by Roger Weston
“You’re gonna pay for that,” he snarled.
“Are you gonna bore me to death or fight?”
The killer did a repeat of his last move, striking at Chuck’s neck. Chuck leaned back just out of range. Grabbing the killer’s arm and twisting it, Chuck delivered a kick to the side of his chest just under his raised arm. It was a solid blow that not only jarred the thoracic organs and bruised the nerves of his armpit, it also elicited a cry of pain.
Chuck twisted his arm harder and drove him to the ground. Despite what must have been agony, the man didn’t give up. Instead, he reached for an ankle holster. Chuck slammed his boot down on the back of his leg, an effective attack on the sciatic nerve and hamstring muscles, but more importantly he heard the femur bone snap.
Chuck disarmed the assassin’s ankle holster and threw the pistol down a rat hole.
Chuck heard yelling up ahead. More men were coming, so he ran in the opposite direction.
Twenty minutes later he found himself in the unlighted, more crudely constructed part of the labyrinth.
Lazar—he had to find Lazar.
And soon! Before they closed in on him. There were too many killers lurking around in this cave system.
CHAPTER 24
Clinging his assault rifle with a massive hand, Muerte’s arm bulged like a logjam. He was walking down a narrow corridor in the lower level of the catacombs, staring down the tunnel with his pit-bull eyes. So far, Brandt had eluded him, and he didn’t like that. Muerte wanted blood in a bad way. He wanted Brandt’s blood. He wanted a corpse to present to Lazar. This Chuck Brandt was out of control. He needed to learn a lesson that he could take with him to the grave. Muerte would be his teacher. “I will teach him a lesson for killing my brothers that no man wants to learn,” he mumbled to himself.
Beneath his hooded eye lids, his fierce eyes stalked the gloomy section of tunnel for movements. The big man was sweating profusely—not that he was afraid of Brandt. He was not. He was afraid, though. He was afraid of the horrors in his brain. He was hearing the screams of people he had tortured, hearing the cries of people he had burned alive in their homes. It was almost as if their screams were echoing through the catacombs. In fact, some of the screams he was sure were not just in his head. They were echoing down the corridors. He was now approaching the cell where a failed recruit had lived out his last days. Muerte had ensured that his last days were horrific.
But that was a year ago, why was Muerte hearing his screams now? Muerte entered the cell and flicked on his flashlight. Nobody there. The blood stains on the wall testified to the failed recruit’s last days of horror when Muerte had done the knife work and enjoyed the power.
Normally, such things did not bother Muerte, but this man’s death had always bothered him because the recruit looked a lot like Muerte himself. In fact, for that very reason, Muerte had hated him with unusual passion. Muerte staggered out of the cell on log-thick legs.
His massive hand swiped at the air. He felt as if a thousand cockroaches were crawling all over him. He made frantic motions to wipe them off. “Get off me!”
The only way to relieve himself from the voices in his head was to take the life of another man. Muerte continued his journey through the underground. He came to a halt when he arrived in an area with crude corridors and no lighting. He pulled his knife out of its sheath. Gripping his machete by its diamond-studded handle, he held it in front of him and waved it back and forth. He breathed rapidly and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
He headed down the passageway, lined with spider webs.
Twenty minutes later, Muerte spotted Brandt up ahead. He was almost at the southern exit tunnel.
Muerte broke into a sprint, only he headed in the opposite direction. For a man with a massive torso and bulging arms and legs, he ran with eerie speed. He sprinted down the long tunnel, turned a corner, and sprinted down another. He pumped his elbows and a few times he saw his diamond bracelet sparkle in the light.
Muerte clung to his Russian AEK-971 assault rifle. He knew just how to cut Brandt off.
CHAPTER 25
Chuck was racing down the slanted passageway through the dark underground. He’d found the entrance tunnel he’d first entered through. When Chuck emerged into daylight at the foot of the massive city wall, he got a rude surprise.
“What do we have here?”
The muscles in Chuck’s abs tensed. What he saw was not pretty. It was an oversized thug with a bumpy, beat-red face and a snake-tattooed scalp. His head looked like a battering ram. His eyes were fierce and pitiless. To look in his eyes was like looking into the eyes of an alligator. Chuck could feel the total lack of humanity… His face was as mean as any that Chuck had encountered. His arms and legs bulged to abnormal dimensions. His hand was like a baseball glove and made his assault rifle look like a mere toy. He was truly a fearsome beast, as if he was a killing machine sent down by the devil himself to unleash chaos on mortal man.
“They told me that Chuck Brandt was the best, but it only took me ninety minutes to track you and kill you.”
Chuck started to turn.
“Do not move!” Muerte’s nose snarled. His pitiless eyes grew sharper.
Chuck froze. “Who are you?”
“They call me Muerte,” the Black Cobra killer said. “I’m the baddest son-of-a-bitch in Peru. Hell, I’m the baddest badass in South America. After I kill you, they’ll say I’m the baddest in the world.”
“They might be exaggerating.”
“I’ve heard about you, Brandt. They call you the ghost because you do things that cannot be done.”
“There’s a lot of liars out there.” Chuck noticed that Muerte’s assault rifle had a gold magazine. “I’ll grant you one thing, though. You’re well named. I wouldn’t want to meet you in a dark alley. For that matter, I wouldn’t want to meet you ever—”
“Then you shouldn’t have killed my brothers. General Lazar respects you. There are very few people who he respects more than you and even fewer he hates more than you. Your death is going to be very good news.” Muerte flashed his bracelet in the sun. “See the sparkle? Now you die.” He lifted his assault rifle with the gold magazine and aimed it at Chuck’s face.
“Muerte, come in.” Lazar’s static filled voice came over the walkie-talkie on Muerte’s hip. “Did you get him?” he said.
“Yes, I have him and he’s about to taste a bullet.”
“Wait. Stop! Bring him to the Octagon for a show for the men. The death of Chuck Brandt will inspire generations of my fighters and you will be the one to inflict the death blow.”
Muerte grinned.
Even better.
***
On his way to the jeep, General Lazar collected a sledge hammer. Carrying it over his shoulder, he hurried down the trail. With Muerte and his elite Alpha team, he would go to the Octagon and preside over the demise of Chuck Brandt, a living legend.
***
At gunpoint, Chuck was led to the top of the citadel. He heard a motor and then a jeep appeared from a curving track that ran between the restored round buildings of the citadel and the remaining decaying stone foundations that filled the plateau. The driver was a big flat-faced Neanderthal of a man with a crew-cut. A big numb-eyed thug with doughnut beard around his mouth rode shotgun. Both men were dressed in black and well-armed.
Muerte said, “Rico, handcuff and blindfold him.”
The big heavy thug did as instructed.
Muerte shoved Chuck into the back of the jeep and sat next to him. Then Muerte grabbed Chuck’s neck with one of his massive hands and squeezed. Chuck’s oxygen supply was cut off. He started to choke.
Finally, Muerte let go, and Chuck gasped for air.
“Do anything stupid and I’ll wring your neck. Then I’ll chop you up and leave the pieces in a pile for vultures.”
Chuck scowled. “You brought the fight to the wrong man.”
Muerte laughed. “I can hardly wait to break your neck like a little twig.
”
***
As Lazar arrived at the Octagon, he admired the beautiful surroundings. He’d created this resort area and accommodations for the dignitaries that would be visiting soon.
Unlike the lost city, it was a modern complex built to five-star standards, yet it was so remote that is was only accessible by helicopter. Built on an adjacent rim to Viracocha it overlooked a thousand-foot gorge over the Apurimac river. Two dozen opulent bungalows had been recently built on the grounds to Lazar’s exacting standards. He had built the Octagon Resort to provide a unique entertainment and hospitality experience for visiting dignitaries.
He entered one of the opulent bungalows that he’d furnished with sublime antiques. He sauntered around the room. There was a spectacular desk off to one side. It was stunning due to its elaborate stained sycamore wood carving that included twin eagles for curved legs. The eagle’s claws held scallop shells that created the desk’s feet. It was fit for royalty.
It was only one of several antiques of unquestioned quality that filled the room. Lazar looked with admiration at a Flemish cabinet with intricate designs and many little drawers, and an armchair of velvet upholstery. A highboy mahogany chest of drawers with curved legs and feet was positioned against a refined sandstone wall.
Lazar’s steel eyes flitted around in amazement. This bungalow was meant for men who appreciated the value of what it beheld. Men who valued the nineteenth century aneroid barometer mounted on a carved wood base, and the celestial globe that was at least three hundred years old that sat on a marble topped table. The room was immaculate and would impress the diplomats that would be occupying it soon. Lazar opened three other doors of the nearest bungalows and smiled at the similarly accoutered lodgings. All of the bungalows were luxurious in their own way. This was no five-star resort; it was more like a ten-star retreat. Lazar would soon be entertaining VIP’s who would help him carry out his plan. They wouldn’t be able to resist him after seeing everything that he had to offer them.
CHAPTER 26
The Octagon
Chuck was led into a finely constructed wood building that was filled with lots of noise and shouting. He was led right in the middle of a shouting mob. He was shoved around and jostled, forced to walk in a small circle. The yelling was loud and included a lot of profanity. His handcuffs were removed and the blindfold roughly torn off.
Chuck found himself in the middle of an octagon-shaped arena—a dirt filled area, thirty-yards in diameter and surrounded by a chain-link fence, all around and overhead, too. Behind the fence, Black Cobras dressed in black surrounded him. Placed at intervals, statues rimmed the perimeter.
The statues were some of the great captains of history—Hannibal, Caesar, Napoleon and even Pontius Pilate. Others included Fredrick the Great and Alexander.
The boisterous crowd suddenly got quiet and directed their attention to the opened doors. With the sun at his back, Lazar entered the pavilion. He had a sledge hammer over his shoulder. He walked towards Chuck.
“Look at them,” Lazar said, gesturing toward the statues. “Who do you think they are?”
The general stalked back and forth a couple of times in front of Chuck, who stood motionless.
“They were the conquerors of mankind. They were the great ones.” Lazar said.
Nobody dared say a word. Lazar shifted his sledge hammer from his left to right hand. He gave a brief, piercing look at Chuck.
“They were the ones who amazed the masses and routed the hoards. They were the ones whose brilliance coalesced upon circumstances and transformed chaos into victory. Something you know nothing about.”
Lazar stalked back and forth, glaring at Chuck.
“Look at them. They are bigger than life. I had them shipped from Rome to the Amazon and now flown up here to preside over my victories.”
Lazar speaking to his Black Cobra fighters now said, “You are my chosen ones. You are my fists and my boots. You are my champions, my servants deserving of rich rewards for loyalty and success. You will earn it once more. Muerte will break Chuck Brandt’s legs. Muerte will break his back, and break his neck. Brandt will fall like they all did,” Lazar said as he gestured at the statues.
“Can I ask one thing before you kill me?” Chuck said.
“What?”
“Why are you doing this? I don’t get it.”
“Don’t get it? I’m planning to bring down America. Why? because I want to. Soon diplomats from all around the world will come here and learn of my plan. They are supporting me because we have a common goal.”
“And what’s that?”
“The dignitaries are links to a shadow government in the U.S. The plan has been in motion for some time. They are the real heroes of the world. They are conspiring with American traders to rot out America from within. For now, they sabotage, slander, and leak intelligence. They make it hard to govern. For now, they use Lenin’s white-glove approach with a minimum of violence. Very soon the political tables will be turned. Chaos will reign. The malcontents will rise. Tormented by agitation, angered by ideology, they will be organized by an army of disloyal bureaucrats and deep-cover foreign operatives posing as legitimate US politicians. Civil War is coming to America very soon and I will lead. I will command by the flag of the hammer and the sickle.
Lazar continued, “I will reign. I will co-opt all American penitentiaries, freeing the inmates and turning the U.S. prison system into a new gulag for political opposition. I will ride to power on the back of the Russian bear. I will have more power than Tupa Inca, than Stalin, than Mao. The Incas prophesied this.”
“You really are sick. The Russians should have left you in the asylum to rot. Big mistake on their part, letting you get away.”
“Oh no. It was all foretold. The bear is rising and the purges will resume.”
“Purges? Why don’t you just leave people alone to live their lives in peace?”
“The purges will begin with you.”
Chuck eyed the surrounding crowd. It was a grim moment, but not totally unexpected. He knew the risks when he came here. “Why are these diplomats so loyal to you? I don’t get it.”
“Fear and self-interest. My protection racket, taxing the cartels to ensure protection by the Black Cobras, has brought me cash. Lots of it. I reward the dignitaries and turncoat politicians with it. Indulgent trips to my resorts around the world also helps. If self-interest doesn’t work, then fear enters. When I tell them how my men will kill their families, they know I mean it.”
“I’m sure they do,” Chuck said.
Lazar smirked and started to pace in front of his statues. He stopped in front of each one and smiled.
First, he approached Hannibal. Then he glared at Chuck. “How great was he?”
Chuck didn’t respond.
Lazar moved towards—Fredrick the Great, Caesar, Napoleon asking the same question and getting the same reply. Silence. Then he approached one more.
Holding the sledge hammer he wiped sweat from his brow. Then he scowled at Chuck.
“You know this one here, don’t you?” Lazar said, pointing at a statue near the entrance of the Octagon. “The great Pontius Pilot—he who tried to defeat the king of kings.”
Lazar swung his sledge hammer, shattering the left knee of Pontius Pilot. “He failed, I tell you. He conquered the body, but not the Spirit. He failed.”
Lazar broke off the second leg of the fallen statue.
“Look now. Look at him. Laid low by the greatest general in Russian history. I will succeed where he failed. Look at him, a crippled relic, a symbol of unachieved ambitions, yet I walk around on stout legs. I carry on the legacy of the greatest conquerors in history. I will complete what the Incas foretold. All have striven. All have failed. I alone will succeed. I stand on this high peak on this mighty mountain chain and survey the entire world. I will achieve my destiny. I will take what is mine.”
Lazar dropped the sledge hammer. He took a long look at the silent Black Cobra men who su
rrounded him. Then he rose his hands above his head and said, “Let the games begin.”
Standing in the center of the arena, Chuck turned in a circle, looking at the octagon-shaped area behind the chain link fence that he now found himself in. A cat-walk surrounded the showground. Dozens of Black Cobra fighters began to work themselves into a frenzy while jeering him. Bloodlust filled their eyes as they began to shout. They clung to the chain-link fence, and shook the wire. They shook fists full of cash and placed bets with each other. They looked at Chuck as a man breathing his last breaths on earth. They were celebrating his death. Then they began cheering, pumping their fists in the air and shaking the fence even more. They began to chant, “Mu-er-te! Mu-er-te!”
The gigantic man entered the ring through a gate on the opposite side. The gate was quickly closed and locked behind him. Muerte was six-six and all muscle. His body looked like a human logjam. It was like a ball of tightly-wound cords and ropes, fraying from tension. His eyes were fierce and pitiless. His forehead looked like the end of a battering ram and his scalp was bald, his hair having been replaced with tattoos of black snakes. The octagon of witnesses began a new chant: “Ser-pi-en-te, Ser-pi-en-te.”
Chuck looked into Muertes eyes and knew exactly what they meant.
As Muerte walked along the outer edge of the cage, sizing up Chuck, the Black Cobras went wild. They shook the chain link fence with greater furor now and shouted: “Death, death, death, death.”
Muerte walked over to a man in black who was standing on a raised platform just inside the Octagon. The man was holding a bucket. Muerte stopped in front of him and raised his hands above his head. With his back to Chuck, his fingers clasped the chain link fence. His back muscles rippled.
Then fighters chanted, “Sangre, Sangre, Sangre!”
Chuck thought this meant they wanted to see his blood and feared they might get what they were after, but then the man on the platform swung his bucket and doused Muerte in blood.