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JAGUAR TEMPLE

CALAKMUL BIOSPHERE RESERVE

January 10

“I salute you, Huracán, enemy of both sides. Lord of the Near and the Nigh. God of the Furious Winds, Possessor of Sky and Earth. Open.”

The stela ground opened again, and once more Jacob lowered himself to pass beneath it into the sacred chamber with the obsidian mirrors. He wore a casual business suit, open-collared shirt—no tie. In one pocket, he carried a blowgun and a brace of poison darts. In the other, a Glock with hollow-point bullets. He wasn’t sure he’d need either, but it was good to be prepared.

The other jaguar priests had already gathered within the close space and were waiting for him. The thrill of anticipation was dulled by the disappointment that he hadn’t yet achieved all of his aims. Roth continued to defy him. So did Suki.

The other jaguar priests took a knee as soon as he was with them. Each bowed his head. Each man had been chosen for his dedication and skill. This would be the ultimate test.

“Welcome, my brothers,” Jacob said. “Today we are one in purpose. Each of us must do his part to fulfill the Jaguar Prophecies. If all goes well, this night will be a special celebration, a special sacrifice. On the altar of the temple, I will cut out the heart of the president of the United States. If I should fall or fail, one of you will step into my place. Angélica will announce who I have chosen. This is the moment we have trained our whole lives for.”

“What of the little girl? The sorceress?” asked Rinaldo. Jacob recognized the anger in his voice. He felt the same burn in his own chest.

“She escaped with her mother and the Beasley girl,” Jacob said, controlling his own reaction. “They were taken by the US Coast Guard in Florida and then escaped. We will find them and bring them back. Ix Chel cannot thwart our designs, no matter how she meddles. And they have no immunity to the disease.”

“What will stop her from meddling in this?” asked Mataré in a vindictive tone. He was the most ruthless killer of them all.

“She is the moon goddess, not the Lord of the Near and the Nigh,” Jacob shot back. “The believers in the FBI have said they do nothing. They see nothing. We are the masters of the obsidian mirrors. They know not how we are coming.”

Jacob flexed his thoughts and invoked the magic of his ring. The power of the kem ?m began to churn within the chamber. The obsidian mirrors were instantly wreathed in gray smoke, not toxic but a residue of the power connecting the mirrors together, allowing someone to pass from one to the other.

“The Americans sent drones against us last night,” Jacob said haughtily. “But they could not penetrate our defenses. They were scattered like bats. Their bullets cannot harm us. The cartels await my orders with their brave foot soldiers. They wait with great anxiety for the word to destroy the Americans. And so they wait in London. And so they wait in Berlin. And so they wait in Madrid.”

He saw these men tense with pleasure. Some were quivering with anticipation.

Jacob clenched his hand into a fist. “Tonight will be another Night of Sorrows. When Cortés was driven from Tenochtitlán following the murder of Moctezuma. This time, he and all of his modern-day spawn will be driven away, hunted down, and killed. We will build temples in the north. We will uncover the secret temples hidden beneath so many cities. The death games will be the new sport of the people. And it begins tonight. It begins now.”

“Ajw?ch,”they began to chant. “Ajw?ch. Ajw?ch. Ajw?ch!”

The one who knows secrets. The master of them.

Jacob looked at Mataré once more. He had nearly caught Mr. Roth and the boys the previous day in Washington, DC. He was still furious at his failure, at their escape. After being knocked aside by the vehicle, he’d used the magic to heal himself and had nearly gone on a rampage and killed everyone in his path. But prudence had prevailed. He’d backed off, but his vendetta against Mr. Roth was now personal. He hated the bitter taste of disappointment. He wanted to resume the hunt, believing the quarry was close. There’d been a report of a group of four arriving at a hotel near a Smithsonian building shortly after the chase. It wasn’t much, but it was something to go on.

“Remain here and wait for news from Victor about the hotel,” Jacob said. “When I return with the American, I will unleash you on the rest of our victims. Just as Moctezuma’s body was thrown down the temple steps to the violent mob, so will we do with the president’s corpse here tonight. Their world will be baptized anew ... baptized in blood.”

He could sense their hunger for the image he painted, their willingness to pursue this goal to the end. Jacob held up his fist and brought the magic of the kem ?m to his eyes so they glowed. A little growl came from his mouth, but he did not transform. He would not show any vulnerability to these men, any one of whom might seek to take his place so as to be the Ajw?ch himself.

Jacob strode to the obsidian mirror connected to the White House and passed through it, cloaking himself in invisibility as he stepped through.

The smell of coffee, old carpet, and oak wood flooded Jacob’s senses, along with artificial warmth from the heating system. His nerves were taut. He’d been preparing for this moment his whole life. The greatest outcome of having a secret team of gifted people was that it gave him the ability to get into the most secure places. During the height of the Maya and Aztec empires, key members of the Kowinem had infiltrated every kingdom, every tribe. Their friendly smiles and regular acts of kindness had belied the murder in their hearts. When it came time to depose a king, a single member of the order could literally walk past any sentinels and protections, proving that no one was safe. An obsidian blade to the heart. A pinprick from a poison dart. A dusting of powder on a spoon handle. There were many ways to kill an enemy.

Jacob stood in the slim corridor within the White House. He saw an office, door open, with a woman behind a computer screen. Another office door was farther ahead. A younger man in a white shirt and dark tie leaned against the jamb, talking to a female staffer in a flirtatious way. A fake plant sat on the right-side wall. Several framed photos of famous Americans hung on the walls—and so did the obsidian mirror.

The female staffer was the one who was waiting for him. She had walked him there before during their practices, so he knew the way without her, but she had the badge that would open the door.

“Any plans for the weekend?” the male staffer asked her.

“I’ve got so much on my plate this weekend,” she answered.

Jacob walked up behind her and blew a breath against her ear, followed by the password, whispered so faintly the amorous young man wouldn’t hear it over the ambient noise in the hall. She shuddered when she felt it.

“They’re talking about doing a shutdown,” the young man said. “Better go for drinks while we still can. Want to meet somewhere?”

“Maybe another time,” she said and turned and began walking away. Jacob followed her.

“Do you want my phone number?” he called after her.

She ignored the question and quickly turned the corner.

“Are they all like that?” Jacob whispered to her from behind, keeping pace.

“Oh yes,” she said with an edge to her voice. “They think they’re gods for working here.”

“They will soon learn their place,” Jacob said. “Onward.”

The White House was a labyrinth of sorts. The construction had started in 1792, and in 1800 it had been occupied by the second US president. The only damage it had sustained was during the war of 1812. That would change. It was a symbol of the power of the nation. And such symbols needed to be destroyed. Or repurposed. The Spanish had torn down a pyramid in Izamal to create a cathedral to their religion, and Jacob intended to do the same with the Greek-style structures in DC.

The Situation Room, where this particular cabinet meeting was happening, was underground. Uniformed marines guarded the entrance in their ceremonial garb. There was so much protection outside the White House that the defenses inside were relatively sparse. The young woman’s badge, with her name—Christina Reyes—showed she belonged, but her bag was checked, her identity confirmed. And then she was through the doors, Jacob slipping in behind her. The doors shut.

They went down the stairs to the underground lair. The Situation Room was where the president held important meetings. He’d seen images of it only on Angélica’s tablet—a large conference table encircled by thick chairs. The president always sat at the head of the table with the crest of his office hanging on the wall behind him. It was a glyph of sorts, a symbol of his power and authority. There were large monitors attached to the walls. Jacob tilted his neck back and forth, loosening the gathering tension. His heart rate was accelerating with anticipation.

At the bottom of the steps stretched another corridor, and voices from staffers filtered to them. Not everyone was allowed in the room, usually just the cabinet and key support people. The faces looked at her as she approached.

“The meeting is underway, Christina,” one of them said.

“Secretary Owens wanted a copy of this,” she said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a stack of papers clipped together.

“You can’t go in there,” said another.

“I don’t want to interrupt. Can you bring it to the chief of staff?”

“I’ll hand them over,” offered a young man. “But you can’t go in there. None of us can.” He took the stack of papers from Christina and then thumbed through them before nodding.

“Thank you,” she said, turning to walk away. Jacob remained. He’d memorized the path back to the mirror, so he no longer needed her.

First he’d invoke a silence glyph so that cries of alarm or pain wouldn’t reach this corridor.

The man with the stack of papers went to the door and pulled on the handle, opening it slightly. Jacob stepped up close behind him, staying just far enough away to avoid a collision. As he watched, the young man motioned to another young man, just inside the door, who hurried over to him.

“This just arrived for Secretary Owens,” he whispered, handing over the stack of papers.

He was blocking the doorway, and there wasn’t enough room to slip past him. Jacob transformed into a small harvest mouse, maintaining the web of invisibility. He slipped through the door and entered the room silently. It wasn’t full, the way he’d been expecting. Some of the attendees were speaking from TV screens. The big screen showed an image from a slide deck with European cities and numbers of infected people.

The president sat at the head of the table, leaning back and looking stern. The crest was behind him on the wall.

After accepting the papers, the staffer shut the door, walked over to one of the men seated in the big chairs, and bent low to whisper in his ear before setting the papers in front of him.

Secretary Owens nodded curtly.

Jacob transformed back into a man, still invisible, and stared at those assembled. Some looked bored. Others anxious. They were discussing the pandemic’s exponential growth in Europe. There were already a lot of cases breeding in New York. A handful had recently been reported in DC. It would only grow faster and faster as the victims spread it to family and friends.

They were discussing possible solutions, but there was no solution. Not for them. Only those with the immunity glyph would be protected from it. No modern medicine could stop this ancient disease.

He listened to the conversation for a moment, savoring the opportunity that was before him. He drew a glyph on the door, which created a barrier of kem ?m to keep everyone else out. Next to it, he added a glyph of silence. He didn’t disguise the glyph with invisibility, like the glyphs on the Dresden Codex and the secret signs his people had used elsewhere. This was prominent.

Immediately, someone noticed. “Look at the door!” shouted a man across the table, pointing at the glowing strands of magic that had suddenly appeared.

Jacob noticed several of the people at the table were in dress uniform. Generals in the US military, with stern faces and grizzled hair. Some women as well. But it was the president he was here for. The leader.

Jacob sloughed off the invisibility, standing alone at the foot of the table.

Several gasped in surprise at his sudden appearance.

Jacob touched the tabletop with his fingertips. “My name is Jacob Calakmul,” he announced, looking directly at the man at the head of the table. The most powerful and protected man in America. Who was now helpless.

“I know who you are,” the president answered. But it was not the president’s voice. Jacob had heard recordings of his speeches. He knew the way the man talked. It wasn’t him.

The man pretending to be the president leaned forward. “We’ve been expecting you.”