The Saints March In
by
Ray Tate
Mexico City. If not for the people naturally speaking Spanish, the spots of Baroque architecture and the exquisite cuisine, you can mistake this burgeoning metropolis for an American capitol. I am currently enjoying two of trademarks. The cochinita pibil a spicy pork dish from the Yucatan, at a thoroughly modern cafe, and the language from my good friend Isabel Velazquez. The wine of course is French. Some things you just don’t leave to adventure.
A banged up black car the size of a small boat speeds to the square. A group of badly tailored men with even worse looking hats rush out and snatch a girl-woman who screams. That, dear reader, is my cue.
The young man departs from the table and bounds down the steps. He grabs one of the band before he can rustle the girl into the car. The hood responds, but the young man ducks and answers with a right cross that sends the thug reeling against the chassis before sinking to the ground.
His compadre skirts along the car and reaches into his jacket. The young man leaps over the vast bonnet and tumbles with the hoodlum, giving him a left just to make things interesting. He snaps to his feet as two more grimacing men step out. The guns in their steady hands make the young man think twice, but then, he smiles and relaxes.
“Why do you smile, Mister? You are about to die.”
“Oh, I’m smiling because I can see what’s behind you.”
The gunmen laugh
“This is such a poor trick, Mister. Die with some dignity.”
A voice thunders from behind the men.
“No one dies today, cockroaches!”
With that vow, the man in the iridescent silver mask grabs one of the gunsels and lifts him high above his head. That man squeals, and Atlas throws him into the other. The sweaty driver of the car reverses. The Luchador spins aside.
Two of the leftovers try to scramble away. The masked man grips them in headlocks. Squeezing until they lose consciousness. He drops the limp villains on the ground.
“Thank you, El Santo.”
“It is a distinct honor.” He bows.
“You know me then?”
“Ha! Everybody should know the infamous Simon Templar.”
The girl-woman we invite to our table is Elisa Monti. A student at Ciudad Universitaria. She also works at Diego’s, a shop around the corner. She was on lunch break when the men attacked. El Santo joins our party after shaking hands with the local constabulary that cart away the unlucky gang members. Oh, and if you don’t know who El Santo is, shame on you.
“So, no ideas as to why these men targeted you. It didn’t look random.”
“No, Mr. Templar. There is no intrigue in my life and there is nobody in my life that could afford a ransom.”
“It is of no concern, Miss Monti. The police will soon discover why these cowards accosted you.”
“Unless, I uncover the facts first.”
“Ah, Templar. You can trust the Mexican police. I have worked with them before.”
“So have I, on occasion…but no matter the police officer’s sincerity, law, politics and bureaucracy often bind his hands. None of these elements ever bound mine.”
“This is true.” Isabel smiles. “Simon can be quite resourceful. He gets results. Why don’t we do this, gentlemen. Simon, you work with your namesake. El Santo, you make sure that Simon doesn’t stray too far from his halo. I will look after, Elisa.”
“But, Dr. Velazquez, what will you do if these men attempt to abduct, Miss Monti?”
“There’s nothing I can do if they beset in force, but sometimes all you need to be is an excellent witness.”
“A fair point. It’s your territory, Santo. Where do we start?”
“The license plate of the car. Dr. Velazquez is right about being an excellent witness.”
Simon leans on Santo’s convertible, silver of course. The Luchador returns and hands him a slip of paper.
“It can’t be this easy?”
“It never is, Templar.”
Santo sits behind the wheel while Simon rides shotgun. The masked man revs the convertible’s engine. Simon notes the phone as well as some of the curious buttons on the dashboard. A red light gives Simon the opportunity to ask.
“What do these do?”
“Ha! Various things, Templar. You see, I am a grappler by trade, as you say, but a few years ago, the police came to ask me about fellow wrestlers who went missing. I was helpful. In fact I am the one who ultimately solved the mystery behind the kidnappings. I thought that would be the end of it.”
“Once bitten…”
“Exactly, Templar.”
“You can call me Simon.”
“I like Templar better. It has guff to it.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Anyway, the police came to me with more strange puzzles. So I thought, if the fates were making me a detective, I should look the part.”
“Hence, the phone.”
“Yes, and the buttons. From my left to the right. The buttons activate a tracking device, a smoke screen and one I’ve been anxious to use, an ejector seat.”
“You’ve been watching too many spy movies, Santo.”
“Perhaps, but those first two have come in handy.”
“Not the ejector seat?”
“Some day. I really want to use that button.”
“I’ll bet.”
Santo pulls up to a modest brick house painted a vivid blue. Simon lights a cigarette and watches as Santo consults with, presumably, the owner of the home.
Upon seeing Santo, the stranger’s newspaper drops from his hands. The man, grinning, turns his head and calls back inside. Two children pop out of the doorway. They jump up and down, and soon the ebullient parents take pictures of the children perched on Santo’s flexing muscles. Santo puts his arms around the parents, and the boy photographs the scene. Simon can’t help but smile. There’s something to be said for being a national treasure.
When Santo returns, he says, “A stolen vehicle and a dead end, Templar.”
“All right, Santo. Now, what would you suggest we do?”
“The police will have broken these men by now. I have contacts that can help us.”
“Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Templar. We do not tolerate vigilantes in Mexico.”
“You’re threatening me in front of a masked man.”
“El Santo is beyond reproach. He is a man who serves law and order.” Detective Sanchez points. “You on the other hand, Mr. Templar, bend the law to your liking.”
“Yes, but I do provide order.”
“After much chaos.”
“Gentlemen, please.” Santo holds up his hands. “We can all agree that Simon Templar is not a policeman.”
“Perish the thought.”
“However, we are all working toward one goal, the protection of Elisa Monti. That is the most important thing. So, we will all respect each other. The lawman, the consultant and the vigilante.”
“You should work for the U.N. I’ll play nice, Sanchez.”
“Very well. It’s as Santo says. We have a common aim. So, here’s what these men have told us.” Sanchez pulls a notebook from his pocket. “A mutual acquaintance contacted them with the promise of money should they gather at a warehouse. Once there, they found packets of cash, one for each of the men. They met a figure in black that had bandages wrapped around his face and sunglasses covering his eyes.”
“We’re after Claude Rains.”
“Hush, Templar.”
“I thought that as well, Mr. Templar. A theatrical disguise, and there are simpler masks to choose from. This figure promised there would be more money should the men snatch a specific girl who goes to a specific square at a specific time. With that, the figure disappeared in a flash of smoke.”
“This dark man knows Elisa Monti even if she does not know him.”
“We also surmised such a conclusion, Santo. We searched the warehouse. We found nothing but the table where laid the money and the chair where the figure sat.”
“What were those bills like?”
“Nothing remarkable, Mr. Templar. If they came from a bank robbery, it was nothing recent. Some of the bills were five to ten years old.”
“I do not like his fellow. It’s simply being a poor sport not leaving us a clue to follow. What about the man who contacted the gang from Savile Row?”
“Hector ‘Squeaky’ Gonzalez. He is a known quantity. A middle man, who for the right price, will work with any criminal from mere confidence man to murderer. He is also a known coward. The American rubber hose is not needed where Squeaky is concerned.”
“So, he yielded no useful information?”
“No, Mr. Templar. As the saying goes, out of the blue he receives a phone call, he will receive a sum of money for each man he secures to meet at the warehouse. When he returns to his apartment, a package of said money lay on his bed.”
“Another thing we have learned, the creature we hunt, his motive is not money.”
“Yes, he seems to be quite the rainmaker. If not money, then, what?”
“Detective Sanchez, you must have checked into Miss Monti’s background.”
“We did. She is as she seems. Orphaned. Grew up with the sisters. Works at Diego’s. Has a few friends at college, but they check out clean. As do her fellow employees and boss at Diego’s. The men you and Templar captured also have no connection to Miss Monti.”
“Sanchez, by sisters, you mean nuns?”
“Yes, what of it?”
“I trust religion as much as I trust policemen. Who’s Elisa’s priest?”
Elisa Monti’s priest is a rather vital duck. Tall, built and gifted with a crown of black curly hair. He stands before the double doors of the church, jutting out his strong chin as if ready to belt out a song. Another padre sidles beside him. Compared to the stallion with a collar, this priest is a nag ready to be put to glue.
In the morning sun, Simon sits in a rental while watching the church across the street. He suggested El Santo and his spy car might stick out like a sore silver thumb, and the masked man agreed. Santo situated himself a block away, and he now awaits Simon’s signal.
The handsome holy man returns to the church, but the scrawny one scrabbles down the steps and to the bus stop. He departs in the bus when it arrives. Simon alerts Santo with the walkie-talkie Sanchez loaned him and follows.
Simon pulls up close to a shocking white palace girded by potted cacti. Activity soon arrives in an open-top sports car filled with women whose voluptuousness threatened to fall out of their colorful bikinis.
This is why Simon distrusts religion, priests in particular. Men created religion. Men associated with religion pretend to be more than men, when that is all they are.
Santo’s convertible smoothly rolls behind Simon’s ugly surveillance wagon. The Saint smiles up at his argent ally.
“Well, I know we haven’t a gift, but shall we join the party?”
“Yes, let us see how this priest really lives.”
Simon followed by Santo stealths toward the priest’s ever-so humble abode. He motions for Santo to go around the house and take the back way in. He attempts the door, but one of the visitors must have locked it after she entered.
Picking the lock is child’s play, and Simon hears the bubbly laughter of all inside. Mostly the women. At first, Simon believed Elisa Monti’s priest to be the contact man until she gushily described him. Upon confirming the man’s good looks, Simon reevaluated. A man like that could have anything or any woman he wanted on the sly, and he needn’t have money to do it. The troll on the other hand.
Simon enters…to a courtyard with a fountain and massive windows spruced with hanging greenery. Oh, somebody is paying the piper. He pads across the marble floor. He opens another door leading to a foyer and follows the laughter up the stairs, through the hall, to the…bedroom.
God, I know that I’ve been insulting religion that you probably had nothing to do with, but please don’t let me walk in on that priest and his guests in flagrante delicto.
“Thank you, God.”
The priest who’s nothing but bones spray-painted with mushroom skin wears a loud short-sleeved shirt unbuttoned and a pair of Bermuda shorts. He pours bubbly in the glasses held by the eager, laughing beauties.
They all turn their heads.
“The Saint!” One woman screams.
“You didn’t tell me, you knew Simon Templar, Mister.”
“Or that he’d be joining us!”
“Dishy!”
The priest grins a crooked smile as sweat pours down his face. He swallows, lets go of the champagne bottle and darts through the door to the far side of the bedroom.
Simon hurtles after him, but he nearly slams into the priest, frozen in a state of fear. You would be too upon seeing the door leading to the backstairs tear off its hinges. El Santo does not pick locks. The man in the silver mask casually tosses the door aside.
“So, shall I paint you a scenario? A sinner goes into a confession box.”
Simon pushes Father De Leon to Santo.
“You weasel into the next box to overhear the sinner’s sacred testament.”
Santo propels him to Simon.
“Perhaps you’ve wired the boxes. Doesn’t matter. The next step is blackmail.”
Simon bats him to Santo.
“You spend the money on this secret house, the Jaguar and the women.”
“Yes! Yes! All right! Stop it! It’s all true!”
“What did you hear about Elisa Monti, and more importantly, who did you report that information to, you scum!”
“I don’t know his name!”
Santo launches him to Simon.
“There’s a lot of that going around.”
“Please, Mr. Templar. Hand to God.”
“Oh, please. You, swearing to God?”
“He keeps his identity secret. It’s an exchange of goods. Information for cash.”
Simon vaults him to Santo.
“What’s so important about Elisa Monti!”
“I think—I think it’s because she’s a virgin.”
“What?”
“It’s like you said, Mr. Templar, El Santo. I listen in on all the confessions. Some I take myself. I let it be known that these secrets will slip out if I’m not given…compensation.”
Santo growls and literally throws him to Templar.
The priest howls as he clatters to the floor.
“Butter fingers. I do apologize.”
“Elisa Monti, has only one secret, and I thought it was useless to me. She is a good girl.”
“I should kick you in the teeth right now.”
“When I was in a bar, I overheard this strange conversation between Squeaky Gonzalez and another man. He says something about a doctor that will pay him to acquire a virgin. Suddenly, the useless information becomes valuable.”
“So, Squeaky Gonzalez did hold something back from the police.”
“Indeed. I think we should pay Mr. Squeaks a visit.”
“Yes. Yes, Templar. You! De Leon. You will sit here and wait for Detective Sanchez to come. If you do not, I will learn of this, and I will hunt you down as I would Dracula.”
“Dracula?”
“With a stake through the coal you call a heart.”
“Aiiieeee! I will wait here, El Santo! Please, violence is not necessary!”
“Interesting turn of phrase, Santo,” Simon says as they depart.
“It was no joke.”
“Dracula?”
“I’ve had many unusual encounters, Templar. I will have many more.”
Simon and Santo find Squeaky Gonzalez hanging from a ceiling fan in his apartment. The audacity of the murder sends a shiver up Simon’s spine. The escalation of events compels him to call Isabel.
“The line’s dead.”
“Go. I will search the room. Don’t take the car. I may need it. Hail a cab.”
Simon nods and takes the taxi to Isabel’s hotel. The doorman recognizes him immediately and with a touch to his cap lets him pass. Simon rushes to the elevator and to Isabel’s floor. He uses the spare key and opens the door to a turbulence of unimaginable proportion.
Isabel lay splayed among three dead gang members, now clad in identical jumpsuits identifying them as carpet delivery.
Isabel’s blouse had been torn off. Only shreds and strands hang around her sinewy arms. Her beautiful breasts, one bare the other still veiled in lace, rise and fall, an act granting Simon the greatest relief.
Isabel’s whip lay in her outstretched hand. Follow the shiny black tongue, and it wraps around one of the goon’s snapped neck.
Another thug lay atop the blood-soaked carpet. Shot through the chest. Undoubtedly with his own gun, which lies near his cooling fingers.
The third nasty’s head dented inward, and broken glass indicated the remains of a very thick ashtray. Scratches line his immobile face. Simon knows if he searches he will find traces of this man’s flesh under Isabel’s broken fingernails.
Simon steps over the bodies and looks through the rooms. Elisa is gone. With a pitcher of water, he returns to Isabel’s side. Gently, Simon wets his fingers, then Isabel’s brow. Her eyes flutter open and she moans. She looks up at him and grins. Blood frames each of her teeth. One chipped.
“You should see the other guys.”
“I looked at them. You are quite extraordinary, Isabel.”
“They took her, Simon.”
“I know they did, but we’ll get her back and put an end to all of this.”
“I think you need to kill them.”
“Oh, I know I do now, darling.”
“Don’t let Santo stop you. This is…evil.”
“Do you have anything useful to tell me?”
“They want her blood, Simon. Elisa’s blood. The one said he was going to have fun with her. The other said, no, the doctor will drain your foul blood if you ruin the virgin…Then, they looked at me.”
Simon slips off his jacket and lays it atop Isabel’s modesty.
“Do you know that Santo apparently killed Dracula?”
“You’re joking.”
“No, no. I saw the faraway look in his eyes. He was—.” Simon spots a red something on a dead man’s shoe.
He reaches over Isabel’s legs and peels off the red something.
“What do you have there?”
Simon studies the curiosity and smiles.
“Isabel, how old are you?”
“You beast.”
“Not old enough to see a 1943 film entitled The Ape Man at the Hidalgo.”
“Simon, regardless of the year—Wait. The Hidalgo burned down in 1944.”
“You don’t say? How did these men get in?”
“Had to be the front door. They were all facing me when I came out the bedroom. One had poor Elisa by the neck. I didn’t feel a breeze from the balcony behind me. Ergo…”
“That’s all I need to know. Now, don’t you move until the ambulance arrives.”
“As if I could, you gorgeous dolt.”
Simon takes the elevator to the lobby. He stares at the concierge with the bad suit. The concierge runs from behind the counter, and Simon speeds after him.
He hears the man laughing as he spears away. Simon stops his pursuit and addresses the doorman.
“Call an ambulance for Dr. Velazquez. Tell the valet to bring up Dr. Velazquez’s car. The concierge if he’s alive is bound and gagged somewhere in the hotel. I’d start with the ground floor.”
The alarmed but alert doorman carries out Simon’s orders, pockets a walkie-talkie and rushes back into the hotel.
Simon tips the valet and throws Isabel’s Kharmann Gia into gear. He tears down the street, in the direction of the laughing man and finds him still afoot.
The man turns his head and screams as he tries to gain speed. Simon smiles.
“Not laughing now.”
He shifts. He swerves the car, up onto the curb. Two wheels on the street, two on the sidewalk.
Simon rams the gangster. The man bounces off the fender and lands hard against blacktop.
Simon parks the little sports car then looks through a pair of binoculars at the theater’s husk. The blackened marquee lists to the ground blocking boarded doors. Splintered frames and shattered glass hang on twin smoke-tinted columns stretching to the sky. On the roof, two of the gang trying to stay out of sight fail.
Simon times their patrol and sneaks to the side exit between their vigilance. He moves the debris and carefully levers the door open. He slips in. Pieces of dirt and glass press against his rubber-soled shoes.
Simon draws the pistol he took from the dead hoodlum lying in the street. He squeezes back the hammer and silent as a moth, moves toward the light.
The burnt chairs that in their prime would have seated a captive audience stack against the walls and form a circle. In that circle, shelves and shelves hold jars of human and animal parts floating in formalin. At least, ah, no. The brains naturally have their own space.
Crime’s dank rainbow of personalities sits within the circle. Grinning, making rude gesticulations, some use opera glasses to look upward. Simon follows their gaze.
Elisa lays naked, secured to a slate. A hook suspends the slab to a rope that disappears into the shadows of the cavernous ceiling. A gag silences her cries. Leather straps hold fast her neck and bind her arms and legs tight to her body. Only, her glittering blonde hair remains free, and it dangles over a gleaming cage of razor-blades.
Directly below the cage lies a gilt sarcophagus inscribed with hieroglyphics. Thanks to Isabel’s articles, he recognizes them as Aztec.
A table holding chemicals and glassware stands beside the sarcophagus, and there, a man with a half-face reads an ancient tome.
The man literally has a half-face. Imagine a cauldron filled with molten skin and swirling flesh. Imagine putting your hand in that cauldron and slapping that ghoulish blend on a bare skull again and again. Let the dashery cool. That masterwork is half the man’s face.
The other half of the countenance is a skull with just enough ruined meat to connect the jawbones. The minimum amount to form a depressed nose. The scantest touch above bulging jaundiced eyes.
Simon takes aim at the monster and squeezes the trigger.
The bullet hits the mark, but the skull deflects the bullet. The half-faced man shrieks and reels back.
“The Saint! Kill him, you fools! Kill him!”
Simon imagined the skull face exploding in a shower of shards. His body falling atop the chemicals and setting the theater ablaze. With the distraction ripping along at a nice pace, he would find a means to safely lower Elisa to terra firma and escape in style. Alas. The bullet deflected off the skull, and the henchmen stubbornly will not burn.
At least he’ll be able to kill five of them. He aims for the injured, the bandaged. These are the ruffians that likely attacked Isabel. Simon for good measure throws the empty revolver at another and hits him square in the throat. Not a killing blow, of course, but ever so satisfying.
The lackeys chase after Simon, who knows for certain his fleetness merely prolongs the inevitable. Grubby hands soon fall upon him, clawing at his clothes and his skin. He hears cloth tear, snickering ghouls and shouts of glee. The gang, so humiliated by him, so winnowed, now have their day to kill Simon Templar. The reason why they didn’t use their guns becomes clear. They aim to tear him limb from limb.
“Wait! Don’t kill him. I want an audience.”
“Boss? Boss…” The man grins. “This is not a good idea.”
Says the man pulling at his arm.
“We have crossed swords with this man before.”
Says the man twisting his leg.
“He is bad trouble if left alive.”
“My work is hollow if I cannot share my genius with somebody that can appreciate it.”
“We appreciate it, Boss.”
“Yes, we appreciate your brain, Boss. Let us kill Templar!”
He tugs at his wrist.
“You appreciate your fantasies with the nubile above and the money I give you. Bring the Saint to me.”
Grumbling, six poorly dressed men carry Simon off the ground and bear him to a chair. They force back his arms and cuff his wrists. Several elbow him in the head as they return to their places.
The half-faced man brushes off his lab coat. He stares at Simon with those yellow eyes.
“I am Dr. Sol.”
“Aptly named. You look positively radiant.”
“A souvenir from a previous encounter with El Santo.” He sneers. “But I am compensated with a bulletproof skull.”
“Lucky.”
“Science. As is all of this.” He gestures.
“Really? It looks to me like you just hate women and want to see them bleed.”
“Feh, do not insult me, Saint. I do not care if the pretty above us lives or dies. I need her virgin blood to reanimate the Aztec mummy.” He points. “Show him.”
Four of the gang lift Simon and the chair up. They tip him over so he can see what’s in the sarcophagus. Sure enough. Aztec mummy. Withered, decayed and almost as hideous as the live maniac. Instead of a lab coat and a gray leathery bodysuit, gold armor and a shield adorn the mummy.
“Fetching.”
“Put him down.” He paces around the table. “Santo and I fought as fire engulfed my lab. The fire created pressure. The glassware exploded, dousing me with my formula. It burned, Saint. It burned, but it changed me. My bones cannot be broken. My strength is superior to yours, an above average man. Nevertheless, the floor collapsed and so I fell into the sewers. Still, I did not die.”
“Can’t take the hint, eh?”
“I emerged from the torrent at the bottom of a series of stone steps. I followed those steps into a tomb. In that tomb—“
“You found a mummy.”
“Yes! You see. I knew. You, an intelligent man, would comprehend. There were scrolls with the mummy. Scrolls that I could not read. The other treasures in the tomb would provide the means. I bought men. I bought knowledge. That tome, translates the scrolls.”
“Let me guess. The scrolls say the mummy demands virgin blood.”
“Exactly. So, the girl above.” He gestures. “The slab is perfectly manufactured. It will slot into the cage of razors. The razors will slice her flesh. She will bleed but still live…for awhile. Still living, still warm blood is necessary for the mechanism.
“The blood strikes the golden plates. The blood acts as fuel for the plates. I do not yet know how, and it is these plates, like, like…like an insect’s exoskeleton. The plates will work the mummy’s movements. I do not believe the mummy comes to life. Rather, the machine around the mummy activates.”
“Why?”
“Why? Why does the blood function in conjunction with the plates. I told you I do not—”
“No, why do any of this?”
“Ah, I see. The mummy is just the beginning, Saint. This is an experiment. I do not know if it will work. It should, for I have all the ingredients to make it work. I have followed all the instructions, but there’s always uncertainty in the laboratory.”
“You’re willing to kill an innocent young woman, just to see if your mummy will walk.”
“What do I care about the death of a girl? What is her life compared to mine? If the mummy walks, Saint, I will make more. I have the process to mummify the living. I have the money to make the plate. I can find more girls to die. I will have an army at my command, Saint. I will have an undead army to take over the city. To take over the country. To take over the continent. To take over the world! And why stop there? Why stop at one world? There must be others. I will be the universe, Saint!”
“You’re quite insane, but then, I knew that when I saw you and your brand of science.”
“Well, Saint. I do not care if the girl lives or dies. It could have been any virgin girl. Fortune provided me with the perfect component for the process. However, you present yourself as the dashing hero slaying dragons and rescuing the damsel in dire. It pleases me to know, Saint, that you are about to sit here and watch a girl bleed to death. Watch the razors slice into untouched skin. Watch, Saint. Watch for that is all you will be able to do. I will enjoy your suffering.”
A voice thunders from above.
“No good man or good woman dies today!”
The madman looks up.
“Santo!” he hisses.
Simon glances toward the ceiling. He smiles. Instead of seeing a helpless Elisa Monti, El Santo, mask aglitter, grips the rope.
Santo lets go of the rope. He spreads his legs, bounces off the cage of razors and somersaults down.
A silver blur plunges hard into the sarcophagus. Mummy dust billows around the Luchador.
“No! The mummy!”
“Hah! The easiest time I’ve ever had when destroying a monster.”
“Kill you!”
The maniac speeds toward Simon’s ally and wraps his hands around his thick throat.
Simon feels the impact of something hard thump and thump against his back. He suddenly realizes the gang sensing a turn of events takes their only chance to get even. Which is luck for him, since he can now bring the chair to the floor and crack.
Simon rolls to his feet as the bullets strike the sarcophagus. He makes a mad dash around the epic battle between hero and monster, grappling in a death lock. He backs up into the table, grips the edge and sends the glassware and the contents shattering to the floor.
Fire bursts from the chemicals as the colorful liquids mix. The flames lick at the shelves.
Sol flies past him after Santo’s enthusiastic punch to the solar plexus.
“Come join the fight, Templar!”
Santo carries the mummy’s shield. The bullets ricochet off the gold.
“I’m a little chained to my work at the moment.”
“Bah.”
Santo reaches out.
With a tug, Simon’s hands and arms split free. He raises his arms and stares in disbelief at the chains, ripped asunder, dangling from the cuffs around his wrists.
“Thanks for the assist, but how did you find me?”
Santo tosses Simon the shield.
“I placed a tracker in your suit pocket.”
“You sly, old saint.”
“Take out the men. I will deal with Dr. Sol.”
“As you command, my liege.”
The men must have run out of ammunition, for the two coming at him bear long knives.
Simon blocks the first with the shield then rounds on the second. He snaps out his wrist, ruining a stab to the heart. He drives his toe into the man’s groin. The thug’s face puckers and the knife slips from his fingers.
Simon scoops up the blade and turns on his compadre. He let’s his nemesis’ knife skiff along the shield and judos him into the man on his knees.
With a quick flick, he sends the knife into the gut of a third man charging forward. The surprised gangster keels over, tripping another.
Two other men red with rage batter their raw fists against Simon’s shield, forcing Simon down.
A scream echoes through the theater. The men stop their assault as the mad doctor hurls into them. Simon looks into the direction from whence the flying maniac arose.
Santo, shirtless and bleeding from claw-marks, stomps out of the darkness.
“Stay down, Templar, and brace yourself.”
He’s not surely thinking—Oh, yes, he is.
Santo leaps.
He bounds off the shield, which Simon barely holds steady. The Saint goes down. When he raises his shield, he sees Santo pick up a man in either hand and smack them together.
El Santo discards the men and lifts Dr. Sol off the ground. The lunatic screams, and Santo slams him into the Sarcophagus. He heaves the lid off the burning shelves and seals tight the shrieking villain.
“He claimed to be stronger than the above average man.”
“Maybe, but he is not stronger than El Santo.”
Simon takes Santo’s hand and regains his footing.
He glances behind at a slow moving fire.
“I’m very disappointed in that spark.”
“It doesn’t always work out like you plan.”
“Where’s Elisa?”
“Safe and sound, wearing my jacket and calling Sanchez from my car.” Santo’s hand stings, and Simon stumbles as the Luchador claps him on the back. “You provided an excellent distraction, my friend. Everybody’s eyes were on you and Sol. They did not see me pulling in the slab to the balcony.”
“You lifted that whole thing?”
“The trick was doing it silently.”
Between bouts, Santo went back to fighting monsters and mad doctors. Isabel mended nicely and headed more digs uncovering ancient relics and the bones of our ancestors, wherever they may be hiding. Elisa Monti returned to college and still works at Diego’s. She would find that should she need it a sum of 20,000 American dollars lay in a bank account with her name. I don’t really see why every Aztec piece should end up collecting dust in a museum. Especially a mislaid gold shield.
