Ramsey's Gold (Drake Ramsey Book 1) (43 page)

He shook his head. “I wish they wouldn’t call it that. It’s embarrassing.”

“What?”

Drake turned the photo so Spencer could see it.

“Ramsey’s gold,” Drake said, tapping the script with his fingertip.

Spencer grinned.

“Get used to it,
Señor
Hero. That’s how everyone refers to it. Ramsey’s gold. Not the Paititi treasure. Not the Inca treasure. Ramsey’s.”

Drake stopped and gazed at the traffic rolling down the wide boulevard. Just another blustery day with ordinary folks going about their business, hurrying to whatever important destinations they’d filled their lives with, immersed in their individual dramas.

“My dad would have been…” He couldn’t continue, his voice cracking.

“Yes, he would have,” Spencer said, eyeing the photo of the magnificent artifact, a depiction of the Inca sun god, Inti, rising from the water like an avenging spirit, its stylized glower seeming to fix on the two tired men as they smiled for the camera. “Yes, he would.”

<<<<>>>> 

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Emerald Buddha

Excerpt from Emerald Buddha

© Russell Blake 2015. All rights reserved.

Prologue

1431 A.D., near the Laos/Burma border

Steam rose from the surrounding jungle as a score of warriors made their way toward the giant karst formations jutting into the dawn sky. Peach and orange streaked the heavens as the men marched along a trail that traversed the side of a mountain, dense white fog stretching like a carpet below them. A ranking member of the Khmer royal court sat atop a wooden cart drawn by a pair of fatigued oxen, his eyes vigilant even after many sleepless nights on the run.

Inside the ungainly conveyance rested chests containing the Khmer Empire’s treasure, both holy relics and gems of immeasurable value. But the most priceless possession was wrapped in a thick blanket: the legendary Emerald Buddha, whose smaller twin resided with the royal family in Thailand, now at war with the Khmers.

The Khmer Empire had been no match for their rival from the south, and only weeks ago the temple city of Angkor Wat had fallen to the Thai army, which had sacked it and taken its inhabitants captive. King Ponhea Yat had made a summary decision when he’d heard from his spies that the Thais were approaching the beloved landmark, and had entrusted the nation’s riches to his deputy, Chey, who was now relegated to holding the reins of two truculent beasts of burden as the rest of the Khmer court retreated north to safety.

Birdcalls echoed through the trees as the jungle awakened to the new day. An occasional rustle sounded from overhead as monkeys chattered and hopped from branch to branch, watching the interlopers with curiosity. The Khmer soldiers were on their last legs, their provisions nearly depleted, but the knowledge that they might soon find a suitable location to hide the treasure drove them on. They were sure that they hadn’t been pursued, having fled in the dead of night, but other dangers lurked in the mountains. The hill tribes were savage and aggressive, and their fierce territoriality had already resulted in some near misses as the procession dodged their patrols.

The cart rounded a bend in the trail, and Chey pulled on the reins, drawing the oxen to a halt. He squinted at a pair of stone monoliths rising from the fog ahead, and pointed at the valley between them.

“That is where we will rest. Judging from the limestone, there should be caves. We will find one that is suitable and carve a temple from the rock within its depths, as the King ordered.”

The leader of the warriors grunted. Sihanouk was one of the fiercest fighters in the entire kingdom, and clearly resented having been assigned to this duty when there was battle to be joined against the Thai invaders. It was not his choosing to skulk around in the jungle like an old woman. But orders were orders, and he would follow them whatever his feelings.

“The King is a great man,” Sihanouk said. “But I’m not sure that the treasure will be any safer at the end of the earth than at home, surrounded by loyal warriors. Although the valley is as well hidden and desolate as any I’ve seen.” He spit to the side of the trail. “This track is unfit for more than a goat.”

“Let us pray that we find an auspicious location. We should be able to make it before nightfall. From there, it is out of our hands.”

“Fate has been kind to us so far, I’ll concede,” Sihanouk said. “Let’s hope that the cursed Hill People leave us be until we’re able to finish our work.”

“We are on a holy mission. Have faith that all will turn out well.”

Sihanouk eyed Chey skeptically. “While I appreciate your optimism, I’ll still keep my sword close at hand.”

Chey nodded. “I would expect nothing less.”

There was no love lost between Chey, widely considered by the soldiers to be a schemer and sycophant, and Sihanouk, who had distinguished himself with valor. The King’s choice of confidantes was irritating, but in the end Sihanouk served at his pleasure, and if he had to comply with Chey’s instructions, he would. But the slimy royal court eel gave Sihanouk doubts, and he would be glad when this mission was over and he could defend his people honorably.

Chey snapped the reins and the oxen pushed forward, their hooves slick with mud. The game trail eventually petered out at a small brook, and the column was forced to hack its way through the dense brush as the terrain grew more inhospitable. As dusk approached, they emerged beside a river that cut through the valley, and the men drank greedily from it before they made camp for the night. Sihanouk forbid a fire, lest it alert any hostile tribes, and after a meager dinner of cold rice and gamey meat they settled down to sleep, three of twenty standing guard until relieved during the night.

The next morning the men awoke to impenetrable fog, visibility so poor that they could barely make out the far bank of the river. Several of the soldiers set out lines to try for fish, and within the hour they had sufficient catch to provide the first fresh breakfast in weeks.

The fog burned off later in the day, and Chey led Sihanouk along the river’s course, looking for an auspicious cave. As he’d hoped, there were several, though the water’s erosion of the limestone had been inconsistent over millions of years, and all but one proved too shallow for their purposes. But the final depression was perfect – a narrow opening practically impossible to see from the river’s present course, with a passage into a larger cavern that fed into several smaller chambers.

A month went by, the days long as the men carved the soft stone to suit their needs, and on the final morning, Chey supervised the unloading of the cart and the placement of the chests inside. The final item to be situated in the newly created temple was the Emerald Buddha, which glowed in the torchlight, its golden robe nearly blinding even in the dim light of the cave.

The following morning the soldiers retraced their steps. The cart had been dismantled and its beams sent adrift down the river to obliterate any trace of their passage. Chey followed the column rather than heading it; he’d discharged his obligation and found a haven for the treasure, and was happy to trail the men as Sihanouk led the way.

They spent the evening at the base of the mountain they’d descended to enter the hidden valley. After eating his fill of the fish they’d brought, Chey stood near their small fire and removed a cask from his bag.

“My friends, congratulations. The King authorized me to offer you this, the Khmer’s finest rice wine, as a reward for a job well done. Gentlemen, I salute and honor each of you for your part.” Chey broke the seal on the cask and took a long pull from it, and then handed it to Sihanouk to pass around to the men. In no time the vessel was drained, each man having eagerly taken a brimming mouthful and savored the liquor’s pleasant burn. Chey excused himself and went to relieve his bladder in the brush, and when he was finished, rejoined the men, lingering at the edge of the small clearing they’d occupied, watching the dance of the orange flames.

Half an hour later the fire was little more than glowing embers, and the soldiers were passed out, the sleeping agent in the wine having worked its magic. Chey had taken an antidote before he’d drunk, but the rest of the men were lost to the world, sprawled around the fire pit, their snores the only sign of life.

Chey moved to Sihanouk and drew the warrior’s sword. He paused as he inspected the wicked blade; and then, without hesitation, thrust the point through the Sihanouk’s throat. Sihanouk stiffened and his appendages twitched, but he never made a sound. Chey stepped back from the lifeless body and repeated the act until he’d slaughtered all the men in their sleep. He glanced around at the corpses, his face impassive, and nodded once to himself before retrieving Sihanouk’s belt and cinching it and the scabbard around his waist.

He moved to the bag with the provisions and tested its weight. It was heavy, but he could always jettison food if he tired of carrying it. Better to have too much than too little, he reasoned, as he shouldered the sack and set off by moonlight for the trail that would lead him back to an uncertain future and to his king, who’d authorized the murder of his loyal men in order to keep the treasure’s hiding place secret.

Now, only Chey knew the truth. And Chey was a survivor. Whatever awaited him in his homeland, he would fulfill his oath, and bring to the king the location of the temple, for which he was sure he would be rewarded lavishly.

All he had to do was make it back alive.

Chapter 1

Islamabad, Pakistan

Stars glimmered overhead through a light haze of smog near Rawal Lake. Traffic had slowed to a trickle from the city, and the raucous noise of poorly muffled vehicles had faded as darkness fell. Now the air was filled with the sound of televisions blasting from open windows and the dissonant keen of polyrhythmic music from radios as the suburb of Bhara Kahu settled in for the night. Largely working class, the area was only five miles from Islamabad, connected via a highway that skirted the lake.

A garbage truck rumbled down a dusty street, pausing in front of the cinderblock homes to empty an assortment of metal cans stuffed with refuse. A lone dog trotted stiffly behind it, a hopeful look in its haunted eyes. Lights glowed behind iron barred windows, the small homes encircled with high walls topped with broken glass.

Four local men sat outside a tiny café at a circular glass-topped table, playing cards and smoking strong cigarettes, serpentine coils of pungent smoke corkscrewing into the air before dispersing into the light breeze. A boy, no older than ten, carried out to the men a red enamel tray loaded with four cups of coffee the consistency of crude oil. He set each down carefully before scuttling back inside. The men laughed at a joke, toasted, and resumed their betting, insulting one another good naturedly as they traded coins back and forth.

A battered Nissan sedan with glass tinted so dark it was nearly opaque crept down the street and slowed as it approached the café. The men visibly stiffened, and one reached beneath his baggy shirt, and then relaxed when the passenger side window rolled down and one of his friends waved and called out a greeting.

Jack Rollins watched the exchange through night vision goggles from the second floor window of a house at the end of the block. He was wearing a balaclava and head-to-toe black, invisible in the darkened interior. Next to him lay a Kalashnikov AK-47 with a collapsible wire stock and a satchel that housed six magazines. Beside it was a .50 caliber sniper rifle with a compact night vision scope – a weapon that fired explosive rounds that would vaporize a man’s head at a thousand yards.

He tapped his ear bud and waited for a click to signal that all was still well. The answering pop came a second later. The target hadn’t shown himself since returning from the nearby mosque for Isha salat, the last prayer of the day, intended to carry the faithful from dusk until dawn. Jack had wanted to take the man out right on the street, but that wasn’t the mission, so instead he was waiting patiently.

“See anything on that side?” he murmured. A voice crackled in his ear almost immediately.

“Nothing’s changed. Lights are on inside the house. Couple of goons outside with assault rifles. AKs, of course.”

“Of course.” AK-47s were ubiquitous in the Punjab area of Pakistan, as common as flies after decades of non-stop warring in nearby Afghanistan – something Jack knew all too well after two tours of duty there. The Afghans were mean as striped snakes and lived to fight, most having grown up battling the Russians and then the Americans.