Now composed enough to think straight, Olivia knew she needed to call for help, understanding that no one back in the States knew what had happened. The only way they would have was if one of the workers called home while the darkness was trying to consume them. “Not bloody likely,” she said, quoting one of her former classmates—a Brit. She was the same person who made the comment about her chest.
Olivia pulled out her cell phone and cursed. No service. She then raced back into the research tent, searching. After about a minute of foraging, she found what she was looking for. She procured one of three satellite phones they kept in the camp from under her bunk. It must have gotten tossed under the cot when I fell and hit my head.
She instinctively rubbed her head and grimaced in pain, but felt enough to know the severity of the damage. She was alive most importantly and probably needed stitches, but knew it could wait.
Quickly looking in the bathroom mirror, Olivia surveyed the damage. Her short hair was matted down where the blood had dried, but she couldn’t see any on her shoulders, just a little on her neck. Okay, could have been worse.
She sat on her cot and breathed heavily, trying to calm her nerves. She tried wiping the blood from her trembling hands onto her already destroyed sheets, but to no avail, it was dried and had stained her skin. She relented and powered on the device.
The manufacturer’s logo blinked to life then disappeared from the screen, being replaced by the phone's menu icons. Olivia silently cursed again when seeing the signal strength. Nothing, just like her cell.
As the tumultuous feeling of impending doom slowly returned in full force, Olivia found it hard to breathe. It’s then she decided to do the only thing that she knew would occupy both her mind and her time. She would work. She would research and record everything she could find out about what happened here.
There were enough supplies to last the thirty-plus crew of workers here for another month, but with it being just her it could last her several. She actually dreaded the next meal she would have to prepare. When she’d sit down to eat, she’d be preparing a meal for one.
10
Chichen Itza, Yucatan, Mexico
The near-death feeling I just endured has me thinking like my father…which is just as frightening.
“Maybe it’s time to give up this search for a while,” I say talking it out with Nicole and Kane. “When we’re done here, I mean. I think we need to move on to a normal project—something that doesn’t involve me ending up in the loony bin or dying of a heart attack.”
Not surprisingly, they both agreed.
Plus, Kane really wants to get back to his CIA thing and hunt down the people pulling the strings behind Zero. He’s still a little pissed that they have tried to kill him a few times.
Who wouldn’t be?
We arrive back at the park’s front gates and are met by two armed security guards and a woman who may be pushing five-foot-nothing…if she had heels on. She kind of reminds me of Veruca Salt from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Specifically, when she blew up like a purple balloon. And boy does she look pissed.
She glances at Nicole and scowls. I even think I can hear her claws unsheathe as she approaches.
“Gentlemen and…lady. This better be important. We’re knackered from a long day already. We don’t exactly do night runs here. This better not turn into a damp squib.”
Great, I think, a Brit with an attitude problem.
I don’t get to answer. Nicole beats me to the punch. She steps forward like a lioness about to pounce, “You got the message, yes? You know why we are here?”
Veruca stammers, “Well… I… Yes.”
“Then you will do what you’re told and accommodate us until we’ve finished,” Nicole orders. “If you are unwilling then I’m sure we can speak to your superiors and find someone who is.”
Oh, damn! I think, inwardly fist-pumping in triumph.
To my enjoyment the woman says nothing and after an awkward couple of seconds finally speaks, “Fine. Follow me please.” She spins on a heel, which I found impressive, considering her less than athletic physique, and takes off at a brisk pace.
I give Nicole an impressed look and motion for her to follow the guide with an “after you” bow and hand gesture.
Once out of earshot from Veruca, I hear one of the guards behind us laugh quietly to himself. This gets a smile out of me. It seems we aren’t the only ones who thought the shrew could use some taming.
We make our way past the gift shops and bathrooms, passing through the now quiet courtyard. Entering the main clearing, we again marvel at the view of the step-pyramid. It just sits there, majestically lit up by four construction spotlights.
“Man… Matt would have loved to climb that thing.”
I glance to my right hearing Kane. “Who’s Matt?” I ask.
“Huh? Oh…my cousin, his name was Matt Carrack. He served in the army—the 10th Mountain Division—up at Fort Drum in New York.”
“Was?” Nicole cautiously asks.
“He, uh… He died a few years ago on a training exercise somewhere in New Hampshire, I think. They said he fell when scaling a cliff face and suffered massive brain trauma, but honestly, I think the whole thing is bullshit.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Matt was an experienced climber—the best. When we were kids, his family used to come out to Montana over the summer. We would go camping and hunting every day. The guy was like a spider monkey when it came to climbing. The 10th was the perfect outfit for him since they specialize in alpine warfare, and other backwoodsie stuff. No way he just fell and died.”
“What do you think happened?” Nicole asks.
“Don’t know,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “But one of these days I’m going to find out.”
He then speeds up, effectively ending the conversation. I glance back up to the pyramid, thinking. I guess everyone has their soft spots.
Mine is my mind. I just really need to focus on something else and try to put what happened behind me and move on. If only it were that easy. Just getting some solid rest would be a start. I almost gave Nicole a concussion a couple weeks ago while thrashing in a night terror.
I try not to think of anything that could set me off, like the mental and physical pain I’m in— or the tortured stone beasts in the Atlantean underworld—or the near-miss doomsday the world almost suffered—or the—
I stop in my tracks, halfway to the Kukulkan’s castle, heart beating like a death metal drummer’s kick pedals. I can barely breathe, only getting a few precious gulps of air in before I start to panic. I’m on the verge of screaming for a shrink and seeing if they can fix this dilemma.
I seriously doubt it, though. There probably isn’t much of a cure for Apocalyptic Anxiety Disorder.
Then, the best “therapy” that I could ever ask for begins. Nicole gently lays her hand on my shoulder and squeezes. My condition is pretty noticeable, I guess.
I rest my hand atop it giving it a squeeze back, slowly calming down. I haven’t spent a night away from her since the desert for this exact reason. I have no idea what would happen if she wasn’t there to rescue me. I close my eyes and finally get a hold of myself, the fear and mental anguish mercifully subsiding.
It’s funny how things change in the matter of a few months. I went from being a single and almost desperate-pathetic-excuse-of-a-man, to being in a strong and stable relationship with a real-life Lara Croft. Nicole is the strongest person I know—not in a physical way—even though she can seriously put you in a hurt locker if she wanted, but mentally. She’s a rock.
Nicole was even married once, but her husband was killed a little over five years ago in Spain. He was my father’s project leader at the time and the entire team was killed by a rogue group who would be later identified by Kane as Zero. They are the same group of bastards that tried to kill Dad and me on several occasions already.
Nicole was shot and left for dead, but incredibly surviv
ed and took her late husband’s place running things. The mental scarring is still fresh on occasions, but the physical scarring— like the bullet wound between her left breast and shoulder—is healed and stronger than ever.
Feeling like myself again, I open my eyes and see two sets of pupils staring back at me. I nod to my friends and continue forward, following Veruca.
* * *
They watched their targets from the wooded border of the park, peering through various forms of night vision capable equipment supplied to them by their handler.
For the most part, they all carried the same weapons, primarily the Soviet-made AK47. While not the best weapon to choose from, the Kalashnikov was relatively cheap to find and ammo was easy enough to hunt down. It’s commonality and reliability was the main reason that it was the most widely used weapon in all the world’s various militias and private armies.
Like ours, Raven thought.
She and the eleven other members of Broadsword’s FireTeam-1 waited in an unlit corner of the courtyard. They watched as Hank Boyd and his team approached the Mayan pyramid, completely unaware of her group’s presence.
Raven looked through the green tint of her night vision device and confirmed her findings, “Wolf, this is Raven, over. You read me?”
After a few seconds delay, “Yes, Sara I hear you just fine. What do you have for me?”
Raven had become annoyed with Frost’s nonchalant approach to everything, especially during an operation like this. The man had no professionalism left in his scarred, deformed body.
She continued, “We have six tangos, over. Boyd, the blonde, the big man, and three employees of the park—two of which are armed.”
“And the third?” Frost asked. “The other local, who is it?”
“It seems to be a tour guide—a woman—harmless for sure, over.”
“Sara,” Frost said, his tone sharp. “There are to be no survivors. Is that clear?”
Raven looked down at her weapon contemplating her answer. She had never defied her Operations Leader before, but killing an innocent like this just didn’t seem right. The others were armed for sure, but this woman had no chance.
Still, she had her orders and she liked her paycheck. “Yes, sir. Proceeding in 3…2…” Refocusing her attention to the figure in her sights, “...1.” She pulled the trigger.
11
The Smithsonian Castle
Washington, D.C.
“Benjamin, my friend, please come in. It’s been too long.” Dr. William Boyd embraced his longtime colleague and close friend in a hug. After one last squeeze, he let him go, patting his shoulder.
“Have a seat,” Boyd said, ushering the other man to sit in one of the plush chairs in his office. “Drink?”
“Still going with Johnnie Walker Black I see,” the man commented watching the Smithsonian Curator pour them both a healthy-sized glass of scotch.
“Yes, only this is Double Black, a limited edition. I tried it at a tasting and ended up buying a case,” Boyd said with a laugh, pouring the rich, dark liquid into twin iced glasses.
The other man accepted the drink, and tasted it, quickly approving with a nod, “Quite good my friend, thank you.”
Dr. Benjamin Fehr was a renowned Israeli historian and had known and worked with Dr. Boyd on many occasions over the last twenty years. He even helped usher in a new recruit ten years ago who was “a little rough around the edges” as he had been warned.
The men clinked their glasses.
“L'Chaim,” Ben said. “To life.”
“Yes, cheers,” Boyd agreed and took a long sip from his own glass.
“How is your son, William? Is he still having those awful nightmares you were telling me about?”
Boyd’s cheerful mood darkened at the thought of his son’s struggles. “He’s slowly getting better,” he replied. “But I’m more worried about the long-term damage his mind may suffer as a result. A man of his age shouldn’t be going through the things he is. He’s at Chichen Itza right now chasing down a lead, trying to make sense of what we found in Algeria.”
“Let’s hope he finds what he’s looking for then.” Ben took another sip. “Next time you talk to him, give him my best, will you?”
“Of course,” Boyd said sitting behind his desk. “He asks about you, you know. He still mentions how you were the first person to take him seriously as an archaeologist. Harrison is very thankful—even though he may not come out and say it.”
Ben blushed a little, “He was a most…” He paused looking for the right word. “…unusual student for sure. But one of the brightest I’ve ever had the privilege of working with.”
The two men laughed, reminiscing of stories from their younger years working together. What they called their “greatest hits.”
“Oh come on, Ben. You deserved that black eye.”
“How was I to know she was married?”
They laughed again, enjoying each other’s company. They were like two schoolyard chums, sitting around, laughing at each other’s prior misfortunes.
Ben leaned forward, all but dismissing the pleasantries. “What’s going on William?” He asked. “Why call me down here—now—at this time of night? I’ll be in town for another week, lecturing. We could have met for breakfast if anything. What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until morning?”
Boyd got up from his desk and quietly shut the door to his office, locking it. He then pulled a key out of his pocket and opened an unmarked filing cabinet next to his desk.
Ben watched him carefully select a file from the back of the drawer. He then opened a second drawer and took out yet another folder.
Handing Ben the first file, Boyd walked back to his desk, leaning on the table top. He carefully placed the second file on the table-top, leaving it closed.
Ben looked up at his friend and then opened the folder. Inside was reports on the legend of an ancient Mayan god named, Au Puch.
“Page four, Ben,” Boyd directed.
Ben flipped the page and immediately noticed a printout, or rather a copy of the report.
It described a myth about one of the ancient Mayan gods named, Au Puch. The death god, also known as Yum Cimil, was said to bring disease and death to anyone who opposed him. After he supposedly died, due to unknown circumstances, his ashes were collected and buried. Fear gripped the people of the area and the local residences were later abandoned.
Ben looked up from the report, “What’s all this?”
“That,” Boyd said. “Is the reason we have a team in the Yucatan. We believe we may have found something and Xander has organized an expedition to Jaina Island, along the western shore of Campeche.”
“Xander?” Ben said, confused. “But, I thought Dr. Weaver was retiring?”
“He is,” Boyd replied. “But, he wanted one last hurrah before hanging it up. He had recently rediscovered an ancient text, long forgotten, in one of our archives that had mention of a potential…” He took the file from Ben, reading a line from it. “And I quote, ‘A weapon against the enemies of his people.’”
Ben remembered hearing about the find through the grapevine, but had heard that the text was in such poor condition that it would be all but impossible to read, but apparently, they did, in fact, translate the text. Before he could ask the burning question, Boyd answered it.
“This weapon was supposedly a gift from the gods—or a curse depending on what side of it you were on. It was said to bring,” he again read from the report, “darkness over anyone who opposed them.”
“Wait, back up. Who’s him?” Ben asked.
“He,” Boyd replied, “was a prince of the Aztecs and was known to be a bit of a warmonger. This prince wanted a legendary Mayan doomsday weapon that was rumored to be buried in a cursed tomb. Against the king’s will, he and his best and most able-bodied warriors traveled east to where it was buried, that of which we don’t exactly know.”
“Isla de Jaina?” Ben asked.
“Xander thinks
as much,” Boyd answered with a shrug. “So much, in fact, he asked me for a crew and travel to Mexico.”
He took another lengthy sip of scotch and continued, “Xander believes the prince resided in the massive city of Teotihuacan, around modern day Mexico City, where approximately 200,000 people resided.”
“Wasn’t there some sort of catastrophe in Teotihuacan?” Ben asked.
“Yes, or I should say, possibly. Some authorities on ancient Mesoamerican cultures, of which Xander is at the front of, I remind you, believe a plague or some attacking force wiped out the majority of the population. It wasn’t fully documented as to why.”
“So Xander thinks this disease, or whatever it was, is the reason for the disappearance of the citizens of Teotihuacan?” Ben asked. “Did the prince unleash it on his own people?”
“Doubtful,” Boyd said. “But no one knows. If it’s as volatile as it sounds, then there may have been an accident of some kind while handling it. It’s not like they had the CDC, or something like it, in 7th century Mexico.”
Ben nodded his agreement, then asked, “Who wrote the manuscript that Xander found in the archives?”
“It’s conjecture at this point, but Xander thinks it was one of Au Puch’s followers, or maybe a cleric of some sort. Either way, whoever authored it, worshiped the Mayan equivalent to Satan. It spoke highly of the death god.”
“Mesoamerican devil worship?” Ben questioned, eyebrow raised. “That’s a new one.”
Boyd lifted his hands, implying to his friend not to shoot the messenger, “You know as well as anyone. Whenever you have the glorifying of good you also have the adoration of evil. It’s the yin and yang of man’s morality.”
Ben nodded, again in agreement.
Boyd just shrugged his shoulders, instinctively rubbing his fingers over the closed folder on his desk. The movement was subtle, but didn’t go unnoticed, it was obviously important.
Mayan Darkness (A Hank Boyd Adventure Book 2) (The Hank Boyd Adventures) Page 6