepping back to retrieve the priceless jade when Cheng heard a thud and a groan. He glanced back to see the man gripping a spear in his stomach as one of the natives picked up the seal.
Admiral Khong, whose head was tilted back, gasped out a cry. “No!”
The others turned, but it was too late, the nearly naked man disappearing into the trees, the seal held over his head as he shouted something to the others, ecstatic at their victory.
For it was a victory.
They had lost this battle, lost the imperial seal, and he feared by the agony on Admiral Khong’s face, they had lost their leader as well.
Captain Tai pushed through the soldiers protecting the Admiral and dropped to a knee beside him. “Admiral, are you okay?”
Khong reached up and grabbed Tai by the back of his neck, pulling him closer. “Retrieve the seal at all costs.”
The words were gasped, strangled, delivered with such effort, and such conviction, there could be no denying the final order.
“You have my word, Admiral.”
Khong’s hand slipped from Tai’s neck as he collapsed to the sand, his chest giving one final, jarring heave, then a long, stuttering sigh escaped as his last breath was exhaled on this foreign soil he had come to claim, it instead claiming him.
Cheng pointed to the trees where he had seen the native flee. “Sir, he went through there. If we go now, we can catch him!”
Captain Tai shook his head. “No, not now.” He gestured toward the sun setting on the horizon. “They will have us at too great a disadvantage if we pursue them through their own territory in the dark.”
“But they’ll get away!”
Tai glared at him. “You question my orders?”
Cheng dropped to his knees, prostrating himself. “Forgive me, my lord, I did not mean to. I am just upset over the Admiral’s death and eager to avenge him.”
Tai stepped toward him, his feet stopping inches from Cheng’s face. “Rise.”
He did, keeping his chin tight against his chest, his eyes focused on the ground. “You will have your chance, tomorrow.” Tai turned to the others. “These primitives were here when we arrived, which means they live nearby. They will no doubt return to their homes, drunk with the mistaken belief that they have won. They will feast and celebrate, and tomorrow, when their stomachs are overburdened and their heads are swollen from drink, we will attack.”
Cheng smiled, the wisdom of their new commander evident, the other men around them murmuring their agreement.
“Bring everyone ashore except skeleton crews for each ship. Bring every weapon we have and all the supplies. We won’t be leaving until we have retrieved the imperial seal, and punished those responsible for the Admiral’s death!”
Cheng stared at the now silent forest, their attackers having disappeared with the seal. Though he agreed with his new commander’s orders to attack in the morning, he wondered how they would beat what had appeared to be an inferior enemy, yet clearly wasn’t. He looked about at the dead and dying, some felled by spears, but others with no wounds evident, their bodies contorted as if frozen in place, their eyes staring into nothingness as if their souls still remained, confused about what had just happened.
How had they died?
How had they been killed?
He spotted something sticking in the arm of one of his fallen comrades, a tiny piece of wood with what appeared to be feathers surrounding it. He took a knee and pulled it free, a small bead of blood left behind. He examined the tiny creation, his eyes narrowing.
It’s a dart!
But how could something so small kill? He searched about and found dozens of the darts littering the sand. He picked one up and placed it on his tongue. A harsh, bitter taste caused him to spit onto the sand the saliva that had quickly formed. “Sir, these darts, they’re poison!”
Captain Tai spun toward him. “Show me.”
Cheng held it out and Tai reached for it. “Careful, sir. One prick could kill you.”
Tai paused, his arm recoiling quickly. He leaned in, examining the tiny device then turned to the men. “Full armor tomorrow, with thick clothing underneath. We must defend against these”—he paused, turning back to stare at the dart still held in Cheng’s hand—“things. In the morning, their greatest weapon will be no danger. Tomorrow, we will have our revenge
!”
16
Quintana Roo Cartel Compound
Tepich, Mexico
Present Day
Javier Diaz sauntered onto the marble patio surrounding the large infinity pool, his boss, known to everyone only as El Jefe, sat in the hot tub, a buxom American blonde on either arm, the boss’ wife visiting her family in Guadalajara.
While the cat’s away…
“El Jefe, there’s something you need to see out front.”
El Jefe frowned, clearly not pleased at the disturbance. A third woman appeared from under the water, one of her friends swapping positions.
Oh, to be king! One of these days.
“What is it?” He was annoyed, and annoying El Jefe was never wise.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, El Jefe, but there’s a delivery for you from Galano.” The mention of El Jefe’s rival changed the mood and he reached under the water, swatting the girl away as he rose. Diaz turned so he wouldn’t have the image of his rotund boss’ pito burned onto his retinas.
El Jefe stepped from the pool, one of the many servants wrapping him in a robe. “A delivery? From that puta? What is it?”
Diaz brightened slightly. “A car!”
El Jefe’s eyes narrowed. “A car?” He strode through the patio doors and into the living room twice as large as Diaz’s entire home. “Did you check it over?”
“Yes, sir, bumper to bumper. It’s clean. And very nice.”
El Jefe glanced at him, as if dismissing his underling’s opinion as unworthy of consideration. They emerged through the front doors, the gleaming metallic silver of a Jag convertible greeting him, Galano’s right-hand man, Sanchez, sitting on the hood, a cigar chomped between his teeth. He rose, presenting the car with a sweep of his hand and a bow.
“El Jefe, a gift from Señor Galano. An apology, if you will, for last week’s incident.”
Diaz frowned, stepping slightly away from El Jefe. Last week, three of their men had been gunned down by Galano’s men in a bar brawl in town. Overtures had been immediately made, Galano sending the men responsible over, El Jefe executing them personally.
Wrath of the Gods (A James Acton Thriller, #18) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 4