The Cursed Pharaoh (The Hank Boyd Origins Book 1)

by Matthew James

  Father…

  Hamza’s forehead began to sweat in the cool A.C. His being the eldest of the families left, he knew things that his brethren didn’t. They all understood their purpose and responsibilities in preserving their king’s grave but only he knew what truly lay within the crypt. It was even more of a reason to take care of the newcomers right then and there. The highway between the airport and dig site would be a perfect spot.

  Wrecks happen all the time.

  “We should’ve already silenced Yasin and his cousin,” Sameer said from the rear driver-side passenger seat. “Maybe this could’ve all been avoided.”

  “And what of the inbound team?” Hamza countered. “They would still be coming regardless. Aziz acted swiftly and called his employer before we could do anything. Besides, the Nassirs are unknowingly acting as bait. If they were dead, we wouldn’t be here—now. This is the best-case scenario in an otherwise terrible circumstance,” he glanced in his rearview mirror, picturing Yasin sitting in Sameer’s spot.

  Hamza didn’t want to kill Yasin but he knew he must. Unfortunately, he also understood the need to be patient. If this attempt failed, he’d wait until the outsiders met with the Nassirs at the excavation. Killing them all at once was necessary in order to keep anyone from fleeing. He’d even brought along his most explosive weapon, just in case.

  Gripping the steering wheel harder, Hamza pushed the car forward, coming up next to the other vehicle. Before anyone could get a look at them, they passed their target’s SUV, eyeing the men inside. Then, just as quickly, Hamza moved over in front of them and slowed, forcing the other driver to change lanes.

  He watched the bald man shake his head in frustration. Smiling at the man’s reaction, it took everything in Hamza not to make his move right then and there. Patience… He’d have to be quick with his actions in the coming seconds.

  About to run the SUV off the road, Hamza swore as one of the back windows of his car lowered. Gritting his teeth, he watched Sameer look at the younger American sitting in the backseat. The man tipped his cap and grinned stupidly, paying them no real attention as he began speaking to the second passenger.

  “What are you doing!” Hamza shouted, scolding Sameer’s insolence. He was about to miss what could be their only opportunity. Generally, he preferred his targets not see them before they struck. If they did survive, he and the others would most definitely have to go on the run. It helped if the hunted didn’t know what the hunters looked like. It also helped if the local law enforcement wasn’t looking for them either.

  More than normal.

  And now the American knows Sameer’s face. It was also a face that would be lifeless when this situation was finalized. Sameer had just dug his own grave.

  Two of my ‘brothers’ on the same day…

  Reacting rashly, Hamza jerked the wheel of his stout four-door, aiming for the other vehicle’s right rear quarter panel. It was a classic bump move and if executed perfectly, it would send the SUV’s rear end into a sideways skid. Then, if luck was on their side, the tall vehicle’s top heaviness would cause them to tip and roll.

  He connected squarely and prayed the blow did what was needed. He honestly didn’t want to kill these men. On the contrary, he actually met one of them a few years ago. Dr. Fehr was a good man and well-respected in the local community. His love for the ancient ways was a breath of fresh air. But like others over the years, they needed to be stopped before a wave of death was set loose upon the people of Cairo, and eventually, the world.

  The evil within the king’s tomb must not see daylight.

  He breathed in deep and continued to pray.

  We are the Zill Allah, Menkaure’s bodyguards—his Magi—and we must do what is required to save the world.

  * * *

  I’m not sure if I’m the only one who reacts like this when you realize you just got in a wreck… The first thing I do is curse like a sailor. Even Satan would see the need to cover his ears with what flies out of my mouth. Secondly, I grab onto whatever I can and hang on for dear life—normally the overhead “Oh Shit Handle.” For whatever reason, I decide to reach forward and grip Dad and Ben’s shoulders. It’s the same reaction every mother on the planet has when stopping short at a traffic light.

  Or, if you’re George Costanza’s father.

  I’m not exactly sure why Jerry Stiller copping a feel is running through my head but it is. It’s just the way I’m wired, I guess. My brain works in funny ways sometimes, well, all the time really. I can either say something fairly witty and semi-intelligent out of nowhere or, what happens in most cases, I’ll say something flat-out ridiculous, especially when the circumstance calls for the opposite. Like when I openly complimented my great-aunt on her posture…at her own open casket funeral.

  I don’t do well in hospitals or at funerals—especially when the freaking body is right there for all to see. Goosebumps and massive nausea every damn time.

  “Shit!” I yell, clenching my eyes shut. It’s my favorite word in situations like this. It’s truly the perfect word when yelled at the right volume—which, as of now, is really, really loud.

  Dad and Ben both shout too, making me react and grip their shirts harder. Next, we start to spin and ping-pong off whatever car happens to be nearest to us. The entire time I’m mumbling, “Don’t flip, don’t flip, don’t flip…” The only major accident I’ve ever been in was pretty a bad one. I flipped after being clipped by a drunken assface late one night. Thankfully, I was driving Dad’s Volvo, a car manufacturer known for their physical durability. They’re also common in demolition derbies for the same reason.

  And yet, even with all my positive reinforcement, we flip. Our SUV hits something and goes barreling down the highway. All I can do is keep my eyes shut and wait for it to end—the accident, and/or, my life. Either one is preferable as I lose my lunch and vomit all over everything…and everyone.

  Did I ever mention I have a weak stomach? No? Well, I do. Cheap carnival rides are the worst for me. I can take just about anything handed my way but the sudden jolt or spin of anything makes my stomach lurch. Normally, it’s just an awful case of “amusement park nausea” but not this. This is the real deal and it’s everywhere.

  Dad and Ben continue to shout and I’m not sure if it’s because of the accident or me. I hope it’s the rollover but something inside is telling me that both men are covered in my in-flight meal. The smell is noxious and acidy, just plain awful—not that puke is supposed to smell like roses or anything.

  Then, just as I’m about to pass out, we slam into something, instantly stopping our out-of-control roll. Landing right-side up, our rental comes to a complete halt. The only sounds I hear are car horns and our own heavy breathing. Just as I’m about to speak, I smell it. It’s everywhere, coating every square inch of my nostrils, throat…and car.

  Including the men inside of it.

  Dazed, both men turn towards me, dripping in barf. Ben’s bald head is slathered in the stuff, while Dad took the majority of it down the back of his neck and shirt collar. Me? Well, here’s the funny thing… I’m fine. Besides what’s still in my mouth and on my lips, I don’t have a single drop of the stuff on me. Apparently, it shot straight forward and was contained within the front seats.

  Lucky me.

  “My bad,” I say, wiping my mouth.

  That’s when Dad and Ben realize what happened. Both men start to gag, but to my surprise, neither one of them let it rip. Feeling horrible, and unable to find anything else to use, I unbuckle and take off my t-shirt, handing it forward. It’s not much of a gesture but it’s something.

  Motion outside my broken window gets my attention and I glance to my right. A familiar sedan pulls alongside us and stops. But before anyone emerges, sirens begin to wail somewhere off in the distance. The same window again lowers and I’m greeted by the same face as before. He actually looks angry that I’m still alive and instead of getting out and checking on us, the car takes off in a cloud of burnt
rubber, speeding away before the authorities arrive.

  I’m not completely sure but I get the feeling that whoever those men were, they aren’t too keen on us digging up whatever was found outside of Cairo. Whatever it is, it’s obviously worth killing for.

  3

  Corniche El Maadi, Giza Governorate

  Well, I got my wish after all. Instead of heading straight for the dig, we go to the hotel. We were about to go to the police station but I may have neglected to tell the officers on the scene about the other car. It’s not like I have proof they were the mastermind behind it anyway. They could have just been curious, albeit sketchy people. My main concern is making sure Dad and Ben are okay, then, I’ll tell them what I think.

  We were pretty close to going to the hospital too but since all three of us got out of the accident unscathed and walked away, the subject wasn’t pushed.

  Dad and Ben stink and need a shower and a change of clothes. I look down at my bare chest and shake my head. I just need a new shirt and large swig of mouthwash and I’ll be fine.

  We walk into the hotel lobby like nothing out of the ordinary has happened and head straight for the front desk. Shirtless, I lead the way and as we approach, we get the reaction I knew we would.

  There’s three people behind the desk, one woman, and two men. The girl is my age, maybe a tic younger, and is small and rail thin. The man to her left is massive—thick, not buff, but still plenty strong looking. The second man is something right in between the two. While having nothing physically in common on any other day, the three of them all have matching expressions.

  First, it’s confusion. I’m topless and Dad and Ben are soiled.

  Then, their faces turn in disgust. It’s the look of someone that just walked by an open septic tank. In unison, they all reach up and cover their noses. Dad and Ben are as ripe as a skunk’s butt. Seconds later, they break through the barrier of stench and start shouting at us, pointing towards the door. I don’t speak the language, but thankfully, Ben does. Whatever he says calms them, getting a nod out of the woman.

  The larger man looks at me and motions to my chest. “No shirt,” he says in broken English. “You no shirt.”

  Hat backward, I smile and remove my sunglasses, acting very American. “I’m wearing shoes, though, so I’m halfway there.”

  Ben continues in what I know is Arabic. I have no idea what he’s saying but I’ve heard the language being shouted in a number of action movies.

  “Dr. Fehr?” The smaller of the men says eyebrow raised.

  “Yes,” Ben replies in English. He glances at me. “I know his father. He’s the Chief of Police.”

  The man’s eyes widen and he hurries around the desk, stopping in front of Ben. He reaches his hand out but Ben does the polite thing and takes a step back.

  “You don’t want to be doing that,” I say, getting a nod out of the staff member. His nose curls at the smell again, like he forgot the stink in the room even existed.

  “Your luggage is upstairs in your rooms,” he says, holding out his hand to the woman. She quickly hands Ben three room keys and glances at me. I watch as her line of sight moves from my face to my exposed chest and arms. Before we walk away, I see the corner of her mouth raised in a smile, and being the gentleman that I am, I give her a wink back, flexing my chest as I do.

  A grumble out of my father tells me there’s something wrong and I ask as much. “What’s up?”

  “I must apologize,” the staff member says. “We did what we could to book the three-bedroom suite but we were unable to do so.”

  “What do we have?” I ask, looking at Dad. Ben answers me instead, however, cutting into my father’s obvious aggravation.

  “Three separate, but adjoining, rooms,” Ben explains. “It’ll be fine and it’ll give us some time alone to clean up and recharge before dinner.”

  I completely agree and think back to the cute girl at the front counter. Before entering the elevator, I look back down the hall and catch her peeking again. Caught, she hurriedly leans back the other way, knocking over a stack of brochures as she does. The crashing display earns a retort out of the big man.

  He’s obviously none-to-pleased with her flustered behavior but I’m not even hearing what he’s saying—not that I could. He’s speaking in Arabic after all. Even if I could understand the language, I wouldn’t have been interested in a damn thing he had to say. Instead, something else claws its way into my brain as I continue to picture the raven-haired beauty.

  I look over at the guy accompanying us, the police chief’s son. “Do you offer room service?” He nods, making me smile. “Good, because I’m famished.”

  * * *

  The good news is, that the hotel really does offer room service. Unfortunately for me, the cute girl from downstairs isn’t the one delivering it like I had hoped. Instead, the “no shirt” oaf of a man is the one who brings it up. Seeing him fill my doorway instantly makes me lose my appetite.

  I shrug and mumble, “Eh, maybe tomorrow,” and lead him in. I go to my wallet and grab my cash. Ben gave me a fistful of the local currency once we made it to our floor. To make things easier on me, he only gave me bills that equate to roughly five dollars U.S. Grabbing two of them, I turn just in time to see a large fist sailing towards my face.

  “Son of a…!” I shout, leaning backward.

  The meaty paw just misses my face and instead clips the brim of my hat, sending it flying behind me. The room is built just like any other standard hotel room. The bathroom is situated just inside the door to the left with everything opening beyond it. The door adjoining my room to Dad’s is on the right-hand wall and is currently locked from my side.

  For what it’s worth, my room is in the corner of the third floor with no one on the other side of me besides the parking lot thirty feet below. Unless Dad tries to break down the door, I’m going to be alone with this guy until I get away or until he kills me. No one has a key to the other’s room.

  Beefcake trips on my bag and stumbles forward, shoving me in the process. Barefoot, I do the same and trip over my shoes, of which I kicked off upon entering my room. I roll my ankle and fall between the two twin beds, grunting in pain as I do. It’s not a major injury, but my right foot is going to be useless for the next couple of minutes. It’s the same injury a lot of basketball players suffer.

  My assailant, likewise, goes down in a heap and that’s when something in me decides to act. Standing, I grip the bedside lamp and yank the plug free. Gripping it hard, I smash it over the guy’s head, shattering its cheap plastic base. It doesn’t do much to the larger man but it does buy me a few seconds’ time.

  I leap onto the bed, blocking out the pain in my ankle as I do. Aiming for the attacker, I drive my knee into the back of his neck as I land, cannonballing him from above. Connecting hard, he goes down and I awkwardly land directly on top of him. I’m nearly two-hundred-pounds so the force of my knee and the weight of my body hitting him should have been enough to keep the man down.

  But it doesn’t.

  Dammit, I think, feeling him move beneath me.

  Instead of getting off of him, I wrap my thick forearms around his throat and yank back hard, trying to choke him into submission. I had a buddy in high school that was a wrestler and he may have taught me a thing or two. The deep garbles coming from my would-be killer become high-pitched squeaks as I latch onto his neck and continue to apply pressure.

  Instead of weakening, he finds his inner Lou Ferrigno and climbs to his hands and knees with me still on his back, looking like an oversized backpack. I try to lock my ankles around his midsection but he’s too thick. Leaning forward, I look up and see where’s he aiming.

  The balcony!

  Pulling with all my might, I drop my legs down, creating an immense amount of deadweight. I successfully get him to lean the other way, feeling him begin to teeter. Quickly readjusting my grip, I get my elbows locked around his throat and squeeze, putting good use to all those hours in the gym
.

  Aw, shit, I think as he stumbles backward, slamming me right into a wall. The air is expelled from my lungs and my strength leaves me for a moment. Luckily for me, the guy doesn’t react fast enough to dislodge and throw me. Alternatively, he sucks in a couple of deep breaths and grabs my wrists. Then, he takes two long steps forward and rocks back again, driving me into the wall for the second time. We hit hard and I feel the drywall give beneath our combined girth. I’m jolted loose and I smack my head, reflexively letting go. I drop to the floor, feeling woozy from the impact.

  Need…help…

  Doing the only thing I can think of, I reach for the guy’s belt and then the back of his shirt collar. Pushing off the wall, I propel him forward, pushing him up and over the bed nearest the rear wall. He rolls and lands hard, wedging himself tightly between the bedframe and the sliding glass door, giving me the time I need to run to the adjoining door, unlock it, and fling it open.

  Trying the knob to Dad’s door, I curse. “Shit!” It’s locked from the other side.

  I bang on it repeatedly but get no answer. The only response I do get, is a low voice, muttering in Arabic. Definitely not Dad. I glance left and watch as a hand reaches up, gripping the bed’s hideous comforter. The other hand follows soon after. Now, I’m slamming the base of both my fists into the door, pleading for my father to answer.

  I stop when I hear something from the other side.

  “Dad, open up! Hurry!”

  “You die now.” I turn and watch my attacker stand, blood running down his face from a broken nose. The sight of him causes something inside me to break and I start kicking at the door with my bare feet.

  The simple clunk of a deadbolt retreating is like Heaven’s angels singing at the moment and I go to grab the knob. But a large set of hands stops me, clutching my throat and squeezing hard, ripping me back toward the middle of the room. I freak out and start to thrash. I’ve been in a few fights in my young life but those were stupid schoolyard brawls, never one to the death.