Rafael Brolo felt his skin crawl with cold fear. “A total success, boss. They’re already on their way down to Mexico, but…”
“But what?” The eyes burned into him.
“I just heard from Diablo. He says a team of foreigners were at the convent. They went inside and met with one of the priests there.”
Tarántula felt his blood running hotter. “What are you trying to tell me, Rafa? That months of research has all been for nothing?”
“It looks like the convent authorities have been working with this team for some time. They’re archaeologists, I believe. Foreign. They found the Montesino Codex and…”
Tarántula’s rage burst out of him in a deafening scream as he hurled the crystal tumbler across the room and smashed it into the wall. Brolo cowered as it shattered into a thousand pieces, taking a step back until his back brushed up against the heavy oak door.
“No!” Tarántula said. “The Snake King will kill us all if we screw this up! How could this happen?”
Brolo felt sweat beading on his forehead in the air-conditioned room. It sat on his browline for a few seconds before trickling down into his eyes. He blinked it away and swallowed hard, wiping damp palms on his suit trousers. “I… I…”
Tarántula searched the room for his twenty-four carat gold plated Colt pistol and found it resting on the edge of his desk. He had set it down there after burying two rounds in José’s chest a few short moments ago. “You need to stop talking now, Rafa. I am close to doing something I might regret. You are an old friend, after all.”
“I feel the same deep rage as you, Ramon!”
Tarántula’s blood now turned to ice in his veins. “What did you just call me, Rafa?”
Brolo wished he could turn to water and seep away under the gap in the door. “I’m sorry, it was just habit. From when we were kids.”
“No one calls me that anymore, Rafa. You of all people understand this.”
“Si, but…”
Tarántula’s icy scowl broke into the faintest hint of a smile. “You are right, old friend. You must think I am some kind of monster. Insane, even. Please, forgive me.”
“It’s nothing, Tarántula. Nothing at all. You know how much I respect you.”
“Of course. We must make preparations for the next phase of the Snake King’s plan. Fetch me my pistol and we will drive out to the airport.”
“Yes, boss.”
Brolo walked away from the door and crossed the sumptuous study toward the desk. The view from Tarántula’s beach house was one of the most expensive in the entire city. Situated on its own stretch of private beach in the district of El Rey, the highly coveted property had once belonged to a Saudi prince and gave breathtaking views out over the dazzling turquoise waters of the northern Caribbean rim.
“This team of foreign archaeologists,” Tarántula said. “I take it you had Diablo follow them?”
“Of course, boss. They took off from Bajío Airport in a private plane. He said it was a vintage plane, like something out of a museum.”
Tarántula laughed. When he knew it was safe to do so, Brolo joined him.
“They fly around in a vintage plane?” Tarántula asked.
“Si.”
“Not much of a match for my brand new jet!”
“No, boss.”
The Embraer Lineage had recently put a seventy-five million dollar hole in one of Tarántula’s offshore bank accounts, but it had all been worth it. The bespoke private jet came with a master bedroom, a shower, and skylights in the roof. It was no more than he deserved. He was the most renowned drug lord in Latin America and one of its most notorious killers. He had a reputation to maintain. He knew being the best meant being seen to be the best.
Tarántula picked up his pistol and caressed the smooth leaf patterns engraved in the gold plate. “A vintage plane… hilarious. What was their flight plan?”
“According to Diablo, they filed a flight plan to the Maya Flats airstrip.”
Tarántula frowned. “In Belize?”
“Si.”
The drug lord’s mind began to whir. What was in Maya Flats? He stared down at José’s corpse. The tarantula had managed to crawl up over his chin and was now making its way across his throat toward his blood-stained shirt. Maya Flats… Maya Flats…
“If this is true, it looks like these fools are leading us directly to where we need to go. I know where we must go!”
“The Snake King will be pleased, boss. Where is it?”
Still gripping the bespoke pistol, Tarántula grinned. “Somewhere very special.”
6
After a long pause, he said, “It’s Xunantunich! Whatever they found in the Montesino Codex has pointed them toward Xunantunich.”
“The ruins?”
“Of course, the ruins. Don’t be a such a fool.”
“I’m sorry, boss.”
“Let’s pray to God we can find them down there. Perhaps then the Snake King will forgive us for letting them get to the Codex before we did.”
“Si.”
Tarántula weighed the gun in his hand and looked up from the dead man to the sumptuous bay window on the other side of the room. White hot sun pitched down over a neon sea busy with windsurfers and motorboats. He sniffed sharply and turned to his old friend.
“Of course, we would not need the services of God if you had done your job properly and secured the original memoirs ahead of these foreign archaeologists.”
“Like I said, Diablo told me that…”
He stopped speaking when Tarántula raised his Colt and aimed it at him. “I am very disappointed in you, Rafa.”
“No! Please, old friend!”
Tarántula fired, planting the first round in Brolo’s chest. His old friend dropped to his knees and grasped at the wound with his left hand. He reached out with his right hand to Tarántula, fingers spread.
