Revenge of the Maya

by Clay Farrow

  Hilton's tormented wail of frustration rang out in the confined space but was abruptly choked off as the serpent coiled its body around his neck. His hand flew to his throat, frantically tearing at the cold-blooded constrictor. He couldn't find a space where he could slip his hand between its body and his neck. The snake began to tighten the chokehold, cutting off oxygen to his brain. He realized his time was rapidly running out as the first wave of lightheadedness washed over him.

  36:

  Santa Elena Graveyard - Wednesday

  Alberto Guerra puffed on a seven inch Montecristo and continued to pace back and forth at the graveside, his flashlight trained on the two floating bodies.

  Miguel and Jeremiah had retreated to the jeep, while the trio of soldiers had returned to their post at the prison entrance.

  "Al, this Hastings guy is long dead," Jeremiah said. "As disappointed as I am in you for dealing with Byers, I'll forgive you if you get me to him and the Fremont woman before it's too late."

  Alberto stopped in his tracks and slowly turned to face Jeremiah. "Too late for what? Why are Fremont and Byers of so much interest to you?"

  "Monica Fremont and her colleague, Jeffery Jeffers, are the archaeologists who unearthed a cup with a recipe painted on it. That formula is now in the hands of Ken Byers, and God only knows what he'll do with it."

  "How the hell did you find all this out?" a stunned Alberto asked. Ken had given him an rough outline but no details.

  "I'll answer your question with one of my own," Jeremiah said. "Did Byers tell you what Jeffers and Fremont stumbled onto?"

  "Certainly. Do you take me for a fool?"

  "What did he say?"

  "He finally discovered a cure for malaria."

  Jeremiah burst out laughing. "And you believed him?"

  Alberto stiffened. He felt his blood beginning to boil. "Ken wouldn't have the guts to lie to me. He knows I'd crucify him."

  "Then get your cross ready. You have no idea how he acquired this miraculous cure, do you?"

  "I'd have thought you'd welcome a malarial cure, considering the number of missions you have in Africa and Asia."

  "How did Byers get it? Just answer the question."

  "Ken financed Jeffers' research."

  "Wrong again, Al. He arranged to have it stolen from a University of Washington lab. A young doctoral candidate named Brad Ferry swiped the Jeffers sample and destroyed all the university's records that related to it. Then, he went to work for Byers."

  "How did you become so well informed?"

  "I've had a spy in his lab for a number of years now."

  Alberto's eyes gleamed with a sudden realization. "Jerry, you just confirmed my suspicions. You were the one behind the bombing of the Byers lab, weren't you? Who was your mole?"

  "A veterinarian technician kept me up-to-date on all Byers' research projects. Most were inconsequential, but Brad Ferry's assignment was one that couldn't be ignored."

  "How does a mole in a Seattle lab have me doing deals with Byers?"

  "My man was at the site in Belize when you picked up Fremont and then shipped her off with Byers. You remember the Byers security chief's assistant? Rick Calvin?"

  The senator nodded.

  "He's been calling his grandparents on a daily basis. They've been keeping me posted. Except they haven't heard from him for more than twenty-four hours. The last the grandparents heard, Byers and the woman were here at Santa Elena. Now I need to get to them. Where's your cousin's ranch?"

  "Before we discuss their whereabouts, why have Ken and Fremont gotten you in such a tizzy?"

  "It has nothing to do with a remedy for malaria. Byers latched onto a formula that prevents AIDS."

  “Why is that bad?”

  "First, it would have to be administered to teenagers just after puberty."

  "So?"

  “There's a side effect. It's a very powerful aphrodisiac. Do you want children rutting in the street for all to see?"

  Alberto shook his head, dumbfounded. "Ken assured me it was nothing profane or immoral."

  "You need to understand the implications if Byers is allowed to bring this abomination to market." Jeremiah didn't wait for Alberto to reply but drew a deep breath and continued. "Today little girls are being lured into sin with forced injections of a government-mandated cervical cancer vaccine. Byers is taking it one step further in loosening the reins of restraint. Remember the fallout from the gonorrhea debacle? I can't take the chance that Byers will again be able to bribe enough politicians to have his way this time."

  Alberto bit his tongue and nodded.

  "From all my spy's reports, this vile brew is irresistible. Tomorrow, young men and women will cast aside all restraint and will be clamoring for this insidious concoction. It will become as alluring as the most seductive and addictive of drugs. It will be treated as a sacrament. Where does it stop? Are all God's laws to be cast aside in the name of science? Is there no morality left? Has virtue become a dirty word? Is there no room for the wonders of heaven? The terrors of hell?"

  "I hear you, Jerry, I hear you."

  "Mark my words. They'll go further. This isn't the end of it."

  "So, what do you intend to do?" Alberto asked.

  "We have to eliminate Byers, Fremont and anyone else associated with this prescription for wickedness. We have to smash the cup Fremont found, pulverize it to dust and destroy all her research."

  Alberto gazed down into the grave, then back at Jeremiah. He paused, then extinguished his flashlight.

  37:

  Mayan Tomb – Wednesday

  Hilton Hastings held off the Fer-de-Lance with one hand, while the other clawed at the tightening noose of scaly steel around his neck. He sensed there was no breaking its stranglehold. Soon he'd be unconscious. The lack of oxygen was clouding his brain. He dug into his pocket with his free hand, pulling out the sailmaker's needle embedded in the ball of twine.

  The serpent's triangular head was still facing him, fighting to get closer. Its mouth was stretched to the limit. Hilton looked past the vacant eyes into a primal brain with a single craving - to sink its fangs into his flesh, to inject deadly venom into his bloodstream. The snake's every move wrested more of his strength. Holding the viper off had turned his arm into a lead weight.

  The needle was too firmly embedded in the twine to be shaken free. Raising the wad to his mouth, he discovered he couldn't open his mouth wide enough to grasp even a single strand between his teeth. His jaw was locked shut. He'd have to find another way to free the needle and still maintain control of this thrashing dervish.

  His concentration lapsed for an instant. The snake chose that moment to violently twist. The reptile's contortions threw Hilton off balance. His running shoes slipped off the slick step, and he plunged beneath the water. Scrambling to regain his footing, his legs churned like a pair of paddlewheels. He finally gained traction on a step and was able to arrest his fall. With the last of his energy, he thrust his head above the surface of the water. Awaiting him, like a recurring nightmare, were those fangs.

  His mind screamed for release, and his anger exploded. He raised the arm holding the ball of twine and with all the rage in his being, he smashed the wad of string into the serpent's mouth. The viper plunged its hollow, saber-toothed fangs into the bundle, delivered its venom, then tried to pull its head away. Hilton's hand flew up. The needle was free. The Fer-de-Lance had taken the twine with it. The ball of string clung to its fangs for a few seconds then fell into the water. The snake was again ready to fight.

  Hilton tightened his grip. The serpent was still, the lifeless eyes focused on the shiny steel lance in his hand, the fangs waiting for another chance to strike. He struck first. The needle point penetrated the roof of its mouth, impaling the viper's brain. He withdrew the spike, expecting the snake's stranglehold to ease. Nothing. He drove the needle into the mouth, once again skewering the cortex.

  The snake's head finally sagged, its strength began to wane. Hilton felt the
noose around his neck begin to loosen and the serpent slid off his shoulders and into the water. He released the Fer-de-Lance and watched the reptile sink into the depths of the floodwaters.

  Hilton gradually dragged himself out of the water. Slumped on the steps, he rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

  His eyelids fluttered. He was certain he had awoken from a nightmare, until he took in his surroundings. The fading orange glow cast by the flashlight left him under no illusions about the reality of his predicament. He had prevailed for now, but how much longer? The carbon dioxide he had produced while sleeping was now making him dizzy and the stale air in this confined chamber would soon be depleted of oxygen. Resigned, he slipped back into the water and swam for the entrance to the grave.

  He hesitated until satisfied the light was natural, not manmade, then he squirmed between the two corpses and sucked in glorious fresh air. Hilton clambered onto the bodies, using them as if they were a pair of pontoons. Balancing himself, he scrambled out of the pit and collapsed onto his back, waiting for his breathing to return to normal.

  Revived, he rolled onto his stomach. Propping himself up on an elbow, he gazed at the lit prison exterior. The painters' scaffolding was still there and the lights in the second-story office were on, even at this hour.

  Hanging his head between his arms, he fought back tears of exhaustion and self-pity. He'd had enough. Over the course of the night, he had been buried alive, almost drowned, and battled a deadly viper as well as his own demons. He had watched Fidel die in front of his eyes and risked his life in a wild bid to escape from the prison before him. Now, looking at the scaffolding and the lit office, he knew what he had to do. The irony wasn't lost on him – he would be breaking into a place where he had almost died trying to escape.

  38:

  Highway Near Rancho de la Noche – Wednesday

  The moon guided Monica Fremont's dash out of the jungle toward the paved highway. Once she was satisfied there was no traffic, she signaled 'all clear.' Only then did Liz and Amanda emerge from the tree line. Liz limped out of the underbrush, her arm draped around the young girl's shoulders for support. Clouds plunged the night back into complete darkness while the pair were making their way out to the highway.

  "How're you doing?" Monica asked.

  "Not bad at all, thanks to my human crutch," Liz replied, patting Amanda on the shoulder. "Sorry to have held you up; you should have left me."

  "You're part of the team now, Miss Dennison. One of us has to know how to use the AK."

  Liz gave Amanda with a warm smile and an affectionate hug. "Which way do we go?"

  "North to the end of this highway, then east about fifty miles to Belize," Monica replied.

  "Let's start walking," Liz said. "I suggest we avoid anything other than a horse and buggy coming up from the south. We'll flag down any passing cars from the north."

  "I agree with steering clear of cars from the south, but it's not a good idea for all three of us to be on the highway, even with cars from the north."

  "Why?" Liz asked.

  "This is a dangerous country. At night in the middle of nowhere, we're more likely to encounter bandits than good Samaritans. If we see headlights approaching, you and Amanda hide in the bushes. I'll flag down the car, you keep the rifle ready, and I'll take the pistol. If there's trouble, you can back me up."

  "I like most of your idea, all except the part involving me. I'll do the hailing and you two do the hiding. I'm used to dealing with scumbags and thugs."

  "You don't know the country, and I've spent a good deal of my life in Central America. Anyway, you'll never be able to conceal that rifle, and I don't know how to operate it. What if it jams?"

  Liz took on a determined frown. "Look, I'm hurt. I can't get off the road as fast as you two."

  "You don't speak Spanish, Liz. How are you going to convince a driver to turn around and drive us to Belize?"

  Liz paused and then replied, "I don't know. How are you?"

  Monica laughed. "Offer him money, of course,"

  "And if that doesn't work?"

  "I'll tell him you want to have sex with him."

  Liz burst out laughing.

  "What can I say? Your sick sense of humor is starting to rub off on me."

  "Okay," Liz said, stifling her laughter. "If that's the way you want it, we'll give the revolver to Amanda. She'll hide. You and I will tackle the car. I'll stand behind you, off to one side to conceal the rifle."

  Monica looked at Amanda. Her expression was deadly serious. "You remain hidden until one of us comes to get you. The gun is for your protection only. I don't want any false heroics."

  "Ahhhh, I think we all have to hide," Amanda said pointing down the highway.

  The two women wheeled about. A vehicle with its high beams on, was driving towards them at about twenty miles-per-hour. Two mounted spotlights swept back and forth over the edge of the jungle. Without a word, Monica and Amanda each slipped one of Liz's arms over their shoulders and scooping her up, staggered for the safety of the jungle.

  The search vehicle kept coming, closing in on the women.

  "We're not going to make it to the tree line," Monica whispered hoarsely. "Hit the ground."

  They didn't have long to wait before Monica heard the purr of the engine over the constant hum of nocturnal jungle noises. The searchlight passed over them as the vehicle continued up the highway. Monica risked a peek, then immediately dropped her head back down.

  "It was the Tahoe," she whispered, relieved that any other traffic from the south was likely to be friendly, or at least not from the Rodriguez ranch.

  They had been walking in the center of the highway for fifteen minutes and had not encountered a single vehicle. Liz had refused an offer of help from Monica and Amanda. Using the rifle as an makeshift cane, she insisted she was fine. The two women exchanged a glance then posted themselves on either side of her, ready to catch her if she stumbled.

  In the distance, a set of headlights appeared from around a curve in the highway.

  Liz tapped Amanda on the shoulder and said, "Run. Hide."

  Monica pulled the revolver from her pocket. As she handed the weapon to Amanda, she fixed her gaze on the teen and said, "Remember what I said to you about heroics."

  Amanda wouldn't look Monica directly in the eye. Instead, she snatched the gun from her aunt and scampered into the darkness.

  "The lights are too close together to be the Tahoe," Liz said.

  As the vehicle approached, they heard the engine's loud growling.

  "No muffler," Monica said. "This could be trouble. Do you want to duck into the bushes?"

  "If we run from every single vehicle that comes along, we'll be lucky to make it to Belize this year."

  "No muffler is a sure sign of no money and two gringas in the middle of nowhere are a tempting target."

  "Everything in life carries an element of risk. Even if this is your friendly neighborhood rapist, the last thing he'd expect from two juicy morsels like us is an AK-47. Get in front of me so they don't see the rifle."

  As the headlights picked them up, Monica and Liz edged back from the center of the highway, out of the way of the oncoming vehicle. The jeep chugged to a stop ten feet in front of them.

  The women cautiously approached the belching vehicle.

  Liz whispered, "There's something coming up behind the jeep."

  "Nothing we can do about it now," Monica murmured out of the corner of her mouth. "Be ready. If I drop to the ground, start blasting away. If we can, we'll head for the bushes away from Amanda."

  The women stopped before reaching the jeep. Monica raised her hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the headlights. She could make out four shadowy figures in the jeep.

  "Excuse me, gentlemen," she said in Spanish. "I hope I can persuade you to drive us to Belize. We're willing to pay."

  "Good evening, ladies," a familiar voice said in English. "You shouldn't be running around the countryside
at night unescorted. Some consider Guatemala a very dangerous place."

  The two women stared at each other.

  "Shit," Liz hissed.

  The women turned to escape, but hadn't taken a step when another pair of headlights cut into the darkness from behind the jeep. They were brought up short by the echo of multiple rifle bolts being thrown and multiple rounds being chambered.

  Monica's shoulders sagged.

  "Where's the Alderman brat?" Guerra demanded.

  He was answered with a single pistol shot from the darkness. The bullet whistled harmlessly between the jeep and the Tahoe. A fusillade of automatic rifle fire shredded the bushes and tree trunks in the vicinity of the gunshot.

  "Noooo, Amanda," Monica screamed, "run, honey, run."

  39:

  Santa Elena Prison Farm – Thursday

  Hilton Hastings hugged the whitewashed wall as he crept closer to the front of the prison. At the end of the building, he dropped onto his stomach and peeked around the corner. The prison entrance was awash in light, while a few yards away the painter's scaffolding and the Navigator, outfitted with an electric winch and cable, lay beyond the reach of the floodlights. The warm nighttime breeze dispersed a cloud from an unseen smoker in the prison lane way.

  The journey from the grave site had taken him more than twenty minutes. He'd been forced to skirt the prison buildings and cling to the shadows in what otherwise would have been a five-minute walk.

  He hadn't formulated a detailed plan of action, but the presence of the Navigator had solved his transportation problem. Until he was in the warden's office, he couldn't determine what options he had at his disposal. The only strategy he had mapped out was to get to the colonel's office and learn the whereabouts of Monica and Amanda.