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

by Matthew James

  He continued his descent and inspected the patrons closer, seeing women, children, and families clustered together. Each of them belonged to all walks of life, races, and religions. D.C. was an international hodgepodge of humanity like New York or L.A., but so close to the nation’s capital, it also mixed in the political world, which could easily boil over at any second, over anything.

  He reached ground level and continued his search, looking for Brooks within the throng of people themselves, just in case he tried to hide in plain sight. As Kane reached the middle of the food court, he noticed an abnormality in the congregation of people. One man in particular set himself apart from everyone else. He could tell it was a man even though he wasn’t facing him due to his prodigious size and shaved head.

  The man was dressed like a biker, but not like the ones that straddled a Harley. No, this one was dressed like he belonged on some supped-up crotch rocket. Kane noticed he had on a jacket of some kind and was dressed in all black just like him.

  It’s then the man stood, picking up his helmet which was resting on the table beside him. He stood to an impressive height but was still a few inches short of Kane. He turned and smiled, boiling Kane’s blood beyond a healthy temperature.

  “Hello, Jeremy.”

  “Brooks,” Kane said flatly, removing his helmet carefully with his bad hand, grinding his teeth in pain and rage. He wanted to put a fist sized hole in the man’s skull for everything that had happened, but he needed him alive… For now, Kane thought.

  He raised his gun, leveling it at Brooks’ chest. The other man didn’t so much as flinch, the sight of the firearm being pointed at him almost boring him.

  “Don’t,” Brooks casually said. “Or else…”

  As the threat hung in the air, Brooks stepped aside revealing who he was having a meal with. A woman and her two children, sat across from where Brooks did, tears streaming down their faces.

  “You bastard—” Kane barked.

  “They’re fine,” Brooks said, gun pointed at the mother. “Scared shitless, but otherwise unharmed.” He smiled and held up a small spherical object made of what looked like glass. It reminded Kane of a glass grenade—

  Shit.

  Kane aimed his weapon, ready to take off the man’s head if necessary. He could clearly see a small amount of what was most likely black ash inside the thin glass shell.

  There can’t be an explosive charge in there, though, he thought. That would just reduce the ash to dust and kill its effect. What could be in the center—?

  Brooks answered his question for him.

  “The interior of this little firecracker is pressurized and once broken will eject its contents out to a fifty-foot radius.”

  Kane’s face paled. He looked around at the hundred or so people in the kill zone. Then up to the two levels above him. All within reach. If it was quarantined down here, they could maybe contain it, but up there… He looked up to the floors above.

  But that wasn’t what scared him the worst. Once infected, people would do what they naturally did when it came to a situation like, oh say, disintegrating into a pile of ash. They’d bolt for the nearest exit, carrying the plague with them. The thousands of people still inside Union Station would be lost in a matter of minutes as one infected person after another bulldozed into each other, spreading it from host to unwilling host.

  “Put the gun down, Brooks,” Kane said with an unusually jittery tone. “I’ll do the same—look.”

  As a measure of good faith, Kane relinquished his perfect aim off of Brooks and held his gun out to his side. Brooks smiled and did likewise. The two men then slowly placed their weapons on the tables next to them and stepped away.

  “Brooks…” Kane said, getting choked up. “Don’t. You don’t have to do this.”

  Brooks casually slid his helmet on, sliding his face mask down. “Are you going to let me go?” He asked, in a muffled voice.

  With tears streaming down his face, Kane looked to the family across from him. He mouthed, “I’m sorry,” to the weeping mother, and slid his helmet back on, shutting his own tinted mask.

  “You know I can’t,” Kane said, thankful for the helmet masking his trembling voice.

  Brooks shrugged, indifferent. “Then I have no choice.” He tossed the glass grenade into the air and charged Kane, fists balled. Kane knew that only one of them would come out of this alive, their suits protecting them from direct contact with the darkness. But the other people in the train station… He didn’t want to think about it, or about the family he just condemned to death.

  40

  Union Station

  Washington D.C., USA

  The complexity of the Union Station gates, which way one goes and where is mindboggling. But following Frost proves easier than we originally thought. We just follow the carnage.

  Every few feet we see bullet holes perforating the columns holding the Amtrak signs. And every few feet after that we see the bodies, also riddled with bullets. Most of them are police, those which were already inside the station, I’m assuming, but some of the dead are civilians that were caught in the crossfire.

  After counting the eighth body, I say aloud, mostly to myself, “There’s too many of them.”

  “Too many what?” Nicole asks as we round a corner. Before I can answer her, we are greeted by a hail of gunfire. We run and dive for the nearest cover, a small information desk.

  We leap up-and-over the circular tabletop, landing inside the circular cubical in an ungraceful heap. Nicole and I quickly untangle our legs and stand, but it’s then I see a fifth foot…then a sixth. Behind Nicole is a woman, mascara running down her face.

  The barrage is powerful, but off target and most of the rounds sail overhead. These guys are worse than Storm Troopers, I think, as some eventually do find the metal plating of the desk. I breathe a sigh of relief, thanking God it’s metal and not some thin drywall/plywood combo. The fact that someone actually hit our hiding spot tells me that at least one of the bastards is at least aiming and not just blindly firing down the concourse.

  Must be the B-Team, or whatever’s left of Frost’s outfit.

  “That’s what I thought!” I scream, yelling over the ruckus.

  “About what?” Nicole shouts back, eyes squinting at the noise. The pain she is feeling is understandable considering I can’t cover my ears either, lest we drop our weapons to do so, which ain’t happening. The woman, whose nametag reads, Lyn, does, in fact, have her hands over her ears, as Nicole pops up and lets off two quick, three round bursts from her SCAR.

  “The dead! There’s too many just for Frost to have taken out! He needed help!” I yell again, as an all new salvo erupts around us, this time, aimed at the three guards that accompanied us. I peek out and see them, a few feet behind us, having not made it as far. They did, however, find themselves some cover behind a couple of the support columns that dot the concourse around us.

  Thankfully, Lyn is scared out of her mind and doesn’t try to get up, or move at all. She’s huddled against one of the sides of the desk, weeping.

  I squat next to her. “Stay down and you’ll be fine!”

  I glance over my own personal barricade inbetween volleys seeing no one shooting. “Go!” I yell. Nicole and I jack-rabbit over the table, me to the left, and her to the right. I land and roll behind a thick squat bench and meet the cold gaze of a dead Union Station policeman. He’s frozen in horror, shot in the throat, lying in a pool of congealed blood.

  Taking my eyes off the glassy stare of the dead man, I look up and see two men with sub-machine guns advancing as another two cover them with another burst of fire.

  I shout back to the three officers twenty feet behind us, “On three, return fire! Long enough for us to move up!”

  We get a nod from the closet cop and Nicole and I turn, me on one side of the concourse, her on the other. She’s ducked behind a similar bench. Except, hers isn’t spattered with blood.

  Squatting on the balls of our fee
t and ready to spring up, I look over the stone bench. Let’s just hope our force can provide enough cover fire for Nicole and me to make it, or else we’ll be sitting ducks.

  There’s a pause in the gunfire, the opposition most likely reloading. We don’t let them finish quietly. Nicole and I spring up, firing at the last spot we saw the two closer men, while the three officers behind us let loose with their own salvo, peppering the same spot.

  Nicole’s the first to move, sliding to a stop behind a departure sign, but not before firing another burst, never missing a beat. I’m next and I do the same easily, but step in the still slick blood of the dead concourse cop. My feet going out from under me, and I fall on my ass, with a jarring blow to my lower back and my psyche.

  Twenty feet ahead and hiding behind the column next to the Gate B sign, one of Frost’s goons pokes his head out, away from Nicole’s line of sight and takes a bead on me.

  Never losing the grip on my AA-12, I quickly depress the shotgun’s trigger and send four quick slugs into the column he’s hiding behind, just as he loses a few rounds into the ground around my feet. Two of my shots hit the pillar next to his head causing him to flinch from the jagged shrapnel embedding itself into his face. He staggers right, blinded, directly into the path of the other two slugs.

  They both find their mark, hitting the gunman in the chest, throwing him to the ground, dead. As he falls I get a glimpse of another man behind him…through the massive opening in his chest.

  I roll to my left as another burst of fire reaches my prone position, and keep rolling until Nicole pumps half a dozen rounds into the seven-foot tall, automated Gate C departure sign. The merc’s shooting stops as his body slowly falls out from behind the machine, splattered in blood.

  A few of Nicole’s shots must have punched through the metal sign, I think, looking over to Nicole, who’s as surprised as I am.

  “What the hell did Kane load that thing with?” I ask, quickly bypassing the gate, and taking cover behind the column next to the Gate D departure sign. I’m not taking any chances with the sign next to me after seeing what happened to the other one. Nicole literally blew six holes in it like it was made of notebook paper.

  She shrugs, looking down at her gifted assault rifle. “No idea.” Then smiles. “But it’s effective!”

  The shooting from the three cops behind us starts up again and Nicole moves up another sign to Gate E.

  “Are you sure you want to use that as—” I try to ask, but don’t get to finish.

  “Move it, Hank,” Nicole says. “We don’t really have a choice.”

  I trust her and move up ahead of her, piggybacking her position to the next gate’s departure sign. I take a quick glance ahead as I move behind the sign, noticing the other gunmen are huddled behind a row of seats three gates farther ahead of us.

  Okay, I’m at ‘F’ and we just need to get to ‘I.’

  I turn back to the metal barrier and see Nicole about to advance, followed by the three policemen, who follow our lead and leap into the circular information booth where we started this whole exchange.

  Ah, shit, I think as Lyn screams again, having been spooked by the new arrivals. I think I even hear one of the cops yelp in fright. Probably should have warned them about her.

  The third man, who was a little thick around the belt, lagged behind having trouble getting over the counter. When he’s mid-leap, just over the tabletop, a three round burst tears into him, throwing the man to the ground behind the kiosk, out of sight.

  “Shit!” Yells one of the two surviving policemen, from behind a column. “Michaels is down!”

  I’m about to return fire, but see Nicole silently move up to my position and stop, catching her breath. I look down at her as she leans on her knees, safely behind our cover. She looks the same as before, beat and bruised, just a hell of a lot more worn out. Probably how I look too.

  “How do you know this is safe?” I ask, tapping on the seemingly solid metal machine.

  Nicole stands. “Because,” she replies. “They didn’t penetrate the desk back there.” She motions behind us. “So why would they pierce these? And so help me… If you make a joke about penetration…”

  Smiling, I agree with a nod, “You know me too well.”

  I glance over my shoulder to the sign, not commenting on that her assumption is based on the thickness of the desk being the same as the sign—which they aren’t—not by a long shot.

  These, I think. Aren’t much thicker, if at all… Let’s hope she’s right.

  It’s then I look down to Nicole’s weapon and smile, noticing Kane’s explosive little accessory and get a horrible idea.

  41

  Union Station

  Washington D.C., USA

  In the National Football League, there are two positions who oppose each other quite often. The linebacker and the tight end. The tight end is known to go over the middle of the field for short to mid-range passes from the quarterback, right into the waiting arms of the defense, or more specifically someone in the linebacking position.

  Brooks, the linebacker, lowered his shoulder, ramming Kane, the tight end. The two men were even built like their NFL equivalents. Brooks was six-foot-two and around 240lbs and Kane was four inches taller and around twenty pounds heavier.

  The shorter, quicker Brooks, wrapped his strong arms around Kane’s waist, leaned into the blow, and drove him into the ground. What was the biggest difference between football and this encounter? Normally, the tight end isn’t allowed to hit back, which Kane does immediately, driving an elbow into the side of the helmeted attacker.

  His former second-in-command and friend, took the strike, a sharp snap of his head, to the right, but his grip did loosen just a hair.

  Bang—Poof.

  The two combatants flinched as a small explosion, followed by a popping noise, startled them enough to pause the skirmish. Not relenting their grips, Kane and Brooks, looked back as they saw the ash-bomb eject its payload into the air of the open food court’s ceiling, which revealed the next two floors above.

  Then, the screaming started.

  Wails of fear and then of pain began to fill the lower level of the station’s eatery…and then the street level…and then the mezzanine above.

  Hundreds of bodies flailed within the smaller confines of the food court, some of them blindly colliding with the two men fighting to the death in the middle of it all. The sudden jolt of a passer-by reignited the fight between the two former Ranger teammates, Brooks landing a quick jab to Kane’s stomach. Thankfully, the padded suit absorbed some of the unblocked impacts, Kane’s ab muscles did the rest.

  Another man tripped and lost his leg, stumbling right into Brooks, knocking him to the side just enough for Kane to maneuver. Using Brook’s teetering momentum to his advantage, Kane slid both of his powerful legs up, placing his booted feet into the other man’s chest.

  Kane pushed with all his might, throwing the man off of him, almost like he did to Ronin on Jaina Island. Brooks sailed backwards, awkwardly hitting the table directly behind him, his off balanced momentum flipping him up-and-over the flat metallic surface. He landed in a heap on the other side, sending up a plume of dark ash in the process.

  Pushing himself off the floor, Kane jumped to his feet and immediately checked for the mother and the two kids from before, but didn’t see them anywhere. It’s then he noticed the ash coating half of Brooks as the other man also got to his feet.

  Had they turned to ash already? Kane thought fists clenched in fury. He blocked out the pain of his constricted broken hand, using it as fuel for his inner fire. The agonizing thought of the sentencing he had given the innocent family ate at him.

  Enraged at the site of what he knew were the family’s remains all over Brooks, Kane leaped over the table using his good hand like a pole vaulter would their pole, and kicked out with his steel toed boot. Brooks tried to dodge the strike, but was too slow, taking another blow to the helmet.

  Ready for the at
tack, Brooks used the energy created by the kick, one that would have surely knocked him out, or perhaps killed him had he not been wearing the padded helmet, and spun to the side and away from Kane as the larger man landed right where Brooks had been not a second ago. Kane looked down at where he stood…and growled.

  Brooks wasn’t able to see the man’s emotions through the tinted glass of the custom helmet, but he knew Kane was livid, and angry people make mistakes, especially in a fight.

  Kane pounced on Brooks, swinging his club-like fist into his foe’s side, following it with a quick jab to the throat.

  Brooks took the first blow, leaning away from it, minimizing the effect it would have, and then swatted the second attack away, eliciting a grunt from Kane.

  Not having time to comprehend the yelp Kane just let out, Brooks drove a strong front kick towards Kane, just as a woman rushed between the men, taking the boot in her chest. As Brooks connected with the passerby, his size twelve passed right through her, aiding in her body’s disintegration, hitting its original target.

  Kane staggered back from the blow, but shook it off and continued his assault. He again launched a strong right hand, but this time used an open palm, striking the mask head on, snapping Brooks’ head back. He would only use body shots if necessary, knowing Brooks had a similarly padded suit. Bastards came prepared, he thought. But I can still knock him senseless…or break his windpipe.

  He grinned, then lashed out with his injured hand, knowing it was going to hurt like hell, again going for the other man’s throat. After his first attack, he saw that the padding was much thinner there. But Brooks being of equal skill and cunning caught the strike…and squeezed.