by Clay Farrow
The two women, along with Amanda and Hilton, had arrived back at the Caribbean Breezes in the late afternoon, two days before. Hilton had crossed the border into Belize using the same smugglers' trail he had used to leave the country.
They had stopped off in Belize City for a short time to have Liz's ankle X-rayed and taped, to buy her a dress for the wedding, and to confirm that Peter, the Altun Ha custodian, was well on his way to recovery.
By noon yesterday the last of the paying guests had checked out. The rest of the hectic day had been spent greeting friends who were arriving for the nuptials. They would be residents of the resort for the next week, compliments of Monica and Hilton. Once the last water taxi from Belize City had departed, there wasn't an empty suite and Liz had to sleep in a spare bedroom in Hilton's and Monica's apartment.
"Hilton had this workroom built when I arrived three years ago," Monica said. She pushed open the wooden door and ushered her companion into the building. "Welcome to my little refuge."
Liz stepped across the threshold, her limp almost imperceptible.
The room was a large open space with three long rectangular workbenches evenly spaced across the floor. The one room workshop was ringed with crammed bookcases and open windows. Five large glass display cases were spread out across the far end of the room. Hanging from the ceiling were a half dozen rotating fans.
"This is where I spend a good deal of my time," Monica said.
"Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Show it to me."
Monica smiled and led the way down an aisle between two of the cluttered workbenches. She dropped the guinea pig cage on the end of the bench and stopped in front of the middle display case.
Liz deposited her cage next to Monica's and joined her friend. She looked down at two ceramic bowls and a cylindrical mug on exhibit.
All three had been painted with a white base coat, now dull with age. The figures and hieroglyphics had faded over the centuries to varying sickly shades of red and yellow.
"They're all beautiful. Which one caused all this fuss?"
"The drinking vessel."
"I didn't expect it to be so big."
"It's a little more than nine inches in height and approximately six inches in diameter. The glyphs painted around the base and the rim are the ingredients. Do you see the small circles coming from each figure's mouth?"
Liz nodded.
"Those are called speech bubbles."
"What? You don't mean like in comic books?"
"Exactly. The glyphs in the bubble associated with each figure is a preparation instruction. I combined the ingredients following the instructions to come up with this," she said, holding up a glass vial full of a chalky-brown liquid. "Does this look like the solution Rick used on JJ?"
Liz took the cylinder and held the test-tube up to the light. "Hard to tell. The color and consistency certainly look the same as Rick used, but the only time I saw it was in the temple at Tikal and the light wasn't very good."
"What's your best guess?"
Again she raised the glass to the light. "I'd say it's the same as Rick's, but it strikes me as being just a little darker than the sample I had with Brad Ferry. But again, it could've been the light."
Liz placed her nose over the top of the vial and sniffed. "It smells a bit sweeter than the stuff I tried with Brad."
"You're sure?"
"As best as I can remember, but it was months ago. I could be wrong. Why?"
Monica paused as she thoughtfully gazed at the vial, ignoring Liz's question. "Do you happen to know how much JJ was given?"
"No. Probably the equivalent of a couple of tablespoons. About the same amount as Brad and I took."
"Do you know how much was used on the test animals at Byers?" Monica asked, turning back to the cages sitting on the workbench.
"No. Brad was very close-mouthed about research-related aspects of the project. I saw him force feed a pair of medium-sized dogs and it didn't seem like he used a lot."
"Okay, we'll say you had two tablespoons which is an ounce," Monica said.
She picked up an eyedropper lying on the bench and placed the tip of it into the thick mixture. Sucking up a small amount of the liquid, she recapped the test-tube with the rubber stopper.
Opening a cage, Monica took out a guinea pig and pried open its mouth. She placed the tip of the eyedropper into the animal's mouth and squeezed the rubber top until the tube was empty. Then she returned the animal to its cage. She followed the same procedure with the other rodent.
"I think two milliliters each will be about right for the size to amount ratio."
"Why test them?"
"There was something about the way Rick was acting when we first arrived at the ranch. You also said some things that got me curious."
"What are you trying to prove?
"We'll soon find out. Last night a thought occurred to me, and I made up a new batch for an experiment I want to try. Daniel, from the laundry, sells guinea pigs on the side and I asked him for a male and female to take into account any gender-specific reaction."
"Do they have AIDS?"
Monica laughed and shook her head. "No, not that I know of."
"If this were the early 1800s, do you have any idea what you'd be using instead of guinea pigs?"
Monica shook her head. "I don't know. Maybe rabbits, cats, dogs?"
"Wrong. Brad told me that Edward Jenner intentionally infected an eight-year-old boy with smallpox to test his vaccine."
"Seriously?"
This time it was Liz's turn to shake her head. "It's amazing that back then they used kids as guinea pigs."
The conversation was cut short when the door burst open.
"Aunt Monica, you aren't even dressed," Amanda exclaimed, dressed in a pink off-the-shoulder full length gown. "Everybody is starting to assemble for the wedding. The minister should be here in ten minutes."
"Oh, my god! I lost all track of the time. Daniel's agreed to take care of the guinea pigs. Could you be a sweetie and take them over to the laundry while we get ready? Also, don't forget to lock up on your way out."
44:
Caribbean Breezes Resort – Sunday
Hilton Hastings lay in bed smiling. Since their vows yesterday afternoon, he'd been walking on a cloud. He was now part of a family and no longer existed as an isolated and solitary entity. If he was honest with himself, the arrival of Monica and Amanda three years earlier had started the process that had reached fruition many months, even years before. Yesterday was merely the formalization.
He glanced at Monica fast asleep beside him. The marriage ceremony had gone off without a hitch with Amanda as the maid of honor and an old Pittsburgh business associate as best man; a role that should have been Dylan's. The service was followed by dinner and dancing, with plenty of reggae and champagne.
The festivities had gone on until the early hours of the morning, with Liz causing the greatest stir of the evening. Wearing a short dress with a plunging neckline, the woman had enjoyed the undivided attention of every available male. Hilton decided the life-of–the-party must have had a good time when he heard her stagger into her bedroom shortly after he awoke.
He and Monica had discovered Amanda asleep on a lounger by the pool, and used the worn-out girl as a ready excuse to slip away from the reception at eleven o'clock. Hilton had carried Amanda to her room and, in spite of the revelry, they were asleep shortly after midnight.
Night was about to give way to dawn when he swung out of bed. He pulled on a pair of tattered shorts then padded barefoot onto the balcony. Given the demanding crush on the kitchen staff last night, he was pleasantly surprised to see three mugs and a carafe of coffee waiting in their usual spot on the patio table. He poured himself a cup and sauntered over to the railing. Resting his forearms on the crossbar, he sipped the scalding brew while idly surveying the silent resort. The nightlights dotting the courtyard and beach were still on and cast a dim glow across the open space between the guest suites an
d the sea.
Hilton's gaze wandered to the fringes of the tennis courts. He saw something move and snapped to attention. Perhaps a wedding guest sneaking back to his room after a late night rendezvous? Harmless certainly, but he had one nagging concern. Where was security? A staff member should have been inconspicuously shadowing a guest back to his or her room, or questioning a trespasser at this time of night. In fact, he didn't see any of the security staff.
He felt the first twinge of apprehension. His scrutiny of the area between the two buildings housing the guest suites intensified. It wasn't a single shadow. There were multiple figures and if he wasn't mistaken, they seemed to be carrying rifles. He counted twelve individuals. The warm breeze suddenly felt like an Arctic chill.
Hilton set his mug on the table, then quickly wove his way through the patio furniture back to the screen door leading to their bedroom. He slipped through the door to the side of the king-size bed and gently shook his bride.
Monica stretched with a lazy cat-like grace. She rolled onto her back wearing a sleepy smile and purred, "What time is it?"
Hilton brushed her long tresses from her face and whispered, "Time to wake up, we've got uninvited visitors."
Monica bolted up in bed. "Is Amanda alright?"
"She's fine, but we have to get moving. I think they've neutralized the security staff," he said, opening the drawer of the bedside table. He lifted out the Walther PPK and two spare magazines which he set on the bedside table.
Monica donned a pair of cutoff jeans and a white T-shirt. Slipping the six-inch semi-automatic and ammo into her pocket, she asked, "Do you know who it is?
"My gut tells me it's Guerra. Now, let's move. You wake Amanda and bring her back here, I'll collect Liz."
The couple darted across the room and into the hallway. Monica hurried down the hall to Amanda's room. Hilton lightly tapped on the door directly across from theirs. He turned the knob and pushed open the creaking door. As he was about to step across the threshold, a feminine growl stopped him.
"One more step and you're dead meat."
"It's Hilton."
"Hilton," Liz said breathlessly, struggling to sit up, her hair in disarray. "I'm very flattered, but this is your wedding night and Monica is my friend. Come back in a week."
"I'm more interested in your marksmanship than your body. Guerra and friends may be paying us a visit."
"Shit," she raged, squinting at her wristwatch. "I've only been in bed for a few minutes, I haven't undressed, and I'm still half loaded."
"You've got sixty seconds to get unloaded and over to our bedroom."
Liz swung out of bed still wearing her dress minus a few buttons and clasps.
Turning to leave Hilton added, "You might want to change into something a little more appropriate for a war."
He returned to his room, reached under the bed and dragged out the aluminum suitcase, and the two M16s which he dropped onto the mattress.
Monica and Amanda rushed into the room, followed shortly by Liz, now wearing shorts and a T-shirt.
"What's the plan?" Liz asked.
"Monica, I want you and Amanda to go to your workshop and stay there." He saw she was about to object and raised his hand. "Please, no arguments, someone has to watch out for Amanda."
Monica glanced in Amanda's direction and remained silent.
"You've got the semi for protection. Keep your head down and you should be okay." He caressed Monica's cheek, then Amanda's. "You're my life. I need you both safe."
"What'll you two be doing?" Monica asked.
Hilton took a deep breath and was silent for a moment. "If it's Guerra, he'll ignore the guests and come directly for me. We'll be ready."
Monica rested her head against Hilton's chest. "Promise me you'll be careful. Don't make me a widow for a second time." She looked over at Liz. "You'll watch his back?"
"Of course."
Hilton slipped his hand under Monica's chin and tilted her head up. He kissed her tenderly on the lips and in a choked voice laughed, "I'm bulletproof. Now go, my love."
They reluctantly parted and Hilton reached out for Amanda's hand. Interlacing his fingers with hers, he gently kissed her cheek. "I love you. Hurry and take care of each other."
"Be careful, Uncle Hilton," Amanda said as tears began to trickle down her cheeks. She turned and dashed out of the room.
Monica threw her arms around Hilton's neck. They hugged, then Hilton gently disentangled himself and whispered, "Go."
She stepped back, then darted after Amanda.
Hilton turned to the bed. He picked up one of M16s and handed it to Liz, then flipped open the lid of the suitcase. "There's a dozen magazines, half for you. I'll take the hand grenades."
Hilton and Liz crouched by the balcony stairs, which led down to the sandy quad where the pool and beach volleyball court were located. The rifle toting invaders stood out against the light colored sand as they slunk out of the shadows between the buildings. The men ran across a narrow strip of sand and huddled behind the swim-up bar at the far end of the pool.
"The two of us can't take on twelve gun-wielding goons," Liz whispered.
"We don't have much choice. If it's Guerra, they know we have firepower, so they won't come at us with everything all at once. They'll be cautious, take their time. They also think we're asleep, so we'll have the element of surprise."
A team of four intruders broke away from the pack and jogged to where the beach began. They spread out down to the water line. Creeping forward with their rifles ready, they maneuvered around an assortment of Hobie Cats, kayaks, and paddle boats beached on the sandy slope.
The eight remaining gunmen split into two fireteams of four, deploying to either side of the pool in single file. They stuck to the concrete walkway surrounding the pool as they advanced on the resort headquarters.
"As soon as we open up, we lose the element of surprise," Hilton said. "You take the left side of the pool, I'll take the right."
"What about the goons on the beach?"
"Forget about them for the time being. The guys by the pool are easier targets."
The two set their weapons to automatic and chambered a round.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Go."
The night was swallowed up in a conflagration of gunfire. Bullets tore into the concrete walkway surrounding the pool, rooting out chunks of cement. The thugs were taken completely off-guard and beat a chaotic retreat to the swim-up bar.
In the course of their salvo, Hilton managed to cut down two of the fleeing attackers, while Liz dropped three. The remaining three dove headlong into the recess of the swim-up bar. The four gunmen strung out along the shore, sought cover among the marooned watercraft.
"Damn. I was hoping we'd get them all," Liz muttered.
Hilton pulled the pin from one of the grenades. "At least they're in a confined space. I hope this works. I grew up playing hockey not baseball."
Liz arched an eyebrow. "Hockey, huh?"
He wound up and hurled the handheld bomb.
As the grenade looped end-over-end through the air, Hilton heard the crack of a rifle shot. He felt the air move as the slug zipped past his ear, and he dropped to one knee.
They held their breaths as the grenade hit the roof, then tumbled into the pool. Seconds passed before there was a muffled boom and a geyser of water washed over the counter of the bar.
The rifle fire and exploding grenade had woken all but the drunkest of wedding guests. Now his friends crowded onto their balconies.
Hilton saw a familiar face step out of the shadows. Not Guerra, as he had expected, rather Colonel Rodriguez. But it didn't take a rocket scientist to know the senator had to be close by. Although he was unable to hear the colonel's orders, the rifle he carried as well as his gestures in the direction of his friends, left no doubt in Hilton's mind about his intentions.
He jumped to his feet. "We're under attack," he yelled. "Get back in your rooms and lock the door!"
&nb
sp; The colonel swung his AK-47 toward the reception building, squeezing off a half dozen rounds. Hilton heard the lead ripping through the leaves of the beachfront palms at the front of the building. The crackling gunfire must have crystallized his friends' thoughts, because they stampeded back into their rooms, slamming doors behind them and turning off lights.
Hilton held the last grenade in his hand and whispered, "Cover me while I try again."
"Want me to give it a shot?"
"Do you really think you can you throw that far with any accuracy?" he asked.
"Dad told me I was a better pitcher than my brother, and he was invited to the Yankees spring training camp," she snapped.
He handed her the last grenade. "Go for it."
She cocked her arm as Hilton scrambled to give her covering fire with three round bursts alternating between the bar, the colonel's last known location, and the beach.
As soon as she released the shrapnel-laced grenade, the pair ducked down. They watched the tight spiral fly through the air towards the bar.
"Shit," Liz cursed as she hung her head. "The damn thing is going to skip across the countertop of the bar and explode in the sand."
The grenade glanced off the inside of a roof post and ricocheted toward the far side of the bar.
Hilton slapped her on the back. She rocked forward, almost falling through the guardrail. "Beautiful throw. The damn thing hit the inside edge of the bar, then fell into the bartender's walkway."
As if to confirm Hilton's assessment, screams of alarm came from the bar. The survivors attempted to claw their way out of the recess. There was a loud whump, and they fell back into the rum-soaked pit.
"At least now we have a chance, but we're too exposed here," Hilton said, starting for the opposite side of the veranda. "We'll take Monica's escape route to the ground then go after Rodriguez and his men."
* * * *
Miguel grimly watched the gringos run across the balcony after they neutralized most of his men with his own rifles and grenades. Glancing at the beach, he realized his surviving men were also aware of the retreat. They would have to take care of the pair. He had his own agenda - a certain aluminum suitcase.
