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Marines had gathered in the corridor. They had assault rifles, but Jacob didn’t even hesitate. He kept walking toward them.
“No targets! Even on infrared!”
“Hold your fire!” shouted an officer.
“Mr. Brower! Mr. Brower!” someone shouted.
Jacob, feeling the weight of the man on his shoulder, reached into his other pocket and withdrew the Glock. He pointed at one of the marines crouching in the corridor. They all looked intense, ready for a fight. Ready to start shooting. It would only take one little push . . .
He shot a single round into the lead soldier’s helmet, dropping him.
Training took over. A hail of bullets came at Jacob, and the kem äm deflected them all right back at the men who’d shot them. Shouts of pain rang out, followed by more rapid-fire bullets.
“Hold fire! Hold fi—!” His order was silenced by his own men’s bullets hitting him.
Jacob kept walking. Confusion, cries for medics.
A stun grenade rolled down the corridor, striking the kem äm barrier in front of Jacob. He invoked a glyph of darkness so that when it exploded in brightness and noise, he could neither see nor hear it. The blast resounded back into the corridor where it had originated. He drew another glyph, inflicting a plague of weakness and debilitating sores on the soldiers.
Jacob left, seeing the smoke in the air, the pock marks on the walls. He walked to the stairs, opened the door, and started up the steps. He felt the strain of the agent’s weight, but the magic supported him. When he reached the top of the stairs, he kicked open a door and saw more marines waiting there. Among them was another man in dress uniform, with the insignia of a general.
“We’re evacuating. Answer me! What’s going on down there?” the gray-haired general barked, his gaze on the open doorway. Confusion wrinkled his brow when no one emerged.
Jacob raised his arm and shot him at point-blank range. The soldiers, confused, trained their guns on the opening of the stairwell. Jacob walked right at them, and the kem äm shoved them backward.
Strobe lights were flashing from the emergency lamps. In his mind, Jacob retraced his steps back to the corridor. This time, the hallways were full of panicked people who were fleeing their offices, carrying laptops and coats. Some were crying in terror.
Jacob reached the obsidian mirror and saw the assistant standing there, frightened, wondering what to do.
Jacob invoked the magic of the mirror, and it began to shed gray smoke again.
“I’m here,” Jacob whispered to her. “Go inside. You will be safe.”
The young woman immediately stepped toward the mirror. It swallowed her, bringing her instantly back to the underground chamber. Jacob drew a glyph to make the mirror invisible, then adjusted the man’s weight on his shoulder, limp as a sack, and stepped through the mirror behind her.
As he emerged into the sacred chamber, he saw the jaguar priests awaiting them. They saw him toting a man in a suit, gray hair, one who looked like the American president but roughed up. Jacob dropped him at their feet.
“The Americans are coming for us,” he told them grimly. “Awaken the jungle to receive them.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
PROVIDENCE INN
WASHINGTON, DC
January 10
Roth tried Lund’s phone for the third time that hour, and again it went to voice mail. There’d been no response to his previous texts either. He’d wanted to hear from Suki and Sarina that morning. But they were offline. It probably meant that they were on a flight back to DC. But what if something had happened? He’d been thinking about everything they’d talked about the night before. Including the magical place Suki had visited that could de-age someone—he knew the legends of Aztlán from his research, but it was in Utah of all places? Too weird. That kind of power, that magic, would be a carefully guarded secret. And possibly another impetus for Calakmul’s determination to overthrow the US.
The boys were watching the hotel TV from the couch. Jordan was in another room in the hotel, sleeping. Another one of Lund’s security guys was on duty, but not in the room with them. Neither of them had heard from Lund about his plans.
“Can we watch a cooking show?” Lucas complained to Brillante. “I’m sick of this cartoon. I’m sick of staying in hotels!”
“Bruh, it’s almost over.”
“I think we’re going to be stuck in hotels for weeks!”
“No, I meant the show.”
