It’s Dominique. ‘Jacob, dinner’s ready. I want you and your brother home now, please. And tell Dr. Mohr that his wife called, and he’d better get his rear end in gear.’

Dave Mohr checks his watch. ‘Oops, abort, abort. I’ll see you boys tomorrow morning.’

Immanuel watches the wiry scientist hurry toward the exit. ‘He seems to know an awful lot about this spaceship.’

‘He should,’ says Jacob. ‘After all, he once piloted it.’

‘Huh?’

Jacob turns to face him, his piercing blue eyes suddenly dead serious. ‘The time loop, Manny. When the cataclysm strikes Earth, Dave Mohr will be one of the scientists selected for Mars Colony. Only he’ll never make it, his ship and several others caught within the gravitational forces of the wormhole.’

‘Dr. Mohr was on Xibalba?’

‘Yes. Fortunately, he and a few other members of the brotherhood managed to escape before the Abomination took over.’

‘Whoa, wait a minute … are you telling me Dr. Mohr was a … a Guardian?’

‘Was, and will be again, unless we return to Xibalba and succeed. He doesn’t remember it, but Dr. Mohr was once the great Mayan wise man, Kukulcán.’

South Beach, Florida

The setting sun has turned the Atlantic Ocean a deep magenta.

Lauren remains hidden in the shadows of an alleyway another five minutes before crossing A-1-A to the row of private beach garages. She quickly locates the facility belonging to the Peacock family and enters the access code.

The aluminum panel opens, revealing motorized water skis, lounge chairs, and a canary yellow three-wheeled dune buggy, its fiber-cast hull more boat than car.

Lauren climbs inside the two-passenger open cockpit of the Amphibian. Powering up the engine, she guides the vehicle out of its garage, then bounds over the grass dunes and sand, straight into the ocean.

Waves lift the buoyant vessel away from the silt. Wheels retract. A forward ski moves into place beneath the pointed bow, a rotary-driven propeller dropping beneath its stern.

Lauren guns the engines. The wind howls in her ears as she races north, bouncing along the surface at fifty miles an hour, heading for Cape Canaveral.

Hangar 13, Kennedy Space Center,
Cape Canaveral, Florida

Roasted turkey. Stuffing. Sweet potatoes. Freshly baked rolls.

Immanuel is stuffed. He lays his head back against the violet cushion and belches.

‘That was nice.’

‘Sorry, Ma, but that was the best meal I’ve had in a long time. How long it take you to synthesize it?’

She shoots him a harsh look. ‘I cooked it. That was real turkey, not that synthetic soy crap laced with flavoring and chemicals. If you want to get your dailies, take them the old-fashioned way.’

Grand Master Chong enters, a look of concern on the old man’s face. ‘Jacob, come please. Your brother, too.’

Dominique feels the blood rush from her face. ‘What is it?’

The monk shakes his head. ‘We have guests.’

Atlantic Ocean
8:56 p.m.