Blood and Sand Read online

  The gunman looks over to see the Titleist golf ball I just tossed to him roll to a stop a few feet from where he stands. He raises an eyebrow in confusion and brings up his gun as I step out.

  I must look ridiculous. I have my putter over my shoulder like I’m twirling an umbrella, my pant legs are hitched up around my knees like I’m wearing knickers, not to mention I’m now wearing my Dad’s cardigan too.

  The man does nothing. He sees me step out from one side of the paneling without a care in the world, like I’m strolling through a luxurious country club or something. Not that my bloodied clothes and beaten face would permit me into any of those fine establishments right now.

  I look over at him and in the most pretentious British accent I can come up with I say, “Oh, my young man, you found my ball! I was trying to play through and seem to have gotten turned around. Do you know where the Twelfth green is?”

  The killer just stares at me blankly, as confused as ever.

  Well, at least I haven’t been shot, I think.

  “English?” I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  “Great,” I mutter.

  Plan-B I guess.

  I clear my throat, “Oh William, can you come out here please?”

  Dad steps out from the other side of the cover, AK-47 at the ready.

  The gunman is about to swing his gun towards Dad, but Dad beats him to the punch and yells something in Arabic. The man halts his aim but doesn’t lower his weapon. Dad continues on in Arabic again, this time with a little more gusto behind it. He gestures to the concrete floor as if to tell the man to put down his gun.

  Nothing happens. The gunman just stares at Dad.

  Then, it happens.

  The killer brings up his gun and fires a barrage of bullets at Dad, nearly hitting him. Thankfully, we were planning on this just in case and Dad quickly flicks off the safety and dives to the side, pulling his own trigger.

  Now, I wouldn’t recommend doing this. It’s not like in the movies where Schwarzenegger or Stallone or even Van Damme for that matter can fire a perfect burst of projectiles towards a target while they’re airborne. Those guys could probably knit a sweater and bake an apple pie in mid-air too if the director wanted it badly enough, but this is real life and is only being used as a diversion.

  I charge as Dad fires, hoping he doesn’t accidentally shoot me. I’m at a full sprint when I get a gun leveled at my head, but I’m not there when the trigger is pulled. I’ve gone into a takeout slide making a bee-line for the mercenary’s legs, like I was making a final dash for home plate. My high school coach would have been proud.

  He tries to readjust his aim, but doesn’t get the chance. I swing up and with just enough oomph, hit his gun and send it sailing out the open door. I then proceed to slam into his lower half and take him down to the ground.

  We roll a few feet where he lands on top of me and begins to try and pummel me. He lands a few really good body shots, but to no avail. What can I say? I stay in shape. I flex and take two more punches to the solar plexus, realizing that if he keeps this up, I’m going to be peeing blood for a week.

  He’s about to start on my face too which definitely CAN’T take any more abuse at this point, when a rifle stock clocks him in the temple, deflating his barrage. He rolls off me and I give him a little extra push, sending him sprawling to the hard floor.

  I stand and wince at my excessively beaten body and collect my putter. I stalk—or rather stagger—towards the recovering attacker, winding up for the best swing I can muster. I let loose, leading with the club head and thump him hard in the ribs, a sharp crack ringing out through the room. He howls in pain, breaking one for sure…maybe even two.

  He tries to stand, putting a hand on the ground for balance, but I bring down the knife edge hard, taking out his wrist with a savage hack. 100% broken. The bend in his lower arm definitely isn’t natural.

  The man wails in agony again, but this time he just kneels holding his mangled arm and slumps over to one side.

  I look up at Dad, gripping the putter tighter and tighter and ask, “Should I have yelled fore?”

  He just looks at me with obvious irritation, but gives me a little smile as a consolation prize. I can’t help it. I give him a Cheshire cat smile back and say, “Sorry, I’m just trying to be polite.”

  Dad shakes his head, smile completely faded, and steps up to the prone man, still holding his rifle and starts rambling on in Arabic again. He’s trying to find out who sent them to kill me and collect him and why.

  “Who sent you?” Dad yells shaking his weapon at the man.

  “You will burn in the end regardless if I tell you or not,” replies the assassin, his voice dripping with contempt.

  The look of confusion on my face over his translation must be pretty noticeable because, the hired goon just looks at me and starts laughing. No, laughing isn’t the right word it’s more like a psychotic cackle, like something from a bad movie.

  I look back over at Dad and shrug. I have no idea what to do next. I never thought I would be disarmed by a jovial lunatic. I heft the club and threaten the man, but he just looks up at me and with the most straight-faced jab I’ve ever taken says through Dad’s translation, “Even the chosen must meet their end sooner or later.”

  He then calmly pulls out a dark spherical object, using our stunned inaction to his advantage, and tugs on a tiny metal piece. He holds it up with his good arm for us to see, like it’s a holy relic, and smiles. The lemon-sized item rolls out of his hand and thumps to the floor.

  I’m already grabbing Dad and shoving him towards the exit. You don’t have to be a military bad-ass to know what a grenade looks like. Luckily for us, we’re only feet from the doorway and hit it and leap to the side just as an ear shattering explosion rips through the utilitarian hallway. The concussive force is mostly blocked by the concrete walls of the sorting room, but we still get kicked in the face by an invisible steal-toe boot and thrown into the opposite wall.

  My exceedingly abused mind and body give up and I black out.

  12

  I awake with a groan and open my eyes to see bright lights. Am I dead? Is this the entrance to heaven? I’m expecting to hear Led Zeppelin start playing soon. Then I feel the pain. Nope, definitely NOT heaven.

  I cough and flinch when I feel my obviously bruised ribs expand and contract. I’ve never been in this much pain before—minus the wall-hug while playing ball, of course. I can barely breathe without feeling a sharp twinge in my midsection.

  “Calm down,” says a voice. “It’s okay. You’re fine.”

  “Fine my ass,” I croak and grit my teeth.

  I close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing, doing my best to slow it down. As I do, the stranglehold on my chest and ribs loosens. Finally, I’m breathing better now, but the ache is still there. As long as I keep my breaths short and shallow I should be okay.

  I try to sit up, but I don’t get very far.

  “Dammit!” I shout and wince, giving up and falling back onto the bed.

  “Here, let me help you,” says the voice again, which I now recognize as my father’s.

  He leans over and grabs me under my right shoulder and slowly helps me sit up. An all new pain flares up in my back as the pressure moves from one part my body to another. I grunt in disapproval, but grit my teeth. At last, I’m sitting up—in a hospital bed I realize—feeling about twelve percent better, and that’s being generous. It’s probably closer to five.

  I take in my surroundings and notice a stranger sitting in the corner. He looks to be in his mid-thirties and he’s dressed in a basic, everyday looking black suit. His “uniform” screams government agent.

  “FBI?” I ask in a low, raspy voice.

  He shakes his head slightly.

  “CIA?”

  This gets no reaction out of him, which means I’m right.

  What the hell is a CIA spook doing here? I think. I look back over at our new friend, “What’s your name
?”

  “You can call me…Kane,” he says obviously lying to me.

  “Kane? Really? That’s it?” I ask a little annoyed.

  “Yep,” he says not missing a beat. “Just, Kane”

  “Fine, Agent Kane, what does the Central Intelligence Agency want with us? Also, who wants me dead and him captured?” I say pointing at Dad.

  Kane coolly and calmly readjusts his jacket and clears his throat.

  “First off, it’s just Kane—none of that agent shit. Okay?” He collects himself, “They call themselves, Zero, or the Beginning of All Things, and they need Dr. Boyd alive because of something they need him to find at your dig site.”

  He sees my raised eyebrows.

  “Yes, Mr. Boyd, we know everything—except what Zero wants to obtain.”

  Now it’s my dad’s turn.

  “Why did he call Hank, the chosen?”

  He is referencing the man who blew himself up in the Algiers Airport sorting room. At the time I thought nothing of it since I was trying not to die.

  Kane stands and goes to the window. He peeks out of the closed curtains and is apparently satisfied that we are alone. He then casually strolls over to the door to my room and shuts it, not before checking to make sure no one was eavesdropping outside. He starts talking as he lets go of the door knob.

  “Let me start with Zero, Mr. Boyd,” he says.

  “Hank,” I say.

  “Very well, Hank. Let me start with Zero. They are a rather radical organization. They aren’t really a terrorist cell, but they aren’t a cult either. We actually know very little about them or how long they have been in operation.”

  “Wait a sec-”

  Kane puts his hand up to stop me, “That doesn’t mean we know nothing about them.” He then lowers his hand and waits for me to continue.

  “Go on,” I say.

  “We know two things,” he ticks them off on his fingers. “First, Zero is obsessed with what seems to be very random, but very rare artifacts. Some are extremely valuable and others are worth zilch. So we don’t think it’s a money thing. Second, they will do absolutely anything to get them—including bombing an airport and trying to kill you,” he says motioning to me.

  “About that?” I ask. “What the hell do they want with us?”

  Dad chimes in, “Even the chosen must meet their end sooner or later.”

  Both Kane and I look up at him with blank stares.

  “It’s what the bomber said before he blew himself up. I have no idea what he meant. I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure it out, but I haven’t come up with anything yet.”

  The room falls silent as all three of us are lost in thought. I slide to edge of the bed and try to stand.

  “Give me a hand will you, Kane? I gotta’ pee.”

  Kane steps over and I take his wrist. I’m surprised with how sturdy and strong the arm is as I lean into him.

  Kane’s a strong dude, I think.

  I stand and realize I have to look up at the CIA agent.

  Geez, I think. This guy has got to be another four inches taller than me…making him what, six-six?

  “Good god man, you from Wisconsin?” I ask with a smirk.

  “Montana actually. Why?”

  I shrug, “No reason. So, what’s your story anyway?”

  “I was blowing shit up for Uncle Sam for the last 12 years anyway I could do it. He wasn’t picky with my ways, just get the job done, that’s all that mattered. Got blown up and broke my back, after getting shot. Almost died…twice. It was a rough day. Nerve damage was bad enough that they said I was relieved of duty. Assholes. But, as you can see my talents were needed elsewhere.”

  I thank the giant from Montana and turn, entering the room’s sparsely decorated bathroom. Toilet, sink and shower and nothing else. It’s ultra-basic, but it’s clean and it’s private. I look at myself in the mirror and wince again—not in pain—but in shock. I didn’t think I looked this bad.

  The huge knot on my forehead is bad enough, so is the slight black eye I suffered. I also have a busted lip and there are cuts on my chin and neck to boot. I wiggle my nose and notice it isn’t broken.

  “Well, that’s a miracle,” I whisper to myself. Between my face and the way my body is aching, I’m surprised I can even move.

  I see something in the reflection of the mirror. There is a pile of clothes folded neatly on the tank of the toilet. I turn, picking up the clean clothes, looking them over and realize that they are all clothes I brought along. I’m about to call out into the room, but figure Kane had our bags brought to the hospital once we were identified. It really doesn’t matter how the luggage got here either way.

  I slip out of my super stylish hospital gown—you know the one that has your butt cheeks permanently hanging out the back. I grab my red Coca-Cola shirt, but instead glance over at the shower and moan with ecstasy. This body could use a soak.

  30 minutes later and feeling a little bit better I exit the bathroom. I’m now wearing a pair of Tony Hawk hybrid shorts. They are your basic shorts except made for heat. Its more-or-less the same material as a bathing suit, but still technically shorts. I also have on a worn, but very loved red Coca-Cola shirt. Not sure why I like it so much. It’s just really comfortable, I guess. And of course, my even-more-destroyed Tigers cap happily sits on my head.

  “Took you long enough,” says a voice. “Thought you may have drowned in the can.”

  I look over to see my dad and a smirking Kane going through his papers. Kane is sitting in the same chair, but has taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He has two massive handguns holstered under each armpit and what looks like a brace on each wrist/forearm.

  “What the hell are those?” I say pointing to the hand cannons.

  “What, these?” He draws one of the behemoths, flips it around and hands it to me.

  “Mark XIX .50 A.E. Desert Eagle,” he says. “Each magazine holds seven rounds of fifty caliber ammo.”

  I just stare back at him blankly. He sees that I have no idea what he is talking about. “I’m a former baseball player turned lazy grave digger, and him…” I point to Dad. “He’s a book worm with two left feet.”

  “Right…” He says, laughing. “Basically it’s one of the largest hand guns in the world and can take down a bear with one shot.” He smiles and winks.

  “A bear?” I ask a little awestruck.

  “A really big bear,” he says proudly.

  “And those,” asks Dad. He points to the wrist and forearm combination he has on.

  “Precautionary, just in case I ever have to fire both simultaneously.”

  “Precaution for what,” I ask.

  “So I don’t break my arms,” Kane says as a matter of fact.

  “What?” Dad asks a little taken back.

  “You can’t fire a Mark XIX with one hand. They kick so hard that you’ll snap your wrists. The various armed forces have developed these braces to absorb the torque and keep your arms in one piece.”

  “Have you ever had to fire both at once?” I can’t help but ask.

  “Once or twice,” he smiles with pride. “Thankfully, I’m ambidextrous and have good aim with both hands. 20/20 vision doesn’t hurt either.”

  “Now you’re just bragging,” I give him a sly but impressed look and hand him back his miniature weapon of mass destruction.

  “Yes sir, Chip and Dale have gotten me out of a few scrapes over the years.”

  I’m about to ask him why his guns are named after cartoon chipmunks, when he says something that gets both mine and Dad’s attention.

  “What do you know about, the Three?”

  13

  The next morning we catch a quick connecting flight from Algiers to Djanet on what I assume to be a CIA funded private jet. It’s only 8:30AM local time and the temperature is already approaching a balmy 90 degrees. In the hour-and-a-half we have to kill while in the air, Kane fills us in with what Uncle Sam knows about the three ancient elders.r />
  Kane pours us each a drink and sits across from my father and me, facing the two us. He sips his beverage and breathes a relaxed breath, the alcohol calming his tired nerves if only a little.

  Neither of us slept well last night. We even stayed at a really cushy hotel that Kane had set up, but the events of the past day had everyone wired and now we’re paying for it.

  “First off,” the big guy says leaning back. “Everything I know is knowledge obtained through decades of research by some people who shall remain nameless. Some you know, others you don’t want to know and even others…well let’s just say you wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”

  “Like who?” Dad asks.

  I roll my eyes, “Dad, he just said—“

  “Hitler,” Kane interrupts.

  “Wait…what?” I stammer. “I thought you said you couldn’t—”

  “I’m not at liberty to tell you any others, but now you know what kind of people have been looking for information on the Three and the seriousness of this.”

  Dad and I nod in agreement.

  “Okay, let me start by saying that all of this is about power.”

  “Power?” Dad asks.

  “Yes, power. Power over the very elements of the Earth itself. There is supposedly knowledge or possibly a weapon of some kind that was left here by an ancient civilization. That populace, as I’m sure you have figured out, is supposedly Atlantis or at least another civilization that is responsible for the Atlantean myth.”

  “You don’t believe its Atlantis?” Dad asks.

  “I believe the facts or what I can see with my own eyes,” Kane answers. “But that doesn’t mean my mind can’t be changed.”

  “What about the Three?” I ask.

  “Right,” Kane says getting back on track. “The Three is the name given to the last three elders of this ancient—but obviously very advanced culture. They were said to be invincible, never aging or dying…ever. They are also supposed to be the great architects of the ancient city eventually known as Atlantis or Attala.”

  “Attala?” Dad asks.

  “Attala is what some of the local North African tribes call it,” he replies.