Free Rogue Angel 52: Death Mask by Alex Archer

palace beneath a Christian church? That had to be about more than just a mask. But if that was true, then she was just wasting time chasing it, wasn’t she? This was all about the mask. It had to be.
    Annja was about to leave the chapel when she noticed an inconsistency in the design on the wall. She would have dismissed it, but she realized that the repeated pattern in the mosaic matched that of the bow of the key—latticework entwined around a crucifix. And then it struck her: it was a combination of Moorish and Christian design. She was in the right place. It wasn’t a design she’d encountered elsewhere.
    It tied the key and the chapel together.
    She ran her fingers over the distortion.
    The crucifix in one repetition of the pattern was missing, replaced by something that looked, on closer inspection, like an arched doorway. There was a chance it was a flaw in the design, maybe a problem in the manufacture or a mistake made by whoever had assembled the mosaic, but that changed nothing. The pattern on the key
was
the pattern in the floor.
    She ran her eyes around the room, searching for a repetition of the error somewhere in case it had been deliberately mirrored. There was nothing.
    Annja squatted down, putting the distorted design at eye level.
    She placed the tip of a fingernail against the arch. The surface was softer than she’d expected. She had mistakenly assumed that the image had been part of the tile, but as she teased away at the arch, she discovered that it was the accumulated dirt and grime of centuries that had built up in a hollow, perhaps even a hole inside the tile.
    That got her heart pumping.
    Annja brushed at the dirt, scraping it away until it became an obvious indentation in the ceramic. She felt in her pocket, searching for something thin and sharp that she could use to dig it out. She found her bike’s ignition keys; they’d do the trick. After a minute of careful work, scraping away at the grime around the hole, it was obvious that it was actually large enough to allow the old key she’d found in the Moorish coffin to slide inside.
    She took a deep breath and turned the key slowly, gently, trying not to force the mechanism, which had rusted with age.
    The key turned.
    She heard a click from behind the wall.
    A panel of the wall had been released. It had widened a crack. Annja worked it open carefully. Finally, the crack was large enough for her to walk through, though she had to stoop.
    She turned on her flashlight, shining the beam into the darkness beyond.

8
    19:50
—Seville
    Mateo didn’t break pattern. He turned through a series of lefts, circling around his original position, just to be sure that the car behind them really was on their tail.
    The old man noticed a tattoo on the back of Mateo’s hand.
    He hadn’t noticed it before, but now that he had, he couldn’t help but be intrigued by it.
    His instinct was to ask what it meant, but given the fact they were being followed, and escaping their pursuers was very much dependent upon Mateo’s concentration and driving skills, distracting him with questions didn’t feel particularly smart. It wasn’t as if a remark about his tattoo couldn’t wait a few moments, after all.
    Instead, he watched the driver through the rearview mirror, well aware that his eyes kept darting up to meet the old man’s gaze.
    Roux didn’t like being followed.
    He decided to force a confrontation, rather than risk his pursuer tagging along to whatever discovery was next. Of course, the easiest option was just to give them the slip, but easier wasn’t anywhere near as effective. Or permanent. “We’re going to make an unscheduled stop, Mateo.”
    “You’re the boss.”
    “Indeed I am. Things could get a little interesting if I’m right about our tail.”
    “I like interesting.”
    “Me, too.”
    “Turn in here,” Roux said, directing Mateo into a dead end. The driver did as he was told, no questions asked.
    Roux looked behind them again. The