Beautiful Sacrifice

knife blade through Celia’s wrist restraints, and handed her the weapon.
    “You can free Philip or cut his throat, your choice,” Hunter said, not caring which she decided on.
    Celia closed her trembling hands over the handle of the knife.
    Hunter ran to the back door, grabbed the bulky, waterproof flashlight, and headed for the Bronco. Lightning blasted across the sky. For an instant everything looked frozen. Then thunder rode on the back of a wind that felt desert-dry. Blinded, half deaf, Hunter put the AK-47 in the passenger seat and climbed into the Bronco by touch more than sight. He fumbled several times before he jammed the key in place.
    The Bronco started, died, started again. Hunter hit the lights and accelerator at the same instant. Wheels churned through crushed limestone, sending white gravel spitting out from beneath the tires. Following the map in his mind, he raced down the main estate road, then made a series of turnsthat ended in a small track. The Bronco lurched, bounced, banged, and scraped, but held to the track.
    Hunter’s leg burned and his head was on fire. He set his teeth and took the punishment, wishing only that he could be faster. He didn’t know what personal witching hour Carlos had chosen, but Hunter didn’t want to be late for the ceremony. Not with Lina the central attraction. He kept hearing Abuelita’s words ringing in his head, louder than pain, more urgent.
    Carlos is in the temple now, consecrating himself so that he will be favored to make Lina holy.
    Make holy.
    Sacrifice.
    The knowledge was like fingers beneath Hunter’s ribs, in his guts, digging, twisting. He drove faster than even a fool would think safe, but it still seemed like a month before he saw a Land Rover and several trucks blocking the narrow track.
    The vehicles were empty. Just beyond them was the trail to site nine, the Temple of Kawa’il. He killed the lights, half expecting shots to explode around him. Opening the door, he went out low.
    No shouts. No shots. Nothing but trees thrashing beneath the wind like drunken dancers.
    Guess everyone is in the temple, getting ready for the main event.
    The blood sticking Hunter’s pants to his thigh pulled free in a slash of pain. Blood ran down his leg to his boot.
    It’s a long way from my heart, Hunter told himself.
    He turned on the bulky flashlight, slid the AK-47 over his shoulder again, and headed for the concealed trail to the temple. Except it wasn’t concealed anymore. Sap bled and recently cut branches gleamed like bones in the flashlight. The pain banging in his head was his heartbeat, routine, barely noticed. It wasn’t the first crack on his skull he’d taken. He knew he hadat least a mild concussion, but he saw mostly one of everything, so he wasn’t worried.
    His head was a long way from his heart, too.
    In every pause of the wind Hunter expected to hear voices—shouts or incantations or screams—anything but the silence that filled the usually noisy jungle.
    This has to be the right place, he told himself. Those vehicles didn’t just fall out of the sky.
    Before the jungle gave way to the small clearing, he turned off the light. He knew he should wait for his eyes to adjust, but there wasn’t time. He slipped the AK-47 off his shoulder, readied it, held the darkened flashlight along the barrel, and continued down the path.
    He smelled the torches before he saw them. They burned on either side of the temple doorway. He froze, listening, listening.
    Not one human sound.
    The image of Lina lying bloody on the temple floor was a knife in Hunter’s guts. He shoved the thought away. It couldn’t help him, but it could bring him to his knees.
    A shadow in the darkness, he hurried over the open ground. Every uneven step made the pain in his head flash lightning. If anyone noticed his approach, no one cared. That should have been good news.
    It wasn’t.
    With growing fear, he went into the temple entrance. Candle flames bent as he rushed by. There was no sound but his footsteps, nothing but the mixed scents of vanilla and cinnamon and blood. He hoped it was just the blood from his leg he was smelling. Candles burned in the temple room.
    He was alone.
    Wildly Hunter raked the room with his flashlight. No sign of Lina. No sign of Carlos. No sign that anyone had ever been there.
    Then he found the Chacmool in front of the petals. Blood, yes, but not enough for a severed artery, a beating heart ripped from a chest. Next to the Chacmool was a