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  Light peeked out at the end of the long tunnel. Brandt quickened their pace. If they could cross the plateau unseen, they could cross behind the large pyramid, which would block any enemy eyes, making it a whole hell of a lot easier to get over the outer wall and reach the rally point.

  Leaves played in the breeze just outside the tunnel. Their fluttering filtered the view of the enormous step pyramid, which was just on the other side of the common area. The place where spectators had gathered to watch the sacrifice. Human sacrifice.

  Brandt could only hope that his and Vanderwalt’s blood would not join the ancients’.

  They were nearly to the opening of the tunnel. Light streamed in, reminding them of the jungle’s heat. Vanderwalt visibly wilted.

  “Not much further.”

  Brandt got an incoherent mumble in response. He swung his gun up as they approached the exit. A single shadow was his only warning that they weren’t alone. He fired before he even thought. Blood splashed across the opening. Shoving Vanderwalt into an alcove carved with a coiled snake, Brandt fired some more.

  The fuckers must have had someone up in the trees, monitoring their progress through the ruins. The Zetas were vicious, but smart. Vanderwalt crumbled to the ground.

  “Oh no you don’t,” Brandt said, trying to tug the man to his feet. Yes, there were gunmen out there, but not that many of them. Properly timed, they could burst out of the tunnel and make it those few dozen yards to a new source of cover before they got shot.

  “Sorry, mate,” Vanderwalt whispered. “I can’t go any farther.” He took a shuddering breath. “Leave me a gun. I’ll cover you.”

  “Yeah, right,” Brandt countered. Leaving the Brit wasn’t an option. Leaving anyone wasn’t an option. “I’ve seen your aim.”

  Vanderwalt managed that dopey grin of his. “Better than nothing, chap.”

  Perhaps, but there had to be another way.

  Then he heard the rev of an engine. The type of rev only Lopez could produce—it was more of a tortured automotive cry. Brandt peered between the leaves but couldn’t find the vehicle. It had to be close, though, as loud as the engine was. He risked popping his head out from the alcove. He got chased back by bullets, but confirmed that the Jeep was nowhere on the commons.

  Where the hell could it be, then?

  With one final screeching rev, the Jeep leapt over the top of the pyramid. The vehicle landed hard on the stone steps, then bounced its way down. The Zetas must have been as shocked as Brandt. Svengurd firing into their ranks seemed to startle them from their stupor, though. One ran across the doorway. Brandt took him down. Given the screams from outside the tunnel, the rest were injured or on the run.

  Grabbing Vanderwalt by the collar, he jerked the Brit to his feet.

  “Can you run that far?”

  The Jeep rattled its way down the stony steps.

  “Hell, yes,” Vanderwalt answered, surging forward.

  That was what Brandt liked to hear.

  * * *

  Svengurd braced his legs on the dashboard and door, but even so he almost flew out of the Jeep as it hit one of the steps on the edge, nearly flipping them.

  “Pyramid luging!” Lopez shouted. He truly did seem to be enjoying himself.

  They had scattered the Zetas, but they would not stay down for long. These guards were no children. They had been battle hardened.

  Finally, the Jeep was reaching the bottom. Lopez gunned it, sailing them off the platform and landing a good ten feet from the base. The grassy earth dulled the jarring, at least a little. Then they were across the commons. The corporal skidded them sideways into Brandt and Vanderwalt’s path.

  “Keep going!” Brandt yelled as he pushed Vanderwalt forward.

  The CIA operatives hauled the British agent into the back of the Jeep. Brandt ran alongside, then swung up, grabbing hold of the roll bars. With one last push, Brandt launched himself into the back seat. A heartbeat later, his gun was up, spraying bullets into the surrounding area. There were no Zetas to be seen, but clearly the sergeant planned to keep it that way.

  Now, with the awkward rock steps out of his way, Lopez could really nurse some speed from the Jeep. The corporal angled them toward one of the breaks in the wall. They were nearly to the exit when another vehicle turned onto the dirt bridge, gunning right for them.

  Lopez probably would have played chicken, but if they went much further, they would have nowhere to turn except into the flanking stone walls.

  “Right, Lopez!” Brandt barked.

  Even with certain death approaching and his sergeant’s orders, the corporal still seemed loath to give in to the Los Zetas’ challenge. At the last moment, Lopez braked, cranking the wheel to the right. Their tires spit up chunks of earth as dirt rained down upon them. The rear bumper barely made the turn before the Zetas’ SUV sped past them.

  Svengurd joined Brandt in firing at the vehicle, which turned sharply to give chase.

  The Jeep practically jumped out from under them as Lopez stepped on the accelerator. They streaked past the ancient ruins. The corporal swerved around burned out stumps and small stone structures. Svengurd couldn’t even identify what the markers were beyond grey blurs.

  It took a few moments to realize that there were walls on each side of them. By then, the Zetas’ SUV was on their six, streaking along behind them. Then the walls opened up into a small area. An enclosed area. Not even Lopez could get the Jeep to jump the eight–foot–high stone walls that surrounded them.

  Instead, Lopez yanked up the emergency brake, skidding them around 180 degrees—just in time for them to watch the Zetas hurl toward them.

  * * *

  “Bloody hell, mate,” Vanderwalt exhaled. “What do you Yanks say? Straight from the kettle and into the flames.”

  “Yeah,” Brandt said, firing at the oncoming SUV. “Something like that.”

  The enemy vehicle skidded to a stop, guns bristling out of every window. A hail of gunfire tore through the Jeep. Everyone ducked to avoid the bullets flying overhead. Getting brazen, the enemy exited the car, firing as they advanced on the Jeep.

  The Los Zetas thought they had the upper hand. They thought they had them outnumbered. They thought they had them outgunned.

  They were so sure of themselves that they didn’t even notice a man in the back of the group drop to the ground. Then another. Then a third. It took them losing four men before anyone noticed. Then the line broke and shouts rose on the evening air.

  “Now!” Brandt yelled. Lopez and Svengurd joined him, firing at the now exposed enemy.

  The Los Zetas scrambled, rushing back to their SUV. Only the windshield cracked, a bullet going straight through the driver’s chest. One of the guards shoved his deceased teammate out of the way and put the SUV in reverse, stepping on the gas.

  The problem with that? Lopez had laid a tire spike string at the bottleneck. The SUV’s rear tires blew, then the front tires, grinding them to a stop. Another shot ripped into the radiator. Down to three men and a busted SUV, the Los Zetas weren’t going anywhere.

  The survivors came out of the car, arms raised, tossing their guns to the side.

  “Ha!” Lopez yelled, pointing at the disarmed men. He then turned to the two CI agents. “That’s how you do an ambush!”

  Yes, that was exactly how you wanted to do an ambush, except for possibly the jaguar, hang glider, and Jeep down the pyramid diversions, but hey, it got the job done.

  The after–action report would be a doozy to write up, though.

  What had always been clear was that this mission was just one big trap. The fact that the CIA had known exactly where their captured asset had been held? Then, for them to know exactly where the captured CIA agents were? Come on. The Zetas should have just burned the letters A. M. B. U. S. H. into the forest.

  Most of the time, the best way to handle a trap? Spring the sucker, with a plan. A good plan. Or, in their case, an adaptable plan.

  And it all happened because they ha
d one of the best perimeter specialists in the business. Brandt had to search the trees for several moments before he could make out his sniper, Davidson, and he knew where the kid was holed up.

  A midwestern smile glistened in the waning light. Brandt waved, indicating that the kid could come down out of his perch. Whip–thin, Davidson barely stirred the leaves as he climbed to the ground. As Svengurd zip–tied the Los Zetas men, Lopez rushed to Davidson.

  “You and the rifle, man? You are one!” Lopez exclaimed as he brought the younger man into a bro–hug.

  While Brandt agreed wholeheartedly, he wouldn’t go so far as to hug the kid.

  Davidson shrugged his way out of the embrace. “It was just a point–and–shoot setup. No biggie.”

  Compared to some of the other incredibly difficult shots Brandt had seen the sniper take, Davidson was right, but to take down that many men that quickly? That was still something. As the sniper passed, Brandt did indulge in clapping his back.

  “Still. Decent job.”

  There was that easy smile. If only Brandt had so few cares in the world to be that relaxed. Maybe with a cold brew in one hand and a fishing pole in the other he could feel as carefree as Davidson.

  The beat of rotors in the distance did cheer him up a bit. Their extraction helicopter was right on time. Their orders were to leave the Los Zetas secured for the Federales, then get the hell out of Campeche.

  Which was perfectly fine by Brandt.

  Within moments, the chopper dropped a back board for the teen and lines for the rest of them. In rapid order, they ascended up into the helicopter. The injured were taken to the back of the large transport helicopter, where a medic awaited them.

  Brandt sat down hard on the metal jump seat. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand as the helicopter sped across the sky. They should be landing in Ticul and picking up a small plane to fly them to Cancun, then onward to Miami.

  Lopez didn’t sit down, though. “Don’t worry, Sarge. I’ll get us home in a jiffy.”

  “No,” Brandt said sharp enough it gave the corporal pause. He softened his tone. “Let’s let the pilot get us to Ticul. You can take over from there.”

  “But—”

  Brandt raised his hand. “No ‘buts.’ I do not want to referee a smackdown match between you and a Federales.”

  “Okay, fine, but we’re flying in the wrong direction.”

  “What?” Brandt said, rising from his seat. The sun was setting out the left window, rather than the right. Lopez was correct. They were going south. Exactly the opposite direction of Miami.

  He made his way to the pilot, shouting over the rotors. “Your orders were to take us to Ticul.”

  The man shook his head. “Did they not inform you?”

  Brandt did not like the sound of that. “Inform us of what?”

  “We are to drop the injured off in Ciudad de Carmen, where you will rendezvous with a jet to take you to Ecuador.”

  “Ecuador?” Lopez said at his shoulder. “What happened to Key West?”

  The co–pilot handed Brandt a thin folder. He didn’t like thin folders. It meant they were being shipped off with little or no information. Brandt opened it to find only one page. He skimmed it, which didn’t take a whole hell of a lot of time.

  Slamming it shut, he headed back to his seat and strapped in.

  “Well?” Lopez asked, sitting next to him.

  Brandt pulled a lighter from his pocket and set the file on fire. “We’ve got to pull some researcher from the Amazon and get her to Paris.”

  “Paris?” Davidson asked. “Why?”

  “I don’t ask…”

  “Because they won’t tell,” Lopez finished for him.

  It was their life in black ops. Flicking the corner of the file to put the flames out, Brandt leaned back against the bulkhead.

  “At least it sounds straight–forward,” Svengurd remarked.

  “Easy peasy,” Lopez agreed.

  After this extraction? Brandt could use a nice boring mission. And he wouldn’t turn down some R&R in Paris. However, instead of basking in the glow of the thought of some time off, a knot formed in his stomach.

  His gut was worried about this next mission.

  And damn it, if his gut wasn’t always right.

  # # #

  30 PIECES OF SILVER

  Where It Began

  ══════════════════

  Jerusalem, dusk…

  Beneath the scant shade of a cypress tree, the man held silent vigil.

  He had forsaken all, even his name. But he knew that others would call out “Betrayer” or “Slayer of the Innocent.” How could they not? His heavy heart had nearly kept him from witnessing the crucifixion, but shame forced his feet to climb to this sheltered knoll.

  This was his doing. All his.

  Death, and not just any death, but the death of his closest friend bloodied his hands, but he was certain that as ages passed the story of this day would be kneaded like a soft dough. The events would be wrung and twisted over until not even the baker could discern the original ingredients. But the lambskin purse tied to his belt, heavy with silver coin, would not allow him to forget.

  Angered again, the man looked up at the clear skies—where heaven in all its glory lay. Why was the sky not gray and brooding? In His absolute fury, a recriminating thunder should shake the ground, trembling so greatly that it knocked down those who would persecute a true believer. Lightning should pierce the Roman dogs that led the prisoners up to Golgotha. Or, more fittingly, the bolts should strike the man to the marrow for his duplicity.

  Instead, only a light breeze played at the edge of his rough-spun robe, as goats lazily grazed along the hillsides past the Second Wall. The scent of jasmine and unleavened bread floated on the wind, as all those in Jerusalem prepared for the Sabbath. How could life drift along for all those inside the city walls? Why were there so few from the Temple City following the doomed procession? Where were the grieving throngs?

  But the man knew the answer. Any who would have revolted against the verdict were blissfully unaware of the fatal turn of events. Since the midnight arrest, the trial and judgment had unfolded too quickly for word to spread. Partly by design, and partly by misfortune. Prophecy and pragmatism had conspired to bring low one who should have been held in the highest regard.

  A sharp wail turned the man back to Golgotha. Squinting, as the distance was great, he knew it was Mary’s cry as the spikes were driven into the sufferer’s heels. Her pain equaled his. This was why he forced himself up this remote hillside. There were too few to witness his agony. Only Mary, Jude, and the Beloved Disciple were at the foot of the cross. The rest of the women were at the base of the hill, weeping in a great heap of scarves and tears. The other Twelve had scattered to the wind. Now outlawed.

  So it was that he, he who had brought all this tragedy to fruition, was to be the one to bear witness until the end.

  Prologue

  ══════════════════

  Paris, France

  “I told you the Louvre wasn’t open late on Tuesdays!”

  Corey ignored Kika’s outburst as the bus rattled along, following its route along the Seine. This was not how he imagined their great European adventure. Sex, scenery, and some more sex. That was the plan. When did the hysterical nagging figure in?

  “And all for a bunch of old cars! We missed the Mona Lisa for a fucking Peugeot!”

  He didn’t bother to correct her. First of all, there was nothing “fucking” about a classic 1950s Peugeot. Secondly, the Centre International de L’Automobile was a world-renowned car museum that was a must-see on any autophile’s trip. Thirdly, was the Mona Lisa any less boring in person?

  Kika struggled to control her tears, or at least wanted to leave the impression that she was struggling, as she slumped deeper into her bus seat. “I can’t believe this is happening!”

  Corey couldn’t believe that this
was only the second stop on their supposed five-country tour. Three more countries of arguing, bitching, and the cold shoulder? He didn’t think so. Backpacks and visas got stolen all the time, right? It wasn’t like he’d leave her stranded. He’d make sure she had enough cash to get to the consulate and let her ATM of parents figure out the rest.

  That didn’t make him a complete asshole, did it?

  Brakes squealed as they neared Le Champ De Mars. As the engine rumbled to idle, everyone was thrown forward. Kika’s breast brushed past his elbow as she settled back.

  Maybe there was another way. Grabbing her wrist, Corey leapt from his seat, tugging her down the bus’ narrow steps. “Come on.”

  “Are you crazy?” She cried as the bus pulled away from the curb. “It’s going to be another hour before we can catch another bus to the hostel.”

  “Jesus, Kika, mellow out.”

  That was clearly the wrong thing to say, as her face turned crimson. “I would mellow the fuck out if I were the one getting my way all the time. It was the Louvre, Corey. The Louvre! The entire reason I came on this crappy trip.”

  Anger melted into tears. Real tears. They brimmed at the edge of her expertly applied eyeliner. Damn, but she was pretty. Unthinking, he reached to wipe the tears away but she pulled away, angered again.

  “Not this time.” Kika turned her back on him.

  Throwing his head back in frustration, he breathed out through his teeth. Chicks. You can’t live with them and you sure as hell got a thick callus on your palm without them. But when he opened his eyes he saw the most amazing sight. The Eiffel Tower’s lights bloomed to life. The entire height of the tower was a glittering glow of gold.

  Screw the pamphlets. This was the real thing.

  “Kika,” he said quietly, but she was busy blowing her nose. “Look up.”

  Predictably she scoffed, rolling her eyes, but, equally predictably, curiosity got the best of her. A slight gasp escaped her whatever-was-the-most-fashionable-shade-this-season lips. That was the response he wanted. Tenderly he turned her toward him.

  “Kika, we’re in France. Hell, we’re in Paris, standing under the most romantic landmark in the world.” He pointed to the Tower. “I’m sorry. I really thought tonight was the Louvre’s evening hours. I totally would have skipped the car museum if I’d known.”