Revenge of the Maya

by Clay Farrow

  "I want them," he yelled.

  The four-man fireteam moved out and the colonel loped across the courtyard to the stairway leading to the apartment.

  He cautiously climbed the stairs, ready if either of them had doubled back. Miguel poked his head above the floorboards of the balcony. It had been abandoned. He sprinted up the last few steps and hurried across to the nearest entrance.

  Prying open the screen door with the muzzle of his rifle, he stepped inside, ready for an ambush. Any thoughts of a trap vanished as his eyes settled on the aluminum suitcase in the center of the bed. Hypnotized by what lay on the bed, he barely heard the crack of a gunshot from the vicinity of the beach. Dropping the rifle, he ran to the bed and wrestled open the lid, his heart beating like a thundering drum roll.

  * * * *

  Hilton ignored the surf crashing around him, focusing on the work at hand – taking down a third intruder in as many seconds. He squeezed off a round, and before the body hit the ground, he was moving through the surf, further up the beach.

  He and Liz had separated as soon as they climbed down from the apartment. He'd made his way down to the beach while she had gone around the back of the reception building. She would tackle the colonel and the last of his men from the tennis courts.

  A silhouette stood out against the horizon. Hilton set the M16 selector to automatic and fired a quick burst. Another one bit the dust. He crept out of the water and up the slope toward the courtyard. As he reached the ridge, bullets ripped a line in the sand at his feet and stopped him in his tracks. The colonel stared down from the balcony.

  "Where's my money, gringo?"

  "In a safe place," Hilton said, letting the M16 drop to his side.

  "Not good enough."

  "The rifle fire and explosions will have been heard all over the cay. It won't be long before someone calls the cops."

  "Belize City is a long way off."

  "Yeah, but you have ten miles of ocean to cross and the coastline outside of the city is pretty much a snake-infested Mangrove swamp."

  "We've got the firepower."

  "Colonel, our little ambush took down twelve of your men. Unless you have reinforcements, you're done. Now you have to decide what's more important. Your money or me."

  "The money. Where is it?"

  "It's in the safe in the office."

  "You first," the colonel said, jerking his rifle.

  What would happen to Monica, Amanda, Liz and himself once the colonel had the cash? Hilton had to choose. He wheeled and ran for the cover of a Hobie Cat that was beached at the water's edge. Over the sound of the surf, he heard a rifle shot. The round tore into his upper arm and the M16 fell from his grasp. The force of the bullet spun him in circles like a berserk merry-go-round, and he let the momentum carry him until he dropped to the sand behind the small catamaran. Safe for the moment, he ventured a quick look back. Rodriguez was heedlessly pounding down the steps to the sandy courtyard.

  Hilton could still function, but his inability to hold onto the M16 told him the injury was more than a scratch. Holding his arm tight to his chest, he duck-walked into the surf, gritting his teeth against the sting of the saltwater seeping into his wound. Cloaked in darkness, he faced inland and hunkered down in the water - to wait and watch.

  Rodriguez breached the top of the slope and charged down the incline. A few yards from the Hobie Cat, he slowed and cautiously approached the sailboat with his AK-47 ready. Not finding Hilton behind the sailboat, he looked out to sea.

  The colonel's gaze turned from the water to the courtyard and he ducked behind the catamaran. Liz appeared at the ridgeline, rifle in hand. She stopped, then took a few wary steps down the incline.

  "Señorita Dennison," Rodriguez ordered, "throw the rifle to me."

  Hilton watched Liz strain to locate the man's precise position. Then there was a sharp crack, a muzzle flash, and a handful of sand spit up at her feet.

  "The rifle, Señorita. I won't ask again."

  Liz threw the rifle in the direction of the voice, and the colonel rose from behind the Hobie Cat.

  "Thank you, Señorita. I didn't want to shoot you."

  Twenty feet offshore Hilton crept toward the beach, his arm still pressed to his body. He was shivering. It was all he could do to keep moving. But he had to.

  "What do you want?" Liz shouted.

  He was almost on top of Rodriguez. Limping out of the water, he stumbled and groaned. Thankfully the surf drowned out the sound of his agony. He inhaled deeply and charged.

  "I want what's mine," the colonel answered.

  Hilton rotated his good shoulder forward and crashed into the small of Rodriguez's back. As he did, he made a wild grab for the colonel's holstered Beretta, but only succeeded in unsnapping the clasp. Rodriguez uttered a surprised grunt and collapsed on the beach, the rifle knocked out of his hand. When he tried to recover the AK-47, Hilton drove his foot into the colonel's ribs, rolling him away from the weapon. Then bending at the waist, he seized the rifle, did a quick one-eighty, and threw it as far as he could into the sea.

  He lunged at Rodriguez, but skidded to a stop when the colonel clutched at his holster. Seconds seemed to become hours. He breath caught in his throat. Finally, the hand came up. It was empty. The sidearm must have fallen out in the melee. Once Hilton began to breathe again he charged Rodriguez.

  The colonel sprang to his feet, brandishing his Bowie knife and lashed out. Hilton staggered back as the glistening ten-inch blade sliced through the air inches from his chest. He regained his footing and leapt, grabbing the man's knife hand. Unable to shake free, Rodriguez drove his fist into Hilton's gaping wound.

  An explosion of searing pain turned his legs to rubber and he sank to his knees.

  Rodriguez stepped behind Hilton, grabbed a fistful of hair, and yanked his head back, exposing his throat. He rested the knife against Hilton's Adam's apple. "My money."

  Hilton stared up at the colonel. "Let me up and I'll show you."

  He let go of Hilton's hair and slipped a hand under the wounded arm, then jerked him to his feet.

  Hilton shrieked. His arm felt like it had been ripped out of its socket. But despite the pain, he forced his good arm to drop to his side, curled his fingers into a fist, and swung. His roundhouse hammered Rodriguez in the mouth. He thought the colonel must have an iron jaw because although his lips were bleeding, the punch stunned him for only a moment.

  He attacked. Hilton backpedaled, tripped and went sprawling. The colonel hovered over him.

  * * * *

  Liz eyed the M16, some twenty feet down the slope. Could she make it? The colonel was half that distance from the weapon. She had to try and broke into a run. Monica would never forgive her if she let something terrible happen to Hilton. As she began to move, she caught Rodriguez looking over his shoulder at her. The race was on and although she knew the outcome was a foregone conclusion, she kept pumping.

  Rodriguez beat her to the rifle. But instead of scooping it up, he dropped into a knife fighter's crouch, back straight and knees bent. Allowing her one more step, he used the knife as if it were a sword, and thrust it directly at her.

  Liz spun away from the razor sharp blade in midstride, hit the sand, and rolled. Her right hand slammed into something hard.

  Miguel picked up Liz`s discarded M16 and sheathed the Bowie knife. Making sure the M16 was loaded, he backed along the beach. A triangle had been formed. His gaze darted back and forth between his two hostages. "On your feet, both of you."

  Liz remained down on the sand, her eyes locked on the colonel. Whenever he concentrated on Hilton, she took the opportunity to probe the sand around the object her hand had hit. She felt a rush of hope - the colonel's pistol.

  Rodriguez swung the rifle in her direction. "What are you doing?"

  She froze. Had he seen the Beretta? If he had, there was nothing left to do. She rolled onto her side, her back to Miguel. "I sprained my wrist when I fell."

  "Gringo, I said, 'o
n your feet.' Show me where my money is."

  As Liz began to rise, she slid her hand around the pistol grip, and keeping her body between Rodriguez and the gun, got to her feet. She turned to face the two men, discreetly shifting the gun behind her back. Using her sense of touch, she tested the Beretta's safety, and then drew back the hammer.

  Hilton was still on the ground.

  Miguel looked at her and nodded in Hilton's direction. "Help him."

  "I can't. My wrist."

  The colonel moved closer to Hilton and prodded him with the rifle barrel. "On your feet."

  Liz knew she had to distract Rodriguez, had to draw his aim toward her. She dashed to her left. The colonel reacted. A single gunshot shattered the quiet of the night. The back of Rodriguez's head exploded and he toppled backward like a falling tree, landing on top of Hilton. Liz lowered the pistol and ran to the two men.

  Hilton struggled to wiggle out from under the dead body with little success, and gasped, "Help get him off me."

  Liz fell to her knees and rolled the colonel onto his back, Hilton looked up at her.

  "Thanks for saving my life. I owe you big time," he croaked.

  "How's your arm?"

  "Hurts like hell."

  Liz took his good arm and helped him to his feet.

  Once he was standing, he ran his palm across his cheek and looked at it. "Damn, I'm wearing his brains," he swore, shaking the blood and tissue from his hand. "Thanks, Liz, but I wish you'd aimed just a little lower."

  "Quit cryin', you're lucky to be alive."

  "Point taken. Did you happen to see Guerra on your travels?" he asked, wading a few feet into the Caribbean.

  "Not a glimpse."

  Liz watched as Hilton bend over and splash water on his face and chest in an attempt to get rid of the remnants of Rodriguez's brain.

  As clean as he was likely to get, Hilton splashed ashore and said, "You have two good arms, so let me have the Beretta and you take the M16."

  She picked up the rifle, then handed him the pistol. He tucked it into his shorts.

  "I'm going to check on Monica and Amanda," Hilton said as he pulled a set of keys from his pocket and handed them to Liz. "Collect all the firearms you can find, and lock them in the restaurant's meat locker, then deal with any survivors in the bar. If a bottle of rum escaped the explosion, bring it to Monica's workshop."

  "What about the AK in the water?"

  "Don't worry about it. We'll find it once it's light," he said and walked up the incline towards the courtyard.

  "Be careful," Liz said. "After most of the shooting stopped, I saw the lights go on in the workshop. When the colonel shot at you, they went off."

  * * * *

  Hilton cracked open the door to the darkened workroom. "It's me. Don't shoot. I'm coming in."

  There was no reply.

  "Monica."

  The room was too quiet. The wise decision was to lie low and to hopefully regain some strength. He had barely taken a single step back when the workshop lit up and he heard a familiar but not entirely unexpected refrain.

  "Hastings, you bastard, get in here."

  Hilton limped to the doorway. Guerra was standing at least ten feet from him. He used Monica as a human shield and held his .45 to her temple. Gantry had also placed Amanda in front of him for protection.

  "Join us," Guerra said.

  Hilton felt Guerra would likely recognize his cousin's pistol and let the weapon slip from his hand. No point in further enraging him, he thought, and stepped into the workshop.

  "Your arm," Monica cried, "what happened?"

  Amanda tried to break free, but was restrained by Gantry.

  "It's just a flesh wound," Hilton said as he showed Guerra his open palms. "You can let her go, I'm unarmed."

  The senator relaxed his grip on Monica and aimed the .45 at Hilton. "You've used up your nine lives. After more than thirty years of waiting, I'm going to enjoy this. And I see you didn't escape my cousin unscathed. Where is he?"

  "Heading to the mainland before the police arrive. Something you should seriously think about."

  Guerra's smile became a scowl. "He wouldn't have deserted Jerry and me. What really happened?"

  Hilton remained silent while Monica and Amanda stared at his wound, their faces ashen.

  Gantry picked up a hammer that was propped against the workbench. "Before you go any further, Al, I need to finish up before we have any more interruptions."

  The senator nodded and he grabbed Monica by the arm.

  "Whoa," Guerra said.

  "I need her to show me which one."

  "Smash 'em all."

  Gantry headed to the back of the room. "Whatever you say."

  Monica's gaze followed him down the aisle. She turned to Guerra. "Those artifacts in the display cases date back thousands of years. They're irreplaceable. You have to stop him."

  He ignored her, his focus remained on Hilton.

  Gantry walked to the middle display case and lifted out the nine inch tall mug, and threw it on the floor. The clay goblet shattered into several large pieces.

  "No!" Monica cried, tearing her arm from Guerra's grasp as Gantry raised the hammer over his head

  Guerra grabbed Monica's long hair and pulled. Her feet shot out from under her. She crashed to the floor, the PPK falling out of her pocket, beyond her reach.

  The instant Guerra laid a hand on Monica, Hilton's pain was replaced by a murderous rage. He reached over the senator's shoulder with his uninjured arm and seized the gun. As Hilton grabbed hold of the barrel, Alberto twisted to one side wrenching the pistol free. The two men faced each other, but now Hilton was between the senator and Gantry, who continued to smash the shards, reducing the ancient artifacts to dust.

  "Move," Guerra ordered, waving the pistol to the right.

  Hilton stood his ground.

  "I said move," he snarled, training the sidearm on a prostrate Monica.

  Hilton stepped to the right.

  Guerra aimed the .45 at Hilton's midsection and licked his lips. "I'm going to gut shoot you," he hissed. "And make no mistake, I'll enjoy every minute it takes for you to bleed out."

  His finger tightened on the trigger. A grin spread across his face.

  Hilton knew there wasn't much more fight left in him. But if Guerra hoped to see fear in his eyes he was going to be disappointed. Marshaling the last of his energy, he prepared for a final charge. There was a chance he could get to the gun and take Guerra out before he succumbed. He'd take at least one slug before he was on him, but not succeeding meant Monica and Amanda would likely join Guerra's growing list of victims. The women would have to handle Gantry.

  As he prepared to launch his assault, he caught a movement in the corner of his eye. Amanda, all but forgotten, rushed the senator. She threw herself at him, hitting his gun hand. Guerra was thrown off balance, his pistol was deflected to the left. The handgun exploded. Whirling on the teenager, he raised his arm to backhand her. "You little … ."

  He was drowned out by the sound of shattering glass. All four looked to the back of the room to see what was causing the racket. A glass display case was in the final stages of disintegrating.

  "Jerry, what the hell are you … " Guerra let the pistol fall to the floor. His jaw went slack as he stumbled toward the ruined display case.

  Gantry was sprawled out on the pile of kindling and broken glass. The senator's bullet had made a small round hole in the side of his head.

  The senator stood over the body for only a moment, before he fell to his knees. Tears ran down his cheeks. He looked directly into Amanda's eyes. "It's your fault, you murdering bitch."

  Hilton stooped and pickup the .45. "You came here to commit murder, you pulled the trigger. You got what you came for. You're responsible for his death, not Amanda. Just as you were responsible for Francesca's murder."

  Guerra embraced and hugged Gantry's lifeless body. A long minute passed while he clung to him in silent grief. His chest heaving,
he threw back his head and stared at the ceiling. "He was my only child, and he never knew I was his father. I never understood why his mother broke off our affair. She never told me about the boy. I found out he was my son by accident and have watched out for him ever since."

  Hilton walked over to Monica and helped her to her feet, then snapped up the PPK. "He wasn't your only child."

  The senator looked at him with a puzzled expression.

  Consumed with hate, Hilton needed to plunge the emotional dagger further into Guerra's heart. "Francesca's baby wasn't Dylan's. It was yours, but he still wanted to marry her and raise the child as his own."

  Slowly Guerra's befuddled expression turned to one of comprehension, then horror.

  Hilton sensed a presence behind him and turned to see Liz standing in the doorway.

  "The three goons in the swim-up bar survived," she said. "But they'll need medical attention."

  He nodded, then walked over to where Monica and Amanda were hugging. He kissed Monica on the lips and Amanda on the cheek. "Let's go back to the apartment."

  Hilton, Monica, and Amanda shuffled toward the door. As they left the workshop, Hilton handed Liz the pistols and took the bottle of rum she held out to him.

  45:

  Caribbean Breezes Resort – Sunday

  Hilton Hastings watched as two police officers escorted a handcuffed Senator Guerra along the dock to a waiting police launch. They helped the senator into the craft and shoved off for Belize City. Hilton waited until the police cruiser was well offshore, then strode back to the reception building.

  Earlier that morning, paramedics had cleaned his wound and bound the arm in a sling. They concluded the bullet had torn through his bicep, nicking the bone. And while they had prescribed a mild sedative, Hilton's prescription for the throbbing was painkillers washed down with shots of rum. The three goons who survived the grenade explosion had been evacuated to Belize City for medical treatment.