“Of course, Mr. Pencor. I understand completely,” Carlos boomed in his normally loud voice. “I’ll have Peter take you to the helicopter pad. With all this traffic from the festival, it may take a little longer, but Peter knows La Laguna quite well and can negotiate these streets very easily,” he said as he waved his arms to a small mustached man sitting on the bench along the street.
“Very well, Professor. It will have to suffice,” Pencor responded as he saw his black Mercedes disappear around the square pursuing Samuel.
Following Santiago to his transportation, he contemplated calling Osama and castigating him once more for his ineptitude, but decided it would be better served in person when he returned to the weapon complex. Could it be possible that the United States government is aware of our plans? He considered this as he climbed into the car and Carlos gave the driver instructions. We must move our plans ahead, and quickly. He sat back in the seat as the driver hopped in and started the vehicle.
They headed out the drive into the busy street where they were immediately overwhelmed by the heavy traffic bound for Santa Cruz. Pencor nervously tapped his fingers on the console as the traffic moved along at a snail’s pace.
This is not good, he thought. Not good at all.
While Pencor found himself caught in traffic, Samuel was running down a narrow busy street past the shops and cafes well known to the university town. He glanced back from time to time to make sure that the black Mercedes was still in pursuit.
After years of hiking the high Andes in Peru, a light run in such a low altitude did not even cause him to work up a sweat. He passed many shops that were closing early for the festival and people going about their daily routines, until he finally reached his goal; the Teme Internet Cafe.
Built in 2002, the brightly decorated cafe was full of students and a smattering of tourists, all using the computers for emails and chat. Samuel stopped running for a few moments so that his pursuer could see him, then headed inside of the establishment. Seeing Yashiro sitting at a table, he walked over and sat down across from him.
“Are you sure you know what to do, amigo-san?” Samuel asked the Japanese scientist.
“I’m ready, Samuel,” Yashiro answered as Samuel slid the 45-automatic across the table. It was still wrapped in a linen towel from the dining hall.
“I want to be sure that no innocent bystanders get hurt from our actions, Yashiro, so make it a good performance,” Samuel said as the two stood up and started walking towards the door to the street outside. “I just hope that they don’t recognize you.”
“I’m positive they won’t,” Yashiro said, following Samuel out the door with his hand on the gun still hidden in the towel. “These are Osama’s goons that do his dirty work on the island. They seldom get to the weapon facility.”
“I hope, for our sake, you’re right. Okay, Yashiro,” Samuel said as the black Mercedes came up to them. “The camera’s rolling. You’re on.”
Less than a mile away, at the University, Turner made his way to the antiquities building, one of the original structures of the university still in use today. He entered the large front doors and went inside its main lobby, noting the familiar Spanish decor of high ceilings designed in eloquent mosaic patterns. On the walls, he saw many ancient Guanche artifacts that had been restored to their original beauty and design. He found his way to the old wooden staircase in the center of the lobby and sprinted up to the second floor containing classrooms and laboratories.
Turner was well aware that his pursuer was not far behind, and that he had to formulate a defense quickly. As Turner reached the end of a long hallway, he opened the door to the artifacts preservation lab. He then heard the loud creaking sound of the main door being opened downstairs in the lobby, surprised that the hulking Japanese assailant had gotten there so soon.
The preservation lab was a long rectangular room that, in the dim light, looked like a bizarre mortuary with two rows of metal tables running side by side all the way to the end. Normally a bustling lab with students and archaeologists going over ancient finds, Turner was now alone amidst ancient Guanche mummies that were discovered by his father at the tomb near Guimar. Rows of long, metal rolling tables held many of the ancient remains that were covered with white sheets. This gave the lab the eerie appearance of a mortuary. Turner quietly made his way to the window at the back of the room.
He quickly glanced outside the window and saw Pencor’s Raven-44 helicopter sitting on the helipad, with its pilot standing nearby smoking a cigarette. Two large trucks were parked adjacent to the pad, used to transport equipment to and from the dig sites on the island.
Turner knew he only had a few precious moments before the Yakuza mercenary checked each room and ultimately discovered him, so he looked about in an effort to find anything that he could use as a weapon to defend himself. He walked over to a large table at the center of the room where he saw artifacts spread out on its top. He found old leather leggings, a few stone axe heads, and a well-preserved spear still attached to its long shaft.
An axe head against a gun is not much of an even match, he thought, his mind racing feverishly for any advantage. He quickly moved up the center isle where the faces of two thousand year old Guanche mummies seemed to taunt him with their frozen death masks.
Moving in the room’s dim light, he bumped against one of the preparation tables containing etching fluid, used to clean the stone artifacts. He sent it crashing to the floor, and the sound of shattering glass echoed throughout the silent building.
The huge Japanese assailant was coming out of one of the rooms upstairs when he heard the sound. He smiled to himself as he made his way down the hall to the door of the preservation lab. Pausing at the door, he said, “I know that you are in here, Turner. You have no means of escape. By playing this little game, you are making it more difficult for yourself. Come out now, and I promise to make your death a swift one.” After a moment, and, with no response from within, he grinned with satisfaction and slowly turned the doorknob. He pushed the old wooden door open with his pistol. “You should have taken that option, Mr. Turner,” he hissed as he entered the room, senses attuned to any movement within. “I have acquired many techniques for bringing about a slow and painful death, as you will soon discover.”
The giant of a man walked slowly and deliberately down the dark isle between the rows of tables containing the mummies. He noted that one table held an object larger than its neighbors, covered by a white sheet; he silently walked up to it. He leveled the gun at the object and with one swift motion, pulled the sheet off. The absence of the sheet revealed a Guanche wrapped in a thick ancient blanket; its long, dead, hollow eyes staring back at the mercenary. He grinned, threw the sheet back over it, and then continued his search down the dimly-lit isle. Moving stealth-like to the rear of the room, he smiled as he saw another table covered with a sheet. This time, the bottom of a rubber heel was protruding from the end.
“Welcome to the world of pain, Mr. Turner,” the huge man said, sneering as he slowly approached the table.
Back on Laguna Street, the black Mercedes came to a halt in front of the internet cafe. Its darkened, tinted window on the driver’s side rolled down to reveal the driver pointing a gun at Samuel. Yashiro quickly went into action, speaking in Japanese to the driver.