Cryptid Kingdom (Cryptid Zoo Book 6)

by Gerry Griffiths

  The separate sleeping quarters—partially screened off by a room divider painted with falling leaves and a flock of swallows in flight—had two twin birch framed beds that were mere inches off the laminate wood plank flooring and matching nightstands with tiger designs on the porcelain lamps with white linen shades.

  It lacked a fully functional kitchen but had a mini refrigerator. A bowl of mixed fruit was on an oval table tucked against the wall with three stiff back chairs.

  Mason saw their duffle bags and other gear had been brought into the room and was lined up by the room divider. He smiled at Song. “Thank you.”

  Song gave him a slight bow.

  “When will we see you again?” Mason asked.

  “Tomorrow. I will be here at eight o’clock sharp.” Song backed out of the room and closed the door behind her.

  Mason turned and saw Ramsey with an orange. His friend bit into the rind and began peeling the fruit with his thumb. He halved the orange and handed it to Mason.

  Mason separated a wedge and stuffed it in his mouth. The mandarin orange was sweet and juicy. It was so good he popped in another segment.

  Ramsey plopped down on a rattan chair, extended his legs onto the coffee table, and crossed his ankles with his heels on the surface. He finished his part of the orange and tossed the curled rind on the table. “Well, what do you think? Not too shabby, eh?”

  Mason sat down on the low back couch. He reached over, slapped Ramsey’s boots, and picked up the peeling. “Best to show some respect and not trash the place.”

  “Oh yeah. Sorry,” Ramsey said and removed his feet from the table. “So what happens now?”

  “I have no idea. I guess we play it one day at a time.”

  “Ever wonder what happened to the rest of the guys?”

  “Who knows,” Mason said.

  “Think we’ll ever see that wacko doctor again?”

  “McCabe? I hope not. Guy scares the shit out of me.”

  “You and me both.”

  6

  AIRSICK

  Lucas Finder gazed out the cabin window at the knife-edged wing slicing through the clouds as the long-range Gulfstream G650ER cruised at a speed of 500 miles an hour over the Pacific Ocean.

  Swiveling his chair around, Finder couldn’t help admiring the plush interior. The fuselage had eight windows on each side and seating for 11 people with high-backed contoured seats with side tables, and two sprawling leather couches. A 55-inch flat screen was mounted on the bulkhead in the rear, not far from the lavatory.

  The 75 million-dollar aircraft was the most expensive private jet on the market, which was only a drop in the bucket for Finder’s multi-billionaire boss.

  “What’s wrong, Lucas?” Carter Wilde asked, occupying the vacant seat next to Finder. “You haven’t touched your drink.” Wilde had on a $50,000 finely tailored blue Kiton K-5 business suit which had taken 45 tailors 25 hours to stitch, a big contrast from the unimposing black cassock and black boots that Finder was used to seeing his boss wearing when the obscenely-rich man was going through his superior-than-God phase. He’d since lost the ponytail and his gray hair and beard were neatly trimmed.

  Finder stared down at the tumbler of Beluga Epicure vodka that ran about $10,000 a bottle. “Sorry, sir. My stomach is still in a knot,” he lied, inferring he was still queasy from the turbulence they had experienced half an hour ago.

  “I’ve had bumpier rides on Mulholland Drive. Sure it isn’t something else?” Wilde pressed.

  As Chief Operating Officer of Wilde Enterprises, it was Finder’s job to oversee Carter Wilde’s conglomerate of businesses all over the world. It seemed lately his boss had his finger in just about every corporate pie. But not all of Wilde’s ventures were proving fruitful. “We hit some setbacks,” Finder confessed.

  “Don’t tell me. The Egyptians.”

  “After much negotiation, they passed. Didn’t want another Cryptid Zoo fiasco.”

  “What about France?”

  “There’s too much going on with the riots and that stupid gasoline tax.”

  “So we’re not breaking ground next to the Eiffel Tower?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What about the others?”

  “I’m still working on them.”

  “What a bunch of weasels,” Wilde said, taking a sip of his 23-year-old bourbon whiskey.

  “Well, at least the Chinese held up their part of the agreement,” Finder said, knowing his boss was disappointed having learned there was no longer interest in Wilde’s projects to fund and build Cryptid Zoo domes in two more foreign countries, making it now a total of four.

  “That they did. Thanks to Henry.”

  Finder knew Wilde was referring to Henry Chang, the wealthiest man in China. “Don’t forget his daughter, Luan. The woman’s a genius.”

  “Who’s a genius?” a voice said. It was Dr. Joel McCabe. He was dressed casual: blue blazer, yellow polo shirt, and black trousers. He sat down on the couch facing them and took a gulp of his Samuel Adams’ Utopias.

  “We were talking about Luan Chang,” Wilde said.

  “Oh, her. Whatever happened to Howard?” McCabe asked.

  “Professor Nora Howard is no longer in my employment and hasn’t been for some time. You know that.”

  “So what are you saying?” McCabe put his beer bottle down on a glass table. “That Luan Chang is a better bioengineer than Howard?”

  “Possibly. We won’t know until we see for ourselves.”

  “You think she’s better than me?” McCabe leaned forward with his forearms on his thighs and gave Wilde a challenging glare.

  “Like I said, we won’t know until we see for ourselves.”

  “Screw you, Carter.”

  “I thought you might say that, Joel.”

  McCabe got up. “I need another beer.”

  Finder figured why not at $150 a bottle.

  “Sometimes he can be such a pain,” Wilde said.

  Finder often questioned why his boss continued to associate with McCabe and keep him around after what the unhinged man had done, first creating an explosion under the original Cryptid Zoo dome and then unleashing a horde of vicious creatures to ruin the grand opening of Wilde Skyway which was to be the tallest building in the world until Saudi Arabia announced it was building Jeddah Tower, a 824-foot taller skyscraper.

  McCabe made his way up the aisle between the six men seated up front, two of them Wilde’s personal bodyguards; the other four archaic members of Wilde’s pro-cryptid activists group: the Cryptos. The doctor waltzed up to the flight attendant standing next to the liquor cart and gave her his empty bottle. She reached in the cooler and handed McCabe another beer.

  “We’re about to land,” Finder heard Wilde say. “I’m counting on a good visit. I have a lot riding on this joint-venture.”

  “I know, sir.”

  Wilde patted Finder on the knee and returned up front.

  Finder stared down at his glass. It didn’t matter how many times it had been filtered or how smooth the vodka was going down, it would still feel like molten lava flowing through the knots in his stomach.

  7

  STAKEOUT

  FBI Special Agent Anna Rivers’s back was killing her from sitting so long and staring out the windshield. She grabbed the infrared night vision binoculars off the dashboard and focused in on the loading dock poorly lit up under a single floodlight on the other side of the chain-link fencing. She could make out the sign over the bay doors: WILDE FIREARMS—A DIVISION OF WILDE ENTERPRISES

  It was going on four in the morning and they’d been parked back in the trees for almost seven hours waiting for something to happen.

  “Did you know the average person will spend 10 years during their lifetime standing in line?” said her partner, Mack Hunter, slouched behind the steering wheel.

  “I guess there are things worse than a stakeout,” Anna said. She rubbed her right eye with her knuckles. “I’d give your left nut for some shuteye
.”

  “Yeah, I bet you would,” Mack replied.

  Anna glanced over and saw her partner pull a worn paperback out of his jacket pocket. He opened the book and shined a penlight on the page. “Seriously, Mack. I don’t think this is the time for reading.”

  “You like it when I read to you.”

  “Shut up. Better not be another one of your spy thrillers.”

  “No,” Mack said. “It’s an edition of Guinness Book of World Records.”

  “Oh, jeez.”

  “What, afraid you might learn something?”

  Anna sighed and stared back out the windshield.

  Mack studied the page with the penlight. “Did you know the longest recorded time a person has gone without sleep is 264 hours? Imagine staying awake for 11 days.”

  “Believe me, I can imagine.” She put a hand up to her mouth to stifle a yawn.

  He flipped through the pages. “Oh, here’s a good one. Did you know the largest coffee cup holds over 6,000 gallons?”

  “Like that would fit on my Keurig,” Anna said.

  An engine rumbling beyond the trees got their attention.

  Mack switched off the penlight and tossed the book on the seat.

  Anna gazed through the night vision goggles. She saw a rental truck pull up to the rear gate. The passenger door opened. “Someone’s getting out,” she said and watched a dark figure in a hooded sweatshirt jump down, walk up and unlock the gate, then climb back into the cab.

  “Fancy that,” Mack said. “Must have a key to the city.”

  The truck drove through, hung a U-turn, and backed up to the loading dock.

  “Better make sure everyone’s seeing this,” Mack said. He pulled out his service pistol and laid the weapon on the car seat.

  Anna clicked on her handheld radio. “Bravo, this is Alpha. We have visual.”

  “Roger, Alpha,” replied a voice over the radio’s speaker.

  “Charlie, do you copy that?” Anna spoke into the radio.

  “Roger, Alpha.”

  The same man that had opened the gate got out of the truck while the driver remained behind the wheel with the engine running. Coming around to the rear of the vehicle, the man bent down and raised the rollup door. Four men, wearing hoodies and dressed in black, exited the cargo hold.

  Anna zoomed in hoping to identify them. Only their eyes could be seen in the balaclava masks, the lower facial portions resembling that of a cryptid creature, either a Thunderbird’s beak or a Bigfoot’s snarling mouth.

  “Well?” Mack said. “Are they Wilde’s radicals?”

  “They’re Cryptos all right.”

  Instead of breaking down the door with a battering ram to the Receiving area, one of the burglars used a keycard and swiped it down the reader. The door sprung open and the men rushed inside.

  Anna handed Mack the portable radio. She drew her service weapon.

  “On my mark,” Mack spoke into the handheld radio.

  In less than a minute the thieves came out, two men on each end carrying long wooden crates.

  “NOW!” Mack shouted into the radio and jumped out of the unmarked sedan.

  Anna threw open her door.

  Two black SUVs came out of nowhere—sirens chirping with blue flashing lights pulsating on the grills—and sped toward the open gate. One Ford Expedition blocked the gate while the other vehicle barreled up to the front of the idling truck.

  Doors flung open and agents carrying handguns and riot shotguns piled out in bulletproof vests and blue FBI insignia blazers.

  The driver of the truck hit the accelerator, plowed into the side of the FBI vehicle blocking it in, and tried to bulldoze its way through. Two agents aimed their weapons at the windshield and rapid-fired, punching twenty or more holes through the tempered glass. The bloody-faced man slumped over the steering wheel.

  Anna and Mack raced through the trees on foot and dashed into the yard.

  The men on the dock had crouched behind the crates and were returning fire with Uzi machinegun pistols. A heavy volley of bullets cut down an agent running to the side of the loading dock.

  Hiding behind a tall stack of wooden pallets, Anna and Mack had a sideview of the Cryptos hunkered behind the wooden boxes of armament. They each took a shot and nailed two unsuspecting men but then one of them turned and unleashed a deadly barrage at Anna and Mack. They dove to the ground as the wooden pallets burst apart into splintery pieces and rained down on their heads like tornado debris.

  A series of shotgun blasts could be heard along with some high-pitched screams.

  Anna got to her feet and saw the agents swarming the loading dock. The Cryptos were all dead except for one, kneeling on the cement. Rather than surrender and be taken alive, the anarchist shoved the muzzle of his Uzi into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  The agents on the dock watched in horror as the back of the man’s skull exploded in a gory mosaic mess on the wall behind him.

  “Jesus,” Mack said. “What is wrong with these people?”

  “All clear,” an agent called out to the others.

  “Well, now we know. Carter Wilde is willfully supplying his Cryptos with firearms,” Anna said. Her cell phone chimed in her pocket. She took it out and answered. She listened for a moment. “That’s great news, Director. We’ll be ready to go.” She ended the call.

  “What was that about?” Mack asked.

  “Seems we have a lead.”

  “On what?”

  “Carter Wilde. Let’s finish up here and I’ll fill you in on the drive back,” Anna said as they walked over to assist the other agents.

  8

  IMPROMPTO TOUR

  The next morning after Mason and Ramsey had eaten breakfast and tended to their cryptids, Song picked them up in her electric cart and took them topside for a tour.

  Mason had no idea what to expect as they rode up the ramp and came out onto a stone paved path with lush garden settings on both sides. He glanced to his left and saw a tall wall that stretched beyond his line of vision along the tops of the bordering hedges and flowering cherry blossom trees. “So what’s with the wall?” Mason asked.

  “You don’t recognize it?” Song asked. She stopped the cart. She looked at Mason sitting next to her then glanced over her shoulder at Ramsey seated behind Mason.

  Both men shook their heads.

  “It is a replica of the Great Wall of China,” Song said.

  “Yeah, but that’s over a thousand miles long,” Ramsey said.

  “Thirteen thousand miles to be exact,” Song said. “No, the wall you see only surrounds the Kingdom which is 100 acres.”

  “Kingdom?” Mason asked.

  “Yes, Cryptid Kingdom.”

  “Never heard of it,” Ramsey said.

  “Me neither,” Mason said.

  “That is because we don’t open for another two days.”

  “So those creatures we brought are going to be exhibits?”

  “They are only a few.” Song stepped on the accelerator and the electric cart hummed down the paved trailway.

  As they rode down the narrow strip, Mason spotted groundskeepers and maintenance people working various tasks. Mason craned his head back and looked up at the underside of a steel roller coaster suspended off the ground, running parallel twenty feet away from the thirty-foot tall wall.

  Song noticed him gazing up. “That is Cobra Fury. It goes around the entire grounds. It has eight corkscrew turns like a serpent.”

  “So what is this, some kind of amusement park?” Ramsey said.

  “Oh, much more.” Song drove over an arched bridge spanning a bubbling brook surrounded by greenery and artificial boulders used to conceal pumps and machinery.

  Mason saw an ornate structure with orange tiles on three tiered swooping roofs. A series of orange cement steps led up to an archway. “What is that place?” he asked.

  “That is Yeren Temple where your Yeren will be. It is a high honor.”

  “I’d like to take a
look inside.”

  “You will. Later,” Song said and kept driving.

  The next building was circular in design and had blue tile roofs.

  “What are those things in front?” Ramsey asked, leaning forward in the back seat.

  Mason saw two giant bronze statues like bookends bordering the front steps. The bigheaded beasts had round balls on their manes, broad shoulders, and sat on their haunches. Armor plates covered their front legs. Their sharp claws seemed to dig into the cement.

  “They are the loyal guardians of Fu Lion Pavilion.”

  “So what are they guarding?” Ramsey asked.

  “Fu Lions of course.”

  “What?” Mason said.

  “Up ahead is the Birdhouse.”

  Mason spotted a white two-story building with a pavilion roof. Wraparound decks with waist-high fences surrounded the structure on both floors so that people could walk around the aviary and peer through the six-foot diameter glass portals at the exhibits inside. It looked like a giant decorative birdhouse one would expect to see perched on top of a post in someone’s backyard.

  As they reached a corner of the oblong property, Song steered right for about 100 feet and stopped the cart. “If you look up, you will see Sky-High.”

  Mason stared up at the chairlifts that stretched to the other side of the grounds and continued back for a full loop around the center of the park.

  Part way down he spotted a circular area the size of four backyard swimming pools butted together, cordoned off with fifteen-foot tall chain-link fencing rimmed with razor wire. “What’s that for?” he asked.

  “The Wuhnan Toads,” Song said.

  “All that for a bunch of frogs,” Ramsey said.

  “What about that?” Mason said, pointing to a ladder just outside the fence, leading up to a small platform overhanging the enclosure.

  “That is how we feed them.”

  Mason looked back at his friend. Ramsey gave him a shrug.

  Instead of driving the entire inside perimeter, Song chose to take a shortcut beneath the Sky-High chairlifts. To their left was a gigantic water park with a body of water for a wave machine and four tube slides emptying into a large lagoon and what appeared to be the glass front to a giant aquarium.