by Andy Lucas
To study the story further, he had persuaded ARC to set him up in Nepal, where he had built as many local contacts as possible. Their information, also passed by word of mouth, from generation to generation, supported this idea that there had once been a band of warriors specifically tasked with the job of confronting the fearsome Yeti. Once trained, in small groups, they were sent out into the wilderness, never to return.
Recently, as the ARC pressure had eased from his shoulders, a final piece of the jigsaw had come into his possession at last. A name. To be precise, a name of the temple where these warriors had been trained. Al Jagha.
The temple was allegedly hidden somewhere in the Jumla region, a few days trek from the position he had of the village concerned with the story; Bruk. Long since deserted by its people, both had been seemingly lost to history.
Prior’s idea was to locate Bruk and then the temple. It was a dream that sounded crazy to everyone he had ever told. To track down a living Yeti and capture it alive, so it could be displayed to the world in the manner of a real life King Kong. Not only would it establish his scientific credentials amongst long-scoffing colleagues but he would also make a small fortune for himself. Science was one thing but, for a small-minded, egotistical man like Prior, fame and wealth would catapult him to international stardom.
In themselves, his plans seemed perfectly acceptable, if fanciful. After all, it was standard practice when investigating an ancient myth or fable to identify, locate and study key settlements and historical figures mentioned in the stories. If the archaeology then threw up anything that supported the story, there was a good chance that success would follow and money would be made.
Yet Prior was no fool. He was a geneticist, biologist and physicist; with doctorates in all three disciplines. Burdened with the IQ of a genius, he knew that his place was inside a laboratory, not tramping across snowy peaks hunting for lost Nepalese villages or ancient temples. For that task, he needed an expert team, led by a top archaeologist. In fact, he mused as he checked his watch, that particular team should be arriving any minute now. He needed to freshen up and make sure he was on hand to greet them when they did.
Once he had greeted his guests, and met his own intellectual needs, he could then turn his attention back to his prisoner.
He relished the thought.
9
Sadie Munro hardly cut an Indiana Jones figure. Well respected as a field archaeologist, with more than thirty years of digs under her professional belt, she was feeling every one of her fifty-three years as the large Chinook transport helicopter settled down onto an open area of ground in front of the research facility.
Battered and scarred from years of hard service, the reliable old machine never missed a beat from her two Honeywell T55-GA-712 engines that could still push the helicopter to over one hundred and fifty miles per hour when necessary. True, long gone were the days when it could crest one hundred and eighty miles per hour but the performance was still impressive, considering the twenty years of wear and tear it had been subjected to.
Neither had it lost any of its raw muscle power; easily able to lift a load of twelve thousand pounds into the air. Today, instead of carrying over fifty soldiers, or a couple of vehicles, the Chinook was filled with a civilian archaeological team numbering twenty souls. Sadie, for her sins, was their boss. Barely five feet three inches in her thick, climbing socks, with a body wiry to the point of emaciation, she wore her grey hair cropped closely to her skull, shrouded beneath a thick, red wool hat.
Her features were virtually skeletal, the skin being stretched tightly across high cheekbones and framing a thin, bloodless pair of colourless lips. The most striking
feature, however, was the visible fire that blossomed within two passionate eyes; greenish depths alive with a desire to discover the lost secrets from mankind’s past. Sadie had never married, nor cared for human relationships. She had married herself to science from a young age and never yearned for anything more.
Her visage often misled the casual observer into thinking she was aloof and cold. Nothing could have been further from the truth. She might have shunned romance but she genuinely enjoyed the company of her fellow academics. She sparkled with humour and was typically the life and soul of any party, especially as she was partial to a few glasses of Bushmills single malt whiskey.
Like so many highly intelligent human beings, sadly, internally she was a mass of neurosis and anxieties. These demons she had only ever been able to suppress with drink. Sadie was a hopeless, wretched, self-destructive and often depressed alcoholic, albeit a fully functioning one.
The other part of Sadie, that fitted very nicely with her current paymaster’s ethics, was that she did not care what she had to do, or with whom, as long as she was still able to travel the world and dig into history. Youthful innocence long since evaporated, she was no stranger to the harsh realities of securing funding in the corporate world. Big businesses had little time for the past; their vision was firmly fixed ahead, and nation states were often more likely to fund new initiatives than pay for an enlargement of their museums' treasures.
She had worked for the Chinese and even undertaken a small dig for the North Koreans a few weeks earlier, albeit uncovering a tomb barely a century old. It was her Chinese contact, in fact, who had put her in touch with ARC and led directly to her current arrival in Nepal. What the link was between them, she cared nothing about. The money was good and a three week, uninterrupted dig in the mountains of this virtually ignored corner of the globe, thrilled her with a familiar burn of adrenaline. She could hardly wait track down the lost temple and excavate its secrets.
When she initially clapped eyes on Prior, stepping across the concrete slab to greet her, eyes fawning and wearing a false grin, she immediately knew that she was back in the company of an unscrupulous bedfellow.
‘Doctor, so glad to meet you at last,’ he stuttered. ‘Your reputation precedes you.’
‘Professor,’ Sadie corrected him firmly.
‘That makes two of us,’ he shot back, even quicker.
‘Mr Prior,’ she ignored him. ‘Can you see that all this equipment stays on the helicopter and remains untouched overnight?’ It was a statement rather than a request. ‘My team and I have been promised a warm bed, hot meal and a safe place to rest before we ship out to the dig site in the morning.’
‘Nobody will touch a thing,’ Prior promised readily. ‘I will post a couple of guards on the helicopter overnight. Your rooms have all been made up and pre-dinner drinks will be served in the main lounge in half an hour. The chef has created a sumptuous menu for us and we carry a fine range of wines and spirits.
Sadie hoped her sudden flash of excitement at the mention of alcohol went unnoticed but, of course, it did not.
‘I could do with a shower, as could my crew. We’ve been cooped up in that thing for far too long. It might be an hour before you see any of us looking vaguely presentable,’ she said, dropping her gaze momentarily to collect herself before shooting him a steely gaze, eyeball to eyeball.
Prior had been tempted to make a sly comment about the alcohol but decided against it, sensing that she was not someone to be trifled with. Anyway, he reasoned, he needed her if the plan was to have any chance of success.
Nodding, he ushered the team of archaeologists into the main house and allowed them to drift up the stairs to their respective rooms. With Shilan neatly locked up, waiting to be played with whenever he wished, he felt happy enough to grab a large glass of Pinot Grigio from one of many ice-filled buckets spread around the large lounge area. Chilled and delicious, he savoured the dry flavour, swilling it unceremonially around his mouth before swallowing.
The aroma of delicately roasted venison, duck and a variety of spiced vegetables, which was just the first course, wafted from the back of the room where large double doors led into a huge, industrial-style, stainless clad kitchen. Inside, half a dozen cooks under the gruelling direction of a skilled chef, toiled away to en
sure that his guests would enjoy a sumptuous banquet. The steaks, chicken, pheasants and whole hog roast that made up the main course, complemented by an exotic array of accompanying dishes from around the world, would have not looked out of place gracing the finest tables of the Ritz or the Savoy in London. No expense had been spared.
A second glass of wine prompted him to settle his slim frame down onto a huge, red leather armchair, studded with brass rivets along the huge, sweeping skirts and arcing delicately around the end of each arm. Relaxed, he closed his eyes and began to ponder on what the future had in store. Years in the making, he was finally pulling the threads together that would make him the most famous scientist alive.
He had no further chance to dwell on the future because footsteps on the carpeted stairs indicated his new guests were prioritising food and drink above personal hygiene.
As darkness fell, accompanied by a blustery winter storm that threatened to turn from sleet to snow several times as the hours passed, two heavily bundled guards stood resolutely next to the helicopter, itself bathed in the stark beam of a high, wall mounted spotlight bolted to a nearby outbuilding. Heavily swathed in dark green snowsuits and carrying automatic rifles slung over their shoulders, they listened to the music that had begun to seep out from the main house to taunt them, accompanied by the occasional burst of raucous laughter and the clink of cutlery.
As the weather closed in even harder, they cursed their bad luck but were wise enough to remain alert. Their boss had a nasty habit of sending out a supervisor to undertake spot checks on night guards, to ensure they were not slacking. Being caught, even slightly distracted, would mean docked pay and an even longer stint of the worst duties in the compound. So they stayed focused, dutifully watched for intruders, and waited for time to slip interminably by.
Back in the warm confines of the lounge, dinner had been a huge success and the alcohol now flowed freely, much to Sadie’s delight. Her initial attempts to control her intake had long since been forgotten. After two bottles of wine, she'd gleefully spied a bottle of Bushmills on behind a very well stocked bar. Not even bothering to disguise her plan, she grabbed a shot glass and spirited away the entire bottle upstairs, locking herself away in her room to indulge in glass after glass in dangerously rapid succession. Each time the familiar taste burned the base of her throat, she craved a new hit and soon the room dissolved into numbing, spinning darkness.
Downstairs, their host had also left the party. Suitably fed and slightly drunk himself, Prior felt his courage rise enough to begin the initial degradation of the prisoner who had previously looked down on him, thinking herself superior in Josephine’s affections. Now, he chuckled, heading out into the storm in just trousers, shoes and shirt, she would learn the hard way.
Prior didn’t worry about the cold because he was only exposed for a few seconds before a hard rap on the door alerted Shilan’s guards to his return. They let him in and waited while he staggered down the passageway, physically drawing himself upright as he neared her cell door.
She heard him coming, of course, and sensed the lateness of the hour would not bode well for her. At least in Prior’s mind. She also correctly guessed that it was Dutch courage that had brought him to her this time. That would be her edge, she smiled to herself as she sat up, opting to be naked rather than stay in wet clothes. But only if her acting skills were at their very best. If she played it wrong, it might be the end of her.
As the door opened, Prior’s inflated confidence led him to make a fatal mistake.
Instead of sending the guards in ahead of him, he merely waved them away; confident that he could manage the weakened female on his own this time. The guards were happy to let him have his moment alone with the prisoner. They had just brewed up some fresh coffee and were about to tuck into some tuna sandwiches.
Switching on the single, harsh bulb, he closed the door behind him. The guards knew better than to slide the bolts home, leaving the door closed but unlocked. Shilan noticed him wobble and the reek of alcohol immediately washed over her, even managing to mask the stink of her recently-used bucket for a moment.
‘So, my dear,’ he soothed. ‘Just you and me tonight. Isn’t that interesting?’
‘Are you going to hurt me, doctor?’ she added the merest hint of a tremble into her tone, flicking her eyes nervously from side to side as if desperate to avoid his leer.
‘’I am going to kill you,’ he sneered knowingly, seeing no point in hiding the fact. ‘I explained that earlier, remember?’
Shilan let out a quiet mew and curled herself into a tight ball, as though trying to protect modesty that, in reality, she had never really had. ‘You don’t have to do that.’ As though struck by a sudden idea, she provocatively uncurled herself and stood up to reveal her full nakedness. Stepping towards him, as though uncertain at first, eyes fixed on his, she feigned a seductive smile. ‘I will be good, I promise. I will make you very happy. Killing me would be a waste.’
Prior watched her approach and was completely sucked in to the ruse, feeling his cheeks flush and blood engorge other areas. This was the moment that he had imagined with Shilan. Total control. Total submission. God-like, he would make her perform for him and then beg to be granted a few more hours of life. He would allow her to live, for a few sessions, before commencing his experiments.
As she drew level with him, she dropped to her bruised knees in front of him and his eyes widened with anticipation, his tongue flicking wetly at the edges of his mouth like a lizard seeking the scent of an unfortunate insect.
‘Yes, my dear, that’s it. Know your place. Kneel before me. Service me and I may let you live just a little longer.’
If she wasn’t so intent on her performance, Shilan would have gagged on the pompously farcical vocabulary that her jailor was using but she refrained from responding, mainly because a sense of certainty was now warming her shivering, goose-bump sporting flesh. Reaching for him, as though to open his trousers, she sensed rather than saw him relax. Her honed reflexes had been dulled a little by days of abuse and cold but they were still good enough against Prior.
One moment he was standing over her, in control, expectantly waiting and the next she dropped her hands to his ankles, gripped them with surprising strength and pulled hard, sending him crashing backwards onto the stone floor with a sickening thud; his skull crumpling flat against the hard surface in a violently percussive welter of blood and broken bone.
Shilan expected to have to dart forward and finish him off but the hard floor had done the entire job for her. Eyes glazing in a surprised stare upwards, Professor Prior died.
What happened next would decide whether she lived or died herself.
Even though they were eating and drinking, well away from the door, the crack of Prior’s skull shattering on the floor carried beyond the door and out to the ears of the two guards. Seasoned mercenaries once, but a little jaded after months on mundane, if lucrative, guard duty, they took a moment to decide exactly what they’d heard.
This gave Shilan enough time to let out a couple of well-timed moans and screams, interspersed with Prior’s name, as though enraptured in a passionate embrace. Unsure if they would buy it, she slapped herself hard a few times on her bare buttocks, screaming each time to underline the harsh sound of the slaps.
Hearing no sound of approaching feet, she proceeded to strip Priors’ corpse and dress herself in his clothing. Being so skinny, they fitted fairly well and the feel of warm clothing on her skin served to bolster her resolve that little bit further, despite the odd, damp blood stain.
Shilan did not rush after that. If they were going to come for her, they’d have done it by now, she reasoned. Keeping them at bay with the occasional shriek, or cry, she turned her attentions to her tired, lethargic body. Hitting a series of increasingly rapid exercises, she drilled herself through a warm up that she was so familiar it came as second nature. After fifteen minutes, bathed in a thin sheen of fresh sweat, panting slightly but alert and
ready, she made her move.
The guards hardly paid any heed as the door opened and the thin, stooped form of Prior emerged from the cell. Their eyes were drawn to his shirt and trousers and it took a moment before their senses started jangling with alarm. Those few milliseconds were all the time Shilan needed; spinning around and charging them like a race horse exploding to the command of the starting pistol.
One guard died instantly, as a well-placed flying kick sliced through the air, connecting beneath his jaw and snapping his head back with such force that his neck snapped with a sickening crack. The other guard may have been a little rusty after too long at the complex but, in a previous life, he had been a tough soldier in Spain’s elite MOE unit, fighting out of Valencia, with the 3rd Special Operations Group.
Years of training snapped back to him just in time to ward off a beautifully-timed roundhouse kick from his assailant, aimed at his throat. The kick was powerful but he easily batted it away with a heavily muscled forearm. Stepping in, rather than away, he closed in with a smile already beginning to crease up the edges of his mouth. This was clearly the woman prisoner, he knew. She must have overpowered that weakling scientist and now had the temerity to challenge him.
Jose Barros hated women. Loved them for sex but despised them in every other sense. Born into a family where his own father regularly beat his mother to within an inch of her life, Barros had grown into a handsome, dark-haired Lothario who had his share of female companions before nearly strangling a girlfriend had led him before a friendly court, run by a close relative.
To avoid jail, he agreed to join the army, where his strength, brutality and streak of viciousness had drawn him into the arms of Special Operations before he was even twenty-five years old. Two decades defending his country, surviving operations all over the globe, gave him a few medals and retirement on a pitiful pension before the age of fifty.