Weston Ochse - Age of Blood

“Who could do such a thing?” Holmes asked.

“Pretty much anyone with algorithmic capabilities and a laptop. These days, this kind of thing is being taught in community colleges.”

“I thought you said it was sophisticated?” Holmes asked.

“I should have probably used the term ‘elegant.’ Although there are a lot of folks out there who could do it, doing it this way, with almost no footprint, was elegant. And to answer your question, no, I don’t know who made this.” Musso handed the tablet back to Jen. She nodded at him and he returned to his computer.

“Comments?” she asked.

The room was silent for a moment. Then Laws spoke. “Remember the mission to Myanmar? Remember how it was all a lure? I’m getting that same feeling.”

“I am, too,” Holmes said. “People are giving us a reason to press forward, but I don’t know to what end.”

“It doesn’t have to be complicated,” Walker said. “It could be as straightforward as ‘let’s get rid of the world’s toughest group of men so we can have open season on the United States.’ Ramon might be full of shit on some levels, but when he briefed us about the cartels, I got a lot out of it. Nothing more important than each of them has a reason to be pissed off at America and would do pretty much anything they could to make our lives miserable. What if several of them have banded together?”

“What if all of them banded together?” Yank added.

Everyone turned to the new SEAL.

Holmes let out a slow whistle. “I don’t even want to think about such a thing, but it could be possible. Perhaps the cartels held a Star Chamber meeting and decided to work together just this once.” He turned to Jen. “Okay, let’s try this. Have your techs get with counterparts at the Drug Enforcement Agency and Central Intelligence Agency and see if we can do link analysis on calls. I want to know who’s talking to whom outside the cartels. My guess is we already have such a capability; we just need to be included in the conversation.”

“Done. What next?”

“Any results from the beeper?”

“It’s on Highway 150, heading south at high speed.”

“What’s south on 150?”

“A hundred small towns and villages.”

“Is Mexico City one of them?” he asked.

“It eventually leads there,” she said.

“Can we get eyes on? I can have GAFE standing by.”

Jen shook her head. “It’s not like a smart phone that constantly communicates with nearby cell towers as it changes position. This is a dead device that only comes alive when called.”

“What if we plot the route of travel and try and predict the location, then have someone in the air call and coordinate contact?” Walker asked.

“Nice. Let’s do that,” Holmes said. “But if we call the beeper too much it might get destroyed by whoever’s carrying it. That they still have it supports the idea that it’s still going to be used, so we need to be careful. They could have the senator’s daughter with them.”

“Done. What next?” Jen asked.

“What do we have on Mexico City?” Holmes asked.

“I can tell you what’s not in Mexico City, and that’s a lot of Zetas,” Jen told them. “We’ve been trying to make a connection with the Zetas and it just isn’t working. I understand what Ramon said, but it doesn’t jibe with what we have thus far.”

“So what’s in Mexico City?” Laws asked.

“What’s under Mexico City is the newly excavated capital of Aztec civilization, Tenochtitlán.”

Yank and Walker exchanged a look. “Now we’re back to the lepers.”

Jen offered Walker a professional smile. “Among many other buildings, a temple created for the worship of Xipe Totec was uncovered as part of the excavation. Archeologists have found more than eighteen hundred bones and fifty skulls at the site, all dating back to the fifteen hundreds.”

“So that’s it, then. We’re off to Mexico City.”

“Even if they want us going there? Even if it might be a trap?” Laws noted.

“Even so,” Holmes said. “Knowing in advance that it might be a trap puts us at a significant advantage, unlike in Myanmar. Everyone be ready to go by seven. I’m arranging transportation. Stay inside, please, and watch where you step.” Seeing the questioning looks on the faces of the others, he added, “These Knights have their own secrets. We can leave them alone. Let’s respect their privacy. So that means no going into the catacombs. Got that, Laws?”

“Yes. Got it.”

“Okay. Dismissed. I’ll be down shortly.”

Laws gave Yank and Walker a perplexed look, then headed out. Walker and Yank followed, knowing that the rest of their time would probably be spent recovering the equipment from the last mission.

Instead, Laws had taken Walker away to do something mysterious, leaving the youngest and newest of the SEALs to recover the equipment, which was just fine with him. He found the task relaxing and enjoyed the mechanical movements of breaking weapons down and putting them back together. But while his hands were busy, his mind was free to go where it wanted. Yank had never had the discipline to just turn things off. Normally, when his mind began to work or remember something, he just let it go. Like now, when the day his mother died replayed itself for the thousandth time in his mind’s eye.

It was the crash of breaking glass that brought him awake. At first he thought it was from across the street, but then the sound of a car’s tires biting into the street before they peeled off brought him to a sitting position. Then he heard a whoompf and shot to his feet. He wobbled unsteadily for a second. He’d been dreaming of something with that girl from school, Shawna, a talking pumpkin, and an Italian restaurant. And then he saw the telltale orange glow of fire, like what might have come from a living room fireplace if they’d had one. He rushed to his door and stuck his head out just in time to see the couch turn into a gush of living fire. He stood transfixed as it sent long fingers creeping up the walls to the ceiling. Wherever the fingers painted a line of flame was created, until the front wall was covered with what could only be the art of an invisible pyromaniacal monster, intent on eating his house alive.

Then he remembered his mother. He forced himself to turn away from the fire and rushed down the hallway. He shoved the door open with his shoulder, cracking the fake wood.

“Mom, wake up—fire!” he cried, each word capturing his desperation and fear.

But she lay unmoving. He scanned the bedside table and saw her glass of gin, half full, where she’d left it before passing out, just as she had every night for as long as he could remember. She claimed it was for the leg pains she got from cleaning floors on her hands and knees.

He rushed over and shook her shoulder. She moaned something unintelligible but didn’t wake. He shook her again, this time hard enough to dislodge the wig that made her look sort of like Whitney Houston.

“Mom, wake up! Fire!” He was beginning to feel the heat from the front room blasting through the doorway. He glanced at the windows. Like all of them, this one was barred to protect them from the outside. Their only way to get out was through the front or the back doors.

He shook her again, hard this time, and in his fear, pushed her hard in the shoulder, a half push that was as much a punch. He felt scared to hit her. He felt scared not to. She wasn’t reacting. He grabbed the side of her head and shook it. Her eyes fluttered open.

“Uhnn. Shonn.”