Blood Sun

and ancient beliefs can still hold sway.”

Miller turned to gaze at the stone lintel that depicted Lord Shield Jaguar pushing what looked like a needle through his tongue.

Body piercing was one thing; this was something else.

Miller sensed for the first time the seriousness of Max’s quest. “Blood sacrifice,” he whispered.

“Move!” Max yelled.

He pulled the startled Miller out of the grasp of the shadow that lunged from the darkness. A man dressed in black, eyes glaring, face covered by a balaclava, jumped at them.

Max realized too late that here was the source of the noises he’d heard earlier: the whispered rush of a search.

Dr. Miller fell. Max rolled across him to stop the harsh boot kick aimed at his head. The blow caught Max’s backpack. Hands snatched at him. He twisted and slid across the floor like a break-dancer.

“Help us!” he yelled. “In here! Help us!” He was already on his feet, desperate to find any weapon, but there was nothing. The shadow was coming for him. Max sidestepped, dug his shoulder into the man’s midriff and heard him grunt, but he knew from the hard muscle he’d made contact with that he’d barely caused the man any pain. It merely bought him a few seconds.

His attacker stumbled into the corner of a plinth. The man lost his balance, went down on the floor, rolled and came up ready to fight. But Max saw that the impact had injured his leg, and the man’s ragged breath told him he was hurting.

Max dived for one of the stone lintels, striking it with his fist. The alarm buzzed. Someone out there must hear that! He struck it again.

“In here!”

The man swung out at him. His fist connected with the backpack’s shoulder pad, but the shock wave tore into Max’s ligaments. Pain seared through his arm. He was lame. And defenseless. He went down, pushing himself backward across the floor as quickly as he could, trying to escape the onslaught.

His shoulders and neck hit the wall. Max felt the wave of agony suck him down into a whirlpool of blackness.

The last thing he saw was a jade-encrusted skull, cut-stone eyes gleaming madly, broken teeth leering at him.

Welcome to hell.

8

Marty Kiernan had no choice but to tell the police Max had been at the nursing home. It would be suspicious if the security tapes showed Max running across the open lawns and Marty hadn’t mentioned it to anyone.

It was easy enough, though, to explain the man carried away in an ambulance under police escort as no more than an opportunistic thief. When Marty’s big fist had applied pressure to the conscious man’s nerve points, he’d squealed but told Marty nothing. He gabbled in a foreign language that Marty knew to be Serbian. The police had responded quickly, so the ex-Marine had gained no information of any use. Now at least he would be held long enough for his immigration status to be checked. It was a fair bet he was illegal, given that he was being used to attack fifteen-year-old boys.

Marty picked up the phone to call Fergus Jackson. He decided he would tell him that Max had visited his father but would say nothing more. Max was Tom Gordon’s son and had the same spirit as his father. Marty knew that no one could persuade him not to do whatever it was he’d set his mind on.

Jackson watched Sayid’s face. Khalif had that ability to appear totally innocent of any wrongdoing.

“I’ve had a couple of phone calls, Sayid,” Mr. Jackson said, handing the boy a mug of hot chocolate and nudging his old Labrador-lurcher away from the hearth of the study’s fire. “Max went to see his father. He was very upset-both of them were, actually-and he did a runner. People who are trying to help Max-”

“What? Like that horrible woman? Misery Morgana the Witch?”

“Now, Sayid,” Jackson chided gently, “she is an MI-Five officer who is trying to help find Max as a favor to me.”

“That’s not a powerful motorbike she’s riding. It’s a specially designed broom handle.”

Jackson smiled. “Yes, you’re probably right. She was certainly heavy-handed, but she is on our side. Anyway, we all thought Max was going to see the chap who came here to give that lecture. But he didn’t.” Jackson smiled again, and this time it seemed to say, Though you knew that, didn’t you?

Sayid did his blank expression, something he found particularly useful when his mum had one of her agonizing “I’m a single mother doing the best I can for her son” moments, when it was no good saying anything. When her pain passed, he would let her hug him. That calmed her down and gave her some kind of assurance about something. So was there any way he was going to tell Mr. Jackson where Max had gone, that he was trying to find info on his dead mum?

Sayid shook his head. “Then where did he go?” he asked, forcing a note of surprise into his voice.

Jackson couldn’t tell if it was genuine. Max had cracked his safe, stolen the keys to his vault and lifted his own passport. Just how much was Sayid implicated in all of that?

“The Oxford professor told Ms. Morgan that one of the curators at the British Museum was an expert on khipus. She has alerted the police and is on her way there herself.”

“Then maybe everything is going to be OK,” Sayid said.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you this, but they are also alerting all the airports, because his laptop suggested he was going to travel to South America. Did you know that? Please, Sayid. We need to confirm this.”

Sayid agonized for as long as he could. He squirmed a bit, hid his face in the mug and swallowed. He looked a bit guiltily at Jackson, who watched him intently, searching for the very signs that Sayid gave him.

“Peru, actually,” Sayid lied, looking as stricken as he could.

“So he is trying to get there. Lima? We found a forged letter.”

“Did you, sir? Oh. Well, yes. Max was pretty determined. I shouldn’t have said anything, I suppose, but … it sounds as though he’s in more trouble than I thought.”

“That’s all right, Sayid. Now that we know for certain that’s where he’s going, we can do all we can to stop him. You’re a good friend to help him, and you are helping him by telling us. Thank you.”

Sayid gave a rueful smile, as though he was uncertain. What he knew for sure was that his best friend needed time to make his escape, and his lie had just bought Max more of that precious commodity.

But, knowing Max, he probably didn’t need any help.

Riga walked calmly through the museum’s side entrance. The intruder alarms had now been turned off, the few night security staff dealt with. No serious harm came to any of them, except for the one who had to be subdued quickly. His body had crumpled from the swift blow to his neck, but he would recover.

By the time the day shift arrived in the morning to find their colleagues trussed up in one of the staff rooms, there would be a few small stickers left prominently on doors and exhibition cases.

ACT WAS HERE.

ACTION AGAINST CULTURAL THEFT.

It would be assumed the raid was by a new group of previously unknown activists who objected to the British Museum holding so many artifacts from around the world. There would be more than enough time wasted to allow Riga and his men to be long gone. And hopefully have nothing more to do with Max Gordon.

Riga’s employers were paying a substantial sum of money for this job to be completed, but it was becoming tiresome. Being paid to find another boy was almost below his dignity. Danny Maguire had been tracked and chased, his body now destroyed, but pursuing this Max Gordon kid was like trying to corner a feral dog. The boy seemed to have a guardian angel. Well, not tonight. Riga could blast guardian angels out of the sky like a hunter on a pheasant shoot.