Theoretically, since the van was taller than a car, it would make it that much easier to climb onto the pyramid’s lowest roof level. And, during a quick stop at a hardware store, the men were able to secure a large pry bar, along with other items that might come in handy.

  Then, with Colon’s phone at the ready, they circled the step pyramid. Hopefully, luck would be with them, and the men would find a good place to park and climb.

  Unfortunately, Serrano didn’t see such a spot during the drive-around, but was determined to reserve judgment until they reviewed the video later in a supermarket parking lot.

  The first couple of minutes left Serrano feeling hopeless. There weren’t any spots where the van could get in close to the building and look natural.

  But then, as the entrance to the parking garage appeared, Serrano perked up. “Stop the video… This looks promising.”

  “Really?” Colon asked skeptically. “I see two guards.”

  “As do I,” Serrano replied. “But they can be neutralized. The real question has to do with hours. Will the garage be open tomorrow? Even though the rest of the place is locked down? Inquiring minds want to know.”

  The video had been transferred to Papá’s laptop via email. The priest lowered his head in order to see better. “There’s a sign. It reads, ‘Garage open for deliveries 7 days a week, 9-5.’”

  “Damn!” Serrano exclaimed. “That’s wonderful!”

  “Swearing is a sin,” Colon said.

  Serrano started to reply. Started to remind Colon of his sins. But thought better of it. What did Jesus say? Something about casting stones. So, he turned his thoughts to the challenge ahead. And now, with thanks to the latest intel, Serrano knew what to do.

  Chapter Seven

  San Antonio Tecomitl, Mexico

  It was Wednesday morning, and Pedro Riviera was bored. The Foundation was closed but vendors could still make deliveries. However, since the guards couldn’t sign for shipments, only a few vendors chose to do so.

  Pedro and his buddy Alfonso took note as a white van slowed, signaled, and turned. Pedro was surprised to see that the driver and his passenger were wearing sombreros. What the fuck?

  Then, as the van came to a halt, Pedro realized that the driver was wearing a Day of the Dead calavera mask. “Is this the Ambassador hotel?” the driver inquired.

  “No, idiotas,” Pedro replied. “That’s one block to the east.”

  Serrano shot the guard with his Taser X2, shifted his aim, and nailed the second man as well. Both men spasmed, tried to stay vertical, but failed.

  Serrano turned to Colon. “They’re down. Go for it.”

  The priest got out and tires screeched as Serrano hit the gas. The plan called for him to turn the van around while Colon used zip ties to secure the guards.

  Once the van was positioned for a quick getaway, Serrano hurried over to the guard kiosk. The gate controls consisted of two buttons: Arriba and Abajo.

  The down button was red, and Serrano thumbed it.

  The see-through barrier clattered as it came down, and barred all vehicles from entering or leaving.

  The guards were swearing, kicking and rolling around by then. Father Colon stuffed a handkerchief into each mouth and secured them with tape.

  The skull mask was scratchy, and the plastic vaquero costume was hot, but Serrano wasn’t about to remove either with the many cameras around, mounted on the ceiling. Were they being monitored somewhere? If so, the intruders would have company soon.

  Serrano took a look around. SL1. That’s where Pia was being held. Or had been held. There was no way to know. But even Father Colon agreed that they couldn’t search the entire pyramid. So, it was SL1 or nothing.

  A large floor-by-floor wall chart was available for the guards to refer to as shipments arrived. And sure enough, SL1 equated to Sub-Level 1.

  “I see an elevator,” Colon announced. “Let’s go.”

  Lattice work doors parted to reveal a no-frills freight elevator plastered with safety signs. Serrano noticed that in addition to SL1, there was a SL2, and a SL3. Both of which were dedicated to parking.

  The elevator jerked, whirred, and descended. The doors parted to reveal signs including, HVAC, Power, and Water next to an arrow pointed to the right. Storage was to the left. And Pia was being “stored.” Kind of.

  “We’ll go left,” Serrano announced. “Bring that shotgun around. Chances are that you’ll need it.”

  The sawed-off shotgun was Serrano’s, and the only weapon Colon might be able to use successfully, since he’d never fired so much as a .22 pistol.

  A voice boomed through the pyramid’s PA system. “Attention! Two intruders are in the building. They’re wearing Day of the Dead masks and vaquero costumes. They are located on SL1 and are heavily armed. Shoot to kill!”

  Any doubts Serrano had about the mission were washed away by the words Shoot to kill.

  Serrano pointed to the nearest camera. “Destroy every camera you see!”

  Colon brought the 12 gauge to bear and fired. The recoil caught the priest by surprise, and he took an involuntary step backwards. But the spread from 9 pellets was sufficient to destroy the camera.

  There was no place to hide where they were. And hopefully Pia was up ahead. So that, plus the possibility of cover at her location, made Serrano’s decision easy. “Reload the shotgun and follow me.”

  Serrano drew both pistols as he rounded the corner ahead. Three uniformed guards were running at him. Rather than spread out, they were in a single file.

  The lead man fired. Serrano heard the bullets snap past his head, paused to bring the 5-inch pistol up into position, and returned fire.

  The first hollow point killed the lead man and the asshole behind him. A second bullet took the third guard down. Serrano fired again just to make sure. “Grab a pistol!” Serrano ordered. “And extra ammo if they have it.”

  Colon hurried to obey as Serrano took a peek around the corner. What he saw looked like a full-on detention facility. Cells lined both walls, six to a side, but it was impossible to see how many were occupied.

  A long table was positioned in the middle of the corridor. And, judging from the cards that the guards left behind, they’d been playing a game when the shit hit the fan.

  Serrano hoped Pia was in one of the cells. But, regardless, he intended to use a cell for cover. There was a loud boom as Colon destroyed the camera mounted above the tables.

  “Pia,” Serrano said, as he inspected the cells. “Is she here?”

  “Yes!” Colon replied exultantly. “Over here!”

  Keys were lying on a table. Serrano grabbed them and hurried over. He could see a woman curled up in a corner. Her hands were covering her ears. “Loud! Too loud!”

  Colon rushed to help her. “Pia! It’s your father… Get up. This is your chance to leave.”

  “Your head,” Pia said. “It’s pulsating. Leave me alone.”

  “She’s on drugs,” Serrano said. “Peyote most likely.”

  Serrano was going to say more, but that was when the backups arrived. Not uniformed guards this time, but self-styled Aztec warriors, armed with axes and spears. Two of them were women. An axe flew through the air to clang against the bars as the attackers prepared to rush Pia’s cell.

  In order to confront the intruders, the warriors had to crowd through the open door. So, when Serrano fired, the warriors collapsed in a heap. Serrano stepped over their bodies to confront a woman.

  Her spear missed. Serrano charged, threw the warrior to the floor, and held her there. The fanatic’s eyes were dilated—which suggested that she was on drugs. “Pia… Why is she locked up?”

  “Patecatl wants her.”

  Patecatl wasn’t real. But Sebastian Acara was real. And he was known to “channel” Patecatl. So, it stood to reason that Acara was the person who wanted Pia dead.

  “Why?” Serrano demanded. “Why does Patecatl want Pia?”

  “Pia saw something,” the woman said dreamily. “Something she wasn’t supposed to see. Not until she became a Prime.”

  Serrano jumped to the obvious conclusion. “Did Pia see a murder?”

  “No,” the woman replied. “She saw a transference. And tonight, it will be her turn.”

  Serrano got to his feet. “You can leave. Run.”

  The warrior struggled to her feet and staggered away.

  Colon had Pia on her feet by then. One arm was draped over the priest’s shoulders. “Come on,” Serrano said. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Take her other arm,” Colon instructed, as Serrano dropped a moon clip into the long gun. “We’ll carry her.”

  With Pia hanging between them, the men carried Pia around the corner, and toward the elevator. Serrano half expected to see more warriors waiting for them. There weren’t any.

  The elevator rose smoothly and ground to a stop. The doors clattered open. And there, arrayed in front of them, were eleven men. Sebastian Acara stood out. He was six-three and stripped to the waist. He looked like the body builder that he was.

  As Acara opened his mouth to speak, Father Colon released Pia and fired the shotgun. His aim was off, so only five pellets hit their target. But that was sufficient. Acara fell like a tree and landed with an audible thump.

  Serrano released Pia as well, brought the 5-inch up, and fanned the custom-made hammer. Four .357 rounds struck their targets, wounding one and killing three.

  That left six warriors. Three of them fired. Serrano staggered as a slug hit his right thigh. He nearly fell, but managed to remain vertical, as he pulled Shorty.

  Colon had the feel of it by then. BOOM! Clack. BOOM! Clack. BOOM! Clack. Warriors fell. And, as the wounded man attempted to stand, Serrano shot him again.

  Colon had to step over bodies as he carried Pia to the van. Serrano left a blood trail behind as he limped over to the guard station and thumbed the up button.

  Tires squealed as the van stopped next to Serrano. It took everything the ex-Marine had left to open the door and crawl inside.

  Then, as Serrano’s head swam, he struggled to pull his belt free, and fashion a tourniquet.

  There were more things to do. Serrano knew that… And he was going to tell the priest all about them when darkness pulled him down.

  *

  There was pain. A lot of pain as Serrano came to. Blurry faces peered down at him. A man spoke. “The bullet didn’t hit bone. And, because it went straight through, I won’t have to go in after it. Your Soldado is a lucky man. Change that dressing every six hours. What he needs most is lots of rest. Some Tylenol will help.”

  Serrano felt a needle prick followed by a return to darkness.

  Time passed. Serrano opened his eyes to find that he was lying on a bed in a pleasant room, with sunlight streaming in through a window. Where was he? And where was the bathroom? Serrano performed a sit-up, turned, and felt a stab of pain in his right thigh.

  It was bad, but some of the wounds Serrano had suffered previously had been worse. The immediate threat was the distinct possibility that he would pee on the bed.

  Serrano clenched his teeth, cradled the leg with his hands, and swung it over onto the floor. Then he stood. The pain produced an involuntary grunt.

  A quad cane was there waiting for him. And that’s where Serrano was, about to start a journey of exploration, when the door opened and a woman entered. She had dark hair, a sturdy figure, and a maternal manner. “You’re up! How do you feel?”

  “My thigh hurts, and I need to use a bathroom,” Serrano answered. “No offense, but who are you?”

  The woman smiled. “My name is Camila. I’m Pia’s mother. Thank you for what you did. God knows and he’ll reward you. Follow me.”

  Camila left the room and Serrano followed. The cane was a big help. The bathroom was down the hall on the right. Serrano entered, closed the door, and lifted the toilet seat.

  Once he was done Serrano washed his hands and examined his countenance in the mirror. What was that? Three days’ worth of beard? Something like that.

  Serrano returned to the bedroom to find that a western style shirt and a new pair of Levis were waiting for him. The jeans were a challenge because of the wound but, by taking his time, Serrano managed to pull them on. The sandals were easy to slip on.

  The smell of frying tocineta led Serrano to a small, thoughtfully arranged kitchen. “There you are,” Camila said. “How do you like your bacon? ¿Roja? ¿O bien cocida?”

  “Bien cocido, por favor.”

  “Have a seat,” Camila said. “Help yourself to coffee.”

  Serrano sat down, poured coffee into a mug, and took a sip. It was excellent. “Where am I anyway?”

  “You’re in the Iztapalapa neighborhood of Mexico City,” Camila answered as she broke two eggs into a pan. “Tomás brought you here.”

  “Tomás?”

  Camila turned to look at Serrano. There was defiance in her eyes.

  “Father Colon.”

  Serrano nodded. “Thanks. And your daughter? How is she?”

  Camila turned back to her cooking. “Tomás took Pia to spend some time with the Sisters of the Sun. They specialize in helping addicts. Breakfast is served.”

  Serrano’s stomach growled as Camila placed the food in front of him. “Muchas gracias. I’m hungry.”

  Camila sat across from him. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “Nope.”

  Camila shook a cigarette out of a Marlboro package and lit up. “It’s bad for me, like Tomás is bad for me, but I need both of them.”

  “Tell me about what happened after we left the Foundation.”

  Camila exhaled a stream of smoke. “All hell broke loose. There were so many bodies that the police suspected that a gang of narcos were responsible. Then, when they opened Acara’s walk-in safe and found a huge stash of drugs—not to mention blackmail photos of public officials—that assumption was validated.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “No,” Camila replied. “After interrogating so-called ‘Primes,’ the name for members of Acara’s inner circle, the police learned that the group had participated in ritual murders.” She took a drag off her cigarette and exhaled. “And, according to Pia, that’s what was in store for her. They forced her to take drugs as part of the preparation process. So, thank you again. I’m sorry about the gunshot wound.”

  “De nada. You’re a good cook.”

  “And Martina?” Camila inquired. “Is she a good cook?”

  “Martina? You know her?”

  “Sí. She calls once a day to check on you. Your phone is in the guest room.”

  Serrano felt a sense of warmth that had nothing to do with the coffee. I am, he reflected, a lucky man.

  *

  Lugar de Paz, Mexico

  Weeks had passed since the battle inside the Acara Foundation, and although Serrano’s leg was better, he still had a way to go. That’s why he was walking in a circle, and doing deep knee bends, while Paco fired his .22 at homemade targets standing on sticks.

  The boy was good. Very good. And not just at shooting. Paco was constantly looking for ways to help Martina. And mostly doing his homework.

  Paco was good company too, and Serrano looked forward to spending time with the muchacho after school.

  Serrano was limping even more after his laps, but that was to be expected, and a natural part of his self-imposed physical therapy program.

  Paco was about to reload when Serrano called to him. “That’s enough, pistolero. Dinner will be ready soon… And your mother will be unhappy if we’re late. Police your brass. And remember to clean your weapon this evening. Or what?”

  “Or you’ll cut my ammo supply off.”

  “Exactamente.”

  *

  “Weird Vicky” wasn’t her real name. But that was the moniker that Marlo Kirby was known by in the business. She was prone, on top of the U-shaped rock quarry, watching Serrano through a monocular. There he is, Vicky told herself, a dead man walking.

  Vicky doesn’t kill people in front of children. No, she doesn’t, Vicky added. Only bad people do that. Like the ones that did my Pa.

  Vicky don’t like Mexico. No, she doesn’t. And Mr. Yankovic wants his money. Yesterday if you please. So, no dick’n around. Not that Vicky has a dick, because she doesn’t.

  The car pulled away. Vicky rolled over onto her back. A black vulture was circling above. Vicky ain’t dead yet, you sonofabitch. Then she raised a long-barreled pistol and fired.

  The bird seemed to hesitate for a second before spiraling down. The body raised a puff of dust as it landed. Vicky grinned.

  *

  Night had fallen. Moonlight cast a ghostly glow over Lugar de Paz as Weird Vicky drove her Zacua electric vehicle into Serrano’s neighborhood.

  Silence was important because Vicky knew that Serrano had a dog. A yappy Chihuahua that was allowed to roam at night—and was inclined to yap at everything including cars, coyotes and raccoons.

  Vicky knew that because she’d been watching Serrano’s house via a drone the night before. And now, after spraying herself with Scent-A-Way, Vicky felt sure that she could get close enough to pop the dog with her suppressed .22.

  Prior to exiting the vehicle, Vicky put her infrared goggles on, and checked to ensure that they were operational. Vicky ain’t no fool, she thought. That’s why Vicky is still alive.

  Having disabled the Zacua’s dome light earlier, the assassin was able to open the door without triggering the kind of glow that could attract someone’s attention.

  Then it was a matter of approaching the house and popping the dog. Vicky was wearing old-fashioned high-top sneakers, and they were silent as she ghosted through the murk.

  Vicky was close, very close when she saw a green colored Chihuahua lifting a leg over one of the spiky plants in Serrano’s yard. The dog was busy covering the pee patch when Vicky shot it. The subsonic .22 cartridge produced a barely audible clack as the dog went down.

  Good Vicky, the assassin thought. It’s time to break and enter.

  Vicky had spent six months training to become a locksmith. An investment that had paid off many times over.