Mayan Darkness (A Hank Boyd Adventure Book 2) (The Hank Boyd Adventures) Read online

  “Jason! Please do not remove any items before they are cataloged! You should know this by—”

  But Keen wasn’t listening. He just stared at the blade, lustfully. He imagined what he could procure with such a priceless artifact. A yacht? No, a Mansion! Hell, I could probably buy my own damn island with this thing. He looked over the room again, never blinking, barely breathing. This is MY Goonies—MY shipwreck treasure. If he had investigated the sword just a few moments longer instead of imagining his future wealth, Keen would have noticed a set of strange and foreign markings engraved into its blade near the hilt, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

  “Jason?”

  Keen slipped from his stupor and took in the old man. Dr. Weaver unwillingly ventured onto the gold pile, careful with each step. The dipstick is probably going to write me up for this, Keen thought. He turned to face the other man, but Dr. Weaver’s eyes weren’t on him, they were looking at something behind him.

  Jason quickly turned, drawing the sword up, ready to attack. Except it was nothing, he only saw a small unsightly skull sitting on the lump in the floor at the rear of the room.

  “What is it?” Keen whispered.

  “It’s Ah Puch, or Yum Cimil as they call him now,” Dr. Weaver answered. “He was the Mayan death god, often depicted by a skull with decomposing flesh. He was associated with war and was said to bring about disease. Only…” He breathed in heavily, calming his shaking voice. “I’ve never heard of a tomb being dedicated to him. Au Puch, like a lot of the ancient gods, is supposed to be pure myth—folklore.”

  Dr. Weaver backed away, the color draining from his sunbaked, weathered face with every step. “This can’t be a good sign, Jason. We must leave. Now!”

  The older man turned to leave, but Keen had a different idea.

  2

  Hotel Dolores Alba Chichen

  Chichen Itza, Yucatan, Mexico

  I awake to the sound of music—and not the Julie Andrews-type either. The opening drums from Werewolves of London, by Warren Zevon, plays as my iPhone vibrates across my hotel room’s nightstand.

  I blink awake, a little started and look around, noticing that I’m alone. Where’s Nicole? I think, turning my attention back to the annoying little device. It makes its way to the very edge of the table, just out of reach, teeters a little, then plummets to its hopeful death. As it clunks to the floor and continues to play, it signifies its survival and my unwilling awakening.

  Groaning, I roll to the edge of the bed, clawing at the floorboards of our plainly decorated room, trying to silence the damn thing. Half asleep and not finding it, I swing my feet out and over the side, and begrudgingly get up. “I really hate you,” I say with a moan, cursing phone’s existence… I think. Maybe not the phone per say, but definitely the alarm. It can go straight to hell.

  I, like most people around the world, have unknowingly become a slave to my pint-sized dictator. Unfortunately, I also understand that I can’t live without it. Finally, I bend over and pick it up, hitting the ever blissful silence button.

  On a positive note…I really like that song and know the ringtone’s lyrics by heart.

  I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand. Walking through the streets of Soho in the rain. He was looking for the place called Lee Ho Fook's. Gunna’ get a big dish of beef chow mein.

  I start howling to myself, like the song dictates, and head for the quaint little kitchen area…if you want to call it that. I grab for the pot of coffee that Nicole must have made while I slept.

  She knows me oh-to-well, I think, smiling to myself. Smelling the loving aroma, I breathe a sigh of relief and close my eyes, thanking her one more time.

  If you hear him howling around your kitchen door. Better not let him in. Little old lady got mutilated late last night. Werewolves of London again.

  I pour myself a mug full of go-go juice and scour the counter for some sugar, but don’t find any, forgetting where we are staying. There isn’t a fridge in any of the not-so-hoity-toity rooms either, so cream is also out of the question. Black it is. We probably could have found a nicer hotel—no offense Mr. and Mrs. Dolores—but chose this place due to its proximity to the park.

  Ah-wooo.

  I howl the most famous part of the chorus and plop down at the “kitchen” table. I choke down the dark black jet fuel, grimacing at the sharpness of the potent tasting mouthful.

  He's the hairy-handed gent, who ran amuck in Kent. Lately, he's been overheard in Mayfair.

  Sitting in the uncomfortable wooden chair, I sip the steaming hot drink, trying not to burn the roof of my mouth, but fail…miserably. Inwardly berating myself for not waiting until the coffee cooled down, I rush and set the near-boiling cup of liquid down too fast, spilling some on my hand.

  “Damnit!” I silently curse. “Ugh…what a way to start the day.”

  Better stay away from him. He'll rip your lungs out, Jim. Huh! I'd like to meet his tailor.

  I howl the chorus one more time—when the door to my room swings open and is followed by a woman’s laughter and of course…a loud obnoxious man’s voice.

  “No way! You’re shittin’ me?” Shouts the familiar deep voice.

  “I swear to you it really happened! You should have seen the look on his face when he told me!” The feminine voice laughs with amusement. I’d probably be giggling too, except this hilarious story is about me…and it’s a doozy.

  Jeremy Kane and Nicole Andersson walk in bearing the gift of breakfast—bagels mostly—but I see some fruit too. My eyes light up when I see some cantaloupe and my stomach follows with a little tap-dance of its own. I like me some cantaloupe! I sing to myself, standing and grabbing the bowl of fruit. I pop one of the pre-cut cubes of pale-orange goodness into my mouth, enjoying every single chew.

  That’s when the conversation turns towards me.

  “Really, Hank? South Park boxers?” The big man asks, stuffing half a bagel in his very large, about-to-get-punched mouth.

  I look at Nicole and see a slight smile on her perfect face. She’s trying to hold in a laugh, so I come clean. “Yes, it was high school—freshman year—and I had a bad reaction to some prescription acne meds and shat myself, okay!”

  After a moment of silence, they both burst out laughing. I think back to the absurdness of my TRUE story and I join in…eventually.

  What can I say, I’m not that easy to embarrass. I don’t have a problem making an idiot out of myself to make someone laugh. It’s been a mantra I’ve lived by since those uncomfortable, awkward high school days—before I became a pretty badass ballplayer and thus a school hero and chick magnet.

  If you make them laugh, they’ll leave you alone, I used to say to myself. And if you can make them laugh, they’ll like you.

  I stop laughing a little quicker than they do and sit back down. I gulp down my now temperature appropriate coffee and close my eyes, willing the caffeine to move quicker through my system. I don’t speak. I just will the effects of the high-octane beverage into my blood stream faster, listening to the two of them continue.

  “Do you think we’ll find anything on the temple grounds?” Kane asks.

  “I’m not sure, Hank seems to think so,” Nicole replies. “Ever since Algeria, all he does is think about the Yucatan. He’s become obsessed.”

  “Why here?” Kane asks, chewing.

  “A dream,” Nicole replies. “He said he saw the Atlantean king, Thoth, sitting on a throne of bones, dressed in the garb of a Mayan ruler. Ever since then it’s all he talks about.”

  Silence follows until Kane starts again in a hushed tone. “Is he still having the night terrors?”

  “Yes, but they’re not as violent as they were a few months ago,” she answers. “Although, he still wakes up sweating some nights. He even punched me in his sleep, once. I spooked him trying to shake him awake.”

  “Is that why you had that black eye—”

  “I’m fine!” I bark, cutting off Kane, snapping open my still golden-bronze
eyes, glaring at the two of them.

  Kane’s employers in Langley—yes, we now have proper clearance for him to indulge us—had their lead doctors and scientists run a gauntlet of tests on me. And of course, they all came back negative. The swirling orichalcum is permanent but isn’t causing any issues. Nicole said that I’m one of a kind. Sometimes, though, I just wish I was the same Hank from last year, except still having her as my knockout girlfriend.

  The same “company” scientists have outfitted me with a new pair of specs too. These bad boys have the ability to camouflage my eye color, changing it back to my natural hazel. The gold color isn’t exactly a feature I’m ready for the whole world to see. Besides, I don’t think I could bullshit a logical reason for the obvious mutation. I think the glasses are sporty and they make me look a little more distinguished…. Kane thinks I look like an idiot.

  I recall the conversation we had when I picked them up after my final fitting. We sat in a bar, sipping a few drinks. I had my beloved—a Sam Adams Boston lager and Kane a Fat Tire Amber Ale—his new favorite.

  “Dude, seriously, you look like a thirty-year-old college student,” he said mockingly, having a good chuckle at my expense. “All you’re missing is the tweed jacket with the elbow patches.”

  I just sat there for a beat, stroking my short cropped beard. I tried my damnedest to come up with one of my witty comebacks but decided to go with something a little more straightforward. “Um, have you seen my girlfriend?” I eventually countered with a smirk.

  Checkmate.

  He sat there silently for a second and then answered with a smile of his own, “Touché.” He then tipped his beverage to me in a mock salute, conceding the point.

  3

  Hotel Dolores Alba Chichen

  Chichen Itza, Yucatan, Mexico

  I look up from the memory, seeing the two of them just standing there, quiet as church mice. Realizing I may have just jumped down their throats, I look down into my empty coffee mug and whisper, “Sorry…but I’m fine…I just…haven’t been sleeping much.”

  Not sleeping much would be a lie. Not sleeping at all, would be closer to the truth. Ever since our misadventures under the Sahara three months ago, I haven’t slept for more than a few hours a night. And that’s saying something considering I was known to occasionally sleep half the day away.

  I guess I should give myself some credit, though. Not many people can get possessed by the spirit of an ancient, all-powerful king, fight a hoard of stone man-beasts, and then duke it out with a corrupted Atlantean priest and live to tell the tale. Or in my case—due to national security—NOT tell the tale.

  My brain is utterly fried and is always awake, thinking. It’s like what happens if you stay up late playing video games or watching TV, your brain just doesn’t shut off and it keeps you up. On the rare nights I do get some decent sleep…I wake up scared out of my gourd, lying in a pool of sweat. Or like what happened with Nicole…

  The exhaustion is also very evident on my body. Nicole says it looks like I’ve aged a couple years in the last couple months. Kane says I look forty. I’m pretty sure Nicole is closer to the truth on this one, and the big lug is just being an a-hole. But, in all honesty, I feel a little inbetween both.

  My temperament hasn’t gotten much better either. The short fuse I was born with has increased even more now. I, unfortunately, tend to snap at people a lot easier than normal, but thankfully those closest to me know what I’ve been through and give me a free pass, especially Nicole. She’s been a saint—an angel even— through all this. How I was ever lucky enough to get together with her is beyond me.

  Don’t think about it, you moron! I think, berating myself for even contemplating why. You have the hottest, most badass girl in the world. Just be happy!

  The physical prowess and strength I gained from the otherworldly gifts—the ones that made me feel like He-Man—are now gone too. Once I gave them back, my body returned to normal. And with that normalcy came the broken and beaten feeling I still feel to this day. My body, and to some degree my psyche, just won’t mend. It’s like the exertion from the ordeal has left my very existence on empty.

  At one point, the Atlantean elixir I inherited when I ate my dream apple—mixed with the spiritual take over on an epic proportion—had me feeling like the Six Million Dollar Man. I’m still not exactly sure how that worked, but it did. I felt like the five-tool baseball prospect I was when I was eighteen and full of piss-and-vinegar before I hit a wall and destroyed my shoulder…and my dreams.

  So now, instead of being a professional ball player, I’m a major league grave digger. I’m basically a poor man’s Indiana Jones, only without the stunt double. I do, however, whole-heartedly believe in a famous quote from Raiders of the Lost Ark. When Marion, played by Karen Allen, tells Indy, “You’re not the man I knew ten years ago…” He then answers her by saying, “It’s not the years…it’s the mileage.”

  I prove it when I stand, grunting and stretching, creaking and popping. Multiple joints release, audibly cracking.

  It must be as loud as I think, because even Kane winces. “Hey, Old Man Winter…keep that shit to yourself.”

  I give him the finger and grab a bagel, “So, are we ready for tonight?”

  “Ja,” Nicole answers, her Swedish laced accent tickling my ears. “We have the park to ourselves, along with a guide and security.”

  “Security?” I ask.

  “Your father called in a request,” she explains. “Plus, I didn’t think it would hurt.”

  I unwillingly force my eyes away from the tall beauty, getting back to the task at hand, “Any trouble pulling this together?” I ask, looking at the oversized CIA agent.

  Kane is a big bear of a man and as loyal and trustworthy as it gets. He also happens to be an ex-Army Ranger. An injury threw him into the spy-ops branch of the government and out of active duty, but he still does what he does best. Blow. Shit. Up. The guy is an absolute nightmare for anyone who gets in his way.

  At six-foot-six and easily pushing 260lbs, Kane is quite literally a Kodiak. Whether it’s a standard issue sidearm or a freakin’ Claymore mine, the “Mountain from Montana” will get the job done. The nickname I bestowed on him, Mt. Kane, makes even more sense when you finally get to see him in action. The guy literally looks like an erupting volcanic mountain.

  I met him in a hospital room after my first run in with Zero, The Beginning of All Things. They’re the group that attacked Dad and me in the Algiers airport. They hunted us through the behind-the-scenes baggage sorting area, nearly killing us, and then again in the underground necropolis in the desert. After the first attack, he was assigned to protect us, becoming our personal security force and our official government liaison.

  Now, he’s permanently onboard with us until further notice and has helped procure a hush-hush, blank-check budget from his superiors in Washington. Apparently, they aren’t too happy about Zero’s involvement and want them shut down. We are basically helping them with that in a round-about way. If Dad finds something relating to Atlantis—something we know Zero would want to get a hold of—he sends us in first. So far we haven’t been tried, but if we get into a little skirmish along the way, Kane is there to step in and quiet down the noise.

  “Nope,” says the man through chews, answering my question. “Once they saw where the calls were coming from, they bent over. The people in charge of Chichen Itza were told that we are here for a possible security threat and need to conduct a thorough investigation. With all the rumors swirling around about Algeria, I’m not surprised they went along so willingly. They practically begged for us to come down and check it out.”

  Technically, we didn’t lie to anyone. We are here for a possible security threat…we just don’t know what it is yet. We’re here on a hunch. A hunch that may not even turn up anything and honestly I hope it doesn’t.

  The ancient, super race of Atlantis—or An’tala as they called it—was supposedly linked, or maybe even responsibl
e, for all of humanity’s earliest and most dominant civilizations. We found evidence of this in tunnels under the Tassili National Park and proof of their connection to the Sumerians, Egyptians, Greeks, Chinese, and the Mayan people. That is why we are here in the Yucatan—the Mayan stomping grounds.

  The last straw before we left was my dream about Thoth. Once I awoke from that doozy, we got everything moving within a couple of days.

  I roll my neck, finishing my own brand of chiropractic work, turn and head for the bathroom, “Okay guys. Give me twenty to get ready. Then we hit the park for our daylight walk through.”

  4

  Isla de Jaina, Campeche, Mexico

  Dr. Jason Keen drove the three-foot long blade forward, piercing the other man’s back, punching it through his chest, burying it to its hilt. Dr. Weaver barely got out a gurgled whimper before Keen yanked the blade out, dropping it at his feet.

  The older man fell to the ground, coughing up blood, his legs turning to Jell-O. Blood pooled everywhere in no time, drenching the area beneath him. Dr. Weaver just lay there, staring in shock-and-awe at the crimson stained hole in his chest.

  Keen stepped over to the dying man. “Oh no, you tripped and fell. Is there anything I can do?” He said it in a deadpan tone, feigning an emergency. Dr. Weaver tried desperately to cry for help, but only got out another blood-filled hack, his right lung a ragged mess.

  The Aussie’s eyes then narrowed and became filled with rage, yelling in savage bloodlust. “I can’t have you or that other bastard in D.C. take away this opportunity. This fortune—your job—will be mine!”

  He then turned, quickly moving further into the chamber, dropping to his knees and began to dig. He hit something solid only a few inches beneath the layer of wealth.