The Aztec Prophecy

CHAPTER THREE

Lea Donovan smiled at Joe Hawke and looked back down at the menu. They were sitting on the terrace of a Tex-Mex restaurant in Covent Garden, enjoying some rare sunshine with some cold Corona lagers. Ryan Bale and Maria Kurikova were at the adjacent table. The four of them had decided to take a few days away from business and get in some critical chillaxing, as Ryan had put it. A few yards away a busker was playing a Rachmaninov adagio and not for the first time Lea hoped Hawke wasn’t carrying a weapon otherwise it might be the fiddler’s last stand.

“So much to choose from,” she said, perusing the menu.

“I can tell that,” Hawke said, raising his beer bottle. “This must be your third flypast of the menu.”

“Get used to that,” Ryan said out the side of his mouth.

Lea rolled her eyes but made no reply. The simple truth was that she was enjoying not being shot at for once, which was how she seemed to spend so much of her life these days. Spending a few carefree hours with the man she loved, away from bullets, explosions and ancient tombs, was a welcome relief and she didn’t want to rush a single a part of it.

She was still haunted by the way Álvero Sala had mocked her back in his Andorran château, and crowed about not being chosen to kill her father. She had no idea what any of it meant, but if it was true it scared her more than anything. Sala had known so much about Valhalla and the Athanatoi that his reference to her father made Lea’s skin crawl. She had the terrible feeling that Sala was only the tip of the iceberg, and she was frightened to think about how far down she would have to dive to reach the end of it.

But not today, she decided. Today was almost perfect… the cool beer, the easy chit-chat, the casual laughter of their fellow diners and the wispy cirrus clouds high above the capital made a great summer’s day. All around her she felt the city’s electric vibe — the possibility of possibilities receding like echoes down every road and alleyway. And then there was Joe Hawke… Sometimes she wondered if they should get hitched, but it never seemed like the right time to talk about it.

She glanced at her watch. Their rendezvous still wasn’t here. Eden had received a call from a man claiming to be a member of Wade’s bizarre sun-worshipping cult, the Order of the Sixth Sun. He said he had disturbing information for them about a major terror attack connected with the cult. Eden was on Elysium and had arranged for him to meet Hawke and Lea instead because they were in England, but so far there was no sign of him. Maybe Wade’s men had already silenced him.

“If you don’t order soon I’ll do it for you,” Hawke said, also glancing at his watch.

“You bloody won’t!”

“Never get between Lea and her lunch, Joe,” Ryan said with a smile. “Trust a man who knows.”

Hawke laughed at the joke but Lea saw that even now he wasn’t truly relaxed. His eyes were always scanning the crowd for trouble, always evaluating egress points. She wondered if he would ever be able to switch that mechanism off and unwind. Although he hadn’t told her where he had spent the last few days, she knew it was Scotland, and she knew what that meant.

She had seen the look in his eyes when he’d found out about Matheson’s retirement. Joe Hawke knew how to play the long game, and with a man like him revenge was just a matter of time. You could count on it. Any doubt in her mind about what had happened was cleared up when she’d glanced at her iPhone and read the headlines: JAMES MATHESON DIES PEACEFULLY IN HIS SLEEP. She doubted that was how it had panned out, but kept her views to herself. He would share it when he was ready.

It was tough that he wouldn’t let her into that part of his life — his first wife and her murder, and how he felt about it all, but that was the price she paid for being with a man like Hawke. One day, she knew, she would break his walls down and get to know the real man, but until then she had to give him the space he needed.

Beside her, Ryan and Maria laughed at a shared joke. Ryan knew he was getting in deep now — after so many months he had finally been able to move on from Sophie Durand — and a good part of the healing had come from Maria Kurikova.

“It’s natural that you still think of her,” Maria said when he mentioned her name.

“I know… but it’s time for me to move on now. I’m with you, and we’re happy together, right?”

She nodded and gave a sweet smile. He knew she kept secrets from him — she never spoke about her old life in the Russian Secret Service — but that smile told him how she really felt about him. Inwardly, he beamed with pleasure that life could be so good again.

“All right,” Lea said at last, but not taking her eyes off the menu. “I’ve made my decision.”

“Thank Crunchie for that,” Hawke said. He turned to catch the eye of a nearby waiter.

“I’m going to have the Pescado Tacos — they look absolutely, bloody fan… oh damn.”

“What?”

“They come with chipotle aioli and I’m not so keen on that.”

“You’re not so keen on chipotle aioli?”

She looked at him with earnest eyes. “Sure, why not? Do I have to like chipotle aioli?”

“Well no, it’s just that…” Hawke waved the waiter away with an apologetic shake of the head.

Lea looked in his eyes. “What?”

“We’re at a Tex-Mex restaurant. Most stuff probably has chipotle aioli with it.”

“No it doesn’t! Look here at the Chile en Nogada. There’s no chipotle aioli with that.”

“So get that then.”

“I think I just might,” she said smiling broadly.

Hawke caught the waiter’s eye once more.

Lea sighed. “Oh — wait.”

“What is it now?”

“It’s got walnut-almond sauce with it.”

“So what?”

“So, I don’t like the taste of walnuts.”

“Are you kidding?”

Ryan nodded as the memory returned. “No, she’s not kidding.”

Lea glared at him. “Why would I be kidding? Do I have to like the taste of walnuts?”

Hawke sighed and waved the waiter away a second time. “Well… no, but…”

“But what?”

“If it’s not walnut-almond sauce it’s chipotle aioli.”

“Stop saying chipotle aioli.”

“You stop saying it!”

“Oh I just cannot decide. Maybe we should have had Indian?”

Hawke narrowed his eyes and smirked. “Now you’re having a laugh, right?”

“I might be.”

“Lea?”

“What?”

“Order your sodding dinner.”

Lea folded the menu over and looked at Hawke. “Fine, in that case I’ll have the Salsa de la Casa for starters, the Enchilada Veracruz for the main with a side order of Arroz Verde and Flan de Vainilla for dessert.”

Hawke looked at her. “You memorized that?”

“I always eat the same thing at this restaurant. Rich and I come here a lot.”

Hawke gave her a look that he thought expressed despair, but in fact told her again how much he loved her, and then he summoned the waiter over for the third time.

“You’re very sure that you’re ready to order?” the young man said.

Lea shared a look with Hawke. “We’re ready,” she said. “Joe here couldn’t decide if he liked coriander or not.”

The waiter took the order and returned with more bottles of the chilled Corona which the four ECHO members drank peacefully while waiting for their food. All around them the city buzzed. Young couples walked hand in hand, stopping to share a kiss while leaning on the colonnades, a party of Japanese tourists shuffled past them, taking photographs of this and that, and finally the fiddling busker packed up his violin and meandered off to count his change and drown his sorrows in a very shallow pool of wine.

Yes — she was happy now, but she felt that life was still pretty far from perfection. For one thing, Sala’s death had raised more questions than answers about the mysterious Athanatoi and the nature of her own father’s relationship with the enigmatic and elusive society. What had the crazed old man meant when he’d spoken of factions and war? How did it all fit together? What had her father known, but kept from her?

But today wasn’t about those things, she told herself once again. Today was about relaxing and sharing some chilled-out time with Joe Hawke. She was glad he was in her life, but she worried that something would take him from her. It was that thought that had stopped her from getting truly close to him, but if he’d noticed he hadn’t said anything to her.

The main course came and they tucked in while chatting about whatever drifted into their minds. As usual, Hawke deftly skirted around the issue of his family, even when they pressed him on the subject. All they could get out of him was that his family was right here in London and no, he didn’t want to talk about them, and no he definitely didn’t want to see them.

Lea didn’t know if he was trying to be mysterious or not, but she didn’t have a lot of time for the sentiment. She, after all, would love more than anything to introduce her parents to him, but neither of them was alive. The idea of not being bothered to cross town to see his family made her angry, but she kept the thought to herself. Hawke wasn’t a man who acted without good reason, and she supposed he had good ones for being so reluctant, but one day, she considered, this could lead to problems between them.

Now, the Englishman pushed a little pot into the center of the table. “Want to try some of the chipotle aioli dip?” he asked, deadpan.

“You know what you can stick in that dip, Joe Hawke?”

“I think there’s a law against that sort of thing — outraging public decency, I believe.”

“Urgh! Don’t be so foul. I was talking about the corn tortillas!”

“Of course you were,” he said with a crooked smile.

Ryan yawned and stretched his arm over Maria’s shoulder. “Chipotle’s a Nahuatl word, you know.”

Hawke, Lea and Maria turned to look at him for a second. “Eh?” Hawke said.

Ryan shrugged his shoulders. “Means smoked chilli.”

“Thanks for that,” Lea said.

By the arrival of dessert the sun had started to wane, and the baked caramel custard flan and fresh raspberries arrived with a candle in a small metal lantern. Diners at other tables were winding up and wandering away from their tables, their path home softened by the watermelon Margaritas and blue agave tequilas.

“Time for us to go home too, I think,” Hawke said at last. “I don’t think Eden’s mystery man is going to show up.” He folded his napkin over on the empty plate and pushed his chair back a little. Summoning the waiter for the bill, he paid and moments later he and Lea were standing from their table and sharing a long kiss before turning into the square. Maria and Ryan were laughing at a joke a few yards behind them.

Hawke was about to hold forth on the subject of tipping when they heard the sound of mopeds wildly over-revving somewhere to their left.

“I don’t like the look of that,” Lea said, gripping Hawke’s arm.

The Englishman barely heard her over the sound of the raspy engines, and a moment later three riders dressed in black raced into view. He fixed his eyes on the three of them and sighed.

“Something tells me they’re not here for the churro cheesecake.”

A man darted ahead of them and raced toward Hawke. He held his arms out in front of him and his face was gripped by panic.

“Looks like Barton finally made it,” Hawke said.

The man panted to get his breath back. “Lea Donovan?”

Hawke took a step forward to shield Lea. “That’s right, and you must be Barton.”

“Yes, I am… and you have to help me. They’re hunting me.”

Hawke looked at the terrified man’s face and then peered over his shoulder at the bikers. “Friends of yours?”

“They’re trying to kill me… they want to stop me talking to you.”

“About what?”

“About the god of the dead… it’s too awful even to think about.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re supposed to worship the sun…” he looked desperately into their faces. “The sun! Not this… He’s going to do the unthinkable!”

Hawke grabbed him by the shoulders. “What are you talking about, Barton?”

“But first he needs the other half of the artefact — he can’t do anything without that.” He stared at them with desperate, pleading eyes, bloodshot by fear and guilt. “They’re going to raid the museum… right now!”

“Which museum?” Ryan asked.

Barton opened his mouth to speak, but then froze in place for a second before tumbling over. He caught the table as he went down and knocked it over, spraying Mexican food all over the street before collapsing silently to the floor.

“Bloody hell!” Ryan said, wiping some fire-roasted rajas off his Iron Man t-shirt. “I just got this top.”

“Er… big picture, Ryan!” Lea said shaking her head in disbelief and turning to Hawke. “Is he dead?”

“I hope so,” Ryan interrupted. “He landed in a burrito.”

Hawke crouched and checked the man’s pulse. “He’s dead, all right.”

“But how?”

Hawke shook his head. “Some kind of dart in his neck.”

Without warning, the bikers split apart like jets in a fighter display team. One of them drove into the shadows of the colonnades and another disappeared from view around the south side of the market building. The last one took a more direct approach, pulling a sawn-off shotgun from his backpack and racing directly toward the ECHO team.

“Look out!” Hawke shouted, and pushed Lea to the ground just as the gunman screeched past them and fired his weapon. Maria and Ryan dived for cover as the shot peppered into the plaster fascia of the restaurant and the next second total pandemonium ensued as people realized what was happening.

Hawke took advantage of the chaos to grab Lea and pull her away into the crowd for a few moments while scanning the area for the bikers. Maria and Ryan followed a step behind. The sound of the two-stroke engines reverberated eerily around the small square and mingled with the noise of hundreds of terrified people screaming and running for their lives.

“The bastards sound like wasps!” Lea said, dusting herself down.

“And they want to sting us,” Hawke said. “There’s one of them!”

He pointed to the east end of the square where one of them skidded around the corner by the London Transport Museum and made another run at them, gun raised.

Almost upon them, he fired. The shot narrowly missed them and sprayed all over the front of a café, shattering the glass into thousands of pieces.

Hawke grabbed one of the stools from inside the café and hurled it at the biker, striking him in the chest and knocking him off the bike. The Vespa skidded out of control and smashed into one of the support posts for the Jubilee Market Hall’s glass awning.

The assassin staggered to his feet. His face obscured by his motorcycle helmet, but something about the way he moved told Hawke he was young — maybe early twenties. It didn’t matter. A fight was a fight.

“You drive like a girl,” Hawke said.

Behind him, Lea sighed. “Oh, very Dirty Harry.”

“It was the first thing that came into my head,” he shrugged. “It just felt right.”

The man said nothing in reply, but pulled a flick-knife from his pocket and pressed a gloved thumb down on the button to extend the lethal blade. The razor-sharp steel flashed in the sunshine.

“Get back,” Hawke said to the others. “This bastard’s all mine.”