Doomsday Match (The Dresden Codex), page 19
“Looks painful,” Jacob said. He held up his hand, the one with the gold ring on its finger, depicting some ancient glyph. “Utzirisaj,” he muttered, his eyes narrowing. Roth watched in astonishment as the skin on Lucas’s nose twitched. The dented cartilage flared out. The bruises melted away.
Lucas blinked in surprise, then reached up and gingerly touched his nose.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” he whispered.
Jacob’s eyes met Roth’s across the aisle. “I can be a generous man, Mr. Roth, to those who serve me.”
Calakmul’s assistant had boarded during the display of magical healing, followed by the two guards carrying Sarina’s body.
Roth stared at his wife. Would she be healed as well? He gripped the seat, swallowing. Hoping. He didn’t understand what Jacob had done, but he clearly had some uncanny sort of power, and if that power could be used to heal Sarina, he was quite all right with it.
He watched, helpless, full of horror and hope, as Jacob studied Sarina and listened to her breathing. Then he touched her forehead with the tip of his finger, tracing something on her skin. A symbol of some kind.
“Take her to the back and secure her. She’s alive but incapacitated. She won’t be playing in the games.”
“Can’t you heal her too?” Roth asked curtly.
Jacob shrugged. “She’s on the verge of death. And will remain so until the gods decide her fate. And yours. Let’s go.” He gestured for the guards to finish their work.
They secured Sarina in the back and then left the plane. The assistant sealed the door behind them. She took the seat next to Roth, directly across from Calakmul, and crossed her legs.
Roth glared at the man. He wasn’t a big person. Not like Eric Beasley. But there was a dangerous look in Jacob Calakmul’s eyes. The look of a predator.
“Cross-check,” said the pilot over the intercom.
A clicking noise affirmed that the door had been secured. Roth swallowed, clenching the armrests of his seat. Weariness and despair wrestled inside him. Twisting his neck, he looked back at the kids. He couldn’t see Sarina because the guards had laid her down before connecting the seat belts.
The engines began to whir, and the jet thrummed with power.
Then the aircraft began to rise like a helicopter. Roth’s stomach gurgled in discomfort. Looking out the window, he once again took notice of the circles on the wings.
They contained rotor blades.
“Have you flown on a Pegasus before, Mr. Roth?” Jacob asked. “Surely you appreciate the mythological reference.”
The swaying of the craft as it lifted made Roth’s stomach roil even more. He dug his fingers deeper into the armrests as the craft vaulted into the sky and the rear engines began to scream.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
YUCATÁN PENINSULA
December 24
Roth maintained his death grip on the armrests as a sickening feeling oozed through his stomach. Fatigue, anxiety, and despair warred within his soul. Glancing out the window of the Pegasus, he could see no lights—just the inky darkness of the jungle beneath. The moon was bright in the sky, but its silver light offered no comfort.
Would Sarina make it? He didn’t know. Nor did he know if any of them would survive this trip.
“You are persistent, Mr. Roth,” said Jacob Calakmul, his tone thoughtful. “It required considerable resources to locate your family.”
“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” Roth asked in a low voice. He looked back again and saw his children strapped into their seats. They stared back at him with eyes wide with fright.
“Let’s start with what you’ve already figured out. You’re a clever man. A world-renowned fantasy author. Surely you have some guesses?”
Roth scratched his neck. “The Maya ball game. We’re going to play the Beasleys.”
Jacob nodded solemnly.
“One of our families is going to win. The other is going to die,” Roth continued. “We both have the same estate attorney in Bozeman. That’s how we were introduced.”
“You have significant assets, Mr. Roth. And so does Eric Beasley.”
“But this isn’t just about sport, is it?” No one would go through such effort if that were the main reason. Maybe it was more like a deadly version of liar’s poker, a confidence game that wealthy Wall Street bankers played—risking huge sums of money to test each other’s nerve and bluffing skills. Or worse, some real-life version of Squid Game.
“Sports are spectacles. Competitions. They are enjoyable to watch, are they not?”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t watch them.”
“Oh, but you do, Mr. Roth,” Calakmul said with a broad smile. “I’m not talking about the Super Bowl or the World Series or the NBA Finals. You play video games on a streaming service called Twitch. Thousands of people watch you. There’s a primal urge to compete, you see. Even if you’re playing against other gamers. Or a computer.”
Roth wondered why none of the security guards had boarded the plane. The only adults aboard appeared to be himself, Sarina, Calakmul, the attractive assistant, and the pilot. Roth was bigger than Calakmul. And yet . . .
Eric Beasley was huge. Intimidating. But there was something in Jacob’s lean physique that caused a ripple of worry inside Roth’s stomach. He exuded a raw anger and power that went beyond mere muscle.
“So this is how the ultrarich spend their holidays?” Roth asked. “Competing with each other for greater wealth? What’s your benefit? You get a cut for arranging the match?”
“A cut.” Jacob laughed. “You’re a fantasy author, Mr. Roth. Surely you can imagine that it takes something more than that to drive a man like me.”
“Frankly, I can’t begin to imagine what would drive a man like you,” Roth said, anger sizzling inside. “The Maya and Aztec believed the universe would stop moving if they didn’t play the game. Obviously, that hasn’t happened in the intervening years since the Spanish came here.”
“Obviously. You have another theory perhaps?”
“Not really. My best friend was killed in a car accident this morning on the way to work, and my wife is critically ill. I’ve had more pressing matters to consider.”
Jacob’s eyes immediately shot to the assistant’s.
That subtle cue confirmed Roth’s suspicion. “His death wasn’t an accident.”
“Not at all. I ordered it. The control of your assets, upon your death, will be held by the accounting firm your friend partnered with. And I will buy it. That gives me leverage over you whether you win or lose.”
“You want control of my books?” Roth asked, perplexed.
Jacob leaned forward in his chair. “I couldn’t care less about your books, Mr. Roth.”
“You want my wealth? My . . . royalty income?”
He saw an amused smile on the woman’s face before she turned her head to look out the window. The kids were settled in the back, but he could tell they were listening intently.
“As considerable as it is, Mr. Roth, it means nothing compared to the treasures I already possess. Treasures that you have only seen a glimpse of.”
He was talking about the crates of Maya treasure they’d seen by the cenote beneath the temple. Suki must still have the bracelet she’d stolen from one of the crates. Roth hoped she’d had the presence of mind to hide it well.
“You don’t want my money?” he asked Jacob.
“The winner gets the spoils. If the Beasleys win the death game, they will claim your assets. If your family wins, you will claim theirs. Simple.”
Roth leaned forward. “If you don’t get a payout, then what’s in it for you? The thrill of watching some of us die?”
“Thrill, Mr. Roth? You think it was simply a thrill that prompted Romans to gather in the Colosseum to watch the lions devour the early Christians?”
Roth’s mind felt as if it had been tied into tangled knots. He imagined he looked as confused as he felt. “You lost me.”
“I’m trying to help you see this another way, Mr. Roth. The Beasleys have been coming to the resort for years.”
“How come their picture wasn’t on the wall?”
“Not all my guests are featured in Villa Sara. Only the winners of the death games.”
So Roth’s leap of logic had actually been right. There was a reason for everything with this man.
“Many have come to my resorts. But why this resort? Why were you invited?”
“I don’t know,” Roth answered.
“Think,” Jacob pressed.
“I don’t have all the clues. How can I guess something like this?”
The woman was looking at him again with interest, as if she wanted him to figure it out.
“I’ve given you enough clues. Why do people compete?”
“My kids love playing soccer. But I don’t understand why someone would willingly play a game that could end in their death, no matter how much they love the sport.”
“Yet Eric Beasley chose just that.” Jacob tilted his head, studying Roth intently. “Why? Why play such a game?”
“There are other ways to make money. Safer ways. And as you said, it’s not about the money.”
“Money is part of it. Wealth is a symbol of it. What drove men like Hernán Cortés? Christopher Columbus? Andrew Carnegie? Napoléon Bonaparte? You were a history professor. You know this, Mr. Roth.”
Roth was still confused, but he took a stab at it. He leaned forward in his seat. “Ambition.”
“Prestige. Reputation. Distinction. These are especially strong motivations for men who have faced rejection. Who aren’t invited into the elite clubs at first. These things are what drives someone. It can drive them to kill.”
As he stared into Jacob’s eyes, he sensed the man’s keen intelligence. He was a frightening villain. He was smart. He was trying to help Roth understand his motives instead of concealing them. Why? It went against the Evil Overlord rules.
If he was willing to share his nefarious plan, Roth would encourage it. “So playing in these games gives Beasley a status he can’t get any other way?”
“Yes. A special status. The wealth is secondary. Tell me. How did the little girl know about the death games? She warned you, obviously.”
Roth wouldn’t insult the man’s intelligence by denying it. “She overheard you on the phone with Eric before we all left Bozeman,” he said. “Her father didn’t know she was there.”
Jacob glanced at the woman again and nodded to her. It was an unspoken request.
“She told you in the van, and you decided to flee into the jungle.”
“We were only trying to get to the hospital at first. It was a test. I wasn’t totally convinced we’d make it past the guards at the gate.”
“You wouldn’t have. They had orders to turn you back.”
“Then you would have watched us more closely,” Roth replied.
“It was intended that today, La Noche Buena, would be spent snorkeling and eating ceviche. To relax you before our little trip to the Jaguar Temple.”
“Today was anything but relaxing,” Roth said tightly.
Jacob shrugged. He didn’t seem to care.
“What’s going to happen to the orphanage?”
Jacob’s eyes narrowed. “They defied me, Mr. Roth. The doctor already paid with his life.”
Roth remembered the gunshot. Then he thought about Jorge and the children at the orphanage playing soccer. Would they be murdered for this? Jorge had believed the Calakmuls were using the legends of the jaguar priests to hide their cartel activities. But Jacob, at least, seemed to believe the legends were real. He was probably insane, but he was powerful too, and intelligent enough to convince others to believe him. That, in itself, was dangerous.
Would he kill Jorge and the others?
“They didn’t defy you, I did,” Roth said.
“I haven’t decided what I’ll do to them. I’m not rash, Mr. Roth. I think through my plans. I think through the consequences. My ancestors have honed that trait like an obsidian edge.”
Obsidian could be sharpened to surgery-level precision. Roth blamed his prolific memory for such an insignificant detail.
Roth shifted in his seat. The bump and sway of the plane, paired with the knowledge that Sarina lay in a coma in the back, was making his anxiety go berserk. “And this Jaguar Temple . . . it’s like the Roman Colosseum? I thought the ball court at Chichén Itzá was the most famous Maya arena.”
“It’s open for tourists,” Jacob replied blandly. “And the probing of American satellites. Someday we will hold the games there again. But for now, we must be discreet. The jungle prevents the satellites from watching us.”
“You’re worried about the CIA?”
“Not particularly, Mr. Roth. They’re preoccupied with what’s happening in China, the Middle East, and Russia. It’s more important to keep their eyes on your own borders. To keep busy watching for drug traffickers and illegal immigrants. They’re so preoccupied they don’t even realize there’s a bigger picture.”
Roth couldn’t believe the man was being so direct with him. Then again, there was power in being a willing listener. The average person could not bear more than fifteen seconds of silence. In fact, it often became intolerable at ten seconds. As a former college adjunct professor, Roth knew that when asking a question, it was best to wait only ten to fifteen seconds for a response. After thirty seconds of silence, the silence became destructive. The anxiety it provoked actually inhibited learning.
So he waited, staring at Jacob Calakmul with an inquiring gaze. He hoped the man would reveal something that could give Roth and his family an advantage. He inclined his head, trying to adopt a look that showed his interest.
Jacob gave him a smug smile. “You Westerners have been lazy and indolent, especially you Americans. We’ve watched and encouraged it. The cruise ships. The Hotel Zone buffets. The gluttony and waste. Obesity is our export to your nations. So is drug addiction. Does that remind you of ancient Rome, Professor? Before you invade a country, you destabilize it from within. You unleash internal factions to spill each other’s blood. The US is the equivalent of the Holy Roman Empire today—the one controlled by the Spaniard, Charles the Fifth. Your empire is ripe for conquest, Mr. Roth. That should sound familiar . . . to a fellow historian. It’s what happened to ancient Rome, after all.”
“You plan on invading the United States?” Roth asked in disbelief.
“It’s already begun, Mr. Roth. We’re taking your wealth. We’re sickening your people. We’re preparing to make you our slaves. Just as you did to us.”
Roth closed his eyes, shaking his head. “The Mexican-American War—”
“You’re not thinking back far enough, Mr. Roth.”
“Are you talking about Hernán Cortés? America didn’t even exist back then.”
“America,” laughed Jacob. “Named after an Italian, Amerigo Vespucci. I know history, Mr. Roth. I know it far better than you. The Order of the Jaguar kept records of Cortés’s conquest. Of the tactics he used to turn rival tribes and kingdoms against the Aztec rulers at Tenochtitlán. Moctezuma. Or as your books say now, Montezuma. Mr. Roth, we’ve been waiting for nearly five hundred years to collect on the debt. With interest accruing.”
Roth was dumbfounded. “Five hundred years ago. This is about . . . revenge?”
“What other emotion can endure for so many centuries? The people of this peninsula, of this tortured land, no longer even remember how it began. The Spanish were thorough in their destruction of the Maya codices. They forced our ancestors to convert to your faith or be killed. And many who converted were killed anyway. Or enslaved. There’s no counting the wealth stolen, husbands and sons murdered, and wives and daughters taken as slaves and even prostituted. That is your empire’s legacy, Mr. Roth. Your wife’s ancestors were from these lands, and I’ll bet your children know nothing of the legacy of blood. Or the debt that must be repaid.”
“It was five centuries ago!” Roth said in confusion.
“Time does not requite a blood debt, Mr. Roth. Only blood does. Blood for blood. The traditions of my people were mocked, condemned—spoken of as savagery. Yet all the while, in Europe, you were murdering your own brothers in war. Spain, Portugal, England . . . and your people, Mr. Roth. Germany. We feared Hitler might ruin everything by becoming strong enough to conquer the United States. Many Germans came to these lands after the war, Mr. Roth. Some to Argentina, Paraguay, Colombia, Brazil. The ratlines. You know that name?”
Roth nodded. As a historian, he did. The phrase referred to a system of escape routes the Nazis had used to flee Europe after World War II.
“And yet . . . the savagery of what Hitler did was just a tiny cut compared to the destruction heaped on my ancestors,” Jacob said. “Ninety percent of my people were destroyed. Genocide, Mr. Roth. Undeserved. Unprovoked. Administered by sword, bullet, and pox instead of gas chambers or firing squads. And that is what will happen to your people. Unless they bow the knee to the Order of the Jaguar. That is what Mr. Beasley is playing the game for, Mr. Roth. The prestige of being in the ruling class when your world order has been toppled. That is what you are playing it for. A chance to be part of the ruling class when the tables . . . turn. To be protected when the world is culled by blood and pox again. A sickness is coming, Mr. Roth. One that will be as terrible as the plagues of ancient Egypt.”
Roth was horrified by what he was hearing. This wasn’t liar’s poker at all. It wasn’t just a game with a rubber ball in which the losers were sacrificed on an altar, their hearts ripped from their chests. He was talking about mass murder.
“You’re blaming Americans for what the Europeans did five centuries ago?”
“We take one nation, and all the others will topple,” Jacob said, leaning forward, his face intense with emotion. “Before you declare any innocence, reconsider. Have you ignored your own history? What did your government do to the ‘native Americans’ who occupied the majority of the geography? You were a history teacher, Mr. Roth, at California State, Hayward. California itself was drowned in blood when the promise of gold in Sacramento lured hordes of treasure seekers. There is no difference between the conquistadors and you. The Trail of Tears. How quaint. It was a trail of bloody snow. You are the same. And we will conquer you. We will baptize you to our gods. Or you will die if you choose.”
