Beautiful Sacrifice

of a woman who had grown up in halls filled with armor, a mother who wore antique jewelry from the Spanish court, and a library that held brilliant fragments of a culture whose books had been burned.
    A man—Carlos, from his richly colored skin and dark eyes—rose from a leather chair behind a mahogany desk that was square and solid enough to hold up the weight of the world. The wood was a red so pure and deep that it glowed. He wore very dark blue slacks and a loose, short-sleeved shirt of the same color. The embroidery on the shirt was silver blue. The Maya glyphs flowing down the center of the shirt and around the hem made a stark contrast with his clothes.
    Hunter doubted he could translate the glyphs even if he stood within touching distance. He made a mental note to ask Lina about them later.
    The man greeted Abuelita with a gentle brush of lips over her cheek and a white smile. Then he turned to Lina. He was the same height as she was, which made him tall for the average Maya male. Carlos’s hair and skin were darker than Lina’s and Cecilia’s, his features more blunt. He weighed probably twice as much as Lina did. Some of his heft came from food and beer.Most of it was simply genes; he was broad-boned and sturdy. His hair was black, straight, almost as long as Lina’s, but held in place by a silver ring studded with blue stones. It was a style few men outside the entertainment business could pull off. On Carlos, it looked as natural as his full lips and broad cheeks.
    It reminded Hunter of a parking garage where bullets sang of death.
    But then, a lot of men he had seen since landing in the Yucatan reminded him of things he’d rather forget. It also made the street name “El Maya” next to useless for tracking down identity.
    “Mi prima,” Carlos murmured to Lina. “I am glad to see that you don’t ignore Abuelita as you do me.”
    Lina smiled. If Hunter hadn’t known her better, he would have thought it was warm.
    “As you know,” she said lightly, “my job at the museum is very demanding. It seems like my last class was only yesterday.”
    “Family is always first,” Carlos said.
    “Of course,” she said, but her eyes said she was biting her tongue.
    Hunter stirred.
    Carlos’s head snapped to the side as though he hadn’t noticed the other man until now. He looked at Lina. “Who is this?”
    Like Celia didn’t tell him two minutes after I arrived, Hunter thought sardonically.
    But he was familiar with the kinks and knots of family life, so he simply waited like a good guest while Lina introduced him to Carlos. Instead of the head-of-the-family grilling Hunter had half expected, Carlos shook hands and turned his attention back to Lina.
    Message received, Hunter thought. I don’t exist.
    Two maids ghosted into the room and put plates of seafood canapés on a heavy coffee table that already held a ragged stone face. Celia complained to Carlos that Philip wasn’t here, yet she knew he was on the estate. She also said she preferred the previous chef, who had been trained in Europe.
    Carlos shrugged and turned to Lina. “Come, mi prima, you must see my latest artifacts.”
    The blue-tiled wall leading to the artifacts glittered like it was underwater.
    Hunter offered to get canapés and drinks for Celia and Abuelita. Celia declined. Abuelita didn’t seem to hear him. He excused himself and went to investigate the food.
    It was going to be a long night.

C HAPTER E IGHTEEN
     
    T HE DISTINCT CRUNCH OF CRUSHED LIMESTONE MEETING hard-soled combat boots came like bizarre jungle calls from around the perimeter of the compound. Hunter waited until the guard closest to him continued on his predictable rounds.
    If I was handling security, Hunter thought, there would be a lot of job openings. These clowns should be dancing with elephants in a circus.
    On the off chance that the guards might be backed up by other, more subtle men, Hunter waited in the shadow of a group of sabal palms whose trunks were buried in flowering vines and gardenias allowed to go feral.
    I’m going to smell like a vase of flowers when I get out of here. Plus fresh blood from the damned insects eating me alive. Good thing all my shots are current.
    There were diseases out in the jungle that were a lot more dangerous than the armed men making their mechanical rounds of the Reyes Balam compound.
    Hunter waited, a semiwilling sacrifice to the insect gods.
    No hidden guards moved. No sharp odor of cigarettes or matches