Beautiful Sacrifice

knives that scored deep into forehead and temples. The gently swaying light made the wounds appear to bleed.
    Whatever that artifact’s age, the stone face was genuine in a way that had nothing to do with provenance and everything to do with the darkest side of human nature.
    Ignoring the slow crawl of his flesh, Hunter stared at the face. I’ve seen something like this before. Was it in Tulum? Cancun? A roadside shrine?
    The god’s features were broad and strong. Like the table, the craftsmanship was surprisingly fine. The eyes were empty yet stared through him, through the basement, through the world to a different reality Hunter really didn’t want to share.
    The lantern swung as the agent turned toward the stairs. A pool of darkness became a tarp someone had pulled aside to reveal what was beneath. A single look told Hunter more than he wanted to know.
    No head. No hands. No feet. A black gash where the heart should be. Blue glyphs, the paint blurred by sweat before death. A wad of clothes the body didn’t need anymore.
    The gold DeWatt logo gleamed as light passed over it.
    After a few more minutes of low conversation, Jase left the agent and walked quickly through the gloom to where Hunter waited.
    “Need to see anything more?” Jase asked very softly.
    “No.”
    “The chicken will hit the fan real soon. Let’s get out of range.”
    With the attitude of men on a mission, they climbed the stairs and strode to the van.
    The eyes of the prisoner they had dubbed Snake followed them across the weedy yard.
    “Hope somebody shanks that reptilian son of a bitch,” Jase said as they got into the minivan.
    “I’d like to talk to him first.”
    “In your dreams.” Jase cranked the engine hard. “He’s already lawyered up.”
    “Anybody we know?” Hunter asked.
    “The biggest narco defense lawyer in Texas.”
    “Adios, information.”
    “That’s the way the game is played. Mopes die, lawyers get paid, nobody cries.”
    Jase drove away from the rotting house, handling the controls with an edgy speed that didn’t suit the minivan.
    “The stone face and the table,” Hunter said. “Could they have been taken from that other killing house you told me about while I looked at your photos yesterday morning?”
    “Good catch. I’ll tip the sheriff. Always good to play nice with local law. You see anything else?”
    “A DeWatt logo on the clothes in the corner.”
    “Damn, I knew there was a reason I brought you,” Jase said, smiling.
    “Did your schmoozing pay off?”
    Hunter had never known anyone who could suck out information like Jase. He could walk through a half-empty parking lot and come up with three new friends and enough street information to fill a telephone book.
    “There’s an ICE Special Detachment agent back there,” Jase said. “He’s out of Brownsville. They’ve been on both houses for a while. They think the mopes we bagged are LDX.”
    “Los de Equis?”
    “He called them Los de Xibalba.”
    “ Xibalba . That’s the Mayan word for the underworld. For hell.”
    “Figures.”
    “Are these guys involved in the artifact trade?” Hunter asked.
    “No such luck. They’ve taken a lot of ancient Maya imagery for their tats and jewelry, but all ICE knows for sure is that they’re narco terrorists of the worst kind. LDX is used as an elite enforcement arm by the Q Roo cartel. Killers every one.”
    “So they’re like the Zetas? Only they haven’t branched out into their own business yet?” Hunter asked.
    “Yes and no.” Jase found an opening in city traffic and shouldered into the flow. “The Zetas started out as a Mexican military unit that was meant to take apart the cartels. Then some Zetas cut loose and went to work for the narcos.”
    “So they started as hired guns and finished as head of their own cartel,” Hunter said. “Can’t trust an assassin long enough to blink.”
    “But LDX doesn’t seem to have profits as their driving force,” Jase said. “ICE is going nuts trying to get inside their organization. No go.”
    “Is Snake LDX?” Hunter asked.
    “The special agent didn’t think so. It seems that genuine LDX don’t mark themselves up for the world to see.”
    “Gang culture’s all about bragging, flashing the signs, wearing the colors.”
    “LDX isn’t a gang like we know it,” Jase said. “The special agent didn’t want to come right out and say it, but LDX is more a cult than anything else.”
    Hunter was silent while Jase pushed the