Revenge of the Maya

by Clay Farrow

  "I don't know, but that bastard has more lives than a damn cat," Alberto groused, turning to the trio of guards. "Get the ladder."

  "I'm not having my men climb down into the grave. There's no telling how deep the water is."

  "Not climb. Use it as a pole to roll them over. I want an accurate body count and to see their faces. I have to know whether or not he's dead."

  Miguel nodded at the soldiers. The youngest ran back to the jeep. Jeremiah had little choice. He hopped out the jeep and joined the cousins while the soldier dragged the ladder to the edge of the tomb. With the help of his partner, he plunged the improvised pole into the center of a prisoner's back, submerging the body. They released the pressure and the corpse bobbed to the surface, but remained face down. The men tried again with the same result.

  Alberto's frustration mounted as he paced back and forth. The third unsuccessful attempt was the final straw. He shoved the two guards to one side and grabbed the ladder.

  "Not in the center of the back, you fools. You dunk them off center," he snarled, demonstrating the technique.

  In quick order first one, then the other prisoner was flipped belly up.

  "Neither is him and only two bodies," Alberto said.

  The guard, who had examined the two newly dug holes, tapped Miguel on the shoulder and conferred with his colonel.

  Miguel turned to Alberto. "Other graves, closer to the lake were also flooded. There must be an extensive cave system. He was probably dragged into the cave during the flood."

  "Bull," Alberto spat as he snatched an AK-47 out of a soldier's hands. He fired a hail of bullets into the grave. The two corpses undulated like a rolling wave as their bodies were riddled with lead. The rifle bolt locked once the magazine emptied.

  "No sign of the bastard," he cursed in disgust, tossing the weapon at the soldier.

  "There's nothing more you can do. Let's go back," Miguel said.

  "He's right," Jeremiah added, "we have more important business to tend to. Fremont and Byers should be your focus. That's what's important. They have to be stopped."

  Alberto straightened up. He didn't understand all the fuss over Fremont and Byers. What was the big deal? He had more important worries right now and turned his attention back to the watery grave. "I just have a feeling that he's in there and somehow he's alive."

  "If he's down there, he's fish food," Miguel said. "If not, he's halfway to Belize."

  Alberto continued to pace as if he hadn't heard a word Miguel had said. He trained the flashlight on the water. "We'll wait. The bastard can't stay down there forever."

  34:

  Rancho de la Noche – Wednesday

  The brightness of the moon and stars allowed Monica Fremont to see the far side of the clearing. She involuntarily sucked in her breath. Galloping out of the shadows and into the moonlight was a huge male lion. The animal loped across the clearing toward them. She glanced at Liz and then at Amanda. Instead of the expected terror in Amanda's eyes Monica saw only awe and a teenager's faith in her own immortality.

  She clenched her jaw, determined to protect Amanda, and raised her pistol as she moved away from the others, hoping to lure the approaching cat toward her.

  Liz stepped in front of Monica. "I admire the intention, but your selfless act will get us all killed."

  "You're injured," Monica said.

  "And you've only got four bullets left. This is no time for a debate," Liz retorted, slamming her hand into Monica's chest.

  The blow was so powerful that it knocked her off her feet. She hit the ground with such force the gun was torn from her grasp and landed in front of Amanda.

  Seventy feet out, the cat ramped up its attack. Liz ran forward several yards and raised the AK-47 to her shoulder.

  Monica wondered if Liz knew anything about big game hunting. She had been a hunter of men, not animals. Her targets were dropped with a single shot to the heart, but did she even know where the heart of a lion was? Monica hoped she would settle for incapacitating it or slowing it down.

  Liz aimed and fired.

  Monica thought the animal may have flinched but it kept coming. She couldn't believe Liz had missed.

  "Shit," Liz screamed, then fired a second round.

  The beast's right foreleg collapsed. The animal tumble onto its back, but was back on its feet in an instant, seemingly untouched.

  What did it take to bring the damn thing down?

  Liz shifted her aim slightly and squeezed the trigger. The cat rocked back on its haunches, shook itself, and bounded forward, once more outwardly unscathed.

  Monica felt every nerve ending vibrating as she watched the great beast sprint across the clearing. She couldn't believe any living creature, two legged or four, could move with the cat's grace, beauty or speed. The large male was a true king of beasts, its full mane gently rising and falling in slow motion with every leap. Its powerful legs effortlessly carried the massive body closer. She sensed the earth tremble with its every footstep.

  The cat leapt at Liz with a heart clenching snarl. In midair it lashed out with a paw. The weapon fired and a flash exploded from the muzzle, driving a slug into the animal's right shoulder. Desperate to escape its razor-like claws, Liz threw herself to one side. The paw narrowly missed peeling her face from her skull, but ripped the AK-47 from her hands. She tumbled to the ground while the wounded cat flew past her and landed on its back, between Monica and Amanda. The beast lurched to its feet and began weaving its way toward Liz.

  Monica sprang to her feet and flew at the lion. She grabbed its mane, mounting the animal as if it were a bucking bronco. The beast gave a deafening roar and reared up on its hind legs, paws flailing in the air. The big cat tried to swat her off, but Monica leaned as far back as her arms would allow to avoid those lethal claws.

  "Amanda, the gun!" Monica shouted.

  The shrill crack of Monica’s voice jarred Amanda. She stooped and picked up the pistol. Her finger curled around the trigger.

  The jungle cat turned its attention back to Liz who was frozen in terror. The lion started for her on wobbly legs. Monica pulled herself up onto the animal's shoulders.

  "Amanda, shoot!" Monica yelled, straightening her thumb, making a dagger out of the digit. With all the strength she could muster, she stabbed the beast in the eye.

  The lion uttered a bloodcurdling howl. Amanda raised the revolver, but still didn't pull the trigger. The cat rotated its head in an effort to tear its tormentor to ribbons. The animal's ear came within inches of Monica.

  Tilting her head forward, she sank her teeth into the soft flesh and bit down as hard as she could. The beast threw itself on its back. At the last instant, Monica sprang away from the creature, falling face first into the dirt. She quickly rolled onto her back. Free of its albatross, the lion once again lunged at Liz.

  "Pull the trigger!" Monica screamed.

  Amanda clamped her eyes shut and jerked the trigger. The revolver issued a sharp report. The jungle's nighttime sounds abruptly fell silent. Even the constant breeze rustling through the palm leaves seemed to cease.

  Monica slowly sat up and whispered, "It's okay, sweetheart, you got him. You killed him."

  Amanda slowly opened her eyes. Shuddering, she let the gun fall to the ground. The cat lay close to Liz, a shapeless lump, its fangs inches from her throat.

  Liz blinked twice as if to confirm to herself and the world that indeed, she was alive.

  Monica gazed at Amanda, certain the teenager was torn by diametrically opposed feelings. On the one hand the young girl was thankful no one was hurt, but with her love for animals, she felt no joy at seeing the destruction of such a magnificent creature.

  Slowly, Liz sat up. "Amanda, I know how hard that was for you to do."

  Monica struggled to get to her feet and walked unsteadily over to the devastated young girl. She stooped to retrieve the firearm, then gathered the girl in her arms. Amanda buried her face in Monica's shoulder, sobbing, her body quaking.

&nb
sp; The teenager raised her head and looked over at Liz. The girl's eyes were bloodshot, her face flushed. Her cheeks glistened with tears.

  Liz slowly got to her feet. She reached out and brushed Amanda's tearstained cheek. "It took a lot of courage. Thank you for saving my life."

  Amanda offered Liz a weak smile." I'm glad you're okay," she mumbled between sobs.

  They had been slogging through the jungle for ten minutes when Monica thought she saw something and ran ahead of the others. "The fence is just up ahead."

  She looked back at Amanda and Liz. If she looked as wrung out and disheveled as those two, the chances of them flagging down a ride on the highway were close to zero. Amanda's waxen features, blank stare, and unsteady gait were a graphic illustration of the toll tonight's events had taken on her. In Liz's case the woman was physically drained, and the near-death experience had shaken her 'I'm-always-in-charge' attitude.

  She couldn't offer Amanda much more than a comforting shoulder. If she was anything like her father, and she was, any guidance that was offered would likely be rejected. In time she would understand she had no choice but to pull the trigger.

  As for Liz, she'd draw her out by seeking her counsel and taking it, even if she wasn't in full agreement. She was going to support her friend – a surprising thought considering that just a few hours earlier, Liz had been her captor and bitter enemy.

  "There's an exit," Monica shouted, pointing to a double gate ten yards from where they stood. She ran over to the gate and examined the thick chain and two heavy padlocks. "Liz, do you think you can blow the locks?"

  "I think so. When Ken or the guards hear the shots, they'll know we've made it to the fence and will come looking. The earlier gunshots were from well within the preserve."

  "Then, do you think we should try to climb over?" Monica asked.

  Liz looked up at the top of the fence. She shook her head. "The razor wire will cut us to ribbons. How far do you think we are from the highway?"

  "Not sure, but given the proximity of the ranch house to the highway, I'd say no more than two or three hundred yards. Do you think they'll patrol the road?"

  "It doesn't matter. There were only two cars at the ranch. We won't be flagging down any Mercedes sedans or Chevy Tahoes tonight."

  Liz held the muzzle of the AK-47 inches from the first lock. She pulled the trigger. The padlock shattered. The gunshot's fading echo was answered with a high pitched trumpeting.

  "What was that?" Liz stammered.

  A hulking shadow charged the women with an ungainly gait and a trunk arched above its head.

  Monica stumbled backwards. Using the fence for support, she gasped, "It's an elephant."

  It was indeed a ten-foot tall, twelve-thousand pound African bull elephant with eight-foot tusks.

  "He's attacking us," Liz croaked.

  "Liz, the rifle," Monica hissed, stepping between Amanda and the enraged animal.

  Liz raised the rifle and aimed at the approaching animal. As she squeezed the trigger, a sudden crashing in the jungle and a loud cawing cry startled her. The shot went wild.

  A cawing Black Rhinoceros galloped out of the undergrowth and charged the bellowing elephant.

  Notorious for their aggression as well as extremely poor eyesight, black rhinos had been known to charge everything from tree trunks to moving trains.

  Monica's attention was riveted on the spectacle of a four-thousand pound animal attacking a rival more than three times its size.

  The rampaging elephant veered away from the women and charged the rhino. A second before colliding the rhino must have realized it was outmatched. It spun around and raced away from the lumbering pachyderm. But the young bull wasn't deterred by the faster animal and stubbornly kept up the chase.

  The women listened in fascination as the two titans disappeared into the night, bellowing, cawing, and noisily trampling the underbrush.

  Monica whispered. "Liz, shoot the other lock before it comes back for us."

  Liz blew apart the padlock. Monica darted to the gate and unthreaded the chain. She swung open the barrier, waving Amanda and Liz through. Closing the gate behind her she secured the entrance as best she could, then the three women began to hike through the jungle in search of the highway.

  "I thought elephants were docile, gentle animals," Amanda said.

  "Normally they are, but male elephants periodically suffer from what is called 'musth,' the Hindi word for 'madness,' " Monica replied. "For days and even months they become very aggressive. There've been cases of humans being killed. Loud noises, like rifle fire, drive them insane. Years ago when Hilton, Alan and I were on safari, a huge bull chased our Land Rover for miles after the driver accidentally honked the horn."

  "Is it related to the mating season?" Liz asked.

  "Most experts don't think so," Monica said, "but their testosterone levels can be sixty times higher than normal. It's likely there's some relationship to sex or dominance."

  Monica came to a stop and burst into relieved laughter. The jungle ended abruptly. Before them, across a broad carpet of knee-high grass lay the two-lane blacktop highway.

  35:

  Mayan Tomb – Wednesday

  Hilton Hastings had been underwater so long he felt it was only at matter of time before he started to sprout gills. The diffuse beam of light was still roving back and forth at the graveside. Was Guerra ever going to abandon his vigil?

  He had been fortunate that the sequence of events had unfolded as they had. If the machine gun had opened fire before the corpses had been identified, he would have been cut in half. As it was, Guerra's 'bobbing for apples' routine allowed him to fill his lungs with air and get out of the way. He was able to swim back into the king's burial chamber before the lead started to fly.

  His hands were pressed against the ceiling of the chamber, anchoring him to the edge of the grave. He silently implored Guerra and his gang to move on because he could think of only one avenue of escape, a path he was very reluctant to follow. He estimated he could remain submerged for another two minutes before he'd be desperate for air. What were the prospects of Guerra forsaking his stakeout in that time? He had two options. Both held out the prospect of dying, but whatever course he chose, the decision had to be made now.

  Hilton slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out the four-inch penknife. Flipping open the blade, he curled up his legs and performed a one-eighty-degree somersault, resting the soles of his running shoes on the roof of the tomb. He used the ceiling as a launching pad to dive to the floor of the crypt.

  Although fear churned in his guts and bile rose to the back of his throat, the remote possibility of escape was preferable to surrendering to Guerra.

  As he dove to the depths of the chamber, the light became dimmer until he found himself surrounded by darkness. He kept his hands extended in front of him to ward off any unexpected obstacles and to search for familiar landmarks. He needed to locate the burial platform. From there, he could determine the direction of the steps that would lead him to a pocket of air and at least a few hours reprieve. In that time, certainly Guerra would admit defeat.

  His hands struck something solid. He blindly groped the chiseled surface of the slab where the king had once lain. He gazed up at the dot of failing light and got his bearings. He struck out in the general direction of the stairway. Making contact with the mausoleum wall, he swam to the left until he encountered the archway of the staircase.

  He hoped the flashlight batteries had been recently replaced, if not, then this was an exercise in futility. He required light to fight, whereas the Fer-de-Lance used body heat and movement to target its attack.

  Securing the pocketknife blade between his teeth, he started up, using the three-inch ledge on each side of the passageway as a handrail. Hand over hand, he pulled himself closer to a fight to the death.

  His desperation for air should have spurred him on, but fear gnawed at his guts. Given what lay before him, he was tempted to throw himself on the
tender mercies of Guerra. In the end, the searing pain in his lungs overruled his loathing, and he quickened the pace.

  Hilton sensed a shifting of shadows and almost believed he saw the faint glow of the flashlight above. He hurried forward, using his feet as well as his hands, heedless of the horror ahead.

  The dull light came first, then the outline. It was there on the water's surface, whipping and churning in a never-ending dance. The serpent must have panicked when the passageway flooded, cutting it off from everything that was familiar.

  He swam upward until he determined his outstretched hand was six inches below the water's surface.

  The Fer-de-Lance had to be grabbed just behind the head, but the snake's erratic thrashing would make capturing it a dangerous challenge. His lungs prodded him to act, forcing him to shake off the last vestiges of uncertainty. He traced the viper's movement with an open hand, attempting to divine its next twist or turn. Clamping a hand around the slippery coil, he felt a shiver slither down his spine. Without any expectations as to what its reaction might be, Hilton was caught completely off guard by the power of the response. The viper's strength astounded him and it came close to twisting free.

  Strengthening his grip on the squirming reptile, he fought his way to the surface and tore the blade from between his teeth, then sucked in oxygen. The Fer-de-Lance faced him with its mouth gaping open, the tongue madly flicking the air, the black eyes dead, unblinking, and the fangs, twin daggers, poised to strike.

  The snake was coiling and twisting, one second entwining itself around Hilton's limbs, the next seemingly tying itself in knots. Hilton raised the knife high to stab the adder, but the heavy body slammed his wrist into the stone wall. Hilton's hand involuntarily flew open.

  His breath caught in his throat when the knife dropped into the water. Still clinging to the serpent, he desperately tried to retrieve his weapon with his free hand. The knife settled on his open palm. As he was about to close his hand around the hilt, he glanced up. The beady eyes of the Fer-de-Lance were inches from his. Mustering all his strength, he thrust the reptile away, holding the snake at arm's length. In doing so, he snatched defeat from the jaws of victory when the penknife slid from his hand and sank beyond his grasp.