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JAGUAR TEMPLE
CALAKMUL BIOSPHERE RESERVE
January 10
Jacob sat at the president of Mexico’s ornate desk in the National Palace. The president, Señor Chaboya, was pacing nervously, surreptitiously glancing at the imposter US president, forced to kneel between two jaguar priests.
Victor was on the phone.
“Mr. Calakmul, we have the German chancellor.”
“Excellent,” Jacob said, feeling a surge of delight. “Another success. Have him brought to the Jaguar Temple. La Noche Triste begins this evening. One by one, they will fall.”
“Yes, sir. The cartels are preparing to launch raids against checkpoints in California, Arizona, and Texas. The Department of Homeland Security is still unaware of the impending attacks. They’re focused on the confusion in Washington, DC, right now.”
“The confusion will make them blind,” Jacob agreed. “Excellent. What news from the Pentagon?”
“Special Forces are deploying quick-strike units to Mexico. They have one aircraft carrier, the USS Botany Bay, in international waters. The satellites are in position to track our land.”
“Good,” Jacob said. “I want them to watch the carnage. I’ll have Uacmitun hunt the Special Forces in the jungle. He’ll make quick work of them.”
“Sir, there is one piece of troubling news.”
“Oh?”
As silence fell, Jacob glared back at Mr. Brower. Did the man speak Spanish? Did he understand what was being said? Jacob decided he didn’t care. Soon the fake president would be dead, another prop used in the drama of conquest.
“Barcenas is dead.”
Jacob leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbow on the polished table. “What?”
“He was killed at an executive airport in Florida by Steve Lund.”
Anger sizzled inside Jacob’s bones. He squeezed the handset. “Suki did this,” he said in a low voice quavering with wrath.
“I believe so. The FBI was called in. Lund, Sarina, Suki, and Jane Louise took off thirty minutes ago, bound for the Marine Corps airfield at Quantico, Virginia.”
Another wave of blistering heat sizzled inside Jacob’s chest. The Order of the Jaguar Priests had not successfully infiltrated the marines. Quantico was off-limits. Lund had chosen that destination because he’d guessed they would be safe there.
“Where is Mr. Roth?” Jacob growled.
“He’s still at FBI headquarters with the director. We have eyes on the floor, but they’re heavily guarded.”
“And you still don’t know where they’re staying?”
“The best lead we have is the Providence Inn. The databases show nothing certain. We’re trying to hack into the surveillance cameras, but that’s taking time, and we still won’t be able to see into the rooms. It may be premature, but I’d like to send some men to the hotel to make inquiries in person.”
“I’ll send Mataré. He has a score to settle.”
“If you wish. Is that all?”
“That is all. Good work, Victor. The end times are here.”
“Let them come,” Victor said, and Jacob ended the call.
He set the phone down in the cradle and pressed his fingers together over his mouth. He gave Brower another look, meeting the man’s fierce glare with an expression of unconcern.
“Do you speak Spanish, Mr. Brower?”