Now you know the real reason why mother and I refused to give up our quest—the reason you were denied a normal childhood back in the States. A greater destiny awaits you, Michael, and we felt it our duty as your parents to prepare you as best we could.

After two decades of research, I still have no real understanding as to the function of this jade device. I suspect it may be a weapon of some sort, left to us by Kukulcan himself, though I can find no power source to speak of that might identify its purpose. I have surmised the obsidian blade lodged within its grasp to be an ancient ceremonial knife, more than a thousand years old, perhaps one that may have once been used to cut out the hearts of sacrificial victims.

I can only hope that you’ll figure the rest out by the time the winter solstice of 2012 arrives.

I pray God helps you on your quest, whatever it may be, and pray also that, one day, you will find it in your heart to forgive this wretched soul for all he has done.

Your loving father,
—J. G.

Mick stares at the letter, rereading it over and over, his mind fighting to grasp what he knows in his heart to be true.

It’s me. I’m the One.

He stands, drops the letter and canister back in the hole, then, clutching the jade object, runs out of the deserted ball court to the western steps of the Kukulcan pyramid.

The sweat is pouring from him by the time he reaches the summit. Wiping the perspiration and remnants of dust from his brow, he staggers into the northern corridor to where the Guardian’s hydraulic trapdoor is concealed.

“Guardian, let me in! Guardian—”

He stamps on the stone floor, calling out again and again.

Nothing happens.

Sacred Cenote

At six feet, seven inches and three hundred pounds, Lt. Colonel Mike “Ming-Ding” Slayer is the tallest Green Beret ever to wear the commando uniform. The raspy-voiced, Chinese-Irish-American is a former professional football player and medical wonder, having had nearly every body part repaired, replaced, or recycled. Ming-Ding has a reputation for punching things with the intent to hurt when he cannot think of the word he wants to use, or when his shoulder or knee goes out.

Using his sleeve, the commando wipes the sweat from his upper lip before the mosquitoes can get to it. Three fucking hours, picking our underwear from our asses in this godforsaken Mexican jungle.

Ming-Ding Slayer is beyond ready to hit something.

The crackling of static in his left ear. The lieutenant colonel adjusts his communicator. “Go ahead, Colonel.”

“Satellite Ops have detected a magnetic flux approaching your position from the north. We believe the alien is traveling through the aquifers and may rise through the sinkhole.”

About fucking time. “Copy that. We’re more than ready.”