The Atlantis Origins

by S. A. Beck

  Jaxon opened up the window and breathed in the humid air. It smelled of life, reminding her of the greenhouse back at the Grants’ home, where she’d had her own little plot to grow things.

  She remembered the topo map they had lost during the sandstorm. She had studied it, fascinated with the terrain that had always seemed like a mystery to her, like looking at the surface of another planet. She knew that they had crossed almost the entire Sahara desert from north to south. Beyond the land made fertile by the River Niger, there were another fifty miles or so of desert before it became savannah. They had traveled so far, and now she felt in an odd way as if they had come home. As they passed through the farmland and villages of the river valley, she searched out faces in the crowd, hoping to spot the typical wide Asian face, black skin, and blue eyes of the Atlantean people. She longed to stop at one of the villages, but after how things had gone down in Oualata, she understood why Grunt kept on driving.

  Otto took her hand in his.

  “Happy?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I wish Edward could see this.”

  “He’s okay.”

  Jaxon thought about that and, after a moment’s silence, replied, “Yes. Yes, he is.”

  She still mourned her friend, but she knew he was in a better place. She was glad he’d finally gotten some happiness, and now he’d only have peace.

  Edward’s last words to her echoed through her mind.

  Make this mean something.

  Jaxon looked forward, to where the narrow road snaked through the Niger River valley toward the fabled city of Timbuktu.

  “I’ll make sure this means a lot, Edward,” she whispered.

  Chapter 18

  August 11, 2016, HOTEL HAPPY OASIS, TIMBUKTU, MALI

  4:15 A.M.

  * * *

  Isadore leapt out of bed as she heard the crash of her door being kicked in. By the time she had made it to her feet and was reaching for the tonfa hidden under her pillow, the first man had sprinted across the room and was already throwing a punch at her face.

  This guy was fast.

  Not fast enough. Isadore caught his arm and flipped him. He landed hard on his back, the air coming out of him with a grunt. From the dim light streaming in from the hallway, she saw three more burly men crowd through the door.

  “Get up and fight, Brett!” she shouted, diving for her tonfa.

  She grabbed the police-style nightstick just in time to connect with the jaw of the lead man, spinning him around before he collapsed.

  The two others were more cautious, spreading out and coming at her from her left and right, the gleam of brass knuckles on their hands. The thump of flesh on flesh behind her told Isadore that Brett was taking care of the man she had thrown on the floor.

  Isadore dodged left to get the bed between her and one of her attackers. He lunged across the width of the bed, but she ducked back easily.

  The other one came around the foot of the bed, and Isadore immediately saw her mistake. Now she had a bed to either side and a wall to her back. Trying to climb over a bed would leave her vulnerable. She was trapped.

  She swung her tonfa, and the man ducked then leapt backward to avoid her backhand. He raised the hand not covered with brass knuckles and sprayed something at her from a small plastic bottle.

  Isadore held her breath and rolled across Brett’s bed to get to the far end of the room. As she did so, the man with the spray bottle cracked her in the leg with his brass knuckles. She let out a cry of pain and landed in a heap at the far side of the bed. At least her attacker had missed her knee. If he had hit it, a blow like that would have crippled her for days. The man grinned and raised his spray bottle again, but Brett grabbed him from behind, pinned both his arms against his sides, and lifted him off the floor.

  The fourth man leapt over the bed after Isadore and got the end of her tonfa right in the belly. The air left his lungs with a loud whoosh, and he toppled back across the bed.

  Brett was still squeezing the man who had tried to spray her. Faintly, she caught a tangy chemical scent and felt her head swim. She struggled to her feet and limped to the far corner of the room to get some clearer air.

  The man with the spray bottle gasped under the incredible pressure Brett was putting on him. Even in the dim light, Isadore could see his face turn purple. Weakly, he turned his hand so the spray bottle faced upward and sprayed them both.

  Brett staggered back, coughing. The man crumpled to the floor, overcome by his own gas.

  Isadore grabbed the nearest pillow, yanked off the pillowcase, and pressed it against her nose and mouth. Even so, she wobbled on her feet like a drunk. It didn’t help that her leg ached with pain that lanced from her toe up to her hip like a red-hot iron. It felt as if that blow had pinched a nerve. Her training took over, and she got into a defensive posture, waiting for the next attack.

  The intruder who had tried coming over the bed at her got to his feet, brass knuckles around one fist and a long, gleaming bowie knife in the other. The man she had flipped onto the floor also got to his feet and kicked Brett in the back of the knee, making him fall. Dodging to one side as the teenager tried to grab him, he picked up the spray bottle and gave Brett a shot full in the face. The kid’s head lolled to one side, his eyes unfocused. His arms flopped erratically as if he were in the last stages of an all-night boozer. Isadore tensed. If it had that much of an effect on someone with Atlantean traits, it would knock her out for hours. And she sure didn’t want to see where she woke up.

  The man checked the spray bottle while his companion tried to get the two others onto their feet, still keeping an eye on Isadore.

  For a moment, Isadore was unsure what to do. They weren’t attacking, but they weren’t exactly retreating either.

  Traces of the knockout spray had made it all over the room, and she could see that, like her, everyone else had gotten a whiff. The two attackers who remained standing looked unsteady on their feet, and the other two were slow getting up. The fact that they were getting up at all proved these guys had training as well as muscle. You needed discipline to move when your whole body was telling you to lie down.

  She studied them for a second. They looked Slavic, with broad faces, blond hair, and blue eyes.

  Isadore took a last breath of fairly pure air through the pillowcase and then tossed it at the knife wielder’s face. He slashed it out of the air, but that half second when his vision was impaired gave her a chance to leap across the bed and bring the tonfa down on his head.

  He parried it with his knife at the last instant, staggering back from the force of the blow. The second man rushed her but had to dodge back as she swung a blow at his side that would have cracked his ribs. The two stayed just out of reach, weapons at the ready. Dimly, she heard worried shouts from the hallway.

  It would be nice if someone would come to a lady’s rescue, she thought. Nah, probably not going to happen.

  She lunged forward with the tonfa, narrowly missing one of her attackers. Just as she’d expected, the guy with the knife tried to cut her arm. She flicked her tonfa to the side and batted his knife arm away. He winced in pain but kept hold of his weapon.

  Cursing, she ducked back to avoid a right hook from a metal-studded fist.

  The three of them paused again, sizing each other up and all coming to the same conclusion. In a one-on-one fight with either of them, Isadore would win. This wasn’t a one-on-one fight, though, so they ended up even.

  So it all came down to who would get back in the fight first—Brett or the other two intruders. All three were struggling to rise and not doing a very good job of it. Isadore noticed that the spray bottle now lay on the floor. Neither of the intruders facing her dove to get it. That meant it must be empty. Neither of them had drawn a gun either, so they must be recent arrivals, just like her. Guys like this could always find weapons in a day or two, no matter where they were.

  This all flashed through her mind in less than a second, more felt than thought. She w
hirled the tonfa back and forth, using the handle to spin the weapon in an arc, keeping her enemies at bay. She feinted for the left one and tried to strike the one on the right, but he saw the trick and leapt back. The guy on the left tried to move in, but a swing of Isadore’s tonfa made him keep his distance.

  The third and fourth men got to their feet, only for one of them to get pulled down by Brett. The guy struggled but got overwhelmed by Brett’s Atlantean strength. The other man dove down and cracked Brett on the side of the head with his fist, bringing the full power of his brass knuckles in a perfectly landed blow on the teenager’s left temple. Brett grunted and hit the floor.

  More shouts came from the hallway, and the sound of several running feet.

  The man with the knife shouted to his comrades, “Paydyom!”

  As he held off Isadore, the other two picked up their friend and hurried out the door, knocking aside a couple of burly Malians who had come to help stop what they probably assumed was a robbery.

  Brett groaned and managed to get to his feet, holding his head. A lump the size of a golf ball was swelling on his temple.

  “Come on!” Isadore said.

  She led him into the hallway, stepping over the two men who had so briefly tried to come to her aid, pushed past a few gaping guests, and ran down the hallway. Isadore’s leg still ached, but she ignored the pain and kept moving. The intruders had just made it to the end and were disappearing down the main steps.

  By the time Isadore and Brett made it down the stairs and across the front hall, the four men were well down the street outside and disappearing down an unlit side street.

  Isadore stopped and grabbed Brett by the arm.

  “They’re getting away,” he said.

  “Let them go,” Isadore told him, trying to catch her breath. “We don’t want to be lured into a trap.”

  “Who were they?” Brett asked.

  Isadore looked at him with surprise. This was the first time he had asked a question or shown any independence of thought.

  “Russians,” Isadore panted. “That was Russian the guy spoke. Probably KGB, considering the training. What are they doing here? And how did they know we were coming?”

  “Maybe they’re hunting Jaxon too.”

  Isadore nodded. “Maybe so. General Corbin didn’t warn me this might happen. It looks like he’s not the only one interested in the Atlanteans. This mission just got a whole lot more complicated.”

  Chapter 19

  August 11, 2016, TIMBUKTU, MALI

  4:30 P.M.

  * * *

  Otto stared in wonder as they entered the fabled city of Timbuktu, a place he never in his wildest dreams thought he’d ever see.

  He had to admit the outskirts were a disappointment. The asphalt ended as soon as they left the highway, and all the city streets were hard-packed earth the same color as the traditional adobe buildings. Newer buildings were ugly concrete structures, none more than a couple of stories tall.

  The two Land Rovers kicked up dust as they passed, as did the few trucks they shared the road with as well as a whole fleet of motorcycles, many of them with two or three people sharing the seat. A thin tan haze hung in the air and settled over everything.

  While the land and the buildings looked drab, the people were a riot of color. Women wore loose robes of bright patterns and flowing headscarves that blew like colorful flags in the breeze. Many of the men wore the djellabas that Otto had become familiar with in Morocco, while others wore Western-style slacks and shirts as colorful as the women’s clothing.

  Otto’s disappointment vanished as he gazed at the people walking the streets, managing little shops, or driving donkey carts full of goods. There seemed to be just as many goats and sheep in the streets as there were people, and Grunt and Yamazaki had to slow down to avoid running over any of the livestock.

  As they got closer to the city center, the buildings became larger and the streets more crowded. The Land Rovers crawled forward. Otto and Jaxon didn’t mind. They held each other’s hands and stared at the passing crowd.

  “Look!” Jaxon shouted and pointed.

  A middle-aged man walked down the street leading a camel. He had the black skin typical of this part of the world, but his face was wider, more like an Asian’s. As he glanced at the Land Rovers, his brilliant blue eyes shone in the African sun.

  “Let’s get out!” Jaxon told Grunt.

  “We’ll get settled first,” the mercenary replied. “There’s plenty of time to check up on the local Atlanteans. The eggheads say the city is full of them. Look, there’s another one over there.”

  Otto and Jaxon looked where Grunt indicated and saw a woman running a market stall piled high with colorful mounds of powder. Otto guessed they were spices. The woman could have been Jaxon’s sister.

  “Oh my God, I can’t believe this,” Jaxon whispered. “They’re not in hiding or anything. They’re accepted.”

  Otto grinned at her. It was nice to see her happy for a change. “We’ve made it.”

  They drove into a large square filled with market stalls. To their left stood a huge building made of dried mud, with wooden beams jutting out every few feet. From a distance, it looked as though it were covered with thorns. It had high walls with pointed towers on the corners and a large wooden door flanked by two spires. Otto thought it might be a mosque, but it looked like no mosque he had ever seen. Two men led a herd of donkeys past it, each laden with sacks of gravel.

  They passed the building and went down a side street lined with more market stalls, stopping at a low concrete building with a sign reading Hotel Caravane.

  “Let’s see if this place is any good,” Grunt said, parking in front.

  “They can’t even spell ‘caravan’—how good can it be?” Otto asked.

  “The sign is in English. That’s as much as you’re going to get in this part of the world. They’re not exactly set up for tourism, especially after the terrorists took over for a time. Wait here.”

  As Grunt went inside to check the place out, Otto got out and stretched. It had been a long, rough ride. A market stall across the road caught his eye, and he went over. Jaxon tagged along. A man sat on a reed mat dressed in a peach-colored djellaba with a white skullcap on his head. On the wall of the building behind him, he had hung lengths of beautiful cloth. More cloth was stacked in neat piles in front of him, making a wall of fabric that half obscured the owner. They were all brilliantly colored, with patterns that showed animals, emerald dragonflies, or hypnotic abstract designs. A sewing machine and a pair of scissors sat to one side.

  “Looks like I found the local tailor,” Otto said. “Think I’d look good in a custom-made djellaba?”

  The tailor smiled and nodded, spreading out his palm to indicate his wares.

  “I think you’d look silly.” Jaxon giggled.

  “Maybe we should get you some local clothes instead. You’d blend right in.”

  Jaxon looked thoughtful. “That might not be a bad idea.”

  A loud gurgle made them turn, and then they leaped back to avoid getting run over by a camel. It was the lead animal in a whole string of camels, each animal burdened with big white slabs as long as Otto’s arm strapped to either side of its hump. One of the animals looked at them and gurgled again. A couple of men in blue Tuareg robes led the camels.

  “What is that stuff?” Otto asked. Jaxon shrugged.

  The caravan stopped a few stalls down. Curious, they followed. The stall had stacks of the same slabs in front and leaning against the back wall that made it look like a colorless version of the stall they had just left. The man who owned the stall started haggling with the Tuareg, moving his cracked and dried hands as he argued the price. At last, he handed over a wad of cash, and the Tuareg unloaded the burden from one of the camels.

  As the caravan moved off down the street, a woman in bright-red robes came over and gave the stall owner a few coins. The man nodded and used a knife to scrape off the edge of one of the slabs,
catching the white powder in a little cone of newspaper that he handed to the woman.

  “I think that’s salt,” Jaxon said.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to buy it in a supermarket?”

  Jaxon laughed. “When was the last time you saw a supermarket?”

  Grunt came back out of the hotel, and Otto and Jaxon rejoined the others.

  “It looks okay,” the mercenary said. “Cheap too. I’ve gotten everyone their own room. Might be nice to have some privacy for a change. Let’s unload.”

  “After that, Jaxon and I are going to take a look around. We’re going to find some local clothes for her, and she’s desperate to find some of her people.”

  Grunt looked around. “Okay. I think we’re safe here for the moment. The street feels all right.”

  “What do you mean?” Otto asked.

  “When you’ve been in as many war zones as I have, you get a feel for places. There’s no tension here. See how everyone is joking and relaxed? People going about their business and just living life. Wasn’t so much like that in Oualata, was it?”

  “No, everyone seemed a bit paranoid.”

  “The terrorists got pushed out of here more than a year ago, so everything has calmed down. Never mind about unpacking, Pyro. Why don’t you and Jaxon go take a look around? I got some West African francs back in Marrakech. They’re good in a bunch of countries, including Mali. Here’s ten thousand.” Grunt handed him some banknotes. “That’s about seventeen bucks, just so you know.”

  “You’re only giving us seventeen bucks to see the town?” Otto asked.

  Grunt gave him a playful slap upside the head—or at least Grunt’s idea of a playful slap. It knocked Otto off balance.

  “I break you out of jail, and now you want an allowance? Don’t worry, Pyro. The cost of living is cheap here. Now you kids be careful, okay?”