The Mayan Conspiracy (34 page)

Hawker’s voice came over the radio. Verhoven could hear the dogs whining in the background. They were fearful, pathetic sounds, nothing like the sound the dogs had made when the Chollokwan arrived.

“
I need the lights
,” Hawker said.

Verhoven checked his watch. “Can’t do it.”

“Call him back,” Kaufman said. “Our only chance is to hole up here with the rest of the guns.”

“Shut up.”

“
Bring up the damn lights
.”

“Five minutes,” Verhoven said, reminding Hawker of the cool-down period. The lights burned so hot that they needed five minutes to cool off before re-lighting, otherwise the hot filaments would blow out with the power surge.

“Forget the others,” Kaufman said. “They’re as good as dead.”

“Shut your damn mouth!” Verhoven shouted. From seventy yards away, he could hear the dogs’ cries drifting through the still night air. And then a sharp call echoed across the clearing, similar to the Chollokwan wail, but more powerful, more resonant.

Inhuman.

“They’re coming,” Kaufman insisted. “They’ll kill him and then us. Call him back!”

Verhoven swung the pistol toward Kaufman. “One more word and I’ll blow your goddamned head off.”

Staring at the black pistol, Kaufman complied, but even as he did the perimeter alarm began chirping again. A new target had appeared. This one directly across from where Hawker stood.

Hawker had come across the section of camp where the dogs were kept. They called it the kennel, but it was nothing more than a heavy post driven into the ground, to which the animals were tied. The dogs had grown agitated during the battle, barking angrily at the gunfire, but they’d settled down in the minutes after. Something new was bothering them. Something they could sense and smell but not understand.

They sniffed the air with flared nostrils, their eyes darting around. They seemed confused and afraid. Hawker’s approach startled them, but they recognized his scent and then turned back toward the trees. One lowered its head, growling and baring its teeth, but the rest of the pack began retreating, backing away from the trees and whatever they smelled. When they reached the limit of the leashes, they began straining against the lines, pulling and stretching them. One of them began to panic, yelping and crying and whipping its head around, trying desperately to slip its lead.

What the hell is out there?
Hawker wondered. He’d never seen a pack of dogs act like this.

Verhoven’s voice came over the radio. “Target straight across from you. Two of them now.”

A loud screech echoed from somewhere back in the woods and Hawker put the night-vision goggles to his eyes. He saw nothing.

One of the dogs howled.

“It’s right in front of you,” Verhoven insisted.

“Shoot it,” It was Kaufman’s voice, tinny and hollow from somewhere behind Verhoven. “Shoot the damn thi—”

Verhoven cut the line and, to Hawker’s right, a twig cracked.

The dogs shot forward, charging at something still hidden within the trees. Hawker spun and fired blindly, shooting into the tree line. Whatever had been there was racing south, away from Hawker and the dogs and directly toward the prisoners, still chained to the tree.

Hawker cut across the camp, sprinting with everything he had. He’d covered only half the distance when the shadow in the forest reached the prison tree.

Hideous screams rang out, the voices of his friends shouting in terror and the sound of a horrendous struggle. Two flares rocketed into the sky behind him, fired by Verhoven. The phosphorous canisters burst into light and something lunged at Hawker’s face, stretching out toward him like a cobra trying to strike. Hawker dove to the side and the jaws snapped shut on nothing but air. He rolled and came up firing, blasting the thing as it raced away and disappeared into the trees.

He whipped around toward his screaming friends, just in time to see another shape fleeing from the space. It was bulky and black and dragging something with it.
Hawker aimed and fired, lacing shells into the trees, trying to track the thing by the sounds of its movement, trying to lead it, but it was gone, vanished into the jungle and gone.

Danielle shouted to him. “Hawker!”

He ran over, dropping down beside her and unlocking her cuffs. Handing her the key, he stood guard while she freed the others. He lit a flare of his own and flung it out into the forest, hoping to light up anything that might come their way. The shadows flickered and jumped, but the jungle itself was still.

He glanced at the prisoners. Danielle and McCarter appeared unharmed. Brazos, the last of the porters, was alive but injured and struggling to stand. Roemer, Verhoven’s right-hand man, was gone. His cuffs lay on the jungle floor, bands of bloody skin shaved off and clinging to their edges. Something had ripped him from their hold.

In the far distance, they heard him scream.

“It dragged him right out,” Brazos said. “It bent my leg, my knee.”

McCarter helped Brazos to steady himself, as he could put no weight on the leg.

“What the hell was that?” Hawker asked. “A jaguar?”

“Not a cat,” Brazos said. “It stank, dank and rotten.”

Danielle agreed. “Whatever the hell it was, we need to get out of here before it comes back,”

Brazos hobbled and leaned on McCarter, his knee swelling where the animal had trampled him as it pulled Roemer from the cuffs.

“Get to the command center,” Hawker said. “Verhoven’s there.”

Without a word the survivors moved off, Brazos leaning on McCarter and Danielle. Hawker stayed behind, backing away from the forest, guarding their retreat. He glanced at the ground. The two-pronged tracks were unmistakable, the same tracks Verhoven had seen near the butchered animals, just before the Chollokwan attack.

The sound of human screaming reached him from deep in the bush. Hawker loosed a few shots in that direction, hoping to hit the animal or even the tortured soul it had taken with it, but he wasn’t going out there.

A minute later, at the center of camp, Richard Kaufman saw Hawker coming, saw the purpose in his step and the fury. He wedged himself against one of the light poles to stand. “I tried to tell—”

Hawker slammed him back against the pole before he could finish. “What the hell was that thing?”

Kaufman opened his mouth and blood trickled from the corner. He’d bitten through part of his tongue. “I don’t know what they are,” he said, turning to spit some blood onto the dirt. “They attacked my people in the cave.”

“What cave?” Hawker demanded.

“Beneath the temple,” Kaufman said. “They seem to guard this place. We could have killed them, but now that you’ve interfered there probably aren’t enough of us left to do the job. Once they feed on your friend, they’ll be back for the rest of us. And if what I’ve heard
is correct, the natives who tried to burn you out will come along with them. Only this time they won’t hold back.”

Kaufman turned his head and spat out another mixture of blood and saliva. With his hands now taped together, the best he could do was wipe the side of his mouth against his shoulder. He addressed Danielle. “It seems you’ve brought your people in unprepared.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” she said.

“Oh, I think you do,” Kaufman replied.

With the point of the rifle, Hawker physically turned Kaufman’s face away from Danielle. “You were talking to me,” he said.

Kaufman wanted to throw a few more shots at Danielle, enough to start her worrying about the lack of candor shown to her charges, enough to set the groundwork for a deal. And this was the time for it, but as he looked into Hawker’s burning eyes, he realized the man was unlikely to let him go on for long. He chose to proceed, hoping that Hawker’s response would not be fatal or otherwise permanent.

“Just pawns in the game, Ms. Laidlaw?”

Even before the last syllable had escaped his mouth, Hawker’s knee came crashing into his gut. Kaufman crumpled to the ground. As he rolled on the floor, mute and in pain, his eyes focused on Danielle.

She returned his stare, unblinking, and then turned toward the flashing screen of the laptop. The perimeter alarm had begun sounding once again.

THE NRI SURVIVORS
spent the night crowded around the defense console, watching the perimeter for trouble. They had only two rifles and Hawker’s pistol for defense, but no one wanted to go out into the darkness to retrieve the weapons carried by the fallen men.

During the balance of the night the alarm went off a dozen times. Each time, the dogs howled, Verhoven brought the lights up and Hawker fired a handful of shots in the direction of the targets. Sometimes the targets scattered and other times they lingered, drifting slowly backward into the clutter of the forest until they disappeared from the screen; their true nature, as animal or man, went unrevealed.

No one slept and few words were spoken. As the hours wore on, a type of fear began to seep into every heart. Until eventually the sky’s black hue began to change. When the sun finally rose it brought with it a palpable sense of relief—as if it had physically banished the danger to some other realm, along with the darkness and the Mayan Lords of the Night. In that moment, McCarter felt an instant kinship with the ancient peoples
he had long studied. He understood now, on a primal level, why so many of them had worshipped the sun.

Beside him, Hawker stood. “I need someone’s help.”

Danielle answered, “For what? Where are you going?”

Hawker pointed to the clearing. “We have to look for survivors.”

Danielle narrowed her gaze. “Do you think there are any?”

“We need their guns,” he explained. “And we need to be sure that they’re dead. And if any of them happen to be alive … then we need to help them … if we can.”

To McCarter, the absurdity of the situation was plain in Hawker’s voice. He and Verhoven had spent the night doing all they could to kill these men, to make certain there were no survivors. They had shot most of them in the back in a surprise attack, without the option of mercy or surrender. Now, to the extent they might have failed, they would turn around and do what they could to help anyone who might have survived.

His own heart heavy with the carnage, McCarter volunteered to join the search. He and Hawker moved across the clearing from foxhole to foxhole, recovering eleven German-made Hechler-Koch rifles, a dozen crates of ammunition and their own forfeited Kalashnikovs.

McCarter watched as Hawker checked the fallen men for signs of life, then silently pulled dog tags and ID packets from those who carried them. There was sadness in Hawker’s actions, as if the dead had been comrades of his rather than enemies. McCarter wondered what Hawker would do with the items he’d taken. Perhaps
he’d send them to some authority or to the governments of the nations that might be listed on their papers.

“I guess even mercenaries have families,” he whispered.

If Hawker heard him, he did not respond.

In the last foxhole they found a survivor, a blond-haired man with a reddish beard, who was minimally conscious and highly disoriented. The left side of his face was caked with dried blood, and judging from the gash and the bruising, either a bullet had caught the edge of his face or a ricochet had hit him square with enough force to knock him out and yet leave him alive. He put one hand up weakly, signaling his surrender.

“Do you speak English?” Hawker asked.

The man shook his head. “Deutsch.”

“
Wie nennen sie Sie?
” Hawker asked.
What do they call you?

“Eric,” the man replied.

Hawker checked him for weapons and then helped him walk to where the others waited. While Danielle tended to him, Hawker and McCarter dragged the dead men to the bunker farthest downwind and buried the bodies with the soil that had been excavated from it.

When they returned to the group McCarter asked the question on all of their minds. “What do we do now?”

“We get the hell out of here,” Hawker said. “Before anything else happens. See if you can find our shortwave or any type of radio that these guys might have brought in.” He pointed to Kaufman. “Take him with you, he could probably tell you where to look. If he causes you any trouble, shoot him.”

“I’ll do that part,” Verhoven volunteered.

Kaufman stood, silent and seething. With his hands still taped together, he led McCarter and Verhoven toward another section of the camp.

As they departed, Hawker stepped away, wandering out among the ruins of the camp, looking for room to think. Before long, he came across a loose pile of mud-covered equipment, items that Kaufman’s people had picked up on their metal detectors and summarily unearthed. The equipment was modern, untouched by rust and disturbingly familiar.

He crouched to examine one particular piece, scraping at the mud caked on its side. As clumps flaked off, the stamping became visible.
TSC: Texas Sounding Corp
. He shook his head in disgust. TSC was an NRI contracted supplier of equipment. Some of the equipment he’d flown in for Danielle and McCarter bore the same label.