During this night — later called ‘La Noche Triste’, the Night of the Long Sorrows, the Spaniards, under cover of a rainstorm, broke out along a narrow causeway. A battle of ferocious intensity ensued. Hundreds of canoes appeared alongside the causeway, filled with warriors. Weighed down by plundered gold and equipment, the Spaniards stumbled along, some losing their footing and drowning, sinking into the mud below so burdened were they with treasure that was not theirs to take.
Thousands died that night. Even native women, cooks and housekeepers that had been given to the Spaniards, died amidst the rage of battle.
Unknown to the Spaniards, and little documented since, were the actions of the Aztecs during the weeks following the original massacre at the Patio of the Gods and the return of Cortés. They took firm action. Whilst the Spaniards under Alvarado were besieged in their compound, the Aztecs amassed the majority of their remaining wealth — a great treasure trove of jewels and gold coins, the largest monetary treasure ever assembled. Even the buildings were stripped of their gold and gems.
It is said that seven caravans set out, following a northern course.
Writings tell of the caravans traveling for a long time, but no one knows where they ended up or the actual treasure location…
ONE
Alicia Myles gripped the monster between her thighs, holding on tight as it bucked and weaved under her.
Damn British roads aren’t made for bikes, she thought. Too many unrepaired potholes.
The Ducati rumbled as she laid it down around the next curve, engine growling like a restrained predator.
Its rider, the same kind of animal, allowed her mind to wander as the road finally straightened out. Her new boss, Michael Crouch, had gathered a new team together after the devastation of his old unit, the Ninth Division, and his subsequent exit from the British Army. Objectives changed, but loyal contacts didn’t, and Crouch already knew he could rely on dozens of well-placed, well-financed, highly-influential connections to help him succeed in his new venture.
But first he needed a world class team.
Hence the recruitment of Alicia.
Crouch’s new HQ was situated somewhere in Windsor, UK, and it had taken her many hours of confined air travel from Washington DC to get here. The Ducati was an indulgence; rented near to Heathrow airport it was a tribute to a former friend.
The road unfolded before her, a blank empty canvas, an endless journey with hazards around every corner, the way her life was lived.
At that moment a raucous noise interrupting her thoughts. The shrill, cantankerous tones had become more than a constant companion, more a never ending nightmare since they’d left DC, and filtered through her Bluetooth headset even now whilst they rode on separate bikes.
“This ain’t how I remember London. Goddamn trees and shit. And tractors. Every bloody bend — always another tractor.”
“Quit yer whining,” Alicia breathed back. “Before I leave you twitching in a hedgerow.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the voice said. “Y’know, I’m starting to think with you it’s bark worse than bite.”
Alicia raised her eyebrows, unseen beneath the helmet. Her companion was known as Laid Back Lex and was a member of the biker gang Alicia had briefly joined several months ago. Following the gang’s near-annihilation at the hands of the dreaded Blood King and the death of Lomas, its leader and Alicia’s boyfriend, the gang had drifted apart. Lex remained the only member that had clung to Alicia, heart-warming at first, not so much many months later when his incessant droning had begun to flay her nerves like a leather-jacketed hunting knife.
“Is that what you think?” she breathed. “Man, do you have a lot to learn about me.”
The place Crouch had described was approaching on the right, confirmed by a beep from the satnav. Black iron gates stood open. Alicia slowed her bike, allowing the machine to drift to a stop right outside the entrance, and stared down the long, winding path that led to the house.
Another unknown road. From leaving home she had followed some kind of road, content to let it lead her wherever it so chose. From the Army to questionable military allegiances to Matt Drake and his SPEAR team; then to Lomas and the Slayers, back to SPEAR and now here. The path wound ever on. It meandered, it twisted harshly, but it never brought her any kind of solace.
She sighed. Lex was at her side, staring. “What the fuck are you doing?”
She took her helmet off and gestured that he should do the same. She shook out her blond hair. “How old are you, Lex?”
“Thirty. Ish.”
“Any regrets?”
“Course not. Life’s too short for that shit.”
“And the future? What does it hold for you?”
Lex appeared confused. “Are you asking me out on a date?”
Alicia slapped her forehead with her hand. “Of course not! All I’m saying is this — we can’t keep on running forever.” She gunned her bike, opening the throttle, and roared down the path.
Trees swayed and rustled around her, the wind whipping through them before striking her face. Ahead, the path curved and a stately house appeared, large enough to house an army. Alicia pulled up in between a Mini Cooper S and a blue Mitsubishi Evo. Not the best sign. The Mini was okay and probably belonged to Crouch but the Evo no doubt belonged to some young upstart.
She hadn’t joined a new team to be the resident babysitter.
Lex pulled in beside her. “Shit, man, move over. Can’t get a goddamn space.”
Alicia had had enough. With all the recent traumas and the long trip her patience was wearing thin. She rounded on the biker. “Christ, Lex, give it a rest. Do I look like a man to you?”
Lex eyed her leathers. “Dunno. Be happy to take a look though.”
Alicia struck faster than the biker could blink. One minute he was sitting, a grin of mischief beginning to stretch across his face, the next he was sprawled in the dirt, bleeding from the mouth, his bike held upright courtesy of Alicia’s lightning-quick right hand.
Lex grunted.
Alicia shook her head at him. “Show a little goddamn respect,” she said and walked off, letting the bike fall.
The resulting high-pitched squeal followed her to the door of the house where Michael Crouch stood waiting. Her ex-boss’s boss’s eyes held more than a glint of amusement.
“Haven’t changed, I see.” He squinted past her. “Are you sure we really need the biker?”
Alicia shrugged. “I’m beginning to wonder. If nothing else he’ll be good cannon fodder.”
“Agreed.” Crouch smiled at her. Though Crouch was in his fifties there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him; the man was solid, possessed of short-cropped black hair, a sculpted jawline and a pair of twinkly eyes. When he held a hand out to welcome her, Alicia felt almost proud to shake it.
Crouch had previously headed up the British Ninth Division, a covert agency that looked after Her Majesty’s interests abroad, its agenda blank, its brief to do whatever was necessary. Able to call upon all entities from the local police to the SAS, Crouch had run the department with astonishing success right up until the day it was closed down. After that, then a freelancer, Crouch decided to indulge his other major life-interest — the search for archaeological treasures — by setting up a new team. His countless contacts, garnered previously through countless years as a respected leader, would bend over backwards to help him.