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

by Matthew James

  We step over towards the coffin, but Olivia doesn’t move, she just stands over Dr. Weaver’s prone body, staring. I’m about to ask her if she’s okay, but Nicole beats me to the punch.

  “Olivia,” the women lock eyes, Olivia’s being streaked with tears. “There’s nothing we can do for him. The best thing is for us to figure out why he died in the first place. I promise you, there will be time to properly mourn. Just not right now, okay?”

  With a resolve that must come from deep within herself, Olivia nods and steps over the body. She joins us at the rear of the room, while we search for clues to why Dr. Weaver was killed and the cause of death to those outside.

  20

  Isla de Jaina, Campeche, Mexico

  While the others were doing their gravedigger thing, Kane wandered the grounds surrounding the dig site, searching for clues. After carefully shuffling through the wet ash of the dead, he headed towards the edge of the clearing, on the outside side of where the tomb entrance was. He knew someone else was here at one point, the jamming device had proved that. Kane also wanted to know who they were and why they were here, to begin with.

  A hill rose up some twenty feet just off the grounds, accessible only by a steep incline of dirt and mud. An ideal vantage point, he thought. It’s where he would have camped out during yesterday’s ordeal if he was still a Ranger, perfect for sniping or just simple observation. You would be able to see the whole excavation from there.

  Kane scooted through the last of the thinning ash, sleeves rolled up, sweat pouring down his face. It was a hot one out today already, and it wasn’t even midday yet. He caught a glint of reflected sunlight off his exposed arms and looked down at his new pieces of equipment.

  Holding up each forearm, Kane inspected his new titanium composite wrist and forearm braces, wrapped around his lower arms like metal soccer shin guards. They would keep his arms from breaking under the buck of his .50 caliber Desert Eagles, normally a weapon you had to fire with two hands. He wore them out in the field just in case things got ugly and he had to do just that—which lately has happened a little more often than he was comfortable with. He hoped today was a new day—a calmer day—and he was praying for a little downtime.

  Looking for any signs of disturbance, Kane trudged up the steep incline of soft earth, digging his hands into the ground for better purchase. Once atop the knoll, he stretched and popped his lower back, realigning the vertebrae that took the brunt of the abuse during the short, but grueling climb.

  Satisfied and feeling a bit better, he scanned the area noticing a slight aberration in the tall grass, just a few feet into the brush.

  His special forces training took over and he turned back towards the dig and knelt. He peered through the grass, judging the potential line-of-sight the person would have from this spot. Perfect, he thought. The flattened section of grass he now knelt in would have been an ideal spot to observe and record the events that took place.

  A breeze swirled through the clearing, changing directions several times before settling on Kane’s back. The calm wind brought a coolness from the water, cutting the rising temperature if only for a minute. He breathed in, sucking in a lungful of ocean air and…something else…something familiar.

  Is that sweat? He thought. That would mean—

  He spun, arms up in defense at the realization.

  CLANG!

  The ringing of metal on metal was loud enough to rattle his molars and send a pulse of pain through his already abused skull. He took the hit and used its momentum to his advantage, rolling away. He stood and turned, facing his attacker.

  The first thing Kane noticed was his would-be killer's weapon of choice, a Japanese katana. He knew he’d been lucky to be wearing his titanium arm guards or he’d be missing both his hands.

  Kane looked up to meet the assassin’s gaze, but couldn’t find it. It was hidden behind a mask of some sort. It kind of made the guy look like a wasp. The swordsman also wore a tight fitting military style Battle Dress Uniform, also known as a BDU, complete with shoulder strap and a sheath for his weapon. The assassin sported a strong, lean physique, but was still a head shorter and maybe a hundred pounds lighter in weight.

  If I can get close enough—

  The attack came quickly, but Kane had been prepared for it…sort of. He again used his arm guards to deflect the attacks, thwarting the killer’s attempts to maim him. A normal guy would eventually get tired of this kind of defense, slowing down just enough for the assailant to get in a good shot, but Kane knew he wasn’t the average person.

  His prodigious size and strength, plus his rigorous conditioning, kept him in peak physical shape. He had even started to run more, helping his endurance, a recommendation made by Nicole a month ago. Plus, defense was much easier on the body stamina-wise. You use a lot more energy attacking than you do on defence.

  Just like Rocky Balboa. Wear them down…then attack.

  Bug-Eyes stepped back, head cocked to the side in thought.

  “I can do this all day, buddy,” Kane said with a smile, but then immediately regretted his taunt.

  SHINK.

  “Ah, Shit.”

  The other man, drew a second katana that Kane hadn’t noticed, spinning it expertly in his left hand. It was shorter than his main weapon but just as deadly. He stepped forward holding both razor sharp blades at the ready.

  Kane knew he needed to disarm the man quickly before he landed a lucky shot and impaired his defense…or worse. At worst, he had to delay the assassin long enough to reach around and draw one of his guns. He doubted Bug-Eyes could dodge a bullet from this range.

  The man swung again, but this time with both katanas, aiming for his head. He was aiming to chop it off. Kane lifted up both hands, fists clenched, in a classic ‘hands up’ gesture, just in time to block the possible decapitation.

  The gong-like clang made his eyes dance and he stumbled back a bit, but his body reacted on instinct. Kane kicked out with his right foot and connected his size fourteen boot, square in the other man’s chest.

  The swordsman rolled with the kick, but it gave Kane a few precious seconds to clear his head and regain his composure a little.

  As the assailant finished his roll, Kane advanced, pressing the attack. He knew he had to get inside the other man’s reach, all-the-while steering clear of the swords.

  A blade slashed over his ducking head and Kane lunged forward, diving at the smaller man.

  Another blade swished towards Kane, but he swung a weapon of his own, one of his arm guards. He backhanded the man’s wrist, eliciting a cry of pain. The recently drawn weapon, the shorter of the two katanas, went sailing off into the tall grass. Its razor sharp blade pierced the ground where it stuck pointed end down.

  Now within arm’s reach, Kane grabbed the other man’s vest and leaned in with his shoulder, using his 260lb body to his advantage. He drove the much smaller man into the ground and rolled over him, never letting go.

  Kane heard a grunt and a whine of pain, possibly breaking a few of the attacker’s ribs in the process.

  Let’s hope so, he thought as he planned his next move.

  As they landed, Kane continued his forward momentum and spun, landing on his own back pulling the assassin in closer. He then brought up his feet and drove with all his might, letting go of the masked man, flinging him down the incline.

  Kane quickly stood, watching the swordsman’s progress down the rough terrain.

  Bug-Eyes landed hard on his shoulder halfway down the mound of earth. He then flipped over, his momentum carrying him further, and finally came to a stop on the solid ground below. As he flopped on his back, he lost his weapon, letting go of it so as to not fall on it.

  Trying to roll over and stand, the assassin got to his hands and knees, but Kane put a stop to that. He lashed out, kicking the smaller man in the side of the head. Bug-Eyes’ head snapped to the right, losing his mask, exposing his face for the first time.

  “Well, hi there.”


  The exposed killer looked up into the barrel of a Desert Eagle, its owner smiling ear to ear.

  Kane noticed that the man was Asian, possibly Japanese, and had a huge gnarly scar running across his left eye, from forehead to jaw.

  No wonder the guy wears a mask.

  “We match,” Kane said, motioning to the left side of his own face where he had taken a Tiger-Minotaur claw. The three slash marks were clean and not very deep, like this guy’s, but still left a set of grooved scars across his jaw. Kane thought they made him look dashing and even more of a badass.

  Thinking Kane’s attention was elsewhere, the killer reached for his lost blade—

  BOOM!

  Kane fired a shot right over the man’s shoulder, intentionally missing the man.

  “Don’t…fucking…move, or I will put a bullet in your head!” Kane roared. “You get me Psy?”

  The obvious look of hate in the other man’s eyes was apparent, Kane had struck a nerve.

  “Psy is Korean you moron,” yelled the disarmed assassin.

  Kane shrugged, “Japanese, Korean, Chinese, it all tastes the same to me.”

  This got another aggressive movement out of the felled and now very aggravated assassin, which in turn gets another blast from Kane.

  The concussive boom from the Desert Eagle made Bugless-Eyes flinch and roll. Kane easily tracked the man as he got to his feet, but didn’t fire. The scarred man instinctively rolled to his left, which brought him farther away from his weapon.

  “Who are you?” Kane asked, Eagle at the ready, pointed at the man’s chest.

  The fully disarmed man answered, holding his wrist in pain, “I am Ronin.”

  “Ronin?” Kane asked quizzically. “As in the forty-seven Ronin?”

  The assassin smiled a little and bowed, acknowledging Kane without malice for the first time since he snuck up on him and tried to kill him.

  “Keanu, was awesome,” Kane added, referencing the 2013 movie starring Keanu Reeves, but the questioned look he got in return shot down any and all future comments.

  “Never mind… Why did you try to kill me?” Kane asked, getting back on point.

  “You were a contract,” Ronin answered, shrugging indifferently, all his animosity gone.

  “A contract? From who?”

  This question got a smile out of Ronin, a smile that Kane noticed.

  “What’s so funny?” Kane asked, quickly getting aggravated.

  “My employer is a friend of yours—or should I say—was a friend of yours.”

  Kane’s look of confusion was obvious because Ronin just laughed.

  “Who?” Kane asked.

  Locking eyes with Kane, Ronin answered, making the big man’s blood run cold at the mention of his employer. Kane knew how dangerous and ruthless his former Army Ranger teammate could be. “John Frost says hello.”

  And with that last comment, Kane was taken off his guard just long enough for Ronin to make his move. The man drew a small caliber pistol from around his back and as quick as a ninja, thrust the barrel towards the bigger man and fired.

  21

  Isla de Jaina, Campeche, Mexico

  We are so preoccupied with the discovery of the Atlantean sword that we almost forgot why we were originally there. That is until we stumble upon the small pile of black soot-looking residue on the room’s floor, near the coffin.

  “Careful!” Olivia yells, grabbing my arm.

  I was so focused on the crypt and its insides that I didn’t notice the stuff directly under my feet. I lift my foot, which was just about to make contact with the substance, and take a cautious step back.

  Olivia kneels next to it speaking in a clear and clinical tone, “I don’t think anything would have happened if it made contact with your covered foot, but let’s not test that theory just yet. Yes?”

  Nicole and I nod even though Olivia isn’t looking up at us.

  She continues, “It seems to be a raw form of what we saw outside, but in its undiluted, pure state. From what I’ve gathered, it only has lethal capabilities when it comes into contact with your skin so we should be fine.”

  “Should?” I ask.

  She looks up at me with a shrug. “It’s not like we’ve had the opportunity to analyze this kind of thing before.”

  True, I think. I just wish she used a more reassuring word than ‘should.’

  She removes a small specimen jar from her utility belt and unscrews the top. Then, unfolding a small, collapsible shovel the size of a garden trowel, Olivia scoops up both ash and gold, careful not to spill any of the stuff.

  Once she finishes removing all of the foreign material, and a few thousand dollars in Mayan booty, Olivia holds her hand out, still staring at the spot I’ve mentally named, Ground Zero.

  “Water,” she says, holding up her hand, not taking her eyes off where the ash just was.

  Nicole grabs the bottle we used to wash the sword clean, the one we left near Dr. Weaver’s body and gives it to the geneticist. Olivia pours the bottle’s remnants onto the site, effectively neutralizing it…hopefully.

  “Ok,” Olivia says, standing, clipping the specimen jar to her belt. “I think we are good.”

  I give Nicole a relieved look, heavily exhaling the Haz-Mat suit’s stale recycled air.

  We turn in unison, our full attention now belonging to the gilded coffin, its surface shining in our headlamp’s beams. From this angle, the interior is still mostly shrouded in shadows. Our lights don’t reach the inner segment, giving off a creepy and foreboding vibe. What will we find when we look inside? More of the black ash? A horribly dismembered body? Maybe it’s full of more treasure?

  I take the necessary step forward and lean over the crypt and see…nothing spectacular. There is, however, a body in the coffin. Duh. It’s that of a person—we’ll call it a man. He’s maybe just under six-foot, which would be rather tall for a human a thousand years ago in this region. And… He’s missing the lower half of one of his arms.

  Oookay?

  It’s then I notice something odd about the person. His remaining hand has been pried open like he was holding something. Maybe a box or a jar of some sort?

  “Um, Hank?”

  I hear the questioning voice, but am still staring down into the casket, the Swedish-laced English. Nicole.

  I look left and see her kneeling down examining the lid to this person’s final resting place.

  “The inscription,” she says in a daze, then tilts the cover so I can see it.

  I open my mouth but balk. I’m confused. The engravings are most definitely Mesoamerican hieroglyphs, but they aren’t the ones I thought I’d see. Apparently, Nicole had thought the same.

  “Are those Aztecan?” She asks, glancing at me with an unsure look on her face.

  I nod. We’ve been doing extensive research on the major cultures that we know have been affected by and/or originated in Atlantis, the Maya being one of them. But we’ve also gone to further depths of our studies, reading up on the cultures that followed, like that of the Aztec.

  The Maya empire reigned for almost six hundred years, from the fourth-century to sometime into the tenth-century. They were a peaceful people, most being simple farmers, but they obviously had some help too.

  Farmers don’t build archaeological wonders like Chichen Itza or Tikal, the two largest and most visited of the Mayan settlements. Their kingdom stretched from the Yucatan, through Guatemala, and into parts of Eastern Mexico, primarily running along the Gulf Coast. Smaller sites, like Isla de Jaina, dot the coastal jungles of Central America, some of them fairly intact and unexplored.

  “Why are there Aztecan symbols inscribed into the lid of a coffin buried in a Mayan tomb?” I ask rhetorically, not expecting an answer, but getting one anyway.

  “Maybe that?” Nicole says, pointing to something I missed.

  “Is that a book?” Olivia asks, standing over us, adding her light to ours.

  Tucked inside the tight confines of the space, be
tween the remaining arm and rib cage of the decayed body, is what looks like a book of some kind. Did this person have his favorite novel interred with him when he died? I doubt it. It must be something else.

  I reach a gloved hand into the coffin and slowly and carefully pinch the binding between my thumb and index finger. It slides out easier than I thought which is good. I’d never hear the end of it from Dad if I damaged another priceless artifact, like say…an entire Atlantean necropolis for one! Now, on the other hand, I didn’t actually destroy it, but I sure as hell had a hand in it.

  I already have the stigma of being reckless and a little brash with my methods. I definitely don’t need this on my conscience either…or my professional record for that matter. Although this isn’t exactly an “on-the-books” mission, so no one will hear about it anyway.

  I lay the book in my other hand, inspecting the front cover. It has more of the same Aztecan symbols seared into the light brown cover. Is it cowhide? Or maybe that of a horse?

  Then a disturbing thought pops into my head. The Aztec, like the Romans, were a war-like people. They conquered their enemies and were infamous for their practices of slavery and human sacrifice. The latter of which twists my stomach into knots.

  With an all new perspective, I look down at the book I now hold in my hands, closely examining the cover, and gasp.

  “It’s made of skin…human skin.”

  22

  Isla de Jaina, Campeche, Mexico

  As the projectile exploded out of the barrel of the assassin’s gun, he forgot to take something into consideration. Kane still had his own weapon trained on him.

  Kane dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes, landing in a shallow puddle of mud and ash, just as the killer’s bullet whistled over his head.

  Never losing his target, Kane pulled the trigger of his Desert Eagle and sent a massive .50 caliber hollow point straight into the swordsman’s chest. It exited his back, blowing out a hole the size of a softball. An explosion of gore followed, spraying all over the tent structure behind the hitman, splattering on the weatherproof material.