Indiana Jones and the The Kingdom Of The Crystal Skull

by James Rollins

  The men were making their move.

  It had to be the letter.

  From the moment the pair had stepped through the door, Indy knew something was up. They definitely didn’t fit the normal clientele of Arnie’s Diner, being neither college types nor greasers. And Indy was pretty sure he’d spotted the pair at the train station, too. Someone had been following him.

  But why?

  “See those two bricks leaving the counter?” Indy said softly to Mutt. He folded the strange letter and put it in his pocket. “They’re not here for the milkshakes.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe FBI.”

  The pair reached the table. The answer to Mutt’s question came as soon as they spoke. They didn’t even try to hide their thick Russian accents. That scared Indy more than anything.

  The larger of the two, which meant gorilla-sized, spoke first. “Come quietly, Dr. Jones. Bring letter with you.”

  So it was about the letter.

  “Letter? What letter?” he tried lamely.

  “Letter Mr. Williams just give you.”

  “Me?” Mutt leaned on his elbows, his arms folded on the table in front of him. “Do I look like a mailman?”

  The second Russian spoke. Though smaller in stature, there was something even more frightening in the fish-belly deadness to his eyes. “We don’t ask again. Come now or—

  —SNICK—

  A long thin blade popped out from behind Mutt’s left elbow. The kid held a switchblade pointed at the closest man.

  “—or what?” Mutt asked.

  Indy admired the kid’s moxie, but he had a lot to learn. These weren’t local toughs who could be rumbled away so easily.

  “Nice try, kid,” he warned. “But I think you’ve brought a knife—”

  The dead-eyed Russian cocked a pistol and lifted the weapon to the side of Indy’s head.

  “—to a gunfight.”

  FIFTEEN

  MUTT ALLOWED HIS SWITCHBLADE to be plucked out of his fingers by the giant Russian. His face burned—half in anger, half in shame. The Russian closed the blade and slipped the weapon into his pocket.

  “It’s all right, kid,” the professor said. “We all make mistakes.”

  The Russians stepped back.

  “Outside,” said the first, pointing.

  “Now,” added the second.

  Mutt glanced to Dr. Jones, who nodded. Clearly they had no choice. Together they slid out of the booth. Jones carried his battered suitcase. They were forced to march ahead, trailed by the Russians, whose hands rested menacingly inside their coats.

  Ahead, Mutt saw two other large figures enter the diner. They were wearing the same cheap suits. The newcomers nodded to their captors.

  Great, more Russkies.

  Mutt studied them with narrowed eyes.

  Professor Jones nudged him with an elbow and drew his attention. He nodded over at a blond letterman who stood next to a redhead in a poodle skirt.

  “Punch that guy,” Jones mouthed.

  “Wh-what?”

  “Joe College. Hit him. Hard.”

  Mutt understood and took a step out of line. He bumped into the letterman’s shoulder. “Hey, watch it, nosebleed!” Mutt called out.

  Joe College whirled, his face already turning red and irritated. Then he spotted Mutt’s black leather jacket. Irritation turned to territorial anger.

  Before the letterman could react, Mutt took the offensive. He swung hard, from the shoulder, and smashed the guy square in the nose.

  The letterman fell like an axed tree.

  All around, his friends bellowed in rage. Girls screamed and pointed.

  One footballer with a horse’s face yelled, “Get that greaser!”

  The Russian behind Mutt tried to grab the collar of his leather jacket, but three lettermen piled onto Mutt and knocked him away. Twisting around, Mutt ducked as a beer bottle was thrown from the rear of the diner. It struck one of the lettermen on the side of the head.

  Freed, Mutt rolled away and saw the half dozen greasers in biker jackets coming to his support. Fists formed, and threats were shouted.

  The song on the jukebox suddenly switched from “Glory of Love” to “Shake, Rattle and Roll.” How appropriate . . .

  Mutt swung around to see the tweed-jacketed professor punch a frat boy, then a Russian, then a greaser. He gaped at Professor Jones’s sudden transformation. A hand grabbed Mutt’s shoulder. Following the professor’s lead, he lashed out blindly.

  His fist ended up striking the largest Russian square in the Adam’s apple. The man choked and dropped hard on his backside.

  Jones grabbed Mutt’s elbow. “C’mon, kid.”

  The professor hurled his suitcase at another of the Russians. Mutt held off long enough to bend down and grab his switchblade out of the gasping Russian’s pocket.

  Weapon in hand, Mutt dashed with the professor toward the front door.

  The Russians fought to follow, but the diner was in full chaos.

  The pair burst through the front door and sprinted toward the side alley, where Mutt had left his motorcycle. The red-and-black Harley had never looked better. Mutt dug into his pocket for his keys.

  “What was that all about?” he forced out as he mounted the cycle.

  The professor had plainly been pondering the same. From his expression, he had come to some disturbing realization. “Your mom didn’t escape her kidnappers, kid! They must have let her go. They wanted her to mail that letter, for you to bring it here.”

  “For you to translate,” Mutt finished.

  “Smart kid.”

  Mutt felt a flush of satisfaction at the professor’s faint praise.

  But the roar of an engine interrupted. They both turned to the back of the alley. A black sedan barreled toward them, crashing through trash cans and debris.

  Mutt slipped in the key, twisted, and kicked the motorcycle to life with a deep growl. He turned to the professor. “Get on, Clyde! Time to cut out!”

  The professor eyed the cycle—plainly unsure, but he had no choice. He hopped on behind Mutt. “You know how to drive this thing, kid?”

  In answer, Mutt twisted the throttle and goosed the engine hard. The cycle roared and reared up on its back wheel, like a wild stallion. But Mutt had more than a single horse under him.

  Hot rubber gripped cement, and the cycle rocketed out of the alley.

  Tweed arms gripped tight around his waist.

  A grin formed on Mutts face.

  Welcome to my world, Professor!

  SIXTEEN

  INDY HELD ON for his life as the motorcycle hit the street and skidded sharply into a hard turn, the pavement an inch from his knee. The kid straightened the bike and sped down the street, weaving between slower cars.

  Indy risked a glance over his shoulder and saw the sedan burst out of the alley and give chase. But they had a good lead.

  For once, they’d caught a break.

  He should’ve known better.

  As he swung around, a second black sedan, an exact match to the first, flew out of a cross-street and pulled up alongside them. Mutt shied away, but a speeding bus had the bike hemmed in.

  The sedan squeezed closer, pinching tightly. Arms reached through the back window. Hands snagged Indy’s suit jacket and dragged him toward the open window. He had to let go of Mutt or the kid would lose control of his bike and end up under the wheels of the bus.

  With no choice, Indy allowed himself to be hauled through the window into the backseat of the sedan. The Russian in the rear clearly expected more resistance, so once inside the sedan, Indy obliged. Cocking an arm, he punched the Russian in the mouth and lunged over his body.

  Through the rear window, Indy noted that Mutt had dropped back behind the sedan and gunned toward the other side of the car.

  “Smart kid,” he repeated.

  Indy grabbed the window frame on that side and kicked the Russian square in the face, boosting himself through the windo
w.

  Mutt roared up next to the sedan. “Need a lift?”

  “Funny, kid!”

  Indy, half hanging out, snatched the chrome bar on the back of the cycle’s seat. He lunged out—but missed his landing. Hanging tight, he was dragged behind the cycle. Asphalt burned through his shoes’ leather. The heat scorched, and the rattling reached the fillings in his teeth.

  Finally, Mutt tapped the brakes, and Indy flew forward. He struck Mutt’s back and landed squarely in the seat behind the kid.

  “What were you doing back there?” Mutt yelled.

  “What was I doing?” Indy asked. He was indignant—until he sensed that devil-may-care grin behind the kid’s words.

  Mutt fed the bike more gas, and they shot forward.

  With a squeal of tires, another sedan shot into the street a block ahead, cutting them off.

  Mutt turned sharply, skinning Indy’s knee on the pavement. He bumped over the curb and flew up a flight of steps in front of an ivy-covered brick building, stately with age. As the bike shuddered up the steps, Mutt read the sign over the doorway ahead.

  Marshall College Library

  Established. 1856

  At the top a stunned student held the door open for them. Mutt took advantage of the opportunity and shot through the library’s vestibule and into the main reading room. Solemn mahogany book shelves spread to either side, framing rows of desks. Overhead, leaded windows filtered dusty light. In the enclosed space, the motorcycle’s roar was deafening.

  Students leaped up from their desks as the Harley soared into their midst. A librarian dropped an armload of books when they shot past.

  Mutt laughed wildly.

  “Wall!” Indy shouted.

  Mutt attempted a braking turn, but the polished floor betrayed him. Losing control, he laid the bike down and skidded across the floor. They stopped right in front of the checkout desk.

  An elderly librarian sat at her station. With all the dignity of the century-old building, she raised a finger to her lips and warned them, sternly, “Shh!”

  “Sorry, ma’am.” Mutt hauled his bike up.

  Indy dusted himself off.

  One of his sophomore students hurried over to them, recognizing the professor. “Dr. Jones, since you’re here, I’ve got a quick question about Hargrove’s normative culture models—”

  Indy held up a hand. “Forget Hargrove. Read Vere Gordon Childe on diffusionism. He spent most of his life in the field.”

  Mutt lacked the bike’s starter, and the cycle growled back to life. He turned to the librarian and mouthed Sorry. He slipped a comb from his pocket and ran it through his hair, fixing his appearance—apparently the kid had some respect for proper decorum in a library. Or maybe it was because of the coed giving him the eye up and down.

  Indy backed away from the eager student and mounted the bike again. Still, he called back, wanting to pass on one last teaching tip. “If you wanna be a good archaeologist, you’re gonna have to—”

  Mutt throttled the bike and headed for the rear exit.

  Indy twisted and shouted back, “—GET OUT OF THE LIBRARY!”

  Mutt banged through the library’s back door and burst out into the bright day. He shot into the street and searched around. Surely that shortcut had shaken their tail—then again maybe not.

  From around the corner of the library, one of the sedans roared into view, having circled the building.

  If anything, these guys were stubborn.

  Mutt gunned his cycle’s engine, smoking his rear tire, and shot toward the town’s center. He heard music, voices. Turning a sharp corner, he discovered a demonstration under way. Folks crowded the streets. From the signs and banners, it appeared to be a political rally. Chants were shouted, hand-painted placards were waved, and leaders made speeches with bullhorns.

  Mutt didn’t slow. Heck, he didn’t even vote.

  Bobbing and weaving, he shot through the crowd. People shook fists at his rude passage. Someone threw an orange at him.

  The sedan followed, but less nimbly.

  One of the student demonstrators jumped out of the car’s way. His placard went flying and landed on the windshield of the pursuing sedan.

  Mutt caught a glimpse of its appropriate slogan: BETTER DEAD THAN RED.

  Once clear of the demonstrators, Mutt throttled up and headed for the redbrick stadium at the end of the street. Distantly, the roar of the crowd reached him. This year’s college homecoming game was already under way.

  Mutt smiled.

  He’d always wanted to go.

  “Hike!”

  The center snapped the ball to the quarterback.

  The game was tied in the fourth quarter. They had seventy yards still to go. It would be up to him. he’d heard there were recruiters in the stands. He needed a shining moment, especially since he already pictured his face on a box of Wheaties.

  The quarterback dropped back for an impossible forward pass.

  Close by, two defensive linemen suddenly broke free and charged right for him. He was about to get sacked. Hard. His dreams of cereal boxes faded.

  Then the massive linemen skidded to a stop, staring—but not at him.

  Only then did he hear a strange screaming growl behind him.

  He swung around—

  —a motorcycle was aimed straight at him.

  He zigged, and the cycle zagged. It shot past him. and churned up the turf, heading downfield. Upheld, a dark car blasted through the rear fencing and raced past the goalpost, headed right for them.

  The field cleared to either side.

  The quarterback held his position as the sedan flew past him. He tracked it. With the field empty, he had the gridiron to himself.

  He still needed a shining moment.

  For the recruiters. For himself.

  Stepping back, he cocked his arm and pitched the ball.

  It sailed high and far.

  A perfect pass.

  Indy urged Mutt faster.

  “I’m trying!” the kid yelled back.

  But the bike had become mired in the muddy turf. Twisted in his seat, Indy watched the sedan close the distance.

  Intently focused, he noted motion in the air. It drew his eye.

  A football came sailing out of the sky.

  Instinctively, he put his hands up. The pass landed squarely between his palms as the sedan pulled even with him.

  The stadium erupted into a wild cheer.

  Indy shifted and snapped the ball in a hard spiral—straight through the sedan’s window and smack into the side of the driver’s head.

  The sedan swerved off.

  The motorcycle finally found traction and shot through the end zone. Mutt aimed for the exit tunnel, chased by the sedan, which was now weaving erratically. Still the vehicle bore down upon them. Mutt shot into the tunnel, the roar of the cycle thunderous in the enclosed space. The sedan gained speed behind them, closing in on the motorcycle’s back tire by the time they reached the exit.

  Directly in their path rose a commemorative statue of a seated figure, bronze hands resting on the knees, the face wryly smiling. Indy knew that smile. It was a memorial to his friend and former dean of students, Marcus Brody.

  Mutt veered to the side, skidding. He cleared the statue, missing a collision by inches.

  The sedan was not so lucky.

  The vehicle struck the statue’s base. The bronze figure toppled over. Marcus’s head smashed through the windshield, only too happy to offer the Russians that wry smile of his.

  Mutt sped away.

  But Indy stared behind him, grateful.

  Even in death, his friend had his back.

  Thanks, Marcus.

  SEVENTEEN

  UNDER THE COVER OF NIGHT, Indy led Mutt up the front steps of his house. He had dared come no sooner. They had lain low in the town’s outskirts, in the woods. He unlocked the door as silently as possible and listened. A few crickets chirped, but the house remained dead-quiet.

  Satisfi
ed, Indy waved Mutt through and followed him inside.

  “Keep the lights off,” Indy warned.

  He closed the door, went to all the windows and pulled the shades. Only then did he cross to a table lamp and switch it on. Shadows warmed away and revealed a brick fireplace and walls of books, along with shelved artifacts from around the world. A ladder leaned against one set of shelves. The place smelled of old wood smoke and yellowed parchment.

  Home.

  Mutt collapsed onto a sofa and kicked his boots up on the coffee table.

  Indy passed him with a deep frown.

  Mutt dropped his feet to the floor, but he stayed slouched.

  “This is where you live?” Mutt asked. “It’s the first place they’ll look for us. We gotta get out of here.”

  “In a minute.”

  Mutt didn’t argue. In fact, he looked ready to settle in.

  Indy pulled Oxley’s letter from his pocket and studied it. He ran a finger along the line of strange script. If I’m right . . .

  He crossed to one of the bookshelves and pulled down a thick book. Heyerdahl’s treatise on Mesoamerican languages. Opening it, he stepped backward and sat in a seat. There was one other chair in the room. A leather wingback, as weathered as Indy’s jacket. It rested beside the hearth. It had been his father’s. Henry Jones Sr. And though it had been two years since his father had died, Indy still couldn’t get himself to sit in it.

  It was still too full of the old man.

  Indy settled with the book on his lap and compared the symbols found inside with Oxley’s letter. He tapped the open page.

  “I thought so. Koihoma.”

  Mutt stirred. His eyes had drifted closed. “What’s that?”

  “An extinct Latin American language. Pre-Columbian syllabary system. See these diagonal stresses on the ideograms? Definitely Koihoma.”

  “So what? Do you speak it?”

  “Nobody speaks it; hasn’t been heard out loud in three thousand years.” Indy shrugged. “Might be able to read a little.”

  He flipped to another page, farther in the book. It was also covered in ancient symbols.