THUNDERTAKER
Midnight Rider on a Graveyard Run Zac King series
Part 2
Published by FIRE & a PRAYER PRESS
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any process – electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise – without the prior written permission of the author.
The Adventures of Zac King
Written by Gary Koz Mraz
ISBN-13: 978-1490935089 Print Editions
ISBN-10: 1490935088 Kindle Editions
Editor: Jennifer BryantBarkley
Cover: Ramsey Lucas
Special thanks to Keith Ball for his inspiration and all the readers and riders who helped the Midnight Rider survive his Graveyard Run.
Shout out to Harley-Davidson, Quick Throttle Magazine, Bikernet.com and EagleRider.
Printed by KDP and distributed by Amazon.
© Copyright Gary Koz Mraz 2019
Part II - THUNDERTAKER
Chapter 11 - Voodoo Priestess
Chapter 12 - Truth be Told
Chapter 13 - Dead City
Chapter 14 - Road to Redemption
Chapter 15 - Revelations
Midnight Rider on a Graveyard Run part 1
Kismet inextricably entwined Zac and Liz while both were on assignment. Journalist Zac King was researching the lonely life of graveyard shift workers for a magazine story called “Midnight Rider on a Graveyard Run.” Central Security Service agent Liz Duran was investigating the Corridor of Death murders linked to an international organ harvesting conspiracy. They met at a truck stop in Oklahoma and for two months collaborated on cracking the case. They are now romantically involved. This investigation has been officially closed and both Liz and Zac have been debriefed at CIA headquarters, now called the “George Bush Center for Intelligence.” After a weeklong interrogation Liz and Zac have been officially released.
Chapter 11-Voodoo Priestess
Location: The Hilton Hotel near CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. Liz enters the hotel room enraged.
“Zac, they've suspended my CSS status and put me on leave of absence!” Liz fumes to me.
“Leave of absence? For how long?” I reply quizzically.
“Indeterminate. Un-fucking-believable. The Agency says I need time to unwind,” she snarls.
“Liz, let it go. You do need to get away. Just let it go.”
“And just where the hell do I let it go to Zac?” she seethes.
“Kathmandu.” I smile.
“I’m sorry. I thought you said Kathmandu.”
“Yes, I have been planning a travel story to the Himalayas for years—a motorcycle ride from Katmandu to Lhasa. It’s the perfect time of year, and you’ll love the ride. What better than the Himalayas to cleanse your soul? We’ll be riding Royal Enfield motorcycles; it will be awesome. We’ll be traveling a thousand miles through the Himalayas with a small group of riders.”
“Fine,” Liz snaps.
“Imagine riding to the world’s highest monastery at the base of Mt. Everest. It’s the perfect way to experience this magical land. Liz, this is a ride of a lifetime… FINE? Do you know how long I’ve rehearsed a pitch to talk you into this?”
“I said fine, Zac. When do we leave?”
“We can leave immediately,” I reply. “I signed my life away to those NSA thugs; a couple-dozen non-disclosure documents and they returned my identity, passport, driver's license, and birth certificate.”
I'm a moto-journalist and live out of saddlebags. Liz has been on the move for the last two years, and neither of us has homes, kids, or even cats. The terrain is rugged and the weather unpredictable. We'll sleep at local Monasteries and be traveling through places frozen in time for thousands of years. It's an epic adventure: man, woman, machine, and the mountains. Both of us are in good health, and while most people have to take Diamox for high altitude sickness, Viagra has a similar effect of increasing blood flow at elevation.
The plane tickets are easy to get (check), passports (check), international driver’s license (check), shots (I needed 6) and Viagra… check. I even quit smoking my Chinese Sunays.
In Kathmandu, we are met by the Himalayan Roadrunner staff and hustled through the bustling airport like refugees from another world. The first day got us acquainted with our Royal Enfield motorcycles. Used by the British in the 1950s, they remain the mainstay of Himalayan Roadrunners because of the availability of parts and ease of repair. For me, the right-side shift and clutch took take a little getting used to, but Liz takes to it immediately.
There are three kingdoms of Kathmandu valley: Kathmandu, the big city; Patan, home to the Newars; and Bhaktapur, a preserved medieval tourist destination. We spend our time in Patan, visiting temples and wandering Durbar Square. Patan is woven together with open one-way streets and filled with artisans and craftsmen—indeed a fascinating blend of history, art, religion, and foods. It's cleaner and more dialed-down than the chaos of Kathmandu, with few tourists.
Motorcycling through Nepal to Tibet is an exhilarating experience. Between road closures, herds of Yaks, landslides and aggressive truck drivers, each day provides a new set of challenges. We cross the Chinese border into Tibet and the group spends two days in Nyalam acclimating to the altitude. It is only 12,000 feet, but preparing yourself for impending higher elevations needs to be taken seriously. AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness) varies from light-headedness to downright flu-like symptoms.
Small doses of Viagra daily are helping me immensely through each day's ride. And the evenings? Thank god we have private quarters— I've never seen Liz happier. It's high altitude sexual healing; her dark cloud has lifted. This trip was the perfect prescription.
Spectacular riding takes us up over Tong La Pass with commanding mountain views of the High Himalaya Range. It's here we get our first views of Mount Everest via the saddles of our Royal Enfields. Truly in the middle of nowhere, we pass villages that have never had electricity or running water.
The passing days challenge us with steep off-road inclines, loose gravel, stone and rough tracks. Finally the group arrives at the Rongbuk Monastery guest house at the base of Mt. Everest. It’s the Highest Monastery in the World.
Liz and I acclimate well to the 18,000-foot altitude; others aren’t so lucky. One female rider has to return to Kathmandu, and a male rider need repeated use of a HAPO (High Altitude Pulmonary Oedema) bag. It's an inflatable pressure bag large enough to accommodate a person, through which the environmental pressure can be increased and decreased by the equivalent of thousands of feet of elevation.
The weather granted us a truly spectacular view of the tallest mountain on earth. I was inspired to write a poem.
I say without hesitation
that motorcyclists love the mountain.
It is where we dance.
A graceful ballet of endless pirouettes
as the mountain leads first to the left,
then right, then to the left again.
We freely fall into gravity’s demanding arms
then with a twist of the throttle are
thrust into the next delicious curve.
She lifts the spirit as we ascend,
as we transcend, riding high, above the
mundane until among the stars we fly.
And the mountain is where we fight.
Wrestling against hairpin turns, battling
hard against opposing forces, often for our life.
Because if the mountain wins…we die.
Mountain is where we face our fears,
test inner resolve, or chase foolish whims.
Be it the path of least resistance or
/>
the hard-arduous climb,
It’s here, from the top,
the breadth of our journey is revealed.
The passage past, we cannot change,
the present moment holds endless possibilities
to a future that we have the power to create.
The next day we visit the impressive gold-topped Tashi Lhunpo Monastery. The largest working monastery currently in Tibet, Tashi Lhunpo is most famous as the site of the enshrinement of the first Dalai Lama and is also the seat of the controversial Panchen Lama. It's here that Liz and I are separated from the group by two monks who escort us to a room with hundreds of smiling golden Buddha heads. Another monk donning a large red hat chants before a massive golden Buddha. We stand in silence for what seems an eternity. The monk at the altar suddenly turns and speaks.
“We are simple people and understand truth; we know you seek truth, but your perception is not a contribution to the truth. Never confuse your opinions with truth. Everything you know or believe is, in fact, false. When your world becomes numb, and all hope fades, you must return here, right here to us. Do not forget this. Your life and the life of your world depend on this thing. We are the Curators, Planners and Guardians of truth, and we will be here waiting.”
He hands Liz prayer beads, then gives me a necklace with an extraordinarily detailed painted pendant of a provocative Tibetan female dancer, which I examine quizzically. Staring intensely into my eyes, the monk states, “Your Dakini.” Without breaking a beat, I removed my Eye of Horus necklace and hand it to him. Pausing to study it, he suddenly flashes me a huge sardonic smile. I'd swear I'd seen that same monk smiling at the Shaffer hotel in New Mexico in the Graveyard Run story.
As we are escorted back to the group, Liz blurts, “What was that all about?”
“It's a long story.” Shaking my head, I back-peddle.
“Do you know what a Dakini is?” she asks.
“I do.” I quote Wikipedia, “Dakini, in Sanskrit means (sky dancer) is a Tantric priestess of ancient India who carried the souls of the dead to the sky. She’s a Tibetan Buddhist goddess with a generally volatile temperament, who acts as a muse for spiritual practice.” I still hadn’t told Liz about my spirit guide who visits me in my dreams.
“Well, she had better watch her step,” Liz smirks.
Our last day of the motorcycle journey is a spectacular ride past the amazing emerald Yamdruk Lake, followed by stunning up-close views of snow-covered Mt. Nojin Kangstan. Suddenly we drop down a steep ascent and then drift endlessly down into the Brahmaputra Valley where we connect to the main road and ride into Lhasa.
In Lhasa, we visit the Potala Palace, the thousand-room home of the now exiled 14th Dalai Lama. Just a museum now, it’s filled with hundreds of exquisite Tibetan murals (Thangkas) and paintings. Liz has a field day and delights in pointing out the multitude of Dakinis in their various incarnations and sexual positions.
Back in Kathmandu, we book a week at the Summit Hotel. I’m anxious to start writing. I need to compile all my notes; I have thousands of photos and hours of recordings for a three-part travel narrative for a magazine. We bid adieu to our host and new friends and check in. After we drop our dusty, dirty gear, hot showers are first on the agenda. On the bed is a small, beautifully wrapped package with a card:
To Lizzy.
“Hey Liz, there's a package here for you. It says, ‘To Lizzy.’”
Liz freezes, grabs the letter and sits on the bed.
“Shit! There's only one person who calls me Lizzy. It's my mother.” She tears open the package, which holds a cell phone and a note from Voodoomama to call her.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Seven years ago, at my graduation from Dartmouth. She came out of the crowd, kissed me, said she was so proud of me, then disappeared out of my life. Until several weeks ago I thought she had been abducted, killed.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I'm going to take a shower, get a vodka martini, and call her.”
*
A short time later, Liz calls. “Hello Mama.”
“Lizzy, I know this must be hard for you, but please hear me out.”
“I’m listening, Mama.”
“I need to see you, Lizzy. Now.”
“I’m in Kathmandu,” Liz replies dryly.
“I'm in New Delhi; I've been here for three years. Lizzy, I work in a world of secrets, and you're a CSS Agent. You of all people know what it means to be covert, even with the ones you love.”
“But seven years, Mama? Seven years. I thought you were dead.”
“Will you come tomorrow? I have flights booked from Katmandu. You can bring your friend if you wish.” There is a long pause.
“Lizzy?”
“Yes Mama.” Liz is silently crying. “I will come.”
*
Kathmandu to New Delhi is only a 45-minute flight. Liz is quiet. She wants me to come for support but isn't talking.
“Not to pry, Liz,” I venture, “but you've told me that Voodoomama traffics in human organs and makes potions and elixirs that simulate death and turn people into zombies. Should I be concerned?”
Staring out the airplane window, Liz states flatly, “She’s a doctor and a biochemist.”
We land, and her agent instincts kick in. Liz moves cat-like through the crowd to a dark corner and surveys the room. After a few minutes, she walks right up to a woman completely covered in a traditional East Indian dress.
“Hello Mama.”
The woman hands Liz prayer beads, “Hi Lizzy. So good to see you. Follow me.” We all headed out of the airport into a waiting limousine.
“You never quit, do you Mama?”
“No, I never quit.” She drops her veil and flashes a radiant smile. If I weren't already in love with Liz, I'd fall hard for her mother.
“So this is Zac. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“As it is you, Miss Duran,” I reply.
The capital of India, New Delhi is a city built upon cities. There are at least eight historical Delhis, each constructed on, or near, the ruins of its predecessor. The result is a modern-day citadel that's dotted with ancient monuments, many said to be haunted by djinns (spirits). Within, a population of almost 22 million people battle the hectic streets and alleys with carts and cycle-rickshaws, with cows and monkeys, with shoppers and with beggars, with street-food sellers and market traders. Honking cars, vans and scooters provide an endless orchestra of sonic chaos.
We drive out of the city madness to a large well-staffed estate in a gorgeous gated community reminiscent of Beverly Hills. Voodoomama removes her Indian garb to reveal a statuesque, shapely figure. The mansion is filled with antiquities.
Voodoomama turns to me. “Zac, do you mind? I want to spend a little time with Lizzy. Please feel free to enjoy the pool. Swim trunks and the fully staffed bar and kitchen are at your disposal. I even have a box of El Ray Del Mundos. Please, I want you both to relax and enjoy your time here.” The women disappear.
She has my favorite cigar. Now let’s see if the bartender can mix my favorite drink, a Vesper Martini. The bartender doesn't even wince at the word Vesper. I watch as he pours two parts Vodka, one Part Gin, and a dash of Lillet Vermouth, vigorously shaken, into a chilled martini glass with a whole sliced lemon. It's exquisite. We exchange grins as he sets the box of El Ray Del Mundos on the bar. He clips one, warms the tip with a lighter, and hands me the cigar as I puff it to life. This guy's good. I saunter over to enjoy the pool view, very James Bond, sans the bevy of scantily clad Bond girls.
Midnight Rider on a Graveyard Run Page 1