Read Age of Aztec for Free Online Page B

bursting.”
    “You’ll have to hold it, sir.”
    “I’m sure it won’t be long.”
    “Who are you guarding, anyway?” Stuart demanded, gesturing past the minders. “Why’s his need more important than mine?”
    “I’d advise you to keep your tone civil, sir. You’re in the presence of His Holiness Jasper Marquand, priest of Birmingham.”
    “Oh.” Stuart cringed with feigned contrition. “I had no idea. How stupid of me. Of course I’ll wait outside ’til his holiness is finished.”
    He turned, and turned again, pivoting on the ball of his foot and swinging his briefcase into the face of the nearer of the two minders. As the man sank to his knees, clutching a shattered nose, Stuart delivered a knife-hand jab to the throat of the other minder, crushing his larynx. He whacked the briefcase against the first minder’s head, knocking him cold. The second was already close to unconsciousness, struggling to draw breath. Stuart locked an arm around his neck and put pressure on his carotid until he fainted.
    In all, it took less than fifteen seconds, and was as quiet as it was swift.
    Stuart approached the only cubicle with a closed door. From within came the sounds of someone grappling with an explosive digestive disorder.
    “Carling, is that you?” the priest called out. “I heard a bit of a scuffle. What’s happened? Has that insolent moron gone?”
    “All sorted, Your Holiness,” Stuart said in an approximation of the minders’ gravelly growl. “Nothing to worry about.”
    “Bloody Moroccan food,” Jasper Marquand muttered. “You go there for a short break, some jollies with the local catamites, and what do you end up with? The worst case of the runs imaginable. Sun, sea, sodomy, salmonella. Never again, I tell you. Never again.”
    “If you insist, your holiness.”
    The toilet flushed. The bolt unlatched.
    Stuart kicked the door violently inward. It struck the priest on the forehead and he staggered back. Stuart grabbed him, spun him round, and slammed him down face first onto the toilet bowl. He repeated the action twice more, until blood flowed freely and Marquand was gibbering in pain and distress.
    “Please,” the priest begged, “I can give you money. However much you want. Please stop hurting me.”
    “I already have money,” said Stuart, “and as for hurting you, that’s not what I’m here for.”
    “What, then? Anything. Name it.”
    “You dead. That’s all.”
    Marquand bucked in sheer terror. Stuart took a firmer grip on him and plunged his head deep into the toilet. He held the priest’s face under the water until his struggles ebbed and became death twitches. He kept him there for another minute, just to be sure, before letting go. Remarkably, he had managed to get very little water on himself, just the odd splash here and there on his suit and shirt cuffs.
    He exited the cubicle and went to deal with the minders. Unfortunately for them, he couldn’t leave them alive. They had seen his face and might be able to identify him to the Jaguars; at the very least, furnish a decent description. He gave each man’s head a short, sharp twist, separating skull from Atlas bone. Then he lugged the bodies into two empty cubicles and shut them in.
    He washed his hands at the basin and sprinkled cold water on his face. His heart rate was returning to normal. The adrenaline surge that came with murder had begun to abate.
    He stared hard at his reflection. A handsome but hollow man stared back. He composed himself. Hand-combed a stray lock of hair into place. Adjusted his tie.
    Businessman Stuart Reston emerged from the gents and sauntered over to rejoin the passport queue. Within twenty minutes, he was out of the building and hailing a taxi.
    Not long after that, a janitor wheeled his cleaning cart into the gents to give the place its hourly spruce-up.
    His screams of horror could be heard halfway across the terminal.
     
     
    S TUART’S PENTHOUSE FLAT boasted enviable views of the