Revenge of the Maya

by Clay Farrow

  He got to his knees, scrambled to the scaffold, and tested the sturdiness of the steel structure. There was only a subtle rattling when he shook the frame. The wooden planks that formed the platform were neatly stacked on the ground. He had a clear path to the roof.

  Beginning his climb, he paused at each stage to reassure himself the slight grating noise of the connection points hadn't attracted any attention. Arriving at the top of the scaffold, he poked his head above the roofline. The flat roof gave him an unobstructed view of the prison catwalk.

  Three armed guards patrolled the walkway overlooking the prison compound. The only access to the roof appeared to be through a three-by-three foot hinged trapdoor which was propped open.

  Hilton crossed to the trapdoor on all fours, angling his approach so it hid him from the nearest guard. He peered over the edge of the opening. A set of stairs led to a dimly lit hallway. Crouching, he stepped over the raised door frame and began his descent, pausing on each step to listen for any sound in the corridor. After the last step he stopped and appraised his surroundings.

  The fifteen-foot hallway was less than half the building's length. At the far end of the passageway was a door. A set of stairs to the main floor was to the left of the door which had a nameplate with Warden written on it and below, another with Colonel Miguel Rodriguez.

  At the office entrance, he stooped and pressed his ear to the door. The only sound he heard was the hum of ceiling fans, but he sensed a presence. Given the hour, he was surprised anyone was still on the job.

  Slowly, he turned the knob and cracked open the door. Hearing no shouts of alarm, he nudged the door open a little more. Directly in front of him was a gun belt hanging from a coat rack. Beyond the coat stand was a desk with a large, open, aluminum suitcase on the desktop. He slipped his hand through the door and bypassing the scabbard containing a ten-inch Bowie knife, carefully unsnapped the holster flap. Hilton winced at the sound of the fastener's metallic click when the clasp opened, but he kept going. Grasping the pistol grip between his thumb and index finger, he slowly lifted the semi-automatic out of the holster. Once the Beretta 92 was firmly in his hand, he allowed himself to breathe.

  He silently inched his way into the room. A shuffling sound was coming from behind the suitcase. He quietly stepped up to the desk and peered over the open lid. A Guatemalan army colonel, who seemed vaguely familiar, was bent over the suitcase completely engrossed with his task.

  "Colonel Miguel Rodriguez, I presume?" Hilton asked.

  Rodriguez's head jerked up and his chair rolled away from his desk.

  "What is so important that you're at your desk this early in the morning?"

  The colonel's face bore a look of shock, but he managed to blurt out, "I'm flying to the Cayman Islands in a few hours."

  "How much?" Hilton asked, nodding at the aluminum suitcase.

  Recovering somewhat, Rodriguez glanced down at the wad of greenbacks clutched in his hand. They fluttered to the floor when he reached for his sidearm.

  Hilton smiled and raised the semi-automatic for the colonel to see. "Sorry, I'm the only one who is armed."

  Ignoring Hilton, Rodriguez bent down and scooped up the money from the floor. In addition to the bills in his hand, the suitcase contained stacks of cash and more piles of money were neatly laid out on the desk. All were the same denomination - $100.

  "I asked how much?"

  "It's none of your business."

  "I'm making it mine," Hilton said, placing the muzzle of the gun against the bridge of the colonel's nose.

  Rodriguez was silent as if weighing his options. Hilton jacked back the slide, arming the pistol.

  Beads of sweat began to roll down the colonel's brow and he stammered, "$800 thousand."

  "Nice work if you can get it. Where do I sign up?"

  Rodriguez dropped the bills clenched in his hand into the suitcase.

  "Pack the rest," Hilton ordered.

  The piles of money on the desk followed. Once the last dollar was packed, the colonel closed the lid and snapped the latches shut. "What do you want?"

  "Besides the eight-hundred thou? Guerra kidnapped my family and I want them back."

  Rodriguez placed his hand on the suitcase and spread out his fingers in a gesture that said it's mine. "Leave the money, and I'll take you to them. They're at my ranch."

  Hilton sidled to a window overlooking the passageway and glanced out. "How many guards on duty?"

  "Three on the catwalk and three at the gates."

  The total matched his count. "How many at the ranch?"

  "Seven of my men, my cousin Alberto, Señores Gantry and Byers, and Señorita Dennison. Too many for you alone. You'll need my help."

  Hilton smiled. The familial relationship between the colonel and Guerra came as a surprise, but it explained how Guerra got his men and equipment. "Where's the ranch?"

  "On the main highway. Two miles past the town of Santa Ana."

  Hilton walked around the desk. Standing behind Rodriguez, he said, "Here's what's going to happen, colonel. You're going to take a short nap while I go to the ranch. The money goes with me."

  "No! Not my money," Rodriguez protested as he tried to spin in his chair to face Hilton.

  Hilton rewarded Rodriguez's objection with a glancing tap to the side of his head using the Beretta. "Let me finish, colonel, I'm not an unreasonable man. If I get what I want ... "

  "You expect me to take the word of a murderer?"

  "What murder? Fidel killed himself."

  "Not Fidel. You and your partner killed Alberto's Francesca."

  Hilton stopped, taken aback. "Cousin Guerra lied to you. He murdered Francesca."

  "I don't beli … ."

  "You call me a lair and expect me to leave you the money. Sweet dreams," Hilton said and slammed the pistol barrel into the side of the colonel's head.

  Rodriguez toppled out of the chair and onto the floor, unconscious. Hilton rifled through the desk drawers until he found two sets of handcuffs. He rolled Rodriguez onto his stomach and cuffed his hands behind his back with the first set, then hogtied his ankles to his wrists with the second. Hanging out of one of Rodriguez's back pockets was a handkerchief which Hilton used to gag him. Then, he turned out the rest of the colonel's pockets until he found the keys to the Navigator.

  Darting to the display case, he opened both glass doors, set the aluminum suitcase on the floor in front of him and flipped open the lid. He removed his Walther semi-automatic from the display case, six fully-loaded magazines for the Beretta, and a dozen loaded M16 magazines and tossed them into the valise. Then he lifted a pair of loaded M16 rifles out of the display case. He was about to close the suitcase when he noticed something else. What the hell he told himself and grabbed the two hand grenades and dumped them in as well.

  Hastings hustled for the door with the rifles slung over his shoulder, the suitcase gripped in his right hand, and the cocked Beretta in his left.

  40:

  Rancho de la Noche – Thursday

  Alberto Guerra's jeep glided to a stop in front of the Rodriguez hacienda. The Chevy Tahoe, with Diego and his two prisoners, rolled to a stop behind the senator's vehicle.

  Earlier, Lieutenant Diego had flagged down Alberto and told him about the death of Rick Calvin and the escape. He had explained that they were hunting the women, while a single soldier remained at the ranch with Ken. Alberto and Diego had agreed the women's only realistic option was to head for Belize. They further agreed that flight through the jungle was too dangerous and their only recourse was to stick to the highway. With the women likely on the lookout for the Chevy, Alberto had suggested the odds of corralling the escapees were best if the jeep led, while the Tahoe followed at a discreet distance with its lights off.

  With the recapture of Fremont and Dennison, Alberto relaxed somewhat. At least he had two of the three witnesses to the Altun Ha massacre. This time he'd make damn sure they remained in his custody until he, Jerry, and Ken were finish
ed with them. He had ordered the soldiers to conduct an extensive search for the kid. But they had been unable to find her body. Nevertheless, he was convinced that no one could have escaped that barrage of lead unharmed. The brat wouldn't last the night and had probably crawled into some hole to die.

  As soon as Alberto's jeep came to a halt, Jeremiah attempted to leap out of the passenger seat, only to be grabbed by the senator and pulled back in.

  "Jerry. Don't do anything stupid. Byers is under my protection."

  Lieutenant Diego and his three men milled around the Tahoe, waiting for orders.

  "Diego, bring the women out to the patio," Alberto commanded as he climbed out of the jeep and started up the front steps of the ranch house.

  Jeremiah raced around the jeep and ran up the steps past Alberto, almost knocking over the maid holding open the front door.

  "Where's Byers?" he snarled.

  The maid pointed to the doors leading to the terrace. Jeremiah darted towards the patio.

  Alberto chased after him. "Stop, Jerry! I'm warning you!"

  Jeremiah dashed across the reception hall. Alberto was right behind him but stopped at the entrance to the terrace. Jeremiah ran down the steps, heading directly for Ken, who was sitting at a patio table sipping a drink. His bodyguard was dozing in a chair a few yards off to the side.

  Ken looked up and jumped to his feet. "Gantry! What the hell are you doing here?"

  "I'm here to beat you to a pulp, you Satan-worshipping heretic," the evangelist retorted. He drew back his fist and flung himself at Ken.

  The commotion roused Ken's bodyguard who staggered to his feet.

  Ken ducked under the blow and danced out of range, retreating to the other side of the table.

  Alberto stood on the threshold of the patio, watching an enraged Jeremiah chase the thoroughly cowed Ken around the table. Knowing the fighting abilities of the two men, he chuckled as he observed the tussle. They were so inept that the likelihood of bloodshed was minimal - closer to two dancers performing a pas de deux. He glanced over at Diego and the soldiers escorting Fremont and Dennison onto the patio steps. The women looked haggard and disheveled.

  "You murdered Rick Calvin," Jeremiah shouted.

  Fremont's and Dennison's heads came up with looks of curiosity.

  "Why do you care?" Ken answered.

  "He was a member of my congregation."

  Ken stopped in his tracks and faced Jeremiah. "So he was your spy."

  Jeremiah kept coming at the scientist. Once again within striking distance, he swung. This time he clipped Ken on the tip of his chin.

  "Rick was a God-fearing young man doing the work of the Lord. He didn't deserve to die."

  Fremont regarded Dennison with a questioning look.

  She simply shrugged her shoulders. "His being a spy is news to me."

  "I swear to God it was an accident," Ken bawled. Holding his jaw, he backed away and stumbled into his bodyguard.

  "Don't you ever invoke the Lord's name, you atheist."

  Jeremiah charged toward the scientist, but the soldier moved Ken to one side and swept up the evangelist in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground.

  "Put me down, you fascist pig," Jeremiah hollered, helplessly wriggling to escape.

  Alberto's bemused expression changed to a frown.

  "Don't hurt that boy," he said, staring at Ken's bodyguard. "And Jerry, it's time for you to settle down."

  The soldier set Jeremiah on the ground and backed away. Ken stalked toward Alberto, stopping at the bottom of the stairs.

  "Al, are you responsible for this bible-thumping Neanderthal being here?"

  Alberto felt Ken's superior attitude needed to be knocked down a peg or two and nodded.

  Ken's jaw dropped. "How could you? After all the money I've given you! After all the fundraising I've done for you, against my better judgment I might add. You know how he's tried to ruin my firm, stand in the way of progress."

  "You lied to me. Malaria my ass."

  Ken stood silent.

  "Señor Alberto, what do you want done with the women?" Lieutenant Diego asked.

  "The ball's in your court, Jerry. What do you want to do?"

  "I couldn't care less about Dennison, but him and her," he growled, pointing at Ken and Fremont, "I want them dead. Byers you can do here and now, but Fremont will have to wait until the mug she dug up is found. Then it and her notes can be destroyed and all traces of this abomination will have been eradicated."

  Alberto was pensive, sensing events were getting out of control. Dennison's freedom and Ken's execution were exactly what he didn't want. A live murder witness and a dead source of cash weren't the scenario he'd envisioned. While he cared deeply for Jerry, he had to think of himself and his interests. He cracked a thin smile. Jerry had to learn how protected he'd been, dictating orders but never personally getting his hands dirty or facing the consequences of his commands. It might also put that piss-ant Byers in his place and provide some amusement at the same time.

  Alberto jogged down the patio steps. Drawing his pistol, he walked over to Jeremiah and extended the Colt .45. "You want him dead, here you are."

  "You expect me to pull the trigger in front of all these witnesses?" Jeremiah exclaimed, shying away from the offered pistol.

  "Senator," Ken cried. "You can't be serious?"

  Alberto ignored Ken and thrust the gun towards Jeremiah. "I'll have them wait inside. It'll be just you and me."

  Jeremiah jerked his hand away from the weapon as if he'd been scalded. "I can't murder a man in cold blood. I'm a servant of God."

  "Jerry, there's no one else here who's going do it for you. You're the one who wants him dead."

  "Damnit, Al, this is madness," Ken shouted.

  "You've got the gun. You do it," Jeremiah demanded.

  "Senator, you can't listen to this rabid freak," Ken screamed hysterically.

  "Jerry, at some point you have to do your own dirty work."

  "I've never killed anybody."

  "Do you believe Byers knows the formula or has access to the research material?"

  "No. The Ferry kid was the only one even close to unraveling the formula and he's dead. All his research was destroyed in the explosion."

  "Are you positive Dennison knows nothing? Didn't get a thing from Jeffers?"

  "No. Rick wasn't with them every minute." He paused, then continued, "In fact, according to him they spent a good deal of time alone."

  "Well, I'm damn sure she knows a whole hell of a lot more than me," Ken interjected.

  "Maybe you should be focusing on her as well as Fremont," Alberto counseled.

  As Jeremiah pondered Alberto's advice, the maid stepped onto the courtyard steps. "Excuse me, Señor Alberto, there is a phone call for you."

  Alberto holstered his .45 and clapped Jeremiah on the back. "Think about it, I'll be right back."

  Bounding up the stairs, he followed the maid into the hacienda.

  Alberto talked for less than a minute, then slammed the receiver into its cradle and stormed onto the terrace. "That was Miguel. Hastings is alive! The bastard's heading this way and is heavily armed."

  Alberto noticed Fremont's face light up and directed his gaze at the lieutenant. "Diego, lock the women in a bedroom. And be damned sure they don't escape this time."

  Fremont glanced at Dennison. "Drop the hangdog look. With Hilton in the picture, we're almost home free."

  Dennison gazed at the number of armed men around them. "Or six feet under."

  41:

  Highway near Rancho de la Noche - Thursday

  Hilton Hastings brought the Lincoln Navigator to a stop and turned off the headlights a half mile past the town of Santa Ana. The Rodriguez ranch should be just up ahead. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness, then continued along the highway at a crawl. The aluminum suitcase and the M16s were piled on the backseat, while the Beretta lay on the front seat beside him, within easy reach.

  The journey
had been uneventful so far, but he suspected events were about to assume a more ominous tone. Once he found the ranch, he intended to hide the Navigator and approach the house on foot to scout out the exact location of Monica and Amanda. Dawn was approaching, but he wasn't going to rush. Rash actions would endanger them all.

  Searching the darkness for the entrance to the ranch, he sensed something up ahead. He wanted to hit the brakes, but the reflective glow of the red taillights would give away his presence. Something was out there. A shadow darted off the highway. He flipped on the headlights and reached for the Beretta. He glimpsed a slight figure ducking into the roadside underbrush. He slammed on the brakes, drove the stick shift into Park, and bolted out of the vehicle.

  "Amanda!"

  The girl stopped and slowly turned to the voice.

  Hilton stood in the glare of the headlights, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  "Uncle Hilton, we never thought we'd see you again," she cried, bounding back to the highway.

  She ran to him and leapt into his outstretched arms. He was so overjoyed, his embrace lifted her high off the ground. She clung to his neck, repeatedly kissing his face.

  "I was so worried about you. Are you alright?" he blubbered, holding her at arm's length and inspecting her from head to toe. "Where did you get that pistol and what happened to your leg?"

  "From Aunt Monica, but it's empty," Amanda said as she gazed down at her calf streaked with blood. Then like a dam bursting, her words gushed out. "I cut it on a thorn bush escaping from Senator Guerra. He was the person who kidnapped Aunt Monica and me. Dr. Byers murdered Rick. We escaped from him but were attacked by a lion and an elephant. Then Senator Guerra captured Miss Dennison and Aunt Mon …"

  "Hold it, sweetheart, hold it. Calm down. Start from the beginning." He took the gun from the waistband of her shorts and scooped her up in his arms. Then he carried her back to the Navigator and settled her in the passenger seat. "The first thing is to take care of that cut, then you can tell me all about tonight."