Hans fled through the undergrowth, following the girl. The shouts of his pursuers mingled with the howls of monkeys. They crouched among the branches when footsteps drew near.
"Shhh… don't move," Magdalena whispered in his ear. "Stay still and don't make a sound."
"What do you plan to do?" Hans asked nervously.
"Buy us time."
The footsteps came quickly. The girl whistled. Hans trembled but held himself still. The men arrived, bearing torches.
"Magdalena, what are you doing here?" Vicente demanded.
"What does it look like? I'm helping search for the heretic."
"Does Father Rafael or the disciple Derek know you're here?"
"He sent me. The heretic went that way—I saw him pass."
The men ran off in the direction she pointed. Magdalena and Hans slipped deeper into the foliage, when suddenly a tall, broad-shouldered figure with a lantern blocked their way. It was Kwame, watching them with indifference. Both froze, pale and petrified with terror.
From a distance came a whistle and Toby's voice:
"Any news?"
Kwame looked at the fugitives. Hans was about to clasp his hands in supplication, while Magdalena, more pragmatic, searched for a weapon with her eyes. Then Kwame shouted back:
"Nothing here!"
And with that, he turned and walked away into the darkness of the jungle.
Hans remained bewildered and confused, but Magdalena tugged at his arm.
"Come on… don't waste time!" she urged.
The two ran, forcing their way through the branches, lit by the cold silver glow of the moon, until they reached a cluster of rocks—remnants of some forgotten ceremonial structure. They hid in a hollow beneath the stones. Gasping, the Jesuit tried to catch his breath, when the girl gripped his shoulders and forced him to meet her eyes.
"Listen closely. Flee that way…" she pointed through the branches. "You'll reach the ancient temple, and from there, straight on to the coast. There you may find a canoe to carry you to Campeche."
She thrust a letter into his hands.
"Deliver it to the Audiencia in Campeche. It is vital—if it reaches them, the redoubt will be undone."
The German stared at her in confusion.
"What is all this?" he asked.
"Rafael and his men are no servants of God," she said firmly. "They are pirates. They dress as priests to keep us subdued, forcing us to extract a mineral—Azure Ore—that they draw from a cenote and send to a station called Xul-Kan."
Hans's eyes widened.
"Pirates?"
Magdalena nodded, still watching the jungle.
"I confirmed it tonight. They spoke of Nassau, of Tortuga, of assaults on the fleet… even of an attack on Isla Negra."
"Isla Negra?" Hans repeated, incredulous.
"They said it was provoked by a writer. The Inquisition tried to silence him because in his novel he mentioned certain nautical charts tied to Verbeck's treasure."
Hans looked at her with astonishment.
"Verbeck… the pirate Verbeck?"
"The very same. According to them, this Hawk possessed the charts… and it seems they knew him well."
The Jesuit caught his breath, pressing his lips tight.
"Hawk… Black Skull," he muttered. "Brian mentioned him… now it all fits."
Magdalena pressed the letter to his chest.
"Take this, Father—I trust you… this is our last chance."
He accepted the letter.
"And you? What will become of you?" he asked.
"I'll manage. Now go!"
Hans hesitated, but at her insistence he fled in the direction she had shown. He ran, tearing through the brush and thickets, guided by the moon's silver light. But shadows engulfed him, and he could scarcely see where to tread or what to leap over. Suddenly, a pair of red eyes stopped him.
Before him, a jaguar stood with jaws agape, ready to devour. The Jesuit froze, breath held. He stepped back once, then again. A roar shook him. He broke into a desperate run, the beast crashing after him, unwilling to let him escape. The Jesuit flailed at branches and thorns, the pounding of the animal's paws ever closer behind. Then the ground gave way beneath his feet and he plunged into a pit.
Above, the jaguar leaned in, swiping furiously, while Hans cried out, trying to ward it off. The creature pricked its ears, hesitated, then abruptly turned and vanished, its steps fading into silence.
Hans drew a deep breath and slumped against a cluster of roots, gasping. He murmured a prayer of thanks and leaned against the stone wall. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw them: scraps of clothing, fragments of leather boots, and other scattered belongings. Among them he discerned English coins, buttons stamped with a crowned anchor and the letters "GR" etched in tarnished brass. He also found a pipe. Lifting it to the moonlight, he read the name carved upon it: Ralph Blake.
Magdalena's suspicions were true—these men were pirates.
A sudden noise made him recoil. He stumbled against something hard, and looked down. A skeleton. The skull rolled to his feet. Hans froze, gripped by fear and revulsion. The grim discovery seemed to grin at him from its hollow sockets.
A medallion still hung from the corpse's neck. By the moonlight he made out its oval shape: the insignia of the Society of Jesus, the monogram IHS encircled by rays of sun. He lifted it carefully; it was blackened with age. Raising his eyes to the skull, which seemed to stare back with an eternal smile, he whispered:
"Oh heavens… forgive me, brother."
He made the sign of the cross, set the skull gently upon the skeleton's lap, pocketed the medallion, and stood, intent on climbing out.
At that instant, torches ringed the pit. They had found him. Brian leaned over, his broad grin mocking.
"Hello, you little bitch. You squealed louder than a Tortuga doxy taken by a whole crew," the pirate spat, showing yellow, crooked teeth.
"Caught like a rat in a bucket," another man jeered with laughter.
Hans sighed. Once again, back to point zero.