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“And what’s the point of this?” Carter sighed. “We need to prep for our meeting with the director,” he said in an undertone to Brower.
But Brower was looking keenly at Roth, his gaze not wavering. “Do you know what exponential curves are, Mr. Roth?”
“I’m a historian, but I also like math.”
“They too have tipping points,” Brower said. “What we’re seeing with this virus is just the beginning of an exponential curve. Once we hit that tipping point, it’s going to spread so fast it’s almost impossible to imagine what real life is going to be like in the very near future. Like the smallpox epidemic in the sixteenth century. It’s difficult for the human mind to grasp exponential things. If we’re dealing with a rampant virus that affects every person not immune—which will be nearly everyone on earth except a few elite—then when we hit the tipping point and the curve goes vertical, we’ll be helpless, our healthcare system overrun, and our military and law enforcement apparatus disabled.”
“Exactly,” Roth said. “What you’re saying is we don’t have much time to counter Calakmul’s plan before we can’t.”
Brower nodded. “If Jacob Calakmul believes he’s fulfilling this prophecy and has been acting accordingly, he may be trying to duplicate historical events. Even if the prophecy isn’t real, he seems to believe otherwise.”
“There is plenty of room to believe Calakmul has deluded himself.” Roth had shared Illari’s translation with Monica and knew she’d forwarded it to certain officials.
“In my opinion, he’s more than a person of interest. He’s public enemy number one. We need to find him. Now.”
“Hunting Jacob Calakmul is virtually impossible,” Monica said. “He doesn’t use modern technology like smartphones or computers. When the SEAL team went to Cozumel, they found the place abandoned.”
“You sent a SEAL team to the resort?” Roth gaped.
Monica smiled. “Well, the Department of Defense did. We haven’t been sitting on our hands, Jonathon.”
“That’s classified!” Carter snapped with irritation.
Roth chuckled in relief. Brower was on board. So was Monica. Carter was a holdout, but maybe Carter didn’t matter.
“In 1519, Cortés was a nobody,” Roth said, tapping the desk. “He was in trouble with the Spanish crown. His own men didn’t like him. There’s a legend he burned the ships after arriving in Mexico to send the message to the crew that there was no turning back. Just a legend, mind you, and probably a distortion of history. But by all accounts, Cortés and his wife were about as dysfunctional as the Real Housewives families. He wasn’t liked, and he’s only famous because he succeeded. The turning point was when they tried to assassinate Montezuma.” Roth felt the pieces begin to click into place in his mind. He stopped talking, his mind whirling.
Brower was staring at him too. He’d also made the connection. “You’re thinking of history repeating itself.”
“Like John Wilkes Booth?” Lucas asked from the end of the table.
CHAPTER FOUR
HIDDEN BEACH
MARIETAS ISLANDS, MEXICO
January 8
The yacht left Punta Mita, a private peninsula on the coast of Mexico near Puerto Vallarta. It was one of dozens of luxury yachts that had been in the harbor, ships owned by Russian oligarchs, Chinese billionaires, and the wealthiest of the American tech elites. So far, Punta Mita hadn’t been affected by the plague beginning to cascade around the world. There were parties lasting all day and night. Music and dancing.
Jacob would give the final warning tonight. The time had come to retreat to the Maya Riviera. Those who had paid the price would be protected against the end times. Those who hadn’t would help feed the fish among the coral reef.
He leaned back in his cushioned seat on the deck of the boat, his shirt open to the breeze. He wore expensive sunglasses against the glare. The golden Maya jewelry on his wrist caught the light, as did the ring on his finger and the Aztec medallion that lay on his chest. It too was of solid gold, made centuries ago. The medallion could be worn out in the open now, marking him as one of the priests of the order. The time for disguises was coming to an end.
Angélica was lounging on a sofa, her skin bronzed by the sun, her beach robe open. Her bare abdomen was completely smooth. The bullet that had nearly killed her had not left a mark. Time hadn’t healed the wound. It had unwound it. He’d shown her his greatest secret—he’d brought her to Aztlán, to the tree and mountain that could turn someone young again. His own vigor had improved since going there. His feelings for her—the unquenchable desire of a younger man—had barely been slaked since they’d made it back to the Jaguar Temple with their hostage. He’d let Angélica visit his private cenote, built beneath his palace and fed by the man-made canals and natural aguadas in the area. That had been a magical night.
Angélica turned her head and looked at him, her blond hair streaming in the breeze. The throb of desire struck again.
“You haven’t told me how you will kill the American president,” she said, giving him a seductive smile. “Are there to be any more secrets between us?”
A spray of sea water kicked up from the edge of the yacht. The temperature was perfect, the humidity ripe and golden. He eased out of his chair and padded over to her, barefoot. He felt the growl of the jaguar inside him. His magic tingled within.
“You know more than anyone else who has ever been trusted,” he whispered, nuzzling her neck with his lips. “My father never shared Aztlán with my mother. You are the first woman to know of it in centuries, I think.”
“Centuries? Maybe I should be fearful that I’m the first to know in so long.”
He nodded, stealing a kiss from her mouth before pulling away. “Yes, we must both be careful. There are those who would kill for the knowledge. We’re almost there.”
