Mayan Darkness (A Hank Boyd Adventure Book 2) (The Hank Boyd Adventures)

by Matthew James

  “Just like old times, huh?” I say with a moan, referring to the time the two of them helped save me from falling down the secret entrance to the Atlantean underworld. We landed in a heap just like this.

  “Yep,” A muffled voice says. Kane then wriggles out from beneath Nicole and me. “Hurt then too.”

  He stands and heads back towards the rear of the ruined Jeep. I offer my hands to Nicole and she gladly takes them. I haul her up with a whimper of protest from her as she releases my grip and grabs her shoulder.

  I’m about to ask, but she cuts me off. “It’s fine, maybe a sprain at worst. I got tossed around the backseat pretty good.”

  “No seatbelt?” I ask.

  “Didn’t really think about it, to be honest,” she replies with a shrug, gritting her teeth and rolling her shoulder trying to loosen it up.

  “And Ben?”

  She looks up and glances back to where Kane just went. I follow her as she leads me around the back of the overturned SUV and find Ben. He’s beaten, his once shining bald head bleeding and his shirt red from blood. He’s been shot!

  “Ben!”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, there killer, he’s fine,” Kane says, holding a hand up for me to calm down. “Took a round in the shoulder—in the meat. It was a clean shot too, didn’t hit anything vital or overly important.”

  I kneel next to Ben with a sigh of relief. Shot is better than dead, after all. I know this all too well over these last three-plus months. His left shoulder is a mess, but it could have been a hell of a lot worse. Like the guy whose foot I just blew off. Ben could be missing an arm with a larger caliber round.

  “Hank?” Ben asks, reaching out for me.

  I take his bloodied hand in my own crimson stained hand and squeeze. “I’m here my friend.”

  “I think…” He says, breathing heavily. “I think I’m going to sit the rest of this thing out. Is that okay with you?”

  I burst out laughing. I can’t help myself. I haven’t slept very much at all, especially over the last few days. My mind and body are spent. And man it feels good to laugh too. Except for the expanding and contracting of my ribs. That…hurts like hell.

  Patting Ben on his good shoulder, I stand. “Take a breather, Ben, we’ve got this.”

  “Where’s Frost and Brooks?” I ask, looking over the underside of the Jeep. The last time I saw them was when they stepped out of their ride. After that, the world went upside down, sideways, and then black.

  “They hightailed it into the Union just after we took up position behind the Jeep,” Kane replies, gingerly reloading his Desert Eagle. It’s then I see his left hand.

  “Kane, your hand.” He holds it up for me to see. It’s swollen and red, definitely broken.

  “It’s shot,” he says, trying to flex it, wincing in pain. “Not literally. We rolled on it when we got turned over. I was about to shoot at them when the bastards took out our front wheels. My hand was outside the car when we flipped.”

  Seeing the indestructible Jeremy Kane seriously hurt sends a new wave of chills through my body, but I hold it together and look off towards the station. What I see isn’t comforting at all. A swarm of people hurries through the front doors, no doubt seeing a heavily armed pair of men just enter.

  “Call it in,” I say in a trance-like tone. “We need this place locked down immediately with that weapon inside. If the darkness were to spread and reach outside the station…” I let the last part hang in the air.

  Kane nods. “D.C. has pretty good people for that.” He then holsters his remaining gun, the other one nowhere in sight. He lifts a phone to his ear and walks away, covering his ear with his injured hand the best he can.

  I reach up and under the rear hatch’s busted out window, popping the floor compartment open, which is also upside down with the rest of the vehicle. Normally on any other standard Cherokee this spot would be utilized by a spare tire, but for our purposes, it houses something a little different.

  Three large duffel bags spill out onto the ceiling of the overturned roof, followed by three motorcycle-like helmets. I grab the bags and drag them out, one by one, so Kane, Nicole and I have room to rummage through them.

  I unzip the bag labeled ‘HB’ and pull out what looks like a padded, full-body wetsuit. In actuality, it’s not that far from the truth. The prototype BDU is thin and flexible like a wetsuit, but has armor-like padding around every square inch, minus the joints.

  “You think this’ll work?” Nicole asks, slipping out of her clothes. The only thing she has on as she pulls on the combat uniform is her bra and underwear. I follow her and tear off my clothing, stripping down to my boxers, yanking on my own Kevlar graded getup. We don’t have time to be bashful and hide and change in private. We’re sort of in a rush.

  “It should,” I say, hiking up the form-fitting one-piece. “Olivia said the biologic, or whatever it is, spreads from skin-to-skin contact. So as long as we are covered head-to-toe, we should be fine.” After the two of us are finished dressing, we pick up the helmets, inspecting them.

  “So…” I say to Nicole, but looking towards the large building. “Out of the frying pan…”

  She turns towards the train station, a look of both anger and worry on her face. “…and into the fire.”

  38

  Union Station

  Washington D.C., USA

  It was a normal day for Kyle Mohr. He was to go to work at the station, standing in front of the damned gate, making sure everyone who entered had their tickets. Then, he would clock out, meet his girlfriend, who worked at the information desk for a drink, and bring her back to his place and hopefully get really, really, lucky.

  Elena is such a hottie, he thought, picturing her in nothing but his t-shirt.

  Today was as busy as ever for the early hour. People went about their everyday normal lives without thought and definitely without courtesy for him. Some were going to work, others going home from work, having just finished the awful night shift.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” He heard the old man scream in anger. Here we go… Kyle calmly walked up to the man, who was yelling at the poor woman behind the desk—Lyn was her name.

  “Excuse me, sir?” Kyle asked in his practiced, jovial tone. “Can I help you with something?”

  The man, who had to be near ninety, spun on a heel and got right up into his face. “No, you may not!” He spurted, through the gap between his K-9’s. “This here woman, wouldn’t give me my money back for this here ticket!”

  “May I?” Kyle asked, reaching for the man’s ticket.

  The old man shoved the ticket into Kyle’s hand and backed away, hands on his hips, infuriated.

  Kyle glanced over to Lyn and rolled his eyes, getting a smile out of the flustered woman. He then winked and returned his attention to the man.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Kyle responded in his proficient tone. “Please refer to customer service for any questions about your ticket. There is nothing we can do for you here.” Mr. Comb-over sneered a venomous look at Kyle before turning and stomping away.

  Watching the man leave, Kyle pulled out his phone, seeing he had a missed Snap Chat in his inbox, or as the kids called it Snatch Chat. He laughed at the name but knew it was a good one for the app. Teens around the world used it to send pics to each other…some of them of the explicit kind.

  Hearing a commotion ahead, Kyle looked up from his phone. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but he couldn’t see everything on the concourse from his current vantage point. There were plenty of blind spots.

  Kyle went to open the app and see what Elena sent him from the front desk’s restroom—but before he could—he saw the old codger dive to the ground as two black-clad men rushed around the corner coming directly at him.

  Seeing them for what they really were, Kyle dropped his phone and drew his holstered pistol, a standard issue something-or-other. He wasn’t a good shot and never went to the range, but it was protocol to carry one in th
e first place. He wasn’t exactly a gun person. He knew nothing about them, in fact. Point and pull. That’s all he needed to know.

  A pop and a slurp erupted as Kyle was thrown back by an invisible force, slamming him backwards into a small bench behind him. As his uncontrolled momentum sent him flailing, he flipped head-over-heels over the waist-high seat, landing ungracefully on the other side.

  One of the gunmen turned to him. Kyle tried to shout for him to stop, but couldn’t. He couldn’t speak at all. The only sound that was belched out was from his throat, not his mouth. A wet gurgle of blood bubbled, as air from his lungs escaped through the ragged hole the bullet left behind.

  It’s then that Kyle realized he couldn’t breathe. He’d been shot in the neck, his windpipe filling with blood, clogging his airway. Still gripping his pistol, he tried to raise it, only for his strength to leave him as he slowly drowned, choking on his own blood.

  The last thing he saw before he succumbed to death was the two men split up, one going deeper into the concourse, and the other man, the one carrying a briefcase, turned and went back towards the lower level stairs.

  They yelled incoherently as Kyle’s consciousness faded. Damnit, he thought. He wouldn’t be getting lucky tonight.

  * * *

  “The station is shutting down all traffic until otherwise told by me,” Kane says, entering the front doors ahead of me, gun up.

  Nicole and I follow weapons drawn, eyes peeled for anything. The first thing we notice is two guards just inside the doors have been shot, one dead, the other injured but alive. He’s being tended to by a random patron of the train station, applying pressure to a gunshot wound to the leg.

  “You okay?” I ask, but not stopping to help. The man helping just shrugs, but the policeman waves us forward, seeing that we are here to help.

  “I’m fine,” he says. “But they killed my partner. Get those sons-of-bitches, will ya?”

  I nod and ask, “You see where they went?”

  The officer shakes his head no, but the man tending to him answers, “They headed farther into the station—towards the shopping area.”

  I nod my thanks and continue behind Kane and Nicole, taking up the rear. Nicole still has Kane’s SCAR and Kane his Desert Eagle, so my AA-12 is definitely more suited for guarding our backs.

  The front corridor has high ceilings and is finished off by pillars, on which stand a grouping of stone carved Roman centurions. Beautifully carved, these ever watchful guards are adorned with flowing capes and large shields, protectors of the Daniel H. Burnham-designed building.

  Quietly, we make our way under the stone soldiers. I pray they don’t come to life like the serpents did in Teotihuacan, but know it won’t happen. Coaxoch, the Serpent Queen, is very dead and won’t be conjuring up any more creatures anytime soon. Hard to do with no head.

  There’s a restaurant with a second story bar straight ahead, built right into the center of the main hall. We skirt it, noticing its occupants are huddled underneath tables. The security detail around the other side isn’t so lucky.

  Three more men are down, dead, ragged bullet holes perforating their bodies. It appears Frost and Brooks are killing anyone who is a threat, I think.

  It’s then a door off to the left slams open and a chorus of pounding boots echoes off the high domed ceiling. The thunder of rushing footfalls comes up behind us and we take a defensive position behind a large wooden bench.

  We duck and begin to coordinate a counter-offensive to the uninvited guests. “On three we—” Kane starts, but is interrupted.

  “Is there an Agent Kane we can speak to?” A voice booms out from the other side of our hiding spot. I peek out and see seven police officers scanning the main hall’s space, looking for us.

  I slide back out of view and turn to Kane, mouthing the word, “police.” He kneels, pops his head up, along with his gun, and points it to the man asking for him.

  “Who wants to know?” He asks. The seven men turn, and go to raise their pistols, but Kane knocks the bravado right out of them. “You move and your fearless leader will be missing his head.” That takes the wind out of their sails for sure.

  “Hold on,” says the man in charge. “We were just informed of the situation and are here to help. The perimeter is secure outside the building and all movement on the tracks has been halted per your request. We were the closest men to the station and have volunteered to help in any way.”

  Kane bites his lip, thinking, then looks to us, nods, and stands. Nicole and I follow suit, weapons forward, but pointing at a less threatening downward angle.

  “What’s your name?” Kane asks the policeman.

  “Blair,” the police officer replies. “Sergeant Ed Blair.”

  Satisfied that these guys are the real deal and not some trap set up by Frost, Kane marches out from behind the wooden bench, Desert Eagle still clutched in his massive hand. He stands there still as a statue for a beat, but then holsters his weapon, and removes his helmet.

  “Okay, Blair,” Kane orders, running his hand through his short dirty blonde hair. “You and your men follow us, weapons ready. There are lots of civilians still present on the grounds so be sure who you’re shooting at before you engage.”

  He turns, looks at us with a look that says, “Here goes nothing.” Without another word, Kane puts his helmet back on, draws his gun and leads us deeper into Union Station.

  We move silently for another fifty feet before one of the guard’s radio chirps loudly. Kane glances back, a look of venom in his eyes, as he straightens and turns, fully facing the officer who might now officially loose his head.

  “Go ahead, Cole,” the man says, oblivious to Kane’s malicious glare. We don’t move, waiting to hear what the other man says from somewhere else in the huge building.

  “We have reports of two armed men,” the unknown officer says in a static-laced voice. “One headed to the food court on the lower level and the other was lost from sight further into the station heading for the platforms.”

  I step up. “Was one carrying a briefcase?” I ask, almost yelling at the man. He relays the message and gets a quick response.

  “The man carrying a briefcase headed downstairs.”

  I turn to Kane and Nicole. “We’re splitting up.”

  39

  Union Station

  Washington D.C., USA

  After splitting up with Hank and Nicole, Kane took four of the street cops with him and headed for the stairs leading down to the food court.

  The lower level was, in fact, the basement under Union Station and housed most of the buildings casual, quick-serve eateries like Taco Bell, Subway, and Burger King. Whereas the other two levels held the larger upscale full-service restaurants like Pizzeria Uno. The entire shopping district was essentially a three-story mall, complete with high-end retailers, a post-office, and a bank.

  But Kane could care less about the amenities Union Station offered, all he cared about was finding and stopping his former Ranger teammate and friend, J.R. Brooks. Kane seethed at the thought that the once honorable man sold himself out for the almighty dollar.

  And what’s worse, Kane thought. He sold himself to a man like Frost.

  The five-man group arrived at the three-story concourse level and stopped, unsure of where to go next. Blair, the only one he knew the name of, came with him, bringing along his three best.

  So he says.

  Seeing the dizzying array of banking and curving staircases and multiple sets of escalators, Kane knew they’d have to split up and comb the entire area. The biggest problem wasn’t finding Brooks really, it was keeping the hundreds—maybe thousands—of people hunkered down in the stores and restaurants safe.

  The only thing Kane could figure is that when the initial gunshots echoed through the massive building, everyone just froze, instead of rushing for the exits. Especially since it was automatic fire and not point and click shooting from a handgun. A rushing mob was more of a target to a deranged sho
oter than a stationary one. That’s what he believed anyway.

  Or they were told the truth, Kane deduced. That there was a bomb or weapon of some kind and if anyone left they’d blow it.

  “Okay, listen up,” Kane said, sliding open his helmet’s facemask, huddling up his men. “Blair, take a man and sweep this level. The other two,” he said, motioning to the upstairs Mezzanine Level. “Take that floor and be careful.”

  “What about you?” Blair asked.

  Kane hitched a thumb towards the stairs leading down to the food court. “I need a bite.” He moved to turn around but caught himself. “Oh,” he said, getting the men’s attention again. “If you have a clean shot—take it. We need to end this before he can activate whatever is in the suitcase.”

  “Is it a bomb?” Asked one of the other men.

  Kane shook his head, not knowing. “No idea, but knowing these guys it’s probably much worse.” The look he got from the four men was the same. Fright. And they should be. If he sugarcoated things now… No, he needed to prep these guys for war.

  “Look,” he said, sliding the shield back down, “Just stay alert.” The second part came out muffled, but the nods coming from his team told him they understood him.

  Kane looked down at his hands, Desert Eagle in his right hand. His left hurt like a bitch as he tried to flex it. He opened and shut his fingers a little, but couldn’t close it into a fist. Not much good you’re gonna be in a fight, he said inwardly to his hand. He then took a deep breath and set off down the sloping steps.

  As he cautiously made his way down the staircase, Kane looked around, gauging possible hiding spots and formulating a plan, if and when he ran into Brooks. He stopped halfway down and looked over the edge, seeing hundreds of people jammed into whatever nook they could find. Most huddled underneath the tables in the central section of the food court, while some joined the staff of the various restaurants behind their counters.