The Mercedes turned through the black, wrought-iron gates of the Consulate. Armed Marines saluted as the car passed and rounded the circular island of rainbow flowers, from which twin poles bearing the American and Peruvian flags rose.
Eldon didn't wait for the driver to come around to open the door. He just wanted to get this over with. As he ascended the concrete stairs beneath the gray marble portico, he focused on the task at hand: upload the digital images into the program that would compare them to the passport photos of all Americans still in Peru, starting with those who had registered their travel plans with the Embassy. Once he had positive identification, he could make his calls, get the body embalmed and on a plane back to the States, and wash his hands of the whole mess.
'Mr. Monahan,' the receptionist called in a thick Spanish accent as he strode into the lobby. She pronounced it
He pretended not to hear her and started up the staircase beside her desk. The middle-aged Peruvian national climbed out from behind her post with the clatter of high heels.
'Mr. Monahan!'
With a frustrated sigh, he turned to face the frumpy woman and raised the question with his eyebrows.
'There's a man waiting for you outside your office.'
'I assume he's been properly cleared?'
'Yes, Mr. Monahan.'
'Thank you, Mrs. Arguedas.'
He ascended to the top floor and headed toward his office at the end of the corridor. A man with shaggy chestnut hair and pale blue eyes sat in one of the chairs outside his office, a filthy backpack clutched to his chest. The armed soldier beside him snapped to attention when he saw Eldon, while the other man rose almost casually from his seat. His discomfort was apparent, yet he seemed less than intimidated by his surroundings. He had broad shoulders and a solid build that suggested he had been shaped more by physical exertion in the real world than by countless hours in the gym.
Eldon extended his hand and introduced himself as he approached. 'Consulate-general Monahan.'
'Wes Merritt,' the man said. He offered his own hand, but retracted it when he noticed how dirty it was.
Eldon was silently grateful. He lowered his hand, gave a polite smile, and gestured for the man to follow him into his inner sanctum. The soldier fell in behind them and took his place beside the closing door.
'How can I be of assistance, Mr. Merritt?' Eldon seated himself in the high-backed leather chair behind his mahogany and brass Royal Louis XV Boulle desk, and made a show of checking his watch.
'Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Monahan. Especially with no notice.'
Eldon waved him off, but he would definitely have to discuss such improprieties with Mrs. Arguedas.
Merritt opened the flap of the rucksack and set it on the edge of the pristine desk.
'I wanted to give this to you in person. You know how the authorities are down here...'
Eldon nodded and fought the urge to shove the vile bag off of his eighteenth century antique desk.
'I found this with the body you just visited at the morgue. I need to make sure it reaches the right people back home.' Merritt shrugged and rose as if to leave. 'You'll make sure it does, Mr. Monahan?'
'Of course. Thank you, Mr. Merritt. I'm sure the decedent's family appreciates your integrity.'
Merritt gave a single nod in parting and exited through the polished oak door.
His curiosity piqued, Eldon plucked a handful of tissues from the box on the corner of the desk and walked around to inspect the bag. He gingerly moved aside a tangled nest of dried vines and appraised the contents. His eyes widened in surprise.
He leaned across the desk and pressed the 'Speaker' button on his phone.
'Yes, Mr. Monahan?' Mrs. Arguedas answered.
'Please hold my calls.'
'Yes, sir.'
He disconnected and returned his attention to the rucksack.
Now he really needed to figure out to whom the body in the morgue belonged.
BLOODLETTING
MICHAEL McBRIDE
Now available in paperback and eBook
From Delirium Books
The butchered remains of twelve year-old Jasmine Rivers are discovered in the cellar of an abandoned farmhouse on the desolate eastern plains of Colorado, the fourth mutilated body found in the last two months. The FBI is still searching for the missing parts of the previous three.
Hundreds of miles away in Arizona, eleven corpses are exhumed from the Sonoran Desert. They've been mummified and bundled in the traditional Inca style. But the Inca lived in South America, and these bodies aren't centuries old.
Seemingly unrelated victims that share a common cause of death: exsanguination.
Special Agent Paxton Carver follows the trail of blood, which leads him to the continuation of genetic experimentation that began during World War II and a designer retrovirus capable of altering human chromosomes. Can he track down the virus and prevent further exposure before the real bloodletting begins?
Prologue
Torrential rain laid siege to the jungle, beating a discordant melody on the broad leaves of the sacred ceiba trees and tropical cedars. No celestial light penetrated the smothering black storm clouds, beneath which a damp mist rolled across the muddy ground. Somewhere in the darkness a parrot cawed from an enclave in a mahogany tree and the hooting of howler monkeys echoed from nowhere and everywhere at once.
Until abruptly the world fell silent.
Four shadows peeled from the night at a crouch and emerged from the undergrowth into a small clearing at the base of the steep hillside that had grown over the ancient Maya temple La Danta, converging upon a rickety aluminum shack surrounded by drilling and earthmoving equipment sinking into the detritus. One of the shadows reached the door of the flimsy building, and after a few seconds, a padlock dropped into the mud. Another shadow drew the door wide and all four disappeared inside. Wooden crates and packing material lined the wall to the left, while middle Preclassic Era artifacts from narrow-mouthed tecomate jars to jade and obsidian figurines were displayed in a staged jumble on a table to the right as though someone had merely stepped away from their task of boxing and shipping. It was all for show. As were the baskets brimming with small picks and brushes, the dirty jackets hanging from nails, and the row of hardhats mounted with halogen lamps.
The rear of the shack abutting the slope had been retrofitted with a door to match the front, beaten and dirty, hinges rusted, yet it was secured by more than a simple padlock. Two of the shadows isolated the external detonators rigged to bricks of C4 and deactivated the remote triggers, while a third removed the cover of a breaker box on the wall, revealing a small black screen. The shadow produced what looked like a lollipop from an invisible
