Gods and Men- The Hank Boyd Omnibus Read online

  His focus adjusts up towards my face as I watch through my still blocking arms. He’s about to wind up for another volley, but instead, a rifle stock clocks him in the side of the head, deflating his barrage. He rolls off me, and I give him a little extra push for good measure, sending him sprawling to the floor.

  I stand and wince at my excessively beaten body, favoring my left side a little. I collect my putter and stalk—stagger—towards the recovering attacker. With no caffeine, no sleep, and a possible concussion, I may be a little out of sorts right now. Fueled by anger and adrenaline, I draw back the club for the best swing I can muster. With a roar, I let loose, leading with the putter head, driving it into his ribs. As I connect, I hear what my crazed mind wants. A sharp crack rings out through the room as one of his ribs breaks, making the bastard howl in pain.

  He tries to stand, pushing off the ground for support, but I bring down the club again, taking out his wrist with a savage hack. One-hundred-percent broken. The wicked bend in the joint proves it. The man wails in agony, but instead of trying to fight back again, he just kneels, holding his mangled wrist.

  Seeing that this encounter is all but over, I soften the grip on the putter. My clammy fingers relax as does my blood pressure, making me feel like myself again. The savage barbarian that just killed a man, crippling another, is gone… But he’s not forgotten.

  Standing up straighter, I breathe and glance back to my dad. “Should I have yelled fore?”

  He just looks at me and shakes his head, unable to form a response. All I get is a roll of the eyes as a consolation prize, followed by a sigh.

  Dad’s eyes flick back to the assassin, his smile completely erased. He then steps closer, still holding his rifle, and starts rambling on in Arabic again. I have no idea what Dad is saying, but I get the gist of it through his body language. He’s trying to find out who sent them to kill me and collect him, and why.

  He asks the kneeling man another question, shaking his weapon at him in as threatening a way as he can without vomiting in fright.

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

  Apparently, he does speak it.

  The look of confusion on my face 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.

  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 again, but he just looks up at me, and with the most straight-faced jab I’ve ever taken says, “Even the chosen must meet their end sooner or later. My life is of little consequence.”

  He then calmly pulls out a dark spherical object, using our stunned inaction to his advantage. Then, he calmly tugs on a tiny metal piece. He holds it up with his good arm for us to see as another part of it spirals into the air like it was spring loaded. He holds like it’s the holiest of relics, and smiles. We watch as the lemon-sized object 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, leaping to the side. Mid-air we’re hit with an ear-shattering explosion as it 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 steel-toe boot. I’m not sure how Dad fares, but I’m flung into the opposite wall.

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

  12

  Algiers, Algeria

  I awake with a groan and open my eyes to bright lights. Am I dead? Is this heaven? I’m half-expecting to hear Led Zeppelin start playing soon, but then I feel the pain. Nope, definitely not heaven.

  I cough and flinch, feeling my ribs expand and contract. Gah! 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 all right. You're okay.”

  “Okay my ass,” I croak, gritting 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. My body finally relents to my will, and I begin to breathe a little easier. The ache is still there though, so I’ll have to be careful and do my best not to aggravate the injury again. As long as I keep my inhalations 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. As gently as I can, I fall back onto the bed. Letting my pillows catch me, cushioning the landing some.

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

  He leans over, grabbing me under my right armpit, slowly helping 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 ride the wave. At last, I’m sitting up—in a hospital bed I realize—feeling all of 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,” I motion to Dad, “and him captured?”

  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, of course, 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. Plus, the guy was obviously bat-shit crazy and taking anything he said seriously while holding a grenade seemed like a poor choice.

  Kane stands and goes to the window. He peeks out the closed curtains and is apparently satisfied that we are alone. He then casually strolls over to the door, checks to make sure no one is eavesdropping outside and shuts it. He starts talking as he lets go of the doorknob.

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

  “Hank,” I say.

  “Very well, Hank. Let me start with Zero. They’re 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.

  “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 less than zilch—so we don’t think it’s a money thing. Number two, they’ll do absolutely anything to get what they want, including bombing an airport and trying to kill you.”

  “About that… 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. Also, I have no idea what it means before either of you ask. I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure it out, but I haven’t come up with anything yet. In all my years of studying world history, I’ve never heard, or read, about anything like this.”

  The room falls silent, the three of us lost in thought. I slide to the 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… 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. They grow everything big up there.

  “Montana, actually,” his eyebrows crease. “Why?”

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

  “For over a decade I was blowing shit up for Uncle Sam anyway I could. 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 severe 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 th
e room’s sparsely decorated bathroom. Toilet, sink, 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 isn’t too bad, neither is the black eye that’s forming. But those combined with the busted lip and gashed chin make me look like I face-planted on my skateboard doing sixty.

  Ugh, I think as I gingerly grab my nose and wiggle it, expecting it to hurt. But it doesn’t… Good. Not broken.

  “Well, that’s a miracle,” I whisper to myself. Between the way my face looks and how much my body aches, I’m surprised I can even move at all.

  Drugs?

  I don’t feel loopy or doped up, but I wouldn’t put it past the staff for them to have at least given me some kind of prescription painkiller while I was out. Dad would have okayed it if they needed permission.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Not wanting to answer my own question, I glance away from my reflection, I notice something else in the mirror behind me. There’s a pile of clothes folded neatly on the tank of the toilet. I turn, picking up the clean wears, looking them over. I smile when I realize they’re some of the clothes I brought along from home. I’m about to call out into the room and ask about it but pause. Kane probably had our bags brought to the hospital once we were identified. It really doesn’t matter how the luggage got here, either way, I decide.

  Grateful for the change in attire, I slip out of my super stylish hospital gown—you know the one that has your butt cheeks permanently hanging out the back—and go to grab my red Coca-Cola shirt. I look down at my grimy body and instead turn towards the shower and moan with ecstasy. This body could use a soak.

  Twenty minutes later, and feeling a little bit better, I exit the bathroom. I’m now wearing a pair of hybrid shorts. They’re your basic set, except made for heat. It’s 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 might 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 since taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He has two massive handguns holstered under each armpit and what looks like a metallic 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 gravedigger, and him…” I point to Dad, “he’s a bookworm with two left feet.”

  “Right…” he says, laughing. “Basically, it’s one of the largest handguns 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 Kane has strapped on.

  “Precautionary. They’re just in case I ever have to fire both weapons simultaneously.”

  “Precaution?” I ask. “For what exactly?”

  “So, I don’t break my arms.”

  “What?” Dad asks, a little taken back.

  “You can’t usually fire a Mark XIX with one hand. They kick so hard that you’ll more than likely snap your wrists when trying. 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?” My inner teenager can’t help but ask.

  “Once or twice,” he replies, smiling with pride. “Thankfully, I’m ambidextrous and have near perfect aim with both hands. Twenty-twenty 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, but he says something that both derails the discussion while also getting our attention.

  “What do you know about, the Three?”

  13

  Above Algeria

  After spending the rest of the day in the hospital, we finally catch our connecting flight from Algiers to Djanet. I asked how we were getting there and Kane just laughed, pointing towards a sleek looking aircraft parked on a back section of tarmac. It’s only 8:30 AM local time and the temperature is already approaching a balmy ninety-degrees. In the hour-and-a-half, we have to kill while in the air, on what I assume is a CIA funded private jet, Kane fills us in with what Uncle Sam knows about the three ancient elders.

  He pours Dad and I each a drink and then sits across from the two us, facing us. He sips his beverage and breathes a relaxed breath, enjoying every little nuance the alcohol has to offer. And if it affects him the same as it will me, it’s also calming him some, righting his tired nerves if only a little.

  None of us slept well last night. We even stayed at a really cushy hotel once Kane persuaded the hospital staff to release me early than someone with my injuries should have been. Dad wanted to get started right away, but Kane shot that down, urging him to wait and rest. We really did try and sleep, but the events of the past day had everyone wired.

  We’re paying for it now, I think, yawning before taking a sip of the smoothest whiskey I’ve ever tasted.

  “Jack?” I ask, motioning to my glass.

  “Gentleman Jack,” he corrects, replying with a grin. He then clears his throat and begins the briefing.

  “First off, 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 divulge 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’s supposedly knowledge or possibly even a weapon of some kind that was said to have been left here by an ancient civilization millennia ago. That populace, as I’m sure you have figured out, is supposedly Atlantis or at least another culture that is responsible for the Atlantean myth.”

  “You don’t believe it’s 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 very advanced people. 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.”

  “There was a fourth elder too, but he had a falling out—if you will—with his brothers. He didn’t want to use their special talents for constructive purposes.”

  “What did he want?” I ask.

  “We think he wanted unlimited power and dominion over every living thing on Earth, but we aren’t exactly sure.”