Chapter 23: The Night Has Eyes
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Sixteen hours to get through the jungle. We left at first light, and it is full dark now. Slower then I expected or would have liked. No mater. We're here. Tucked under brush in the last deep cover before the city.
Mayfair and Brooks have vanished somewhere to the left. They will watch the gate on the other side of the city. We won't hear from them until this operation is finished - one way or the other.
Littlejohn is to the right, watching Jones, who is watching Dinah, who is - in a purely professional way - watching Dick.
Renwick is with me, watching nothing. But very important nothing.
There is what passes for a road five feet in front of us, and about fifty yards past that the gates of the city. Fairly solid wooden gates set in thick stone. Not as large as I expected - there's a limit to what you can build without an arch - but big enough for yesterday's traffic. Which, to judge by the footprints left in the dirt track that passes for a road, would amount to several thousand people. Lousy turnout of a Knights home game. Apparently quite a showing for murder one. Because that *is* what they are here for. To see some poor punk chopped up, skinned, and - if you believe Littlejohn - barbecued with pepper sauce. Jones snort implied that was going a bit far. Whatever. The murder part does it for me. I'm not here to swap recipes.
I scan the dark batch of shadow Renwick assures me is a city. At least in this neck of the woods. Literally. Gotham has larger shopping malls. Still, it comes in just slightly smaller then the place we left, so I'll assume it's impressive by local standards.
I had expected more movement. More noise. More lights. More...everything. Even the shack back at Porto Chakpac had some signs of life. This place is...dead.
There are suburbs out their somewhere. Little patches of farmland tucked between the less tractable trees. Tiny work sheds and shops. The inevitable peasants who supply any city. They don't matter today. Anyone who can has already found a place inside from which to watch tomorrows festivities. Those who *aren't* welcome? The smart ones are going to lay low until it's over - just in case Tepiltzin goes looking for a new guest of honor.
I scan again with the binoculars set to heat. A few coal-red lumps around the gates which I assume are sentries. Seated against the wall. Wrapped in their ponchos. Possibly even awake. I will assume they are, even though their posture could as easily indicate otherwise.
Everything matches with Oracles satellite maps. Which in turn match the Luna Tower scans. One of the reasons I'm glad J'onn is on duty. What he won't do without question - he makes sure the questions are ones I won't mind answering. Not that I really need him for this. Kitten could run this as a snatch-and-grab. But... Dinah is Oracle's operative, not truly mine. Not JLA, or even Titans. If we must work on vacation, I might as well get some training time out of it.
I pass the glasses to Renwick. Their compact frame is dwarfed in his huge hands. Almost comically so. But, for all his outward appearance, his touch is a deft as any civilian I've known.
He makes a show of checking out the city. Maybe curious. Mostly just to reassure the troops. There's nothing to see, and he know it. Expects it, even.
According to Littlejohn, most everyone will be resting up for the party tomorrow. The annual church picnic, human sacrifice, and barbecue. A good time to be had by almost all. And, if I believe Jones, the really important folks will be stone drunk as well. Or just plain stoned. I don't know what you call a Agave enema. Make that - I know what I'd call it. Sick. But everyone knows I'm not the 'party' type.
Renwick hands back the binoculars. "You're sure of this?" he asks.
"I'm sure of nothing." An honest honest answer, if a bit more cosmic then he may understand. Even death and taxes have their exceptions, and I'm in the presence of both of them.
"But you do think.."
"No." I cut him off. "I don't think. I know."
I look over at Dick. Barely visible in his unmarked blacks, he is running a last procedures check with Dinah. Not that we aren't clear, but Dick has been a team leader to long to trust even himself. Zero error, 100% support. That is his rule. One of the reasons the Titans are so eager to keep him. Titans hell, the JLA has made a few offers. None I couldn't squash - so far - but... the day will come. I know it. I even know when and why. That is my private amusement. Everyone whispers that Nightwing will be my replacement. I know better. He'll be Kal's.
"And you trust them." Renwick draws me back into the present.
"With my life."
"Yes, but..." Renwick's lips tighten. "The Tongue of the Jaguar, it is, after all..."
"From his perspective? Somewhat less important."
Which is true. I don't know what I did to gain. I do know I did nothing to deserve it. But - for all of that - I do have Dick's loyalty. And his love. Even in the dark time, and far more so now. Which is doubtless another reason the local obtuseness sets up my nerves. Do they really think I could *buy* someone like Dick?
I remember last night, after I had finally made my escape from their never-ending 'conference'. Dick's mock-serious expression as he did the whole 'body-guard' routine, up to and including 'checking out' the bed. As he pointed out, he might find something hidden in the mattress.
And *then* he made me sit in my own chair to eat dinner. The teasing brat!
He found something in the mattress, all right, but it wasn't exactly hidden. In fact, after all his teasing it was rampantly evident - at least for a while. After the second time he made love to me I was glad I had let K'usal bring in the cot. My own bed's sheets were a mess, and we both ended up sleeping on the cot. Which means Dick got both the blankets, and I got covered with Dick. At least until he got enough sleep to become restless - and rolled off both me and the bed.
Of course, I had to kiss the 'landing spot' and make it better. But that ruined the *other* set of sheets. Not a rare occurrence, and probably the reason Dick insists on keeping his own suite at the manor. The kid always was rough on bedding.
I check the crew again. Dinah is talking to Jones. Possible a fond farewell. Possibly. But from her expression, I'd say she's giving final orders. And from his, I'd say he's taking them.
Not that he looked any happier when we left this morning. He's supercargo, and he knows it. But... they insisted on Littlejohn, so I hauled Jones. Not that I really need him. Littlejohn *is* the local expert - and I have Oracle to check him against. Not that I'd doubt Littlejohn's good intentions. Much. No, I insisted on Jones, because...well? To be honest to myself, mostly to be a shit. A player's move to keep my team 'even' with the Savage crew. But also because? For Jones? This trip may be miserable, but it's *not* going to kill him.
So that's my team. Dick, Dinah, and Jones. Plus two upstairs that no one on the Hidalgo side knows about. Eight on the ground. Three in play. Smaller then some operations, bigger then many. Less then Savage wanted. Likely more then this retrieval truly requires.
I pull up my hood. We're wearing unmarked blacks. Hoods rather then masks or a cowl. No matter. No one here would know my face from a post office photo. If they even had a post office. Or a photo. And unless things go wrong - I don't plan to be seen at all.
I tap my ear piece. The comlink sounds like NASA ground control. Oracle for location. Jones for analysis, and to warn Renwick if things really go wrong. Dinah will check the altars. There's already a big display of junk, enough to easily conceal one dagger. Littlejohn thinks it's there. Dick will search the temple above it, where Jones thinks they would have stashed the knife. Me? I'm going with Gotham criminal profiles. Most thieves like to sleep with their loot. I will take the main palace and Tepi-boys bedroom. If he's as zoned as Littlejohn says, and he won't notice one more visitor.
Dick steps up to the verge. He waves to Renwick, then to me. Savage's crew is pulling back, and we are going in.
Up first. Into the green cover that shield the sky even this close to the city, Not as thick as in the true jungle. Here there is clearance, and light enough for bushes and underbrush, rather then the near-barren ground of wilder parts. Still, the tall trees endure. Perhaps preserved as part of some plan to conceal the city. More likely simply because the natives lack the tools to cut them down efficiently. No matter. Tonight they are our road in.
Dick first. Up to the tip, then across the night sky in a long gliding arc. Black against black, visible only by the passing absence of stars. Flipping and turning to land more gently then any human should on the flat stone top of the highest pyramid.
Dinah next, floating like Arachnie on invisible lines. Wall to roof to roof to temple, then down finally to the sloping tiles of the main alter. Vanishing black on black among the twisting shadows of the hanging banners. Slower then Dick, perhaps less elegant, but just as silent.
I watch until they are safely in, then follow. Up the tree, then a powered launch. Lines extended, caught, then swiftly retracting to add the final power. Angle and velocity meeting to maximize range. Tuck and roll to soften the landing. Not as silent as Dick's, but soft enough to pass in this buzzing night. I'm surprised at that. I had expected the jungle to be silent compared to Gotham. Empty. It's not. It's just noisy in a different way.
I check the wooden roof below my feet. My first step is cautious, experimental. Without arch or buttress I'm not certain how stable a plank roof will be. The answer is - in this case - excellent. Good. Down to the window, then through. An easy passage. The curtains are open and apparently screens have yet to be invented.
No interior lighting. Not a surprise, since the whole city was dark. Still, there is enough starlight to operate my night-vision lenses.
Not much furniture. A low table, some mats,a chest, a stool. A few baskets in one corner. A pot to one side. Either water or waste. A low bed at the far side with two figures. Tepiltzin and Mrs. Tepiltzin, or so I assume, both heavily asleep. From the sound of the snores, either Littlejohn was right about the drugs or Mrs. T could use a nose-bob for more than fashion. And if Mr. T is sleeping through the noise? I scan the sleeping mans eyelids. No movement. Drugged or exhausted, and in either case down for the count.
Quick visual scan. Nothing interesting, unless you count the ugly art that passes for wallpaper. Rows of figures stabbing thorns through lips, tongues, and winceingly more intimate parts. Perhaps I should be more charitable to Tepi-boy. If I had to sleep with that, I'd drink too.
A second scan with a blacklight, which should flare if any lichen were damaged lately by moving stones. Moving stones like those in front of a hidden wall safe. Nothing. Damn. I check the walls again by touch. Nothing loose. Nothing unsteady. These people are lousy interior decorators, but great stone workers.
So. My target must be elsewhere in the room. The pot is empty - for which I am truly grateful. The baskets I check more carefully. The small one holds peppers and cracked corn. No doubt a midnight snack. The two larger baskets hold folded cloth. Much more possible. I unfold and shake out each piece. Slowly. The jade and metal trim could make noise if handled carelessly. No luck. A few bits of jewelry are tucked in among the clothes, but nothing large enough to be even part of the Tongue. I put them back, careful to maintain the original creases. After I'm gone with the blade, I don't want even a suspicion to remain. Let our Aztec friends blame their luck, or their guards, or their Gods. Just not their neighbors.
The chest is probably too small, but I check it anyway. They could have separated the blade and handle. Unlikely, I grant, but still possible. And, after all else is eliminated, then, however improbable... No. Mrs. T's vanity case, from the looks of it. More jewelry, cosmetics, a fatty emulsion that is either perfume or hand cream, and a few nasty little obsidian blades that I *hope* she only uses to trim her nails. Although given the local art? I tuck them back and give a appreciative thought for my heavy gloves.
Nothing under the mats. Nothing under the stool. Bad news. That leaves only one possibility. A risky one.
I pull back to the window ledge. Not they they wouldn't have called, but... I tap the sub-vocal throat mike. "Any luck?"
Dinah answers first. "Not yet. Leather and pottery, a few statues. No blades. They must store them inside."
Dick taps in. "Agreed. I've found quite the armory, but nothing like the picture we were shown of the Tongue. Everything so far is shorter, with a wider blade. more like an Eskimo skinning knife. And the handle art is different."
"Understood. I have one more place to check." With that I tap off. Damn.
I recheck the sleeping pair. No sign of eye movement. Low incident of muscle contraction. Breathing sonorous. Likely they are both as drugged as Littlejohn anticipated, but still... No matter. No choice.
I slide under the bed. It's low, but there is just enough space. Just. No reflected light gets this far, so I have to risk a blacklight. Interesting. Not as a much side glow as usual. Reasonable. These people don't have modern dyes.
The mattress is leather strap rather then rope. Other than that, this is the IDEA version of my bed back on the boat. Probably rather comfortable for sleeping, but a guaranteed noisemaker if *any* of us move suddenly.
I pull off my outer glove and run my fingertips over the straps. No bumps. No unexpected tension. So the blade isn't woven into the lattice.
I slide out and up, eye level with the frame. Thankfully the weather is warm enough they aren't using a lot of blankets. And Aztec pajama's haven't been invented. His side first. A careful survey of the body under the blanket, Nothing wrapped. Nothing tied. Well, nothing big enough to be the Tongue of the Jaguar - although I'm sure Mrs. T tells him otherwise. Damn. Any Gotham punk would be clutching his loot like a teddy bear.
One last hope. I check out the Lady. Not bad. A little plump for my taste, and most likely a little young for legal, but pretty enough. Give her a good haircut and the right dress and I could name at least three men at the Gotham Founders Club who would marry her tomorrow. Not that she might not be better off with Tepi-boy here. Probably. Possibly. Shreck would rip her heart out, but only figuratively.
Nothing on this side. Nothing in her hair. Not that there isn't enough of it, but for sleeping its down in a plain braid rather then one of the elaborate buns like the wall pictures. One last hope. I ease back the blanket. Risky. This is where they will wake, if ever. And if they do? Then I might reconsider wanting Savages army. She rolls and twitches. I freeze. She settles back, snuggling against Tepi-boy for warmth. He doesn't even grunt. Drugged. Definitely drugged. I shine the blacklight between them. Glows from nail dyes and a few tattoos. Reflections from a jade and gold bracelet. No knife. Damn. I tuck back the blanket and retreat again to the window.
"Bruce here. No luck."
"Cay... Dinah here. Nothing good."
"Dick here. Just running a last sweep, but... not here. I need a second target."
"Oracle. Any suggestions? Hot spots?"
"Oracle here. Nothing. The place is dead."
"Understood." And I do understand, her satellites are empty and her chosen expert is sitting in the jungle with me. Not the formula for a happy Oracle. "Go quiet, but keep watching."
Thinking of said expert. "Jones? Any suggestions?"
"Sorry guys. You already have my best guess. If it's not in the temple sanctuary, then someone's not following the book."
"Any ideas from Littlejohn?"
"He says the altar platform, front and center."
"And Dinah says it's not." I consider a second, then make my call. "Pull out. We'll conference back with Jones."
END CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
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Sixteen hours to get through the jungle. We left at first light, and it is full dark now. Slower then I expected or would have liked. No mater. We're here. Tucked under brush in the last deep cover before the city.
Mayfair and Brooks have vanished somewhere to the left. They will watch the gate on the other side of the city. We won't hear from them until this operation is finished - one way or the other.
Littlejohn is to the right, watching Jones, who is watching Dinah, who is - in a purely professional way - watching Dick.
Renwick is with me, watching nothing. But very important nothing.
There is what passes for a road five feet in front of us, and about fifty yards past that the gates of the city. Fairly solid wooden gates set in thick stone. Not as large as I expected - there's a limit to what you can build without an arch - but big enough for yesterday's traffic. Which, to judge by the footprints left in the dirt track that passes for a road, would amount to several thousand people. Lousy turnout of a Knights home game. Apparently quite a showing for murder one. Because that *is* what they are here for. To see some poor punk chopped up, skinned, and - if you believe Littlejohn - barbecued with pepper sauce. Jones snort implied that was going a bit far. Whatever. The murder part does it for me. I'm not here to swap recipes.
I scan the dark batch of shadow Renwick assures me is a city. At least in this neck of the woods. Literally. Gotham has larger shopping malls. Still, it comes in just slightly smaller then the place we left, so I'll assume it's impressive by local standards.
I had expected more movement. More noise. More lights. More...everything. Even the shack back at Porto Chakpac had some signs of life. This place is...dead.
There are suburbs out their somewhere. Little patches of farmland tucked between the less tractable trees. Tiny work sheds and shops. The inevitable peasants who supply any city. They don't matter today. Anyone who can has already found a place inside from which to watch tomorrows festivities. Those who *aren't* welcome? The smart ones are going to lay low until it's over - just in case Tepiltzin goes looking for a new guest of honor.
I scan again with the binoculars set to heat. A few coal-red lumps around the gates which I assume are sentries. Seated against the wall. Wrapped in their ponchos. Possibly even awake. I will assume they are, even though their posture could as easily indicate otherwise.
Everything matches with Oracles satellite maps. Which in turn match the Luna Tower scans. One of the reasons I'm glad J'onn is on duty. What he won't do without question - he makes sure the questions are ones I won't mind answering. Not that I really need him for this. Kitten could run this as a snatch-and-grab. But... Dinah is Oracle's operative, not truly mine. Not JLA, or even Titans. If we must work on vacation, I might as well get some training time out of it.
I pass the glasses to Renwick. Their compact frame is dwarfed in his huge hands. Almost comically so. But, for all his outward appearance, his touch is a deft as any civilian I've known.
He makes a show of checking out the city. Maybe curious. Mostly just to reassure the troops. There's nothing to see, and he know it. Expects it, even.
According to Littlejohn, most everyone will be resting up for the party tomorrow. The annual church picnic, human sacrifice, and barbecue. A good time to be had by almost all. And, if I believe Jones, the really important folks will be stone drunk as well. Or just plain stoned. I don't know what you call a Agave enema. Make that - I know what I'd call it. Sick. But everyone knows I'm not the 'party' type.
Renwick hands back the binoculars. "You're sure of this?" he asks.
"I'm sure of nothing." An honest honest answer, if a bit more cosmic then he may understand. Even death and taxes have their exceptions, and I'm in the presence of both of them.
"But you do think.."
"No." I cut him off. "I don't think. I know."
I look over at Dick. Barely visible in his unmarked blacks, he is running a last procedures check with Dinah. Not that we aren't clear, but Dick has been a team leader to long to trust even himself. Zero error, 100% support. That is his rule. One of the reasons the Titans are so eager to keep him. Titans hell, the JLA has made a few offers. None I couldn't squash - so far - but... the day will come. I know it. I even know when and why. That is my private amusement. Everyone whispers that Nightwing will be my replacement. I know better. He'll be Kal's.
"And you trust them." Renwick draws me back into the present.
"With my life."
"Yes, but..." Renwick's lips tighten. "The Tongue of the Jaguar, it is, after all..."
"From his perspective? Somewhat less important."
Which is true. I don't know what I did to gain. I do know I did nothing to deserve it. But - for all of that - I do have Dick's loyalty. And his love. Even in the dark time, and far more so now. Which is doubtless another reason the local obtuseness sets up my nerves. Do they really think I could *buy* someone like Dick?
I remember last night, after I had finally made my escape from their never-ending 'conference'. Dick's mock-serious expression as he did the whole 'body-guard' routine, up to and including 'checking out' the bed. As he pointed out, he might find something hidden in the mattress.
And *then* he made me sit in my own chair to eat dinner. The teasing brat!
He found something in the mattress, all right, but it wasn't exactly hidden. In fact, after all his teasing it was rampantly evident - at least for a while. After the second time he made love to me I was glad I had let K'usal bring in the cot. My own bed's sheets were a mess, and we both ended up sleeping on the cot. Which means Dick got both the blankets, and I got covered with Dick. At least until he got enough sleep to become restless - and rolled off both me and the bed.
Of course, I had to kiss the 'landing spot' and make it better. But that ruined the *other* set of sheets. Not a rare occurrence, and probably the reason Dick insists on keeping his own suite at the manor. The kid always was rough on bedding.
I check the crew again. Dinah is talking to Jones. Possible a fond farewell. Possibly. But from her expression, I'd say she's giving final orders. And from his, I'd say he's taking them.
Not that he looked any happier when we left this morning. He's supercargo, and he knows it. But... they insisted on Littlejohn, so I hauled Jones. Not that I really need him. Littlejohn *is* the local expert - and I have Oracle to check him against. Not that I'd doubt Littlejohn's good intentions. Much. No, I insisted on Jones, because...well? To be honest to myself, mostly to be a shit. A player's move to keep my team 'even' with the Savage crew. But also because? For Jones? This trip may be miserable, but it's *not* going to kill him.
So that's my team. Dick, Dinah, and Jones. Plus two upstairs that no one on the Hidalgo side knows about. Eight on the ground. Three in play. Smaller then some operations, bigger then many. Less then Savage wanted. Likely more then this retrieval truly requires.
I pull up my hood. We're wearing unmarked blacks. Hoods rather then masks or a cowl. No matter. No one here would know my face from a post office photo. If they even had a post office. Or a photo. And unless things go wrong - I don't plan to be seen at all.
I tap my ear piece. The comlink sounds like NASA ground control. Oracle for location. Jones for analysis, and to warn Renwick if things really go wrong. Dinah will check the altars. There's already a big display of junk, enough to easily conceal one dagger. Littlejohn thinks it's there. Dick will search the temple above it, where Jones thinks they would have stashed the knife. Me? I'm going with Gotham criminal profiles. Most thieves like to sleep with their loot. I will take the main palace and Tepi-boys bedroom. If he's as zoned as Littlejohn says, and he won't notice one more visitor.
Dick steps up to the verge. He waves to Renwick, then to me. Savage's crew is pulling back, and we are going in.
Up first. Into the green cover that shield the sky even this close to the city, Not as thick as in the true jungle. Here there is clearance, and light enough for bushes and underbrush, rather then the near-barren ground of wilder parts. Still, the tall trees endure. Perhaps preserved as part of some plan to conceal the city. More likely simply because the natives lack the tools to cut them down efficiently. No matter. Tonight they are our road in.
Dick first. Up to the tip, then across the night sky in a long gliding arc. Black against black, visible only by the passing absence of stars. Flipping and turning to land more gently then any human should on the flat stone top of the highest pyramid.
Dinah next, floating like Arachnie on invisible lines. Wall to roof to roof to temple, then down finally to the sloping tiles of the main alter. Vanishing black on black among the twisting shadows of the hanging banners. Slower then Dick, perhaps less elegant, but just as silent.
I watch until they are safely in, then follow. Up the tree, then a powered launch. Lines extended, caught, then swiftly retracting to add the final power. Angle and velocity meeting to maximize range. Tuck and roll to soften the landing. Not as silent as Dick's, but soft enough to pass in this buzzing night. I'm surprised at that. I had expected the jungle to be silent compared to Gotham. Empty. It's not. It's just noisy in a different way.
I check the wooden roof below my feet. My first step is cautious, experimental. Without arch or buttress I'm not certain how stable a plank roof will be. The answer is - in this case - excellent. Good. Down to the window, then through. An easy passage. The curtains are open and apparently screens have yet to be invented.
No interior lighting. Not a surprise, since the whole city was dark. Still, there is enough starlight to operate my night-vision lenses.
Not much furniture. A low table, some mats,a chest, a stool. A few baskets in one corner. A pot to one side. Either water or waste. A low bed at the far side with two figures. Tepiltzin and Mrs. Tepiltzin, or so I assume, both heavily asleep. From the sound of the snores, either Littlejohn was right about the drugs or Mrs. T could use a nose-bob for more than fashion. And if Mr. T is sleeping through the noise? I scan the sleeping mans eyelids. No movement. Drugged or exhausted, and in either case down for the count.
Quick visual scan. Nothing interesting, unless you count the ugly art that passes for wallpaper. Rows of figures stabbing thorns through lips, tongues, and winceingly more intimate parts. Perhaps I should be more charitable to Tepi-boy. If I had to sleep with that, I'd drink too.
A second scan with a blacklight, which should flare if any lichen were damaged lately by moving stones. Moving stones like those in front of a hidden wall safe. Nothing. Damn. I check the walls again by touch. Nothing loose. Nothing unsteady. These people are lousy interior decorators, but great stone workers.
So. My target must be elsewhere in the room. The pot is empty - for which I am truly grateful. The baskets I check more carefully. The small one holds peppers and cracked corn. No doubt a midnight snack. The two larger baskets hold folded cloth. Much more possible. I unfold and shake out each piece. Slowly. The jade and metal trim could make noise if handled carelessly. No luck. A few bits of jewelry are tucked in among the clothes, but nothing large enough to be even part of the Tongue. I put them back, careful to maintain the original creases. After I'm gone with the blade, I don't want even a suspicion to remain. Let our Aztec friends blame their luck, or their guards, or their Gods. Just not their neighbors.
The chest is probably too small, but I check it anyway. They could have separated the blade and handle. Unlikely, I grant, but still possible. And, after all else is eliminated, then, however improbable... No. Mrs. T's vanity case, from the looks of it. More jewelry, cosmetics, a fatty emulsion that is either perfume or hand cream, and a few nasty little obsidian blades that I *hope* she only uses to trim her nails. Although given the local art? I tuck them back and give a appreciative thought for my heavy gloves.
Nothing under the mats. Nothing under the stool. Bad news. That leaves only one possibility. A risky one.
I pull back to the window ledge. Not they they wouldn't have called, but... I tap the sub-vocal throat mike. "Any luck?"
Dinah answers first. "Not yet. Leather and pottery, a few statues. No blades. They must store them inside."
Dick taps in. "Agreed. I've found quite the armory, but nothing like the picture we were shown of the Tongue. Everything so far is shorter, with a wider blade. more like an Eskimo skinning knife. And the handle art is different."
"Understood. I have one more place to check." With that I tap off. Damn.
I recheck the sleeping pair. No sign of eye movement. Low incident of muscle contraction. Breathing sonorous. Likely they are both as drugged as Littlejohn anticipated, but still... No matter. No choice.
I slide under the bed. It's low, but there is just enough space. Just. No reflected light gets this far, so I have to risk a blacklight. Interesting. Not as a much side glow as usual. Reasonable. These people don't have modern dyes.
The mattress is leather strap rather then rope. Other than that, this is the IDEA version of my bed back on the boat. Probably rather comfortable for sleeping, but a guaranteed noisemaker if *any* of us move suddenly.
I pull off my outer glove and run my fingertips over the straps. No bumps. No unexpected tension. So the blade isn't woven into the lattice.
I slide out and up, eye level with the frame. Thankfully the weather is warm enough they aren't using a lot of blankets. And Aztec pajama's haven't been invented. His side first. A careful survey of the body under the blanket, Nothing wrapped. Nothing tied. Well, nothing big enough to be the Tongue of the Jaguar - although I'm sure Mrs. T tells him otherwise. Damn. Any Gotham punk would be clutching his loot like a teddy bear.
One last hope. I check out the Lady. Not bad. A little plump for my taste, and most likely a little young for legal, but pretty enough. Give her a good haircut and the right dress and I could name at least three men at the Gotham Founders Club who would marry her tomorrow. Not that she might not be better off with Tepi-boy here. Probably. Possibly. Shreck would rip her heart out, but only figuratively.
Nothing on this side. Nothing in her hair. Not that there isn't enough of it, but for sleeping its down in a plain braid rather then one of the elaborate buns like the wall pictures. One last hope. I ease back the blanket. Risky. This is where they will wake, if ever. And if they do? Then I might reconsider wanting Savages army. She rolls and twitches. I freeze. She settles back, snuggling against Tepi-boy for warmth. He doesn't even grunt. Drugged. Definitely drugged. I shine the blacklight between them. Glows from nail dyes and a few tattoos. Reflections from a jade and gold bracelet. No knife. Damn. I tuck back the blanket and retreat again to the window.
"Bruce here. No luck."
"Cay... Dinah here. Nothing good."
"Dick here. Just running a last sweep, but... not here. I need a second target."
"Oracle. Any suggestions? Hot spots?"
"Oracle here. Nothing. The place is dead."
"Understood." And I do understand, her satellites are empty and her chosen expert is sitting in the jungle with me. Not the formula for a happy Oracle. "Go quiet, but keep watching."
Thinking of said expert. "Jones? Any suggestions?"
"Sorry guys. You already have my best guess. If it's not in the temple sanctuary, then someone's not following the book."
"Any ideas from Littlejohn?"
"He says the altar platform, front and center."
"And Dinah says it's not." I consider a second, then make my call. "Pull out. We'll conference back with Jones."
END CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE