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Roth wondered if he yanked an arm loose if he’d be able to shove one of his escorts off the stairs. It was a long way down. But he had the feeling that both warriors were expecting him to make a last-ditch effort to free himself. He’d save his effort.
“We’re all going to die . . . sooner or later,” Roth panted.
The noise of the helicopters got louder. Jacob’s eyes flashed with annoyance.
“Not your helicopter?” Roth asked.
Jacob frowned. “How typical of the Americans. They’ve wasted so many drones trying to penetrate our shield. Why not waste something even more expensive? They cannot get through, Mr. Roth. Thwarted by an ancient technology.”
“How did the Spanish get past it?”
Calakmul gave him a withering look. “Are you stalling your death, Mr. Roth?”
“Maybe,” Roth shot back. “Does it hurt to tell me, though?”
“It took time to adapt to the weapons the Spanish brought. The cannons. The muskets. We’ve continued to adapt the kem äm for the times we live in. All creatures must adapt, Mr. Roth. Adapt or die. A lesson that you Americans continually forget.”
Several attack helicopters appeared over the tree line. Roth wasn’t familiar with the type they were, but banks of missiles protruded from each side of the crafts, and the noise of the rotors prompted shrieks from the jungle birds and howler monkeys.
Jacob lifted his hand and then clenched his fist, his ring glowing in a pulse of magic.
He uttered a word in Mayan, and the stela built into the staircase shot streaks of lightning into the approaching helicopters. Roth watched in horror as the helicopters exploded, sending shrapnel cascading through the air. When it hit the shield of kem äm, the burning bits of metal scattered and shot back up into the sky in arcs, like fireworks.
Jacob lowered his hand, smiling vindictively. “They cannot touch us. And it frustrates them. They are helpless. Powerless. Just like you.”
Then he switched languages and uttered a command.
The warriors holding Brower dragged him to the center altar, which was round and made of dimpled stone. There were grooves and bloodstains, and Roth stared in dread as Brower struggled against his captors.
Roth strained against the two holding him, but they increased the pressure against his sore arms, keeping him put.
Jacob pulled a dart from a leather pouch at his waist and then quickly jabbed it into Brower’s neck. The toxin’s effect was practically immediate. Brower quit struggling, and they deposited his body on the round altar. The warriors backed away, murmuring in their ancient language.
Jacob slipped the needle back into the pouch and then drew an obsidian dagger.
He stood next to Brower’s head, brandishing the knife in the air, the light from the building illuminating him for all below to see.
Jacob shouted to those below, speaking in Mayan, his words amplified by the stelae as if they were speakers. A feeling of darkness engulfed Roth’s heart—this was wrong. It was evil. He watched Brower’s eyes twitch with fear, his mouth paralyzed in a grimace he couldn’t relax.
Then Jacob turned and ripped open the buttons of Brower’s shirt, exposing his pale skin and thatch of chest hair. With his palm, Jacob smoothed open the shirt and traced his finger along Brower’s ribs, right by his heart.
Roth’s gorge began to rise in his throat. He closed his eyes, unable to witness what was about to happen. His knees started shaking, and he felt like he was going to faint.
It was a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.
He heard a gasp, the sound of something wet dribbling, and then a choking noise.
A cheer sounded from the multitude gathered below. A cry of victory, of power. Of triumph. They’d come to watch an execution. They’d come to take part in it. Just like in medieval times.
Roth’s ears began ringing. He was going into shock. He was going to vomit.
EAD Brower was dead. And he hadn’t even been able to scream.
CHAPTER FORTY
JAGUAR TEMPLE
CALAKMUL BIOSPHERE RESERVE