“So what’s the plan?” Charlie asked, breaking the relaxed silence.
“The plan is we sleep,” Cade said. “It’s getting late and we have no leads. In the morning, we start looking for your kidnapped dude and the magic keystone.”
“That’s my father, not a kidnapped dude,” Selena said. “And it’s a capstone, not a keystone. Other than that, you’re doing well.”
“Thanks, man.”
Decker woke from his slumber, removed the hat from his face and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m beat. I’m calling it a night.”
26
Across the city, Tarántula watched the house from the darkness of his car. The old colonial property dated from the 1920s and was an impressive sight in the city center. Set over four floors, with the top three all having balcony access, the bright pink townhouse commanded a beautiful view over the ocean. The boulevard was mostly quiet and parked outside were several brightly colored Buick and Chevrolet convertibles from the 1950s, ubiquitous on the island.
But Tarántula was not in a brightly colored vintage convertible. He was sitting inside a rented black Cadillac Escalade alongside the Mercado brothers and each of them was concentrating on the figure of Professor Salvador Diaz. The old man was pottering around on the top floor of his home, possibly watering plants. It was hard to tell, exactly.
It didn’t matter. Whatever he was doing was about to come to a swift and brutal end. It had to be that way. It was what the Snake King had ordered and he had to be obeyed. They had already snatched the English archaeologist, but now he wanted this man, too, and if he had learned one thing, it was never to question the Snake King.
“And this is definitely the correct address?” he asked coolly.
“Yes, boss,” Carlos said. “Triple checked.”
“And I asked at the local store just down the road,” Miguel said. “Old couple. They were very helpful. They confirmed this is his address.”
“How helpful were they?” Tarántula asked. “Not helpful enough to give the police your description?”
“Not that helpful, boss. They’re now both lying dead in the back room.”
“Good, very good,” Tarántula purred. “We cannot fail el rey serpiente. The Snake King is not known for his forgiving nature.”
The Mercados shared another quiet look. Raised in a strict Catholic family, neither brother held any stock in the idea of ancient Maya gods meting out divine retribution. All they cared about was the large amount of gold they had been promised by Tarántula on completion of this job. Then they would quietly slip away to a beach they knew in Costa Rica. Buy a bar and live out their lives surrounded by beautiful local women in awe of their wealth and power. That was all the Mercado brothers cared about anymore.
“All right.” Tarántula glanced at his Rolex Daytona. “It’s time. Take him.”
Carlos and Miguel Mercado didn’t have to look at each other. They each popped open their door and climbed out of the Escalade. Business as usual. A sniff and a sigh. Eyes swivelling for cops. A quick pat of the jacket to make sure the cuete was in place, all locked and loaded and ready for action.
Carlos brushed his knuckles on his jawline as they crossed the street. Miguel pulled a cohiba cigarette from a fresh pack he had stolen from the tobacconists he had just murdered. He offered one to his older brother who waved it away. Miguel lit the cigarette and blew the fragrant smoke out into the humid night air. Of all the dichos or sayings that he knew, poco a poco se andra lejos. Little by little, one goes far, was the one he believed in most.
Once just two boys from the world’s largest slum in Nezo-Chalco-Itza, today they had seen and done it all. Now, after the prospect of endless years in an American maximum security prison, they were on the cusp of not only retiring as free, wealthy men, but also getting the chance to wipe out millions of Americans. Who knew revenge could be so sweet? Just take it one step at a time, Mico, his inner voice told him. One small step at a time, and you will create great things for yourself. You will have everything you ever wanted.
Carlos was a step ahead of him, walking to the front door and stepping up into the shadows. The big broad-backed Mexican was out of sight now, beneath the colonial style portico. He rang the bell, sniffed and turned to his baby brother. “Let’s get this over with. Nice and fast and quiet. Get him back to the car and then we can get out of here.”
“Agreed.”
Casually, as if he was pulling a wallet from his pocket, he drew a Jericho 941 from a holster under his jacket. Gun controls in both Mexico and Cuba were some of the strictest in the world, but getting hold of a weapon like this, or bringing it into Havana presented little problem. At least, not when you owned the people Tarántula owned, and this was further facilitated by the use of the big man’s impressive private jet.
Miguel flicked his cigarette onto the sidewalk and pulled his own weapon, a neat Beretta 92. He exhaled the smoke and turned to keep the gun out of sight. Then, the door opened.
“Si?”
“Professor Diaz?” Carlos asked.
“Yes, that’s me. How can I help?”
Carlos raised the gun and stepped forward. It happened lightning fast. The muzzle was now pushed into the man’s forehead
