The Aztec Prophecy

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Joe Hawke crouched in the darkness and waited for a bank of cloud to move in front of the moon. It was full tonight — a blue moon — and lit up the landscape like a stage light. In the distance somewhere behind him he heard the sound of a stream, and further away was the long, low bellowing of a stag. But tonight he wasn’t hunting any red deer. His quarry was something altogether grander.

There was a bleak beauty up here in the Scottish Highlands that appealed to him, but sometimes it could push you hard, and tonight was one of those times. For days now, a heavy storm had blown in from the Atlantic and lashed the area with rain and howling winds. He had spent those days lying in a trench he’d dug out in the small hours of the first night, monitoring the security.

The trench ran north to south to minimize the summer sun which even up here could be a problem during the day. Using fallen branches from the woods as support beams he’d covered it over with peat and moss. The rest was nothing more than a waiting game — whatever the weather. He hadn’t once considered delaying the mission because of the weather — the SBS didn’t do things like that — but all the same he was glad when he woke that morning and saw the storm had blown out.

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