The forbidden temple, p.25
The Forbidden Temple, page 25
part #16 of Sean Wyatt Series
“And if it doesn’t charge?” Hazleton growled.
“Then I let you kill my two scientists and send you on your way.”
Hazleton started to speak again, but Brock held up one hand to stop him. “I think we’ve talked enough, Stanford. Don’t you? It’s time to see if they’re right. And if they are…” He started laughing a deep belly laugh. “Well, that thing you saw in India is just the beginning.”
Hazleton finally connected the dots. “You…you did that? With that…thing in your hands?”
“Yes, Stanford. That’s correct. When I hit this button, it will send out a signal that will disrupt the frequency of your brain waves. All of us will be immune, of course.” He tapped on the side of the helmet with the nail of his index finger. “But you three…well, let’s just say my money is on the tanned guy there.”
He pointed at the youngest of the group. In turn, the man’s eyes darted back and forth between Brock, his boss, and his coworker, as if assessing what his first move should be.
Brock’s hand slid back down to the button, and he let his thumb brush it gently. “I have to say, Stanford, it’s going to be a real pleasure to watch you die after all the lives you ruined. My parents were good people. You destroyed them. Now I’m going to destroy you.”
“You’re insane!” Hazleton boomed. He took a threatening step forward. “Do you know that? You talk about lives ruined, and yet you’re saying your plan is to kill billions? You’re crazy. You’re all crazy for following this nut job!” He waved an accusing finger around at the entire group.
“Perhaps,” Brock said. “But I’m the monster you created.”
His thumb depressed the button, and a gentle pulse resonated out of the Trishula. It was almost unnoticeable, like a waft of air washing over the mesa and then disappearing as quickly as it had arisen.
Brock and the others retreated a little farther. The guards remained in position with their weapons drawn and aimed at the men in the center. The gunmen opened back into a semicircle, moving so that an outcropping of boulders was to the captives’ backs.
Hazleton shook his head and placed a palm to his temple as if massaging a headache. Then he glanced down at his feet, at the tomahawks in the dirt. The once-determined, death-defying look in his eyes was gone, replaced with a mistrusting panic. His right hand shot down, and he wrapped his fingers around the nearest tomahawk’s handle. He started to grab one of the others, but Tan Man lunged forward and kicked Hazleton’s hand away, striking him in the wrist with the tip of his fine Italian leather shoes.
Hazleton snapped back, retreating for a moment and rubbing his wrist with the opposite thumb while his fingers still clenched the weapon’s handle against his palm. He sneered at Tan Man, the guy who’d served him so loyally for the last decade or so. The two said nothing, instead letting the intent in their vapid eyes do the talking. Their minds had been scrambled save for one pervasive thought. The trident wrecked human reason, destroyed any sense of right or wrong, danger or safety, replacing everything with the desire to kill.
Tan Man lunged forward first, erring on the side of aggression. He raised the tomahawk over his shoulder and swung hard at Hazleton’s neck, ready to end the fight with one quick blow. The older man, to his credit, was nimbler than his associate would have imagined. He ducked to the side and whipped his own weapon around in a backhand attack, aiming the pike on the end for Tan Man’s back. The younger of the two was off balance from his attempt, a fact that likely saved him. The pike’s tip grazed his expensive suit jacket and tore through a section of skin. The hit sent a stinging pain through his body but did little more than cosmetic damage, and only served to heighten his anger.
He spun around in time to raise his weapon and block a downward blow that would have sunk the sharp edge through the top of his skull, splitting his head in two. The bigger man gave an inch. Then, a split second later, shoved hard.
Hazleton flew backward, staggering and flailing his arms to maintain balance. He hadn’t seen where he was going, and a moment before he fell onto his tail he felt a heavy thud accompanied by a sharp pain in his shoulder blade.
Hazleton grimaced and let out a grunt. His legs weakened, and he felt the world spinning around him. Then his vision blurred, a haze streaking through his pupils as he saw his former associate charging toward him. Then Hazleton looked back. Fresh pain screamed from the wound in his back as the third man yanked the tomahawk from his flesh and bone. He dropped to the ground, the pain in his back temporarily replaced by an abrupt shock to his knees. Then he fell forward. He felt the warmth of the earth reverberating through his cheek. A fleck of dust floated into his eye, but that was the least of his worries. He could barely feel his extremities. Was he paralyzed? A twitch in one of his toes told him he wasn’t, but close to it.
Tan Man averted his attention to the last enemy. He’d never liked the other. A snooty, well-to-do Ivy League graduate who had held it over him like a whip whenever there was legal trouble. The older of the two, somewhere between Hazleton’s and Tan Man’s age, was fitter than his employer. He spent three days a week jogging and three more doing bodyweight exercises. He was lithe, wiry, athletic.
Tan Man’s bulk made him an imposing figure. Muscles flexed inside his expensive suit jacket. He slowed his approach and addressed the cumbersome clothing, removing the blazer with a whip of the left arm and then the other. He tossed the tomahawk from one hand to the other as he circled his lone remaining enemy.
He snarled, spittle spraying like venom through clenched teeth.
The older man said nothing but held out one hand and motioned for him to make his move with a flick of his fingers.
Tan Man charged. Two huge steps and he was on the other, swinging his ax sideways in a dramatic curve. His anger and overconfidence were both misguided. The older man easily sidestepped the advance and slashed down with his own blade. The handles clanked loudly. The force of the blow drove the tomahawk down in Tan Man’s hand. Were his grip not so tight, he would have surely dropped it. The damage, however, was done.
His momentum, combined with the counterattack, left him exposed. His face was waist high to the enemy. Though it was only for a second, being hunched over in a fight to the death was nearly the worst position to be in. The enemy raised his knee hard. When the kneecap struck the target, it crumpled Tan Man’s perfect nose instantly, driving it back into his face and between his eyes.
Blood gushed from the wound, and Tan Man’s vision instantly fogged. Instinct took over, and he put his free hand over the shattered appendage to stem the flow. He immediately realized his mistake and twisted his head to look up and see the enemy standing over him with his tomahawk raised. The next instant, the opponent swung. Tan Man moved to block the attack, but his foot slipped and he rolled forward.
The enemy did not expect such a clumsy move. He jumped into the air to avoid the rolling attack, but as he leaped, Tan Man’s ax flopped through the air and caught him in the groin.
He yelled at the top of his lungs and fell in a heap, the parched earth now soaking up thick, dark crimson fluid in multiple places. The fight forgotten, the man clutched his groin in agony, writhing back and forth in the dust and rocks. His face contorted as he looked up to find Tan Man hovering over him, tomahawk dangling in his fingers. His face was smeared in red from the nose down and from ear to ear. More still drained from his nostrils, but he’d recovered from the blinding pain and was now ready to finish this.
The older man’s fingers searched around him in a panic, and he was now abruptly, jarringly aware that he no longer held his weapon. His right hand found it first, behind his hamstring, as his digits wrapped around the handle once more. He started to bring the blade around to fight the imminent attack.
His defense was too slow and far too late.
Tan Man whipped the ax blade down hard, plunging the curved point deep into his enemy’s skull.
The man’s eyes went blank. The body, neck, and head shook for a moment. Then the legs and spine gave out, and he fell to his side, killed instantly.
Tan Man gasped for air through his mouth, his nostrils blocked by caked blood. His head swayed back and forth with his torso, gravity pulling hard on his mass. He noted someone watching over his right shoulder. A man with a gun stood there, looking at him. Tan Man heard a voice urging him to kill again. He couldn’t fight it. A primal instinct called to him, begging him to take more life, to spill more blood on the desert floor. More voices filled his ears. All of them said the same thing.
His lips moved, barely more than flutters in a hot breeze. “Must. Kill. More.”
No sooner had he uttered the words than something heavy hit him in the side of the neck. The blow knocked him sideways; he fell to his knees, then onto his side. He wanted to raise his arm, to find the source of pain searing through his neck. But he couldn’t move it. He reached around with the other hand, the surrounding desert once more melting into a blur. His fingers crawled over the base of his neck like a spider until they found what was causing this new pain.
His index finger touched the metal first. Then the others joined in, running along the flat side until it reached the handle. He tried to swallow, tried to gasp for air, but it did nothing to help. He felt something warm running down his neck, to his chest, soaking his shirt. Tan Man felt faint. He fought the encroaching haze, but it was no use.
With a last sickening grunt, he fell over onto his face.
Hazleton stood over the body. He wavered for a moment, pain echoing from his shoulder blade. He’d watched the two battle each other as he allowed his confusion and pain to subside a little. While they were fully locked in combat, Hazleton had grabbed his weapon and snuck up on them. Whoever won would be his victim.
He stared at his former associates, seeing them in a way he never had before. They were evil—devils, even—demons of this world that begged to be killed. They’d begged him, hadn’t they? It was their voices asking to have their lives taken.
Then he heard more voices. They were coming from all directions. Hazleton turned and found several people standing around him in a half circle. He’d seen them before, at a distance. They were holding guns, pointing them in his direction. He recognized the men, mercenary scum. Every single one of them stared blankly at him. Their lips didn’t move, but he could hear their voices. How? How was he hearing them? Hazleton didn’t know, but an instinct buried deep inside him begged to be unleashed, demanded blood.
He twisted his head from one side to the other, trying to figure out which one to kill first. Then something flew through the air and struck him in the chest. The tomahawk had sailed end over end until the spike hit him in the center of his ribcage. He looked down at the weapon protruding from his chest and then up to the person who’d thrown it.
Brock snorted and wiped a tear from his cheek. He breathed heavily as he stared at Hazleton, eye to eye.
The dull pain in the older man’s chest swelled and pulsed through his body. He coughed and suddenly felt weak. Blood mingled with his spittle as it struck the dirt and was absorbed by the earth. He dropped to his knees, clutching the handle with both hands. He yanked at the weapon, but it was stuck, and his strength evaporated by the second.
As Stanford Hazleton fell backward, his legs bending at a painful angle, he could still hear the voices repeating the same phrase—over and over. He stared into the cloudless azure sky. Then it turned silver, then gray, then darkness approached. He closed his eyes to usher in the coming night, still hearing the voices in his head.
“Kill. More.”
32
Jaisalmer
Sean, Adriana, and Priya hovered around the desk just behind where Tommy was seated.
Tara had sent him the link to a news report out of India. He quickly set about opening his laptop and logging in to his email. A few clicks and they were taken to YouTube, where a regional news outlet had covered the story. The headline read, “Mass Murder in Thiruvananthapuram.” Tommy didn’t want to try to pronounce the name of the town. He had a feeling his two friends thought the same and imagined their feeble attempts to sound it out in their heads.
The video began to play and he tapped the volume button to hear what the middle-aged woman on the screen was saying. She was speaking in heavily accented English.
“Tonight’s top story comes to us from Thiruvananthapuram, the site of the Sree Padmanabhaswamy Temple, famous for its vast stores of wealth valued at over fifteen billion pounds sterling.”
The camera switched to a gruesome sight. Bright lights had been set up on tripods in the middle of what looked like a plaza. A golden temple shimmered in the background, appearing iridescent in the glow of flashing cameras and vehicle headlights.
There were dozens of bodies strewn across the ground, each with dark cloths draped over them so the faces were covered. Even with the attempt to hide some of the bloodshed, Sean instantly recognized puddles of congealed blood pooling around the dead. Guns lay on the ground next to some of the bodies. An occasional arm, hand, or leg escaped the death shrouds that covered the victims.
“What in the world?” Tommy uttered in a whisper.
His answer came almost instantly.
The anchor continued: “This horrific tragedy is being classified as a potential act of terror, though no one is claiming responsibility. The usual terrorist organizations have been eerily silent in regard to this incident.
“Authorities are still investigating the cause of the massacre that cost the lives of over fifty guards here at the temple. More bodies were found inside the temple complex, one who died from snakebites. It appears the reason investigators aren’t a hundred percent sure this was a terrorist attack is that it also involved what could only be described as the most significant theft in the history of the world.”
The screen changed to a shot of an inner portion of the temple where stairs led down into a dark chamber. Investigators were at the bottom. Some were in hazmat suits. Others were simply in windbreakers and blue rubber gloves and shoe covers.
“The incredibly famous Vault B, long believed to be impenetrable, was broken into by the suspects in this heinous crime. It is yet unknown what they took since cameras malfunctioned once the walls were breached. Scientists are working around the clock to understand what happened to the electronics during this most critical moment of the crime.”
Tommy looked up at Sean. Sean returned the glance and then looked back at the screen.
“Police said only one witness survived the attack. That person has been taken into protective custody and is being interviewed to gather more details about what could have happened.
“It also appears that whoever broke into the vault did not take much, though it is impossible to know the full inventory of what might have been in there. Early estimations are that the treasures within this chamber are valued in the tens of billions and perhaps hundreds of billions. Still, the tragedy of this night looms over what is known to be a peaceful city. A prayer vigil has been arranged outside the temple grounds for later tomorrow evening, once the crime scene has been fully evacuated.”
Sean crossed his arms and continued staring at the monitor as the video came to an end.
He took a step back and then turned, walking over to the window for a moment. He pulled back the curtain and gazed out into the early Jaisalmer night. An additional car had joined the sparse collection in the lot, an old Honda Accord with fading red paint.
“Why did Tara want us to see that?” Sean asked. He let the curtain fall back and looked over his shoulder at the other three. “What’s so important about that particular story?”
“We’re here in India,” Tommy answered. “She probably wants us to be aware that something dangerous is going on. You heard the report. Terrorists are likely the culprit.”
Adriana shook her head. “They don’t operate like that. Terrorist organizations almost never steal anything. They do it for religious zeal, for extremely self-righteous reasons. They’re not thieves—not typically, anyway.”
Sean raised an eyebrow. Since when was she an expert on terrorism? He let the question go, filing it away for later with the others he’d been putting off for the right moment.
“She’s right,” Sean agreed. “This isn’t the MO for a terrorist hit. They would have slaughtered everyone and then left, posted a comment on Twitter or something, taken credit for it. Breaking into this…vault or whatever it is, is not a terrorist’s style.”
“Okay, but maybe this group is different. You know? They’re evolving all the time to counter whatever the free world is doing to combat their tactics.”
“Yes,” Priya interjected. “And you heard the woman on the news report. She said most of the treasure was left intact. They weren’t even sure if anything was taken.”
Sean didn’t like it. There was something about all of this that stank, drowning out the lingering sweet smell of Adriana’s perfume.
“Why would someone break into a place like that and not take anything? They must have taken something.” He rubbed the back of his neck where it met the base of his skull. Stress sometimes caused him to have headaches, and he could sense one coming from this perplexing turn of events. “What do you know about that temple?”
Priya thought for a second and then shrugged. “I know they have placed a potential value on its treasure stores around a trillion American dollars.”
The words sucked the air out of the room. Tommy blew a whistle through pursed lips.
“There are six vaults,” she went on, “five of which were opened after the government finally decided to grant permission. The treasures discovered within were incredible. No one is quite sure why such a large amount of gold and jewels were stored there, though there are some interesting theories.”
