Gods and Men- The Hank Boyd Omnibus, page 30
part #1 of Gods and Men Series
Raven could hear a slight laugh through her earpiece. What’s so funny?
“You underestimate your prey, my winged enforcer,” Frost cooed with what sounded like delight. “You allowed your targets to gain the higher ground and you have twice the manpower, yet have lost twice the men.”
Raven knew he was right and berated herself for letting her op turn belly-up so quickly, but she knew she could turn it around. She always came out on top. It’s why she was so furious at Frost for not sending her to Algeria in the first place.
She came to a stop at the base of the northern staircase, taking cover behind a relief depicting the feathered serpent himself, the Mayan deity Kukulkan. The remaining members of her team joined her in hiding as she quickly came up with a plan of attack.
“You three stay with me,” she said pointing to the nearest men. “And you six, break into two-man teams and take a staircase each. I want these bastards surrounded and tagged.”
13
Chichen Itza, Yucatan, Mexico
“Now what?” I ask, looking to Kane for advice. He’s the former Army Ranger and current CIA agent. He should be halfway used to this kind of crap by now. I’m just the guy who keeps digging his own grave deeper and deeper with every passing month.
The biggest difference from three months ago until now is the crash course in training—both mental and physical—I’ve received. Kane wanted me prepared if things got rough again, which we figured they would, eventually. Naturally, it has come sooner rather than later.
He had me at the shooting range as often as possible, and I got in as good of shape as I could. It’s a little hard to hit the gym regularly when you don’t sleep much, but I’m in better shape than I was before…so there’s that. I’m also a pretty decent shot now and can hold my own if we get in a scrum.
Like a bunch of black-clad mercenaries with automatic rifles, I think, gritting my teeth.
“Why didn’t we bring bigger guns?” I ask, stating the obvious, but mentally give us some slack. It’s not like we prepare for this kind of situation on a daily basis.
Kane barks his orders ignoring me. “Hank, you stay up front with Nicole and me.” He then wheels on the guard. “And you—”
“Fernando,” I add.
“You stay deeper in the pocket, back in the antechamber and protect her.” He points a giant finger at the unarmed, terrified tour guide.
Reloaded and ready to rock, we wait for the impending assault on our location. During the excruciatingly painful time, my NVS2 gives me readouts on the schematics of the roof-top temple.
The room directly in front of the northern staircase—the place that we are currently in—is called the Hall of Offerings. Its front entrance is broken up into three doorways. These entry points are split by two thick, stone columns that lead into a rectangular chamber. There’s another opening that leads to an inner room, where the appropriately named Jaguar Throne sits.
I glance back and see Veruca huddled behind the throne with Fernando. His weapon is drawn, and he’s pointing towards the front, doing as Kane ordered.
Nicole and I are inside the left opening waiting for contact, while Kane—who now has both Desert Eagles drawn—is inside to the right.
I hear a soft shuffling outside the entrance, but not coming from the staircase. A shadow cast from the construction lights below passes by Nicole and my position. It’s then I realize that the attack isn’t coming from straight ahead, but from around the corners.
A weapon appears from around Kane’s hiding spot, catty-corner from me. I don’t hesitate, and neither does Nicole. We both open fire on the person—or persons—just outside, about three feet from where Kane is holed up. The report is deafening as we both send two rounds each into the two men just as one of their rifles goes off.
A wild spray of lead spews out of the dead man’s weapon as I pull Nicole to the ground, shielding her with my body. Stone and dust fly everywhere, and thankfully no one is hit.
A cacophony of gunfire erupts from everywhere, as the rest of the attackers, plus Kane and Fernando, send their own rounds pinging off the beloved archaeological site and into a few more of the attackers. Two more men go down in a hail of lead and now…I really can’t hear anything.
“Do you always have to bring those damn things?” I scream at Kane, wincing. “I can’t hear shit with you firing them in here!”
Kane doesn’t hear me, though, he keeps on firing and steps out into the open. He’s suddenly grabbed and tossed down the stairs, straight into the throng of bullets and bad guys.
He twists in midair and pulls the shooter that grabbed him in close, landing on him with all the force of a Mac truck. The merc’s neck audibly cracks on impact as Kane drives him into the limestone stairs—which by the looks of it—have absolutely no give.
He stands, recovering both of his lost weapons and runs back up the steep incline, taking them two at a time.
Getting back up to the top landing, he’s struck by a round, hitting him in his unprotected shoulder. He’s sent backward, sprawling to the ground. As he lands, he hits his head hard on the base of one of the columns and doesn’t get up.
I stare at the big guy and see his chest rising and falling. He’s just out cold, not dead. Good.
A torrent of bullets rips into the wall around me, and I dive out from my refuge. I land on the platform with a thump, shooting as I hit the hard stone floor. I graze another of the men just enough to send him tumbling down the stairs, out of sight.
If the bullet doesn’t kill him, then the fall will. I even think he hits all ninety-one of the unforgiving steps on his way down. Ouch.
My gun gets kicked out of my hand, and I roll away on pure instinct—just as a knife clatters against the stone where I was just lying. I look up to see a woman with a bloodied shoulder and a devilish look in her eyes staring down at me. She takes a step forward and is bowled into by a lightning-fast frock of blonde hair.
Nicole, in between reloads, dives out and tackles my would-be killer, dropping her Ruger in the process. Her forward momentum sends them both careening over the edge of the top platform, where they disappear from sight.
They land in unison, hitting hard, eight feet down to the next layer. Both women cry out in pain, clutching various parts of their bodies, but neither stays down for long.
The raven-haired woman recovers her knife and slashes out at Nicole—who promptly dodges the attack by ducking and spinning. Continuing her turn, she lets loose with a savage kick, solidly connecting a boot with the assassin’s knife-hand, sending the blade flying out into the night.
The two women, both weaponless, pause their attacks, sizing up the other. Nicole is a few inches taller than her opponent, but the other woman looks to be stronger and stockier. If Nicole can keep her distance and use her reach advantage, she shouldn’t have a problem winning this fight.
Then, she gets tackled and thrown to the ground.
Damn.
Taking a shot to the side of her head and another to the stomach, Nicole blocks most if not all the other punches. More pissed off than hurt, Nicole reaches out and grabs a handful of hair with her right hand and yanks. She halts the assault just long enough to spring a hard left directly into the right eye socket of the assailant.
The other woman wobbles and leans back, off balance, but Nicole, still having a grip on her opponent’s hair, holds on a second longer, pulls her back in and delivers another solid punch to the same spot. The dark-haired woman falls limp, crumpling to the stone ground face first next to Nicole.
Bullets ping off the stone wall around Nicole’s head, and she leaps behind the prone woman’s body for cover.
“Take my hand!” I yell, reaching for her, firing blindly, having recovered my Glock in the process.
A blur of motion startles me as Fernando slides into view, assisting in retrieving Nicole from the level below. We pull her up and collapse together in a mess of limbs and sweat. I grab Nicole and hold her and give Fernando a nod of thanks.
That’s when we all realize the shooting has stopped.
Click.
We look up and see a single barrel pointed in our direction—or more accurately—in my direction.
I meet the killer’s eyes, trying to read what he’s going to do next. I mentally go through options but realize I won’t have time to bring up my weapon without him pulling the trigger first. Also, he’s too far away for one of us to try and sweep out his legs. The ball is truly in his court.
A shadow stumbles out of the Hall of Offering’s entryway and advances straight towards the man holding the rifle. The surprise on our faces is enough for him to wheel around and acquire the “more threatening” target, Veruca. But it’s pretty obvious to everyone how useless she’s going to be when she backs into the barrel of the gun and spins around in fear.
Veruca screams like a banshee on fire, her face covered in dry blood and running mascara. The mercenary is so off guard that he cries out in fright and trips over the boot of one of his fallen comrades, careening off the platform. He lands, bashing his head with a crunch, dying instantly.
The three of us look up at the terrified woman and can’t help but laugh. I glance to Nicole and then to Fernando and back up to Veruca. “Our hero.”
14
Hotel Dolores Alba Chichen
Chichen Itza, Yucatan, Mexico
I lay on the bed of our new room, holding an ice bag on my head, begging for the ibuprofen to kick in. Nicole is lying next to me doing the same ice treatment to her face. She was apparently hurt a lot worse than she led on.
Kane—who is fine by the way—suggested we switch rooms and when the concierge at the front desk saw the three of us walk in battered, bloodied, and beat…he didn’t argue. We have the same less desirable rooms as before, but I have to admit, I do actually feel a little safer.
The door opens, and Kane walks into twin barrels pointing at his chest. He raises his hands, wincing at having to move his injured shoulder.
“Shit…sorry…forgot to knock.”
Groaning at having to move so quickly, Nicole and I drop our heads back to the bed as one, our hearts racing.
“Dumhuvud,” Nicole mumbles under her breath.
“What?” Kane asks.
“I don’t think you want to—” I start to say, but get cut off.
“Asshole!” She yells. “It means asshole!”
He flinches at her outburst, again wincing at the sudden movement of his injured shoulder.
“Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?” I ask. He may be a strong SOB, but even the best need medical attention occasionally—especially after getting oh, I don’t know—shot!
“Nah, I’m fine. I already patched it up,” he replies and then switches to a bad British accent. “It’s just a flesh wound!”
The Monty Python reference gets a laugh out of me, which then causes me to grimace at my own injuries. Nicole backhands me in frustration over the noise, hitting me with her bruised hand. She cringes at the tenderness of her ripened knuckles.
Then we all laugh together at the state of things until it becomes a giggle. That’s when we realize how tired we are. As if on cue we all yawn as one.
“You call your dad yet?” Kane asks sitting down.
Damn.
“No, I forgot. What time is it?”
“22:35,” Kane says, looking at his watch.
“Huh?”
“10:35, Hank,” Nicole says, eyes closed.
“Oh, right,” I say.
I pull out my phone and see a bevy of missed calls, all from Dad’s office line.
Double damn.
I stand and step outside, wanting a little privacy. I put the phone to my ear, barely hearing it ring once before he picks up.
“Harrison, thank God! Are you okay? How are the others?”
He’s really worried. I should have called him sooner.
“Sorry, Dad, we had a little bit of a busy night.”
I relay the events of the past couple hours.
The arrival at the park.
The tour that was cut short.
The gunfight and ensuing battle atop the Castle.
“No, Dad, Kane’s fine. Those army guys are tough to keep down. Once we were able to wake him, we got the hell out of there. He called his bosses—they’re sending in a cleanup crew. He awoke with a little bit of a start.”
“Naturally,” Dad agreed. “What of the surviving mercenary—the woman?”
“Nothing, she was gone—” I yawn. “When we roused Kane, we went and checked on her. That’s when we saw she was missing.”
“Do you know where she went?” He asks.
“No. Disappeared back into the jungle, I guess.”
I yawn again, barely staying on my feet, hearing a voice in the background.
“Are you home?”
“Yes, just walked in a few minutes ago,” he replies. “I had all my calls transferred here. It was getting late, and Ben and I were spent.”
“Ben? He’s in town?” I ask.
“Yes, he’s in for a week, lecturing. He’s going to stay the night here and then head off to his first appointment in the morning. He was hoping to see you before he went back overseas.”
“I’ll do my best to be home in time to see him off,” I yawn again. “Look, Dad, I’m beat…literally. Can I call you back in the morning? I need as much sleep as my body (and mind) will let me.”
We sign off, and I head back to my room. I open the door and find twin gun barrels pointing at me. “My bad,” I say, shuddering.
Fairfax, Virginia, USA
“William, you need to tell him.”
Boyd hung up his phone and looked over to his friend who sat comfortably in his living room’s armchair. The hour got late, and he invited Ben to stay the night with him rather than drive back to his hotel alone.
“It’s not like I don’t have the room,” Boyd had said about his four-bedroom home, which was thirty minutes west of DC, straight down I66.
He sat across from his friend, scotch in hand, and turned his attention to the lit fireplace. It was nowhere near cold enough for a fire, not by a long shot, but he still built one occasionally anyway. Something about staring into the crackling flames made him feel like he was transported away from reality to a better place. He believed most men felt that way. Even his son would stare into a fire and go dead to the world. He called the look his “daddy eyes.”
“I will Ben, but not now. The last thing he needs is more pressure and stress.”
His phone rang. As he looked down at his phone’s display, he frowned. The number looked familiar, but it wasn’t programmed in. He wouldn’t have answered it on an ordinary day, but the lateness of the call and the past hour’s events had him worried.
He answered it and immediately got assailed by the caller with a rushed, frazzled tone. “Ms. Dubois, slow down, please. What happened? Where’s Dr. Weaver?”
As the geneticist described what happened over the last twenty-four hours on Jaina Island, Dr. Boyd’s face went white, and his hands started to tremble.
He ended the call, assuring the woman that help was on its way, He tried to dial a number, but couldn’t. His hands were shaking too much. Grabbing his drink, he emptied its contents and closed his eyes. Boyd inhaled deeply, exhaling even deeper, repeating the process once more until his pulse slowed a little.
“William, what happened in Campeche?” Ben asked obviously concerned.
Boyd repeated everything that Olivia had witnessed and what had happened to Dr. Weaver.
Ben sat back silently in his chair. What could he say? Thirty-four people dead and only one survivor. You can’t spin that into anything positive. He watched as William recalled the person who had called him not five minutes ago.
At hearing his son’s groggy voice, Dr. Boyd broke down in tears. He recited the events for a second time, but this time, the tale hammered itself home. Xander and Jason were dead, along with countless others. The description Olivia had told him made no sense, but it also made perfect sense.
“What was it, Dad? What did Xander and Jason discover?”
Dr. Boyd choked back his answer, unsure of his own voice now. He could barely believe it himself, but Olivia wasn’t one to exaggerate. If anything, she was overly blunt and always honest.
“It’s a plague or infectious disease of some kind,” he said. “It’s some sort of, well, Mayan darkness.”
15
Blairsville, Georgia, USA
John Frost hated failure more than anything. It drove him nuts when something went wrong—even more so when it happened and he had no control of the situation. Like now.
He sat in the office of his comfortable home contemplating his next move. Sword had failed, yet again. Their mission was simple, stop and eliminate the threat, which in this case was Hank Boyd and his companions. Two botched ops in a matter of three-plus months, he thought rubbing his forehead. He hadn’t had two unsuccessful jobs total since starting Broadsword.
Frost sat back and took in his surroundings. He didn’t need a mansion to feel successful. Nor did he need armed guards with leashed Dobermans roaming a compound to feel safe. No one in this rural northern Georgia town knew his past, and he was content with that. As far as they knew, he was a traveling businessman who left for weeks at a time, returning during all hours of the night, which technically was true to a certain extent.
He had gotten a call just before midnight that the op in Chichen Itza went south and all the men were dead.
Minus the Raven, of course, he thought.
She was on her way here, hopping on a red-eye back to the States via the Atlanta International Airport. She would then take a taxi and arrive at his doorstep soon—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Speak of the devil, Frost thought to himself, getting up from his expensive leather chair, shutting off the Shiatsu back massager.
He strolled past an assortment of rare antiquities he had recovered while in the field, like the gold coin he “collected” from his first hit five years ago in Spain. It was his first run-in with Zero, and he was just a hired goon at the time, fresh out of the army. He had reported that the coin was lost during the raid, but had secretly kept it for himself. He still didn’t know why Zero would kill to retrieve it and knew it had to be important.
