The two men pushed through a cloud of mist that hung knee-high between the trees and suddenly they were there. Before them was The Temple of Pain.

  Winthrop felt his heart skip as he stared at the stone structure. He felt a strong bond with history take hold of him. Men and women had lived here, fornicated here and died here… and now he had come to this place, possibly the first White Man to ever dare step foot inside.

  The mists seemed thickest around the Temple, as if the jungle itself was trying to hide its secrets from prying eyes.

  Winthrop moved forward, staring at the structure in awe. There was a single entrance, the dark hole of the cave covered by cobwebs. On each side of the doorway stood five-foot high stone guards, shaped like men but bearing the faces of demons. Each guard held a carved sword, point planted in the ground. They were gorgeous works of art though the impression left by the faces was anything but beautiful.

  “Do you hear that?”

  Winthrop turned. Lunt was looking all around them, his own face a mixture of curiosity and excitement. For a moment, Winthrop was confused but then he realized what his friend meant: it was silent. Absolute silence. No birds. No insects. Not even the sound of the wind in the branches.

  Lunt’s grin broadened, though one corner of his mouth was twisted down due to the scarring. “According to legend, the Temple was sealed when the natives fled this place. A curse placed upon the ground said that from that day forward, only one person at a time could enter the Temple and none could leave with The Devil’s Heart.” Lunt tilted his head in the direction of the doorway. “Last chance, Richard. You or me?”

  “I’ll do it.” Winthrop looked away from Lunt. The year before, he’d had a terrible experience in Mexico, and it had left some in The Illuminati doubting his ability to work in the field. They thought he was a coward but Winthrop knew he wasn’t. It was just that the screams of those vampire children had haunted his dreams… in the end, he knew that he’d done the right thing by setting their home ablaze, but to see their faces as they met their ends had been unsettling, to say the least.

  Setting down his backpack, Winthrop knelt and opened it, taking out a small piece of parchment. It was supposedly a map of the Temple’s floor plan, though it neglected to show any of the traps that the natives had left behind. Still, it gave him an advantage that most men wouldn’t have had. The Illuminati had found the map at great expense, after all.

  “Don’t leave without me,” he said, tucking the paper into the waistband of his pants.

  “Be careful, Richard.”

  Winthrop grinned. “You worry too much. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  ***

  Water dripped from the ceiling and the hallway was alive with the sounds of scampering rodent feet. The temple’s odor was one of stale air, moist vegetation and death. Winthrop’s nostrils flared as he drank it all in, waving his burning torch ahead of him. He felt like a trespasser, invading someone’s tomb or home. It wasn’t the first time that he’d experienced that sensation—indeed, since joining up with The Illuminati, he had felt this way too many times to count.

  The passage twisted, winding its way deeper into the heart of the temple. Winthrop paused occasionally to study the pictograms on the wall, holding his torch close and blowing away the dust and cobwebs. The images were crude and almost uniformly disturbing: they showed screaming victims, most of them women, being raped by demonic figures. In some cases, the victim’s heads were being yanked free, their entrails spilled to the ground.

  A gasp made Winthrop freeze in place. He peered into the darkness but saw nothing. It had sounded human but he knew that his senses couldn’t be trusted in this environment. The human mind was always too quick to dip into the realm of imagination.

  After making a quick check of his map, Winthrop pushed on. Eventually, he came to a small chamber that lay just ahead, the center of which was illuminated by a shaft of sunlight, let in by a circular hole in the ceiling.

  Winthrop made no move to enter the chamber. He was well aware that the men who built this place were famous for their intricate traps. Whether they feared or adored The Devil’s Heart—or both—they wouldn’t have left it unprotected.

  Fishing around in his pockets, Winthrop’s fingers returned with a small candy bar. It was a Butterfingers, which had become Winthrop’s favorite since their introduction a few years prior. He tossed it into the chamber, watching as it skidded across the floor, coming to a rest in the center of the sunbeam.

  At first, nothing happened. Winthrop was just about to relax when he heard a grinding sound emanating from the chamber walls. Suddenly they sprang together like a mousetrap, sharpened spikes extending from hidden recesses. Anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in the trap would have died in agonizing fashion and as the spikes began to retreat and the walls slid creakingly back into place, Winthrop knew that he’d have to be doubly careful from here on.

  The mechanics of such a design, especially when made by a primitive people, were quite impressive. It made him wonder at the men who had frequented this place—most of the local tribes refused to speak of them but it was obvious that they had been brilliant in some fashion.

  Pressing himself against the walls, Winthrop slowly made his way across the chamber. Now that he knew they were there, he could make out the tiny protrusions of the spikes. Careful not to place too much of his weight on the mechanism hidden under the floor, he managed to reach the other end, where he found another hallway. This was extended some twenty or thirty feet, ending in a wooden door.

  Winthrop looked up and down the hall, seeking some sign of the next trap. His attention became fixed to a dark area of the floor and he knelt beside it, reaching down to brush away the cobwebs. To his surprise, his fingers felt nothing but air beneath. The hole was not as impressive a trap as the room he’d just passed through but it was obviously just as effective—when he waved the torch into the opening, he saw the mangled bones of at least two men. They had died long ago, unable to climb out with their broken limbs. Starving in the dark was not something that Winthrop ever wanted to experience.

  Standing up, he calculated the jump he’d have to make. He tossed his torch to the other side and it landed in a plume of dust. The flames kept burning, though they dimmed slightly.

  Taking several steps back, Winthrop took a deep breath and began to sprint. His feet left the ground just before reaching the abyss and he hurtled through the air, wind milling his arms and legs. He landed hard on the other side, stumbling to his knees.

  After taking several deep breaths to calm his beating heart, he snatched the torch back up and studied the door that lay before him. It was carved out of local wood and could be pushed inward, swinging open. He looked for any traps but found nothing at first glance. Taking a moment more, however, revealed a discoloration on the wood, right where a man’s hand would naturally fall when opening the door. Poison, he mused. He wasn’t sure if the poison would still be good after all this time but he wasn’t willing to take the chance. He reached for the center of the door, pushing against it with his shoulder. The weighting mechanism was designed to work against anyone that used another means beyond the obvious and it took a few seconds of hard work to get the door to push open.

  Winthrop found himself standing in an oval chamber, the ceiling of which featured three rectangular openings, allowing sunlight to fill the room.

  Set on the altar, looking both enticing and horrifying was The Devil’s Heart. It was a reddish-colored stone, in the general shape of a human heart. The sunlight caught on its surface and glittered, almost making it look like it was beating in time to Winthrop’s own heart.

  Just behind the altar stood another statue, one very much like the guards outside the temple. It stood just over five feet in height, with a squat but powerful-looking body and a demon’s head. A sword was held in its hands, tip against the floor.

  Winthrop stared at the floor and walls, seeking to see if there were any clues to more spikes or a false floor. Finally admitting to himself that he saw nothing, he moved forward, creeping towards the Heart. His torch fluttered suddenly, the flame dancing before going out. Winthrop stopped immediately. The wind had apparently come in from the sunroof above and as he looked up, he saw overhanging limbs buffeted to and fro. A storm was coming.

  Turning his attention back to the Heart, Winthrop tossed the extinguished torch aside. Once he had the artifact, he could find his way back, even in the dark. He had a meticulous memory, almost photographic in its complexity. The only reason he kept going back to the temple map was because it helped relax his nerves.

  He reached a hand out to the Heart but stopped just short of touching it. Was there one last trap to be worried about? Would the removal of the idol set off some weight-sensitive trigger? A quick glance around assured him that no massive rock was going to roll out to crush him but he still felt uncertain.

  Taking a deep breath, he snatched the Heart off the altar and shoved it quickly under his arm. It weighed less than it looked and was strangely warm to the touch.

  The sudden sound of grinding stone elicited a mumbled curse from Winthrop’s lips. He turned towards the noise and his eyes widened considerably. The stone guard was moving, its eyes now shining with malevolence. The stone blade rose from the floor, borne aloft by thick arms. A sound came from the thing’s throat, a rumbling growl that spoke of ancient rage.

  For a few seconds, Winthrop was too stunned to move. But when the guard lunged for him, swinging the blade with such force that it whistled through the air, he found himself jumping aside. The weapon smashed into the floor and the guard yanked it free with another roar.

  Winthrop bolted for the door, only to find that it had closed behind him. Shoving against it didn’t seem to work and he was hesitant to risk coming into contact with the poison.

  Alerted by the heavy footsteps behind him, he ducked down just as the stone warrior slammed his weapon against the door.

  Winthrop sprinted around the warrior, looking for another exit. All he saw were the three rectangular windows above. If he could reach them, he might conceivably squeeze through one of them….

  Again the warrior whirled about, his hideous features somehow seeming to contort into something worse. He pointed at the Heart that Winthrop held and the meaning was clear.

  Winthrop avoided another sweep of the mighty weapon, knowing that one blow would be enough to break bones and leave him helpless. He turned and leapt up onto the altar and tensed, knowing that he would only get one chance at reaching the windows. He threw himself up, holding on to the Heart with one hand. The warrior grabbed for him, narrowly missing the bottom of his foot.

  Winthrop’s free hand grabbed hold of the opening’s edge and he cried out in pain, holding his entire weight aloft with just four fingers. He twisted and threw the Heart through the window, hoping that it would fall somewhere near Lunt. Then he reached up and grabbed hold with his other hand, pulling himself up and through to freedom. It was a tight squeeze but he managed to do it, even with his muscles screaming.

  He looked down, seeing the stone warrior standing there, face turned up to the sky. The warrior let out a bone-rattling growl but the battle was over—the Heart had been stolen.

  Sliding down the rough-hewn roof, Winthrop paused at the edge. He saw Lunt watching him, a smile on the man’s scarred face. He was holding The Devil’s Heart in one hand, tossing it up and catching it like a baseball.

  “Not bad, Richard,” Lunt said. “I might make something out of you, yet.”

  Winthrop threw himself to the ground, landing in the grass with a grunt.

  “Encounter any problems in there?” Lunt asked, curiosity shining in his eyes.

  Winthrop wasn’t sure why but he wasn’t in the mood to satisfy his friend’s desires at the moment. “Nothing worth mentioning. It was a piece of cake.”

  Chapter II

  The Evil Dead

  Sovereign City, 1936

  Robeson Avenue had become one of the more famous streets in Sovereign City. The transformation from an unassuming, mostly abandoned locale to one where gossip columnists routinely camped out was the direct result of Lazarus Gray choosing it for his home base. In the years since he had awoken on the city’s beachfront, he had slowly built a reputation as a man who could do the impossible.

  The business that he had established was equally as well known. Dubbed Assistance Unlimited, this operation existed for the sole purpose of helping those in need. Gray charged nothing upfront for his services, preferring to be paid when the job was complete. He asked only what the client could afford and not a penny more. With the city reeling under the twin terrors of a stagnant economy and rampant corruption, the papers had seized upon Lazarus Gray as a figure of great interest and one capable of inspiring hope.

  Gray had purchased all three of the buildings that lay on Robeson Avenue. The heart of his complex was a three-story structure that had once been a hotel. Gray’s three associates used the first floor, while the second had been gutted and converted into one large room that was used for meetings, briefings and research. The third floor was off-limits to everyone but Gray himself.

  Across the street were several storefronts, all of which had closed down at the dawn of the Great Depression. Lazarus had purchased these, ensuring that no one would operate any businesses next to his own.

  The military-issue vehicle that parked in front of Assistance Unlimited was the only car to be seen. The two men who got out of the car and approached the door cast cautious glances up around them. There was something unnerving about the complete silence that engulfed them. There were no pedestrians on the street and the only lights that illuminated the dusk came from the building whose address label read 6196 Robeson Avenue.

  Morgan Watts, a member of Assistance Unlimited, witnessed their arrival. All traffic into and out of the city block owned by Lazarus was monitored and a tiny alarm had sounded the second that the car had turned onto the street.

  Morgan was sitting in an office on the first floor and he zoomed in on the men’s faces as they approached the front door. One of them had short-cropped blond hair and appeared to be in his early forties. The other was shorter and a bit stouter, with dark hair and eyes. From the markings on their uniforms, Morgan knew that the blond was a Colonel and the dark-haired man was a Major.

  The Colonel stood in front of the door for a moment before ringing the bell. The buzzer had scarcely sounded when he heard Morgan’s voice come through a tiny speaker located over her head.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Um… yes. I’m Colonel Williams and my companion is Major Davis. We want to inquire about hiring your services.”

  Morgan heard soft footsteps behind him. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was—the perfume was one that he knew well. It belonged to Samantha Grace, the stunning blonde member of the Assistance Unlimited staff. “I’m going to open the door for you, Colonel. When you enter, you’ll see a small information desk—it looks like any that you’d seen in a hotel. Just wait there and someone will be along to escort you to an office.”

  Flicking the switch that opened the front door, Morgan spun his chair around and smiled at Samantha. While he looked spotless as always in a suit and tie, Samantha was wearing a white tennis outfit. A racquet was held in one hand and it rested over her shoulder. “Have a good game?” he asked.

  “Those hens never actually play, you know that. All they want to do is gossip. If it wasn’t for Lazarus wanting me to stay on top of such things, I wouldn’t give them the time of day!”

  Morgan grinned. All members of the team were assigned various areas of the city that they were to scour for information. Morgan had to keep his old criminal ties in order, for instance. Samantha was forced to spend time with the daughters of her family’s socialite friends.

  Morgan thought he got the best of that particular exchange. “So,” he said, rising from his chair. “Do you know these guys?”

  “I know the Major,” she said, stepping out with him. “He asked me out once.”

  Morgan snapped his fingers. “Ah! Was he the one who took you to the girlie club?”

  “No. That was Roger Kinser. I never went out with Tom. That’s Major Davis,” she added.

  Morgan walked up to an intercom circuit located in the hall and pressed the button. “Lazarus? We’ve got a customer—couple of military types, one of them’s named Tom Davis. I’m going to put them in Room C and start interviewing the two of them. If you want to join us, feel free.”

  Samantha put a hand on her hip and shook her head, eliciting a raised eyebrow from Morgan.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You! Making it sound like you had the first clue as to who he was.”

  Morgan grinned. “When I type up the report, I’ll give you full credit for identifying him.”

  Samantha rolled her eyes playfully. “Sure, you will. I’m going to go change. Enjoy your interview, playboy.”

  After taking a moment to enjoy the swinging of Samantha’s hips as she walked away, Morgan began whistling and set off to find their guests.

  ***

  Lazarus opened his eyes as Morgan’s voice filled the room. He was sitting in a lotus position on the floor, a bowl of burning incense resting before him. Ever since the uncharacteristic depression that had settled upon him last Christmas, he had picked up the art of meditation. It soothed the occasional anxiety he felt over his fractured memories and kept him on an even keel.

  He glanced over at Abigail Cross, who was his frequent companion during these sessions. The lovely brunette wore a long skirt and a low-cut blouse, which would have captured the attention of almost any red-blooded male. But Lazarus, though not immune to her charms, had the presence of mind to keep his gaze on her eyes. “We can finish this later,” he said, rising from the floor and offering Abby a hand.

 

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