Destroying Magic

by David Meyer

  A loud crash broke his train of thought. Adcock’s light vaporized and darkness settled over the tunnel. Kolen chuckled lightly. Adcock must’ve fallen face-first onto the tracks.

  More crashing noises sounded out. A troubled feeling formed in the pit of Kolen’s stomach. Twisting his head, he aimed his own headlamp across the width of the tunnel. Strangely enough, he didn’t see any movement. “Hey Dan,” Kolen whispered loudly into the darkness. “Are you okay?”

  Something soft scraped against concrete.

  Kolen lifted his voice. “Can you hear me?”

  A tearing noise filled the tunnel. It sounded like a garment being ripped in two. Then a soft voice rose into the air.

  “Help … help me …”

  Kolen sprinted forward, pumping his arms as he ran. He forgot everything else around him. He forgot his location, forgot his problems. He even forgot his dislike for Adcock.

  Just ahead, he spotted Adcock lying motionless in the tunnel. His eyes tightened. His body tensed.

  Kolen ran a little farther. Then he slid to a halt next to Adcock. Reaching down, he grabbed the man by his shirt. Adcock seemed light for his size.

  “What happened?” Kolen asked. “Are you okay?”

  Adcock didn’t reply.

  Kolen’s gaze drifted down Adcock’s body. His eyes bulged and he realized Adcock wasn’t okay. The man was dead. And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

  Half of his body was missing.

  Kolen stared at Adcock’s bloody torso. The man’s legs were nowhere to be seen. Something had ripped them from his body.

  Something that was, in all likelihood, still in the area.

  A rush of movement came from the west. Kolen whirled toward it. His headlamp caught a frenzy of activity. He tried to move but the sight of the horrible beast shocked him into stillness.

  Powerful jaws clamped onto his leg, crushing it easily. He felt himself dragged to the ground. He tried to move, tried to fight.

  But it was too late.

  The jaws shifted position. He felt a wrenching pain in his waist.

  Then he felt nothing at all.

  Chapter 2

  Date: September 5, Present Day

  Hoisting myself up, I grabbed onto another handhold. The precariousness of the situation didn’t escape me. I was nine thousand feet above sea level, surrounded by early morning light.

  Along with my trusty self-belay device, I’d solo climbed plenty of peaks over the last three years. I knew the routine. It was engrained in my skull.

  Set the anchor, lead the pitch, and fix the ropes. Rappel the pitch, clean the pitch, and haul the bags. Lather, rinse, and repeat.

  Over and over again.

  I climbed faster, my hands and feet scrabbling for holds on the schist. Ever so slowly, I moved up the sun-kissed rock face.

  The plateau grew larger, dominating my field of vision. It was so close. Just a few more feet.

  I climbed a little further and pulled my upper body onto the plateau. My boots kicked to the side and I rolled onto solid rock. My mind shifted a bit. A familiar memory filled my brain.

  I saw myself standing in lower Manhattan, hands on hips, soaking in the moment. The previous day, I’d made the find of the century. A find that would revolutionize the way historians viewed early Manhattan.

  A find that would make my career.

  A loud shout had caught my attention. Turning my head, I’d seen someone running toward me.

  “What’s wrong?” I’d asked.

  The man’s quivering face had spoken volumes. “There’s been an accident,” he’d said.

  The memory winked away as noises and voices floated into my ears. Twisting around, I saw a small camp. It lay about a hundred yards off and at a lower elevation. Large trenches zigzagged across a cleared-out field. More than twenty people, wearing hardhats and carrying hand tools, milled about the trenches.

  I removed my climbing gear and stowed it out of sight. Then I wrapped my machete sheathe around my waist. Finally, I grabbed my satchel and donned my holstered pistol.

  I performed reconnaissance for a few minutes. I didn’t see Ryan Standish’s massive frame anywhere. Nor did I recognize any of his workers. Apparently, he’d hired local help to do his dirty work.

  I watched the workers for a bit. They were like kids in an antique store. The former archaeologist in me grimaced every time one of them picked up something from the ground.

  Crouching low, I darted down a short slope. Then I skirted around the edge of a small tree grove until I reached the rear of the dig site.

  A dome structure, ten feet tall and thirty feet in diameter, stood before me. It was supported by heavy-duty PVC piping and covered with hefty green canvas. Four smaller domes sprouted out of the ground on either side of the main one.

  I unsheathed my machete. Sneaking forward, I cut a small hole in the canvas. Peering inside the dome, I saw hundreds of artifacts scattered about the interior, spread out across dozens of tables. Tags dangled from most of the objects. However, they were noticeably missing from the more impressive finds.

  Silently, I snuck into the dome. Looking around, I saw potsherds, carved greenstone rocks, flint arrowheads, and broken staffs. Farther back, I noticed empty cardboard boxes and giant piles of packing materials.

  I shifted my gaze. A two-foot tall cacique, or pendant, stood alone on a small table. Its golden edges gleamed in the few rays of sunlight that managed to work their way into the dome.

  Heart pounding, I strode to the table and picked up the gold relic. It was heavy, yet felt light in my hands. It appeared to depict an important man, perhaps a chief. His hands rested on his hips. He wore a fierce facial expression. Regardless of his exact place in the ancient Tairona society, he’d clearly been a great warrior.

  I studied the artifact, marveling at the craftsmanship. Every inch of it featured rich detailing and underlying meaning. The scope of the work took my breath away. The Tairona people had been, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the most spectacular gold workers of pre-Columbian America.

  “Hello, Cy. Good to see you again.”

  Still clutching the cacique, I whirled around. A broad-shouldered man stood in the middle of the dome. He was clearly athletic, with rippled muscles showing through his tight t-shirt. His hair was wiry and black. His facial features, including a pair of sharp gray eyes, were strong and distinct.

  “I wish I could say the same thing about you, Ryan,” I replied. “But frankly, I don’t like you.”

  Ryan Standish walked forward, taking long strides and swinging his powerful arms. At the same time, three brawny men stepped out from the shadows. They formed a loose semicircle around me.

  “You have excellent taste.” He nodded at the cacique. “That should fetch at least a quarter of a million at auction.”

  “It doesn’t belong to you.”

  “I found it, I keep it.”

  “You didn’t find it. You paid off some local officials to let you hijack someone else’s dig.”

  He shrugged. “It’s business.”

  “It’s theft.”

  “What do you care? You’re not an archaeologist, not anymore.” He held out his hand. “Although I’d love to keep this up, I have work to do. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like my cacique back.”

  I stepped backward. My free hand brushed against a sharp arrowhead lying on a table. I quickly palmed it. “I found it, I keep it.”

  “Don’t be stupid. You’re on an isolated plateau in the middle of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. There’s nowhere to go.”

  “We’ll see about that.” I tossed the cacique over Standish’s head. His eyes widened and he dove to the ground to catch it. The other three men, momentarily distracted, spun toward him.

  Sweeping the flint arrowhead across my machete blade, I sent a shower of sparks flying into a nearby pile of foam peanuts. Small flames formed and grew in size, quickly igniting the canvas dome.

  I glanced at Standish. He lay on the ground,
holding the cacique. “¡Rápido!,” he shouted. “Obtener—”

  I ran forward and kicked him in the jaw, cutting him off. Then I grabbed the cacique from his outstretched hands and darted outside.

  I sprinted toward the cliff, passing a series of stunned workers. Behind me, I heard shouts and orders.

  I ran uphill and grabbed my climbing equipment. As I slipped into the harness and secured my weapons, I snuck a look over my shoulder. The workers raced toward me and I knew I didn’t have much time.

  I stuffed the cacique into my satchel and twisted around. My climbing rope was still anchored to the boulders below. But would my multi-directional anchors hold firm?

  I darted forward and twisted my body, taking one last look at the workers. They returned my grin with shocked expressions. I shot them a quick salute.

  Then I stepped off the cliff.

  Wind rushed at my face and ruffled my hair as I plummeted toward the ground. I held my breath for a moment.

  What’s taking so long?

  Abruptly, the rope jerked. My body jolted and I swung to the side, striking my back against the hard schist. Looking up, I saw that the jutting cliff blocked me from view.

  I was safe. I was alive.

  At least for the moment.

  Chapter 3

  Although exhausted, I stopped to check my appearance in the cracked, dusty mirror. My face, covered with grime, looked worn and tired. My body sagged. My neck and shoulders sported numerous abrasions.

  I wiped away some dirt. Then I fiddled with my hair, turning it from a mess into an even bigger mess. Annoyed at myself, I breathed rapidly through my nose.

  Calm down, Cy. She’s just another girl.

  But she wasn’t just another girl.

  She was Beverly Ginger.

  Giving up on my appearance, I walked to the end of the hallway. Then I knocked on a dilapidated, unmarked door.

  “It’s open.” Her voice, spicy yet melodic, sent shivers down my spine.

  Twisting the knob, I opened the door. “I got it. I …”

  My tongue tied as my eyes fell upon the woman sitting at the small table. With an hourglass figure and cascading chestnut brown hair that seemed to dance as she moved, Beverly Ginger was a strikingly gorgeous woman. Her tanned facial features were those of a classic beauty and radiated a youthful glow. Her eyes, a deep violet, seemed to peer right into my soul.

  She wore a tight blue t-shirt that curved in all the right places. Her khaki pants hugged her hips and tapered downward, accentuating her shapely legs. A pair of slender boots completed her eye-popping look.

  But it wasn’t her face or her body that gave me butterflies. It was something else, something intangible. She possessed that rare, indefinable quality that turned men’s heads and caused women to shrink into their shoes. She was, for lack of a better way to put it, Beverly Ginger.

  Beverly looked at me, batting her long eyelashes. Then her smile vanished, replaced by a concerned look. “Are you okay?”

  “Nothing that a cold shower and a hot meal can’t fix.”

  “I’m afraid you came to the wrong place.”

  I glanced around the room, surprised to see no bathroom or kitchen. In fact, there wasn’t even a bed. There was nothing, except for the table and two chairs. “You live here?”

  “No. But it’s private.”

  I nodded. Then I opened my satchel and removed the cacique. “As promised.”

  She took it into her hands, coddling it gently, like a baby. “It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen such workmanship.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “Any problems?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  She placed the cacique on the table. Her eyes returned to my visage. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I recovered your artifact. Plus I got to kick Ryan Standish in the face. Honestly, I couldn’t ask for a better day.”

  “I’d love to hear about it. But first things first. I owe you money. Five million Colombian pesos, right?”

  “When you put it that way, it sounds like a huge score.”

  She smiled. “It’s about three thousand American dollars. Not exactly earth-shattering money.”

  “It’s enough. Where’d you get it from anyway?”

  “Mostly from the locals. They’re just as mad as I am about Standish stealing my dig site.”

  “That was generous of them. I bet they can’t wait for your museum to open.”

  She stood up and crossed the room. In the corner, she picked up a small shoulder bag. “They’re definitely excited. When we open next July—”

  “Next July? I thought you were opening this year.”

  Returning to the table, she rifled through the bag. “I’m sorry. I meant December.”

  My nerves tingled. “Wasn’t it November?”

  “I’m sorry, Cy. I really am.”

  She pulled a metal object from her bag. Swiftly, she shoved it into my chest. A jolt of electricity roared through me.

  I fell to the ground, writhing in pain. I tried to fight the electricity, to resist it. But my body refused to respond.

  Focusing my concentration, I forced my eyes to stay open. I saw Beverly Ginger looking down at me. She flipped her hair over her shoulder. Then she gave me a saucy smile.

  My eyes closed. Desperately, I fought to hold on to consciousness, but it was a losing battle. Seconds later, my mind drifted away and I hurtled into darkness.

  Hurtled into the unknown.

  *****

  Want to know what happens next? Then click here to pick up your copy of CHAOS today!

  About the Author

  David Meyer is an adventurer and the international bestselling author of the Cy Reed Adventures and the Apex Predator series. He’s been creating for as long as he can remember. As a kid, he made his own toys, invented games, and built elaborate cities with blocks and Legos. Before long, he was planning out murder mysteries and trap-filled treasure quests for his family and friends.

  These days, his lifelong interests—lost treasure, mysteries of history, monsters, conspiracies, forgotten lands, exploration, and archaeology—fuel his personal adventures. Whether hunting for pirate treasure or exploring ancient ruins, he loves seeking out answers to the unknown. Over the years, Meyer has consulted on a variety of television shows. Most recently, he made an appearance on H2’s #1 hit original series, America Unearthed.

  Meyer lives in New Hampshire with his wife and son. For more information about him, his adventures, and his stories, please see the links below.

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  Books by David Meyer

  Cy Reed Adventure Series

  CHAOS

  ICE STORM

  TORRENT

  VAPOR

  FURY

  Apex Predator Series

  BEHEMOTH

  SAVAGE

  Randy Wolf and the Dropout Magicians

  DESTROYING MAGIC