You’ve got to be kidding me, Becca thought. She’s as crazy as Silas! Neither of the two could have been older than their mid-thirties. No way they could have been in Belize forty-eight years ago. Unless…No, Becca. Don’t you even start down that road.
“Now wait just a minute,” Silas said, stepping toward the woman and pointing his non-gun-finger at her. “Sergio Nasgucci was not one of yours. There is no yours or mine. Once someone’s ticket is up, that’s it. Neither of us have any control of that…no matter what you’ve convinced your devotees to believe.”
“Devotees?” Becca was losing control of the situation in a bad way.
“Yeah,” Silas said, pointing to the hideous skeleton statue in the center of the room. “That’s not me. That’s her.”
“Her?”
“Yes. Allow me to introduce the two of you,” he said. “Chief Becca Cole, meet her Glorious Highness of the Narco drug cartels themselves, Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte. Or, simply Santa Muerte, if you like. The cartels revere her. Worship her even. They believe she’ll keep them from harm at the hands of police officers such as yourself.” He looked at the woman and gestured to Becca. “Honey Bumpkin, meet Becca Cole. She’s a cop. A good one, by all accounts. And together, we’re investigating the death of a woman found on the beach in Summer Haven. An unscheduled death, I might add. And one of your devotees has been named as a suspect. We’re here to talk to him.”
He squared off against her, his eyes flashing in a silent challenge against the woman. For her part, Esperanza didn’t back down.
“So, an unscheduled death, eh?” She grinned at him. Her smile was cruel, nothing like Silas’s usual cheeriness at all. “So, it’s true. I’d heard you were losing your edge.”
“Are you going to introduce us to your stooge or what?”
Yep. I’m definitely losing control.
Fortunately, it seemed that Silas Mot—or as Lady Death called him, Ankou—had recovered from the surprise appearance of his ex and was back on track. And from the sound of things, it all went back to what he’d told her in her office. People were dying and he had no idea why. Esperanza seemed pleased with the turn of events, which put her up a notch or two on Becca’s own suspect list.
“Why should I?” Esperanza asked. “He worships me. Far more than you ever did, mi esposa. Why shouldn’t I just have the both of you killed now where you stand?”
Several guns cocked from the shadowy corners of the room. In response, Becca swept her own gun around, searching for targets. A large man holding a pump shotgun stood just inside the doorway from which they’d entered the chamber. Two more appeared from another door at the back. Both appeared to be holding H&K MP5 submachine guns.
“Oh, come on, Essie,” Silas said. “You know they can’t hurt me.”
The woman shrugged. “Can’t they? I’m not so sure.”
Silas edged closer to her. “Don’t try me, Esperanza. You won’t win.”
The Latina woman shrugged. “Even if they can’t harm you, they can definitely hurt your new girlfriend here.” She nodded at Becca.
“First of all, I’m not his girlfriend,” Becca said. She wasn’t certain who to point her gun at first, so she opted for Esperanza’s head instead. If these gangbangers really did worship the woman as some type of death goddess, maybe they’d think twice about attacking if she could get hurt. “If they kill us, the Florida Department of Law Enforcement and every agency in northeast Florida will be down on your gang faster than you can blink.”
Silas glanced around, his eyes tracking each of the newcomers like a predator about to pounce.
“Esperanza, call them off,” he said. “No one here has to die tonight.”
“How would you know? Aren’t you losing a grip on your kingdom, Ankou?”
“Not by a long shot.” He spun around, whipped out his ridiculous finger gun, and pointed it at the shotgun-wielding thug near the entrance to the foyer. “Bang,” he whispered, bringing his thumb down.
The man dropped and fell into convulsions before gasping for one last breath and going still. His gun clattered to the floor. A split second later, the two goons with the MP5s gargled gasping breaths and fell to the floor along with their companion.
Esperanza screamed.
“No!” She ran over to the shotgun-wielding man, crouched down, and scooped up his head into her lap. “They’re mine, Ankou! They’re all mine.” She stroked the man’s shaved head with delicate fingers. “Bring them back.” She looked up at Silas. Tears ran down her cheeks. “Please.”
Becca couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Silas had simply pointed at the man and he collapsed. The others too. They had died right in front of her. The way it all went down was just as she imagined a Grim Reaper would be able to do.
No. Get your head out of that rabbit hole. It’s obviously a trick.
But in her gut, the seasoned police officer knew it wasn’t. The inability of Larry, one of her rookies, to properly handcuff the man. His disappearance from his secured holding cell. And now this. It was true. Silas Mot really was Death.
“Why should I?” Silas’s good-natured attitude was completely absent now and had been replaced by cold, but calculated fury. “They’d simply try to kill Chief Cole again and I can’t have that.”
“No! I swear it. Bring them back and I’ll offer both of you safe passage while you’re here.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Silas said. “And you will also take us to Garcia without any more games?”
The woman nodded.
His face still deathly solemn, he walked over to the shotgun man, bent down, and touched his forehead. The man jolted upright at his touch, gasping and coughing for breath. The others were revived as well, though they still lay motionless on the floor as if in shock from their experience.
“As I told you, Essie…there was no need for anyone to die this afternoon. Returning their lives was of no consequence to my station.” Silas stood and reached out a hand to her. When she took it, he helped her to her feet. The gunman laid his head back down on the concrete floor and continued to heave for breath. “Still, they won’t be exactly mobile for several hours more, I’d say.”
Then, Silas turned to look at Becca.
“You’re…you’re…” She couldn’t quite form the words.
His bright smile returned. “I told you,” he said before popping another piece of candy into his mouth. “Now, how about we have that meeting with the Santero, Jacinto Garcia.”
11
They were led through a dark hallway that descended underneath the U-Store-It complex. Becca’s mind whirled at the revelation that she was currently walking side by side with the mythological incarnation of Death and was being led by the patron saint of drug cartels throughout all of Central and South America.
When she’d been awakened earlier that morning by the shrill ring of her iPhone that informed her of Andrea Alvarez’s murder, she’d had no idea how upside down her world was about to be turned.
“If you’re going to stare, at least talk to me,” Silas said, keeping his own eyes fixed ahead at his ex-wife. “It’s unsettling.”
Becca blinked, then shifted her gaze down the hall they were now walking. The sound of their shoes clip-clopping down the cement enclosure was nearly deafening. It had been also eerily hypnotic and she hadn’t even been aware she’d been staring at the man next to her.
“Sorry.” She tried to swallow, but her throat was far too dry. “I’m kind of freaking out a little right now.”
“Don’t. I’m still the same annoying man you believed to be nuts just a few minutes ago.” She noticed he was keeping his voice low, despite the maddening acoustics of the hallway. “We’re about to meet a major player within Los Cuernos del Diablo. Now would not be a good time to show fear.”
They turned a corner, then descended a few more steps to go deeper underground.
“I’ve got a question for you, Essie,” Silas said, turning his attention to his ex. “
Didn’t consider the possibility until I realized you were in town. Did you have anything to do with Elliot Newman’s death?”
“Who?” she replied, not turning to look back at him.
“So, I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”
Becca looked over at him. “Elliot Newman? The archaeologist that was hit by a bus a few nights ago? What does he have to do with Andrea Alvarez’s death?”
Silas shrugged. “Nothing at all. Just working all the angles is all.”
“Well, don’t press your luck, mi esposa,” Esperanza added. “Remember what you said. There’s no your or mine. When their Time is up, it’s a free-for-all.”
Becca’s mind reeled. Silas had mentioned Elliot Newman in her office when they were discussing his interest in the case. Something to do with people dying unscheduled and unsanctioned deaths. Andrea was one of them, but Silas had admitted that the St. Augustine archaeologist wasn’t. The only thing she knew about him was that he had been here to investigate an old sunken pirate ship off the Summer Haven coast but was struck by a tour bus before he even had a chance to take his team to look at it.
Okay. One weird death at a time, Becca. You’re having a hard enough time dealing with things as they are.
A moment later, they came up to a set of large double doors at the end of the hall. Two well-tattooed gangbangers stood on each side of the doors, MP5s in hand.
Esperanza moved to within five feet of the door and turned. “He’s inside there. His sanctum where he practices his faith and prays,” she said. Her eyes seemed to burn with anger. Perhaps humiliation. Becca couldn’t get a good enough read on her. “But there are things you need to know before you approach him.”
“Such as?” Becca asked. She refused to let Esperanza see how terrified she was of the woman’s very existence.
“First, he doesn’t answer to the name Jacinto Garcia. If you call him that, he’ll take offense.”
“We’ve heard,” Silas responded. “Goes by Omo Sango now.”
“Don’t utter that name with such contempt, mi esposa. It is a sacred name. He didn’t choose it. It was bestowed on him by his Orisha namesake. His patron spirit within Santeria.” She leaned in toward them as if what she was about to tell them was a closely guarded secret. “Sango.”
Silas gasped. “You mean Sango gave him the name personally? He’s not just a Santero? He’s a…”
“Yes.”
“A what?” Becca asked. “What else is he?”
Silas looked over at her. “A Babalowa. I’d just assumed he’d taken the name himself to make his followers fear him even more. Sango is the most feared Orisha of Santeria. Made sense that a drug thug would want a name like that. But the title ‘Omo’ means ‘child of’. Garcia’s new name is essentially ‘Son of Sango’. The fact that it was bestowed on him by the Orisha is very significant. The nomenclature is reserved specifically for Babalowas of the religion.”
“And what exactly is a Babalowa?”
“If a Santero was like a Catholic priest, then a Babalowa would be a sort of…”
“Bishop?”
He shook his head. “A Cardinal. And considering he’s believed to be a child of Sango—the veritable King of Santeria—it’s like he’s royalty as well. The mortal equivalent of an Orisha himself.” He turned back to Esperanza. “He’s the only one who can read diloggun tools for divination and also can confer initiation to other Santeros. Which means he’s pretty powerful.”
His ex-wife nodded.
“Powerful enough to possess it, you think?”
Becca cocked her head. “Possess what?” She didn’t like being kept in the dark—especially in her own investigation—and the secrecy was starting to wear down the last of her patience. “Mot, tell me what you’re talking about. I need to know before I go in there and start questioning this guy.”
Silas gestured for her to hold on a moment but continued to stare down Esperanza. “Well, is he? Does he have it?”
“Yes, he’s powerful enough to wield it, I believe. As to whether he has it, I am not sure.”
“And this is why you’ve come here? To get your hands on it before I can find it?”
She let out an irritated laugh. “My reasons for being here are none of your concern. These men have prayed to me and I have come…just as I’ve always come and always will.”
Silas let out an irritated sigh, then looked at Becca. “I promise, I’ll explain all this later. For now, I think it’s time for our audience with the Babalowa.”
“I don’t like feeling confused,” the cop replied. “It’s not in my nature.”
“Trust me, Chief Cole. The scenario playing before you would confuse even the most brilliant of minds. But hopefully, after speaking with Garcia—” He paused and glanced at his ex. “Pardon, Omo Sango—everything should be made clear. For all of us.”
Silas gestured toward the door and Esperanza nodded to the guards. As one, they pushed both doors open and the three of them strode into a large subterranean warehouse. A set of Orisha Warriors, similar to those they discovered in Andrea Alvarez’s house, greeted them at the entrance. Beyond, the room’s walls were made of cinder block and patches of rusted corrugated metal. Iron rafters draped the ceiling, giving the structure a hollowed-out cadaverous appearance. Several metal fire barrels were placed around the room, emitting red-orange illumination that seemed to cast dancing shadows in the darkened corners.
A handful of people huddled around the barrels, each packing some type of firearm and seeming to act as sentries against any uninvited intruders. Each was inked with a series of crude, prison-house tattoos that covered most of their bodies. Some had gang tags tattooed on their cheeks, brows, and necks.
In the center of the room, cloaked in a bright red and white checkered robe, sat a large black man, cross-legged on the floor and surrounded by lit ritual candles. He was sitting in front of an obsidian statue of a man clothed in red and white and wielding an axe. Two columns of smoke rose from incense sticks on each side of the statue.
As they approached, the black man looked up to greet them. He wasn’t smiling.
“These people are here to see you, Omo Sango,” Esperanza said. The tone of her voice was anything but submissive. In this place, though Jacinto Garcia may think different, she was the one in charge. “I’ve given them safe passage. They are here under my protection.”
Interesting that she didn’t tell him who Silas really is, Becca thought while stepping toward the candle circle in which the man sat.
“Jacin…” She stopped herself. It wouldn’t be wise to antagonize her suspect any more than she needed to. “Sorry. Omo Sango.” She nodded silent apology for emphasis. “I’ve got a few questions for you regarding…”
“Andrea Alvarez.” His response wasn’t a question. Despite living in America for nearly twenty years, he still had a thick Cuban accent.
“Exactly.”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were going to. I was just saving you the trouble.”
Becca shrugged. “So, what about the curse? We have a witness who says you placed some kind of death curse on her.”
The Babalowa remained seated, his legs crossed. Absently, he fondled a necklace around his neck comprised of sea shells, bones, and palm nuts. Then, he laughed. It was the deep, throaty laugh of a giant. “You don’t really believe in curses, do you, chica? You think a jury would believe in such a thing?”
“That’s not an answer to my question. Did you place a death curse on Ms. Alvarez?”
Omo Sango clambered to his feet. Becca’s head craned up to keep her eyes fixed on his nearly seven-foot frame. He wasn’t just tall. He was as big around the middle and packed with solid ropes of muscle underneath the flab.
The big man stepped closer and looked down at her with a sneer. “What’s it to you, if I did? Can’t prove I had anythin’ to do with her death, even if I did.”
“You might want to reconsider answeri
ng Chief Cole’s questions.” Silas stepped up to the giant and glared at him with dangerous, black eyes.
There was a sudden hush in the room. The gangbangers, who’d been ignoring the exchange for the most part, all turned to the confrontation and shifted their weapons in their hands.
“Pretty man in a suit. What you think you gonna do to me if I don’t?”
Silas’s white grin stretched across his face. His eyes narrowed into slits. He leaned forward and beckoned the big man to bend down closer to him. Smirking, the Babalowa complied.
“You see that pretty lady behind us?” Silas thumbed over his shoulder at Esperanza. “I assume you know who she really is?”
Omo Sango nodded. “Our holy lady of Death,” he replied. “Our protector.”
“Right,” Silas said. “Do you fear her?”
The big man glanced over at the woman and gave a slight bow. “Yes.”
“Okay,” Silas said. At this point, his voice was only a whisper. “Now, look into my eyes, Mr. Big Bad Babalowa. Want to guess who I am?”
Omo Sango stood there for several seconds before his sneer dissolved into a frown. His eyes widened. He took a single step back while his jaw went slack.
“Yeah. I’m her old man,” Silas continued. “Now where does that put you in the food chain of this room, I wonder?” Omo Sango took another step back. “Now show some respect and answer the lady’s questions.”
12
“I didn’t kill the woman,” Omo Sango said. His eyes had never moved from Silas even though Becca had been asking him the questions. He’d lost the hard edge of a drug-pushing gangster and now trembled in what could only be described as a ‘throne’ near the ritual circle in which they’d first encountered him. “I didn’t even put a curse on her. I swear it. On my ancestors.”
The subterranean warehouse had been cleared of the gangbangers. The candles in the ritual circle had been extinguished. The only people now occupying the room were Chief Cole, Silas, Esperanza, and the Babalowa.
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