The guard at her side took her arm again and led her to the staircase on the west side of the temple which was still enveloped in darkness. She stared up at the top that was brightly illuminated by a bank of stadium lights in the distance.

Reluctantly, she climbed the first step, knowing that it began the journey to her death.

TEMPLE OF THE UNIVERSE 2012, ANCIENT CITY.

OF TEOTIHUACAN.

WITH HIS WHITE ROBE flowing behind, arms raised to the heavens, and chanting an ancient prayer, Javier Scarrow ascended one branch of the twin staircases that climbed up the center of the east wall of the Temple of the Universe. Bound by balustrades elaborately carved with a mosaic of geometric designs, the stairs rose 197 feet, the same as his Templo Mayor, to a flat platform at the top. Such sweetness Scarrow had never felt before as the eyes of the world followed him with millions of souls spellbound in awe. He was a living miracle, proof that his way was the blessed path for the universe. He was the new messiah, and the world was now convinced. With every step, a magnificent hallowed contentment welled up inside him. This was the crowning moment, and all the years, over so many lifetimes, all the work, all the determination and dedication brought to execution the greatest undertaking of all time. All that remained to fulfill his mission was now in the hands of his apostles who were back in their homelands ready to begin harvesting the Sweet Flowers for the garden of his gods. Spread before him were so many new converts who now believed as he did that the world, and how man treats it, must change forever. Combine that with the fact that the gods were about to be appeased with the blood drawn forth from the xochimiqui by his apostle-there had been no greater moment in the history of mankind.

The masses gathered below hushed, some falling to their knees, others silently weeping, but all fixing their eyes on their savior of the new world, the one who had just risen from the dead. He was within moments of the first sacrifice to the gods and in so doing, he would start the process of bringing the universe back into alignment and harmony-a new era of peace for all.

Scarrow took his last step before reaching the pinnacle. So sweet, he thought, standing on the platform. He smiled as he caught the first glimpse of his newest and final apostle, Hernan Cortes. The man emerged from the antechamber and came to flank the sacrificial altar hidden from those below by a stone wall. The sunlight glinted off the obsidian knife in Cortes's hand as if it were a mirror reflecting back its power to give life by taking life.

But this ritual would be performed out of view of the crowd. Scarrow had even negotiated in the media coverage contracts that there would be no aerial filming or photography.

Prepared to perform the sacrosanct ritual, Cortes's black painted body was partially obscured by a dark hooded cloak.

Hernan Cortes was the perfect example of the magic of dualities for which Scarrow's Aztec nation had always been fascinated. Light and darkness, death and life, fire and water. Cortes had destroyed the once mighty nation. Now he was integral in the first step to bring it back to life. The irony caused a slight smile on Scarrow's lips. This was the end and the beginning. The very first sacrifice-Sweet Flower.

His senses flooded; the aroma of the incense, the sight of the altar and the apostle priest, the sound of people worshipping and praying below, the taste of victory electrifying the air, the pungent odor of smoke from the newly lit Eternal Flame, and the vision of the perfect sacrifice-his Sweet Flower, his Sweet xochimiqui.

Seneca stood near the fire clothed in a plain white tunic that would be removed before laying her down and arching her back over the altar stone. Her eyes were glassy from the narcotic, and strands of her hair fell across her face. She was guarded on both her right and left by two disciples.

"You are ready." Scarrow's words were not a question but a statement. "This morning, a new age begins with you."

Seneca sluggishly shook her head. "No. Don't do this."

Scarrow opened his robe, raised his face to the heavens, and welcomed the warmth of the sun on his copper skin that glowed in the early light as did his gilded breastplate and loincloth woven with golden threads.

Eyes closed, he spoke. "Most giving and resourceful Quetzalcoatl, I implore you, make it your will that your people enjoy the goods and riches you naturally give, that freely issue from you, that are pleasing and savory, and that delight and comfort. Let our sacrifices bring forgiveness and a return to universal accord."

He folded his robe about him once more and walked to a raised podium at the edge of the temple platform so he could address the crowd. When he came into view, the throng erupted into shouts and praises. It took several minutes for Scarrow to still them enough so that he could speak.

His voice was strong, and his words articulated with a charismatic command. "You have seen the spikes driven through my flesh, my blood spilled on the ground, my death, and finally you have witnessed the miracle of my resurrection. My sacrifice for you. Unequivocal proof to those who doubted. Hear my words, take my message into your hearts, become like the birds of the air. Shine like the stars in the-"

A noise diverted him, one that seemed to materialize out of the crisp morning air. It took a moment for Scarrow to recognize the sound. The whirring and whop, whop, whop of the long, flat blades and the predator scream of the jet turbines.

He squinted into the newly risen sun, but its brilliance blinded him. Switching his focus to the crowd below he saw people start looking to the sky, pointing, unsure. When it became apparent that the craft was hovering and intended to land, the masses scattered. The helicopter dropped, throwing up a cloud of dust and settling at the foot of the Temple of the Universe.

The hundreds of television cameras shifted from Scarrow's face to refocus on the sleek, bullet-shaped aircraft; its skin alien black, its knife-edged rotors slowing. The high-pitched shriek of the jets seemed to cut into Scarrow's brain.

His eyes flickered from one giant video projection screen to another, trying to identify the intruder. Who had violated his orders for no aerial coverage? Who dared insult the new savior of the world?

And then he saw the words-silver letters gleaming against the black metal. Two words that sliced deep into his heart with the same deadly force as an Aztec sacrificial knife.

Groves Consortium.

Security stood down as the side door opened and three men emerged.

One dressed as a cowboy.

CLIMB TO HEAVEN 2012, ANCIENT CITY.

OF TEOTIHUACAN.

BILLY GROVES REARED BACK his head and directed his vision to the top of the Temple of the Universe. He saw Scarrow peering over the top, shading his eyes with his hand as if trying to get a better view through the glare of the sun and the dun-colored dust thrown up by Groves's chopper.

Matt put his foot on the first step of the pyramid's staircase to begin the ascent and take the silver chest to Seneca.

Groves snapped forward, gripped Matt's arm and pulled him back. "No."

Matt whipped around. "What are you doing?"

"Give it to me."

Al moved beside Matt and held up his hand. "Back away, Groves. Let him go. If there's a chance Seneca can stop all this madness as you said she promised, then we have to get the veil to her. Unless everything you've said has been a lie."

"It's not a lie. Your daughter and I had a deal. She wanted me to contact you, and I did. She wanted her father to come get her, and I've seen to that." Groves paused, and in a silent plea, first gazed at Al's eyes, then Matt's. "But let me take it from here. Just as I look at you, I want Scarrow to peer into my eyes and see into my soulsee the wretchedness that abides there day after endless day. The longing I have to finally be free. I want him to know my agony and understand that I'm ready for it all to end. Let me take it to her. I've earned that right."

Matt slowly settled the reliquary in Groves's hands. "I believe you have."

Handling the box as he would something so precious that he feared his clutch might damage it, Groves clasped the reliquary to his chest. "Thank you." His words were whispered as he turned and began his journey to the top.

He had come with no wig, no fake beard, no disguise. Just Billy Groves, the simple cowboy. He wanted to go out as the man he was before this nightmare began. The years of nutrition neglect and lack of physical activity had taken its toll, and every bending of his knees sent shocks of pain riveting all the way to his spine. His feet cramped in his boots, and his hips ached inside the denim jeans. After the first dozen steps he was winded and his heart beat like a frenzied bass drum beneath his ribcage. But he pressed on, now and again pausing to rest and look up at the sun-blinded, confused face of Javier Scarrow-the Emperor Montezuma II.

If Seneca could end Scarrow's horrific scheme and also extinguish his own misery-and he trusted that what she had told him about the angel's command to Veronica was true-it didn't matter how much he struggled for breath or how much pain his body suffered. After all, the physical pain wouldn't kill him. He would deliver her the veil and be ready to accept whatever happened next.

Long ago he had come to terms with God and repented for his sins. There was no fear of dying, only fear of living forever. He was climbing, not to the top of the pagan Aztec temple, but to eternal peace.

He was climbing to heaven.

ASHES TO ASHES 2012, ANCIENT CITY.

OF TEOTIHUACAN.

SENECA STRUGGLED TO FOCUS. She thought she detected bewilderment in Scarrow's body language. Instead of his projected confidence, his shoulders slumped and his jaw loosened as he backed away from the podium.

Her eyes went to one of the huge monitors. It showed a man slowly climbing the temple steps, his back to the camera as he neared the top. Whoever it was seemed to be having an unsettling effect on Scarrow. She concentrated, making a desperate effort to stay alert and trying to clear the blurriness of her sight. The heat from the Eternal Flame in front of her only added to the nausea and haziness. She glanced to her side and caught the glint of the obsidian knife in the hand of the black-cloaked priest standing ready to cut out her heart. The drugs made it appear as if she looked through a star filter on a camera lens, creating dramatic cross flares from points of light.

Oh, God, I don't want to die.

Visions sputtered through her mind of Daniel's last moments and the thrashing seizures of the man in Panama. Terrified, her panic soared.

Don't want to die.

Don't want to die!

Seneca lifted her head to glimpse the man climbing the temple steps. At first it was just the Stetson, but then the face.

Billy Groves.

As he crested the top, she saw the reliquary, and she let out a sob. When he had told her the tale of his encounter with the veil, she put his story together with Al's history of the relic and knew exactly what had to be done.

The angel's command to Veronica was in two parts; the first to wipe the face of the prophet. The second was to burn the veil, but only after Christ's ascension.

That was the key.

If Veronica had not touched Christ's face with her veil, He never would have been resurrected; He would have died like all other men. But she did wipe the blood and sweat from His face, and Christ rose from the dead. He didn't immediately ascend to Heaven. That came forty days later. If Veronica had destroyed the veil by fire during the forty days before the Ascension, Jesus would have died like any other mortal man. Seneca had been given the message to destroy the veil. She must finish what Veronica had failed to do. Obey the angel's command and this terror would end.

Groves stood at the top of the temple and held out the reliquary toward Scarrow. "You know what this is?" He hitched his head toward Seneca. "She tells me she can stop this madness. And I believe her. All she needs is what's inside here."

Scarrow moved farther from the edge of the temple, drawing both himself and Groves out of crowd and camera view. "No, William. You don't understand. If we do not return to the old ways, shed our blood to give back to the gods, the world will end as we know it. I am here to save us all. That is why I was given the gift of the "And I was given the same gift. But it was a mistake, and it's all got to stop. I don't know how to do it, but she does." Groves ambled past Scarrow to stand beside Seneca. He opened the reliquary.

Seneca's eyes settled on the veil and tears streamed down her cheeks.

The disciples guarding her backed away. Even her would-be executioner slinked into the shadows.

Groves delicately lifted the veil from the reliquary and offered it to her.

Before taking it, she painfully looked at Groves. "You know what this means?"

"I'm ready."

Scarrow rushed forward. "What are you doing?"

Seneca reached deep inside for the strength inherited from her mother, the strength she now had within every cell of her body. She dangled the veil above the Eternal Flame. "The angel commanded Veronica to burn the veil. I intend to finish what she started."

Scarrow's face paled. "Wait." Then his voice lowered to a consoling pitch, his charismatic intonations and inflections made the words seem to spool off his tongue like spun silk.

He came close. "Touch it to your face and live forever. You have witnessed up close what death looks like, felt the tremors of death in your arms, seen the convulsions as the body fights for one last breath. Your Daniel. My apostle. You know more than anyone. You would never have to go through that. A gentle touch to your face and you'll never suffer such a fate."

Seneca held the cloth close to her heart.

Never have to die.

Never.

Groves placed his hand on hers. "Is that what you want? Look at what it's done to me. Be brave, Seneca Hunt."

Scarrow gripped her wrist and lifted her hand and the veil close to her face. "Yes, be brave, give yourself this magnificent gift of immortality."

The next moment seemed to hang up somewhere in her mind, frozen in space, in silence.

"Nooooo," Scarrow wailed as she pulled away, her fingers uncurling, setting the cloth free.

Seneca watched it fall to the fire of the Eternal Flame. In slow motion it floated on the heat, winging as the updraft caught it, billowing and slipping downward.

Scarrow swatted at the cloth, attempting a rescue. But he was too late.

As the sacred relic touched the flames it fully opened revealing the image of Billy Groves. The edges curled, browned, and burst into flame.

The three stood motionless staring at the fire.

Seconds passed.

Nothing happened.

Groves's eyes emptied of hope.

Scarrow's expression shifted from horror to relief, to joy. He opened his arms and lifted them toward the sky, praising the gods. Finishing his prayer he looked at Seneca. "You were wrong and you have given up a gift you can never be offered again."

It was then that she saw a small trickle of blood drip from the sleeve of his robe and splatter on the ground, a tiny rose on the marble. She looked at his feet, the gold threads of his sandals suddenly stained red. The wounds from the spikes gaped open and blood poured out forming a crimson pool. Bright red splotches seeped through his robe-the dagger wounds from La Noche Triste; The Sad Night.

Seneca raised her gaze to meet his. Her reaction made him glance at his hands. Startled, his head jerked back up, and his eyes darted from her to Groves.

Billy Groves touched his chest where red stains bloomed across his shirt. Two old wounds.

Seneca placed her palm to Groves's cheek. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

Groves smiled. "I'm not."

ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE 2012, FLORIDA KEYS.

SENECA SMELLED THE FRESH Scent of the ocean sweeping across Matt's second-story veranda. She stood by the railing and sipped a margarita, Matt beside her. She watched the ever-changing orange and red and purple as the sunset put on its final show of the day.

"Just another day in paradise." She held up her glass, and Matt touched the rim of his to it. "And I really like your new boat."

"The insurance payout was more than generous." Matt smiled proudly as he gazed in the direction of the brand new Boston Whaler moored at the end of his dock.

"Sariel II. Nice name."

"She's not only the main character in my books, she's the angel who pays my bills."

"You ready to get back to writing?"

Matt took a sip then nodded. "No choice. My deadline on the new thriller is looming large. You should see the emails from my agent and editor. In some courts they could be considered death threats."

"At least they're not from your radical readers who think you're a heretic."

"Oh, I get those, too. But after what you and I have been through, those wackos come off fairly mild." He turned to Seneca. "How about you? Ready to start the grind again?"

"Actually, yes. First, I've got to fly back to Mexico to testify in Carlos's trial. The courts have been on a fast track to get him convicted for planting the bomb that killed Daniel and the others."

"I hope you can feel some closure in seeing him punished."

She shrugged. "Some." Pausing for a moment, she thought of Daniel. The pale circle around her finger where the engagement ring had once been was a reminder of her loss. She had taken it off several days ago. It was time to move on. Closure meant healing. For the first time since the bombing, the pain didn't cut as deep. But it was still there.

"Yes, I'm ready to work. God knows there's plenty to followup on, starting with the Phoenix Apostles. Scarrow's creations are still among us, carrying on his mission, not because they believe so much in his message, but because they enjoy their task. Scary."