The Death Relic (23 page)

‘Meaning the operator
wouldn’t
be notified of a system error.’

Raskin nodded. ‘If you hadn’t spotted the gap with your own eyes, the odds are pretty damn good that no one would have noticed it.’

Payne stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘To black out a video like that, how good would a hacker have to be?’

Raskin whistled. ‘Pretty damn good.’

‘Too skilled for you to catch?’

‘That depends. How hot is the bikini photo you’re going to send?’

‘Pretty damn hot.’

Raskin grinned. ‘In that case, I can catch him.’

Angel weaved his way across several lanes of traffic until the
SUV
was in the innermost lane. The road encircled the Zócalo like a racetrack around a stone infield. Sitting in the passenger seat, Hector stared at the giant Mexican flag in the centre of the historic plaza. In all his years, he couldn’t remember it being so still. Normally, it flapped and fluttered in the violent breeze. Today, it looked like a hanged man, dangling lifeless above the square.

Fraught with guilt, Hector viewed it as a sign.

This was where he would be punished for his sins.

Angel eased the wheels of the
SUV
over the kerb, then drove towards the centre of the plaza. Despite the confused looks from the locals, who weren’t used to seeing vehicles in the square, he parked 15 feet north of the flagpole. Three tourists stood in front of them. Two were posing for a picture and the third was the photographer. Other than that, the area around the flag was completely clear.

No cars. No gunmen. No drama.

Just another day at the Zócalo.

Hector glanced at his watch and noted the time. They were one minute early for the meeting. If the caller kept his promise, Hector’s kids wouldn’t be injured. For that, he breathed a sigh of relief. If anything happened to them, he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. He truly wouldn’t. Despite his history of violence, he was still a father, and he cared deeply about the welfare of his kids. Otherwise he wouldn’t be willing to give up so much to get them back.

Angel glanced at him. ‘Now what?’

Hector shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’

Unsure what to do, they just sat there. Helpless.

They had the medallion. They had the money. They were on time.

They had no choice but to wait.

With her sunglasses and floppy hat, Tiffany blended in with the curious crowd. Unlike them, however, she was ready to launch an attack.

‘Light the east,’ she ordered.

From his perch at the restaurant, Boom pushed a few keys on his computer. A split-second later, a series of devices were ignited on the far side of the plaza.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

One after another, rubbish bins erupted in thick plumes of white smoke. The explosions were virtually harmless, but terrifying nonetheless, especially for the people standing near them. One person screamed, then a dozen more followed. Before long, screaming and crying could be heard around the plaza as chaos spread like an invisible plague. Then people started to run.

‘Where are they going?’ she demanded.

Boom studied the commotion in the plaza below and noted their movement. As expected, most of them were running towards him, trying to get as far from the smoke as possible. With very little wind to contend with, he could turn them any way he wanted. ‘They’re going west.’

She figured as much. ‘Light the north.’

Boom grinned and pushed another key.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

This time all the rubbish bins on the cathedral side of the plaza erupted like volcanoes, spewing smoke and an occasional piece of trash. Church stood up from his bench, calmly slipped on his gas mask and strolled through the smoke towards the square. As he did, he fired a few shots into the air, trying to drive everyone to the southwest. The reason for this was simple: Tiffany’s preferred escape route was to the north. The last thing they wanted was a load of people blocking traffic in that direction, so they tried to steer the crowd to the south.

‘How’s it looking?’ she asked.

Boom laughed. ‘They’re stampeding like a herd of cattle.’

‘What about Hector?’

‘Still there.’

‘Good,’ she said, slipping on her gas mask. ‘Light him up.’

Despite the smoke in the plaza and the gunshots behind them, Hector and Angel felt reasonably safe inside their
SUV
. With its armour plating and bulletproof windows, they knew it would take a serious weapon, like a rocket launcher, to threaten them.

Tiffany knew that, too, which is why her goal was to force them out of the vehicle as soon as possible. With that in mind, her crew had placed a small incendiary device under the driver’s seat on the night they had installed the mobile-phone jammer. Known as a smoke canister, it was designed by the military to cover troop movements in the field. Once ignited, it produced an intense chemical reaction that released a stream of smoke for a short period of time.

From his perch above the plaza, Boom activated the device with a touch of a button. A few seconds later, Hector and Angel stumbled out of the
SUV
and fell to the ground. Both men were gasping and coughing, desperately fighting for breath. More concerned with air than bullets, they paid little attention to their surroundings until their eyes and lungs started to clear. Only then did they notice the two people standing in front of them.

Both were wearing gas masks. Both were holding guns.

Hector and Angel were at their mercy.

Sensing his life was about to end, Angel decided to go out in a blaze of glory. From his knees, he reached behind his back and grabbed the handle of his Glock. He had it halfway out of his belt when Church fired a bullet into his shoulder. Angel crumpled to the ground in agony as blood oozed from the wound. Before long, his entire sleeve was bright red. Church rushed forward and kicked the Glock out of his hand, then checked him for additional weapons. Other than a small flask, he found nothing noteworthy in Angel’s pockets.

Meanwhile, Tiffany kept her eye on Hector. He was on all fours, still trying to catch his breath. Three days earlier, he had been considered an untouchable criminal. Now he was a broken man. His eyes still watering from the smoke, he glared at her through tears.

‘Chase,’ she announced, ‘the bank is open.’

Positioned near the northeast corner of the plaza, Chase drove his bright-green cab towards the giant flag, which was one of the few things still visible in the square. By now, a light breeze had started blowing in from the east. It pushed the smoke towards the middle of the Zócalo, like a fog bank drifting towards shore. Chase turned on his headlights to guide his way.

Ten seconds later, he pulled up directly behind the
SUV
.

Thanks to the placement of his boot, which is located in the front of older Beetles, Chase was able to load the money with relative ease. He took three sealed bricks, each containing a million dollars, and placed them inside a large duffel bag. Although there was room for a few more bricks, they had agreed to split the money amongst three cars. No sense in giving the entire score to one driver. This way, if someone got killed or captured, it wouldn’t be a total loss.

Chase closed his trunk as Cash pulled in next to him.

They nodded at each other, but didn’t say a word.

There was still work to be done.

By this time, the canister inside the
SUV
had run out of smoke. As the final fumes escaped through the open hatch, Chase peered into the vehicle. Sitting in the backseat was a small wooden cube. It was nondescript in every way. No carvings. No keyhole. No markings of any kind. Less than 2 feet in height, it had been strapped down like a car seat. Chase opened the back door and undid the seatbelt, careful not to scratch the wood. Then, without opening the lid, he carried the box towards Tiffany, who was the only one who knew what was supposed to be inside. Though he was tempted to peek, he was being paid a million dollars to fight the urge. That was part of the deal from the very beginning. Acquire the object, but don’t look at it.

He knew it was probably for the best.

Most secrets weren’t worth dying for.

Tiffany wasn’t an archaeologist; she was a field operative who specialized in acquisitions. Before this mission, she didn’t know the first thing about ancient artefacts.

Aztec. Mayan. Spanish.
Whatever
.

She honestly couldn’t care less.

In this business, all she wanted to know was enough to complete the job. Get in, get out and move on to the next operation. Anything more would just slow her down.

At least that’s how she used to think.

But something had changed during her tour of the plaza. Suddenly, she was interested in knowing more than just the basics. Not because of a sudden passion for history, but because Paco had mentioned something that had piqued her interest. According to legend, there was an extravagant treasure buried deep under Mexican soil – one that had never been found by explorers. Whether it existed or not, the mere possibility made her think.

Is that what this mission was all about?

A cave filled with gold?

In many ways, it made perfect sense. It would explain why they had risked so much to acquire something so little. What good was an artefact unless it led to something more?

She would try to figure that out in the hours ahead.

Payne realized his mistake as soon as he opened the door. He had forgotten to put the sunshade in the windshield when he had parked the Hummer, and now he would be forced to suffer. A wall of heat greeted him like a dragon’s sneeze. In many ways it reminded him of his days at the mill. Working near the blast furnaces in the dead of summer. Sweating so much that he had a permanent thirst. It was so bad at times that he actually looked forward to the rigours of twice-daily football practices, because they were a vacation by comparison.

Years later, when he was stationed in the Middle East, everyone bitched and moaned about the desert heat. The air was dry. The sun was brutal. Lips cracked and skin chafed. To combat the conditions, American soldiers were forced to hydrate on a regular basis. Commanding officers were required to stand there and watch their soldiers drink their daily dose of fluids, whether they were thirsty or not. During this ritual, Payne did his best to lift their spirits by downplaying the heat. He assured his squad that it had been much hotter in Pittsburgh when he was a teenager. Everyone assumed he was kidding. But he was quite serious.

Nothing was hotter than the mill.

Payne reached inside the Hummer and started the ignition. Then he turned the AC on full blast. He wasn’t as worried about the weapons as he was about the artefacts. He didn’t know if the heat would damage ancient relics. He assumed it wouldn’t be a problem – otherwise Hamilton wouldn’t have stored them there – but he didn’t want to take any chances. As long as he was in charge of the items, he would do his best to keep them safe.

A few minutes passed before he climbed into the Hummer. The engine was purring, and the air vents were spitting out cool air. It was still uncomfortable, but not nearly as bad as a moment earlier. More concerned about his cargo than himself, he angled the vents towards the crates, then closed the door with a thud. He casually glanced in the side and rear-view mirrors, looking for witnesses of any kind, then turned in his seat and opened the trunk.

He needed to get some serial numbers.

He grabbed the first AK-47 and inspected its receiver, the main body of the weapon. The number was stamped into the metal, right where it was supposed to be. That meant there was a decent chance that it was manufactured in a proper facility, not a second-rate sweatshop in Africa. According to World Bank estimates, there are over 75 million AK-47s in existence – many of which are counterfeit – which accounts for 15 per cent of all the firearms in the world. He quickly entered the alphanumeric code into a text message, double-checked it for accuracy, then returned the rifle to the crate. He repeated the process with the second rifle. The serial number was almost identical to the first, meaning it was probably part of the same shipment. With any luck, Raskin would be able to track both weapons easily.

Before sending the text, Payne used the encryption feature on his phone. It was a handy little tool that he was forced to use whenever he sent a message to Raskin – even the one containing the bikini photo. Not because the Pentagon required it, but because Raskin wanted to train Payne and Jones in the latest technology. That way, if they ever needed to send a classified document to his office, they would be comfortable with the protocol.

Once the message was encrypted, Payne hit ‘send’.

He stared at his screen until it went through.

From the harried tone of Raskin’s voice, Payne knew there was a good chance that he wouldn’t get his information today. But that was OK with him. He felt privileged to have someone like Raskin in his corner. He was one of the top researchers in the world, someone who was so good at what he did that the Pentagon overlooked his quirks because they didn’t have anybody to replace him. Where most military personnel went to work in business uniforms or dress clothes, Raskin usually wore T-shirts, gym shorts and canvas tennis shoes. According to Raskin, that was the price of genius. He also claimed to have gone through a two-week stretch wearing nothing but a bathrobe and boxer shorts to work, but since very few people had access to his sub-basement office, no one was willing or able to confirm it.

Payne laughed at the image in his head as he tried to close the lid on the trunk. His first attempt was unsuccessful, so he shifted the rifles and ammunition around until there was plenty of clearance space. Unfortunately, that didn’t make a difference when he tried again. Getting annoyed, Payne was about to slam the crate shut when a horrible thought entered his mind. What if the lid wasn’t closing because he had accidentally snagged one of the relics in the back of the crate? For all he knew, something might have shifted during the drive to Tulum, and he could be smashing a priceless artefact without even realizing it.