Unquestioning, Baltasar now saw first-hand the incredibly complexity and depth of his master’s belief.
It was truly breathtaking.
The lengthy wings to both ends of the entrance began to crumble. The roof collapsed. Screams of terror and death curdled the air. Invaluable collections of artifacts were destroyed. Men, women and children flew past Baltasar, trying to escape the area. The man thought that might be a very good idea. He walked faster, stopped to blend in, then ran for a while. He looked erratic, scared. The rucksack on his back that contained the small, insignificant artifact that had triggered this staggering event looked like every other rucksack on every other back.
The artifact inside was safe. His master would be pleased. Baltasar took one more moment to study the crumbling edifice, the crash of stone columns, the madness of panic. He listened to the rumble and groan of the earth, the terror in the air. He smelled utter fear and gasoline and powder. He saw pluming dust, chunks of rubble still collapsing. The rumbling had already stopped, but the hell that followed was only just beginning.
Baltasar imagined a nice journey back to the homeland, the easy bus that would eventually get him there. A long trip, but the right trip. Incongruous. Safer than flying because the masters couldn’t accept the minute risk that an aircraft might crash and kill everyone on board.
They would then lose the artifact.
At least if a bus crashed, Baltasar stood a chance.
He wondered what they were doing now and if they thought about his return in approximately forty eight hours.
Then he saw the time of day and knew they would be deep underground, in uniform, headdress attached perhaps, knives gleaming and maybe already streaked with blood. The symbol they worshipped would never let them down — but sacrifice was required. The chanting would be deepening, growing more feral. The fires would be raging.
Baltasar slipped away from the horrifying scene of devastation, unable to keep the smile of pleasure from his face.
CHAPTER THREE
In Hell, a man should know his place. In Hell, a man should know the full extent of his sins. And in particular, the ones that brought him to that place.
Guy Bodie tried to keep it together. Ten days was a long time to share this desperate dance with a thousand devils, but his convictions told him help was coming.
Most of the time though, he just didn’t trust them.
The environment itself was unsettling. If you didn’t look up, didn’t see the high walls with the barbed wire and lookout towers, you might think you were walking through a small Mexican town. Tiny shops plied a trade. Market stalls sold perishable goods, clothes, books, old, second-hand bed linen, bottled water, packets of sweets that he only recognized from his youth on the streets of London, and more. Men milled everywhere, beaten, despondent. But then so did women. And children.
It was the oddest prison Bodie had ever found himself in.
There were ways to make money in here, but he hadn’t been made privy to any of them. The American dollar stash he’d been lucky enough to have on him was dwindling. The clothes he still wore were dirty and unwashed, much like himself. The beard was growing. He figured he had enough money to last five more days on rations, maybe six. The ten days he’d spent here already had yielded a blueprint of the grounds, gates, entrances and exits; guard towers, offices, dens where gang bosses, mafia dons and heads of drug cartels continued to manage their businesses. He saw where the prostitutes came in for the live-in guards, every Wednesday; where the drugs came and went, where the weapons were exchanged. It wasn’t that he was a master spy — although he was considered by many as the best in the world at his chosen trade — but more that nobody attempted to hide what they were doing. Nobody cared.
That told Guy Bodie at least two things.
First, the authorities knew what was going on, and accepted it for whatever reason. Second, he was never going to be released. This particular trip to Mexico was one way. And, if current and recent appearances were anything to go by, more of a mini-break than an extended vacation.
Bodie was no stranger to loneliness; in some ways he embraced it. Loneliness was one of his oldest friends, a place in which he could dwell and not fear. But prison was not lonely. It was a zoo, replete with all manner of animals, most of them looking for the best way to kill you.
An old man had watched him pass by the first day; then, on the return journey, snagged his hand.
“You stick with your own,” he grated, eyes rheumy and narrow against the blazing sun, but clearly focused. “Them.” He nodded to a corner of the yard where Bodie saw other English or American folk. “Ain’t nobody else here for you. They’ll kill you.”
Bodie wasn’t that easy to kill, but he wasn’t about to paint himself as a target either. “Thanks for the info. Did you see who brought me here?”
The old man squinted. “What kinda jackass accent is that?”
Bodie smiled at the sweating creases that formed a slight smile. “London.”
“And the teeth?”
“All my own. Big, bright white choppers run in the family.”
“Wish I’d been given me a set like that. Woulda never needed a flashlight.”
“Heard that before.”
“I’m sure you have. And yeah, I saw the guys that brought you in. Same fuckers that bring everyone in.” He pointed at the watchtowers. “Them fuckers.”
“Guards.” Bodie had been afraid of that. It meant he was here in at least some kind of official capacity and not just dumped. “Bollocks.”
“Dogs?”
“Nah. Just bollocks.”
“You people.” The old man chuckled, which became a cough that wracked his ribcage. “And yer bollocks. You make me smile.”
Bodie bowed just a smidgeon. “At your service. For a short while anyway.”
“You seem like a carer. Ain’t no place for you here, boy. You change, or you ain’t gonna survive.”
Bodie blinked in surprise. Despite his outer mien, the man had seen right through him. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll kick you when we’re done.”
“Good.”
“I realize we’re in Mexico.” Bodie cast a glance around at the concrete squat structures, the sandy, earthy ground, the blue skies and the high, flaking walls. “But where the hell are we?”
“Hoyo infernal. This is one of the worst kind of hellholes, my friend. Vices in here are worse than out there.” He nodded over the walls. “No law. Run by madman who wants to be here. Nothing too immoral. Nothing too depraved. This is the eighth circle of Hell, London man.”
Bodie took a breath. Shit. Worse than I thought then. “And where does Lucifer hang his hat?”
Those eyes again, focusing, gleaning. “Why’d you wanna know that?”
“Always good to know where the boss lives.”
Bodie allowed another small smile, remembering the phrase from his early days. The boss was well off, and usually a dick, so made for a nice, easy target. Nobody stood up for the boss.
“Not sure I agree, but take a right after the marketplace. At the end of that street there’s a high step up to an open doorway. Careful though, London, you won’t get three paces along that street without a knife pressing to yer throat.”
Bodie nodded, thinking: Not my idea or memory of prison, but at least it’s unique.
“Speaking of knives.” The old man unfolded a sleeve in which lay half a dozen small, handmade shivs. “These still have their uses in here. Especially for quiet work.”
Bodie studied the razor blades, trapped between two lengths of wood and secured with plastic ties. Easy, small, barely detectable, very concealable. “How much?”