Temple of the Jaguar Page 7

  “Hurry, Nick!” Marie shouted back to me.

  I looked up toward the place where she and Ishi waited, just outside the tunnel’s entrance, as stinging sweat poured into my eyes. The stars and the light from a late night moon illuminated the sky behind them.

  “I’m try-trying,” I gasped, and then decided to save my breath, and instead concentrate on reaching the exit.

  I almost made it to where they waited before the final collapse hit, as the ancient volcano sought to reclaim much of the lava cone it had first created many eons ago. As it was, I at least had the good sense to thrust Ishi’s bag of goodies out through the tunnel’s mouth before the floor below me finally gave way.

  “Oh, shit!”

  “Nick, hang on!”

  As the floor disappeared into a soup of earth and molten rock several hundred feet below me, I grabbed onto the root of a large tree growing just outside the tunnel. I didn’t know if I could hang on long enough or if the root would hold without breaking off. Much too quickly, my tired hands started to slide down.

  If it had been just one of my companions fighting to save me, I doubt I’d be telling this story now. But the combination of Ishi and Marie’s desperate pulls on my arms and shirt proved enough to lift me out of the hole.

  The fresh air alone was enough to revive my senses, although it was laced with the same rotten sulfuric stench we had dealt with for the past couple of hours. When I was able to stand again, the view before me seemed even more surreal than what we’d already experienced. Below us sat the expanding maw of a churning lake of fire that was already several acres wide. It seemed to be receding back into the earth. I watched as rocks, trees and other debris were quickly absorbed. A spectacular and deadly sight, it stirred something inside me. Especially when I looked over at the two beautiful faces that regarded me with soiled but serene expressions.

  Gratitude. I felt grateful for life, true friendship, and the possibility of love. I was truly thankful to still be alive.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “How much can you give me for the both of them?”

  Juan Esteban eyed me curiously as I asked the question. Rather than answer right away, he held the intricately carved gold earrings up to his jeweler’s glass once more.

  “Do you want the money today?”

  “Yes.”

  “And, will you take a check?”

  “No, hombre,” I said, chuckling. “Just like always, it’s cash-ola only. Preferably in American dollars.”

  “You sound like a man who is desperate to leave Honduras...no?”

  Now Juan chuckled.

  “I might be back in a few months,” I said. “And, if and when I do, you’ll be the first artifacts dealer I visit.”

  “Careful, Nick...you make me feel not so clean when you describe me like that.” He chuckled again, turning in his chair as he reached for a bigger magnifier to work with. “I’ll give you twenty thousand dollars today...in your American cash. That’s a fair price.”

  “Really?” I snickered, and I could tell as he looked up sharply from his viewer that he expected another Nick-barb was on its way. “Nah, I’m not here to give you hell, man. You’ve done well by me over the years. But the least you could do is offer me half of the eighty Gs street value these items have.”

  “I did offer you half...it’s twenty thousand a piece,” he said, smiling I’m sure in response to the subtle look of surprise written upon my face. “You’re about to walk out of here with forty Gs, my friend. Forty Gs is enough to get lost for six months.”

  “Or longer, if one knows how to spend it right...and where to spend it.”

  “So, we have a deal?” he asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  He reached over the counter and we shook hands. It was the longest handshake that Juan and I had ever shared in the six years I had known him. The mistiness in his eyes confirmed that he thought the same thing as me. This would likely be the last time we would ever do business like this, and even more likely, we would never see each other again.

  * * *

  “How did it go?” asked Marie, once I locked my seatbelt in the passenger seat of her rented Jeep.

  Ishi sat in the back seat, sporting the new outfit he had splurged on at a local clothing shop. Of course, Marie was as beautiful as ever, dressed in a low cut blouse and slim fitting jeans, along with.... Oh sweet Jesus, why do women wear high heels with jeans? Yeah, she looked amazing, but I’m a practical sort of guy who has a hard time wrapping my mind around the style-over-practicality concept.

  “Well,” I said, “we certainly have got enough cash to get us to our next destination.”

  “Forty grand?” she asked.

  “Yep, forty grand.”

  Ishi popped his head over my headrest and said, “And you are sure the gold will be safe until we return?”

  I chuckled at my friend’s persistence. This was the hundredth time or so that he’d brought up the subject of our gold since we survived our latest misadventure. Marie had stored almost all of it in a safe deposit box in Tegucigalpa’s most prestigious industrial bank. The gold was indeed safest there. Although we missed out on the vast fortune all of us had hoped for, when added to my collection of artifacts that were also now locked safely away, none of us would have to worry about anything for many years to come.

  “What have I already told you, broheim?” I asked.

  Ishi shook his head while smiling sheepishly, and relaxed in his seat. Meanwhile, Marie put the Jeep in gear, chuckling to herself as she pulled us back onto the road.

  “I’m gonna miss this place,” I said softly.

  “Hmm, me too, Nick,” Ishi echoed from the back seat.

  “I think you’ll both love it in the Maldives,” said Marie. “We should be at the airport in about twenty minutes, and then we’ll be on our way within the hour. I think you’ll both especially like exploring the island we’ll be staying on. Beautiful beaches, crystal-clear lagoons, and a certain cave that is rumored to be home to pirate gold. Indian Ocean pirate gold.”

  “No shit? So, that’s why we’re going there?”

  I must admit, my tone brightened up considerably. And, here I thought I’d have to tolerate the month or two of ‘sightseeing’ while planning my own excursion to Egypt to finish what Mario Thomas and I had set out to do when both of us made a pact as freshmen at UCLA sixteen years ago.

  “Nick...I’ve grown to really like you, and I look forward to spending quality time doing the things that normal people do,” said Marie. “But you will totally drive me insane if you turn into some sort of social puppy dog. You are an archaeologist. Well sort of. But, no matter where life takes us together, you’ll always be you, and I would never dream of changing that. So let’s see if we can dip in and out of each other’s preferred worlds and keep the fire going.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, nodding thoughtfully. Nothing like a gal who has her claws in a guy’s heart, but not in his freedom to be who he is. “This just might work.”

  “Enough, already!” said Ishi, shaking his head. I think, perhaps, in disgust.

  “Aye, matey,” I said, in my finest pirate brogue, while shooting a smug smile toward him and a wink to the lady who was forging a hole in the steel wall that protects my heart. “Now let’s hear what Marie has to say about this here buried treasure and some Indian Ocean pirate lore.”

  Sounds like fun. Stay tuned...the three of us might have another adventure to share someday.

  Until then, you might avoid looking for a certain lost city of gold deep in the Honduran jungles. I’d hate to someday read about some unsuspecting traveler falling headfirst into a previously unknown burning lake of fire.

  Cheers,

  Nick

  The End

  Nick Caine returns in:

  Treasure of the Deep

  Coming soon!

  ~~~~~

  Available now:

  Plague of Coins

  The Judas Chronicles #1

 
by Aiden James

  (read on to sample)

  Chapter One

  This looks promising....

  It was late one evening, and I stood in the bowels of the Smithsonian Center for Materials Research. The staff had gone home for the night, and I was alone. Surrounded by lab equipment, computers, and stacks of dusty old books, this room could only be described as creepy. Damned creepy.

  Then again, many would describe me as damned creepy, too. And maybe a little shady—at least if I ever get caught rummaging around in the basement. As a Smithsonian archivist, most of what I spend my days reviewing is upstairs or in other locales managed by the National Museum of History. Really, I rarely venture outside of the Anthropological Archives’ scope of responsibility. Just like a good, dependable archivist should be doing.

  Oh, it isn’t so terrible, all cynicism aside. In my current vocation, I’ve been privileged to view some of the most ‘secret’ collections of field notes, photographs, and correspondence from the more significant scientific expeditions covering the past two centuries. Hell, that’s why the job appealed to me in the first place. My son, Dr. Alistair Wolfgang Barrow, the noted historian and professor at Georgetown, is the one who brought it to my attention. Yes, he’s the very same historian noted for his treatments concerning the Middle East and its volatile tensions. Tensions fueled by millennia of history and bad blood that will take decades if not centuries to cure, despite the latest diplomatic progress.

  But I digress.

  Upon the near-obsolete video screen, a collection of articles and photographs spanning nearly eighty years scrolled before my eyes. All of this information centered around one small village in Iran. Al-haroun is the name of the place.

  I paused to sip my coffee while rubbing my eyes. Not so much from being tired as the damned viewer’s fuzziness. I’m spoiled by my MAC.

  Yes, very promising...could be home to one small, priceless piece of silver....

  I get a feel for things, you see. It’s something I’ve gotten better with over time. Call it honed experience, or perhaps it’s the mastery that comes with practice and carefully aged wisdom and acute perception.

  Okay...I can almost hear the indignant silent questions out there. ‘And who in the hell are you, hot shot?’ That’s what I’d be wondering right about now, after re-reading the first two pages of my story.

  Fair enough. My name is William. William J. Barrow, though I’m sure you already determined my last name from my son. I like the name William, actually better than any other moniker I’ve gone by since the Crusades ended. It makes it a lot easier for me to fit in without engendering questions about who I am or where I come from. I like it much better than any of the Apostle names like Peter, Paul, and Matthew. Although, pretending to be Bartholomew nearly two thousand years ago was a lot of fun.

  That got you, I’m sure.

  It would make me older than dirt. Right? Well, if we ever cross paths you won’t even notice me if it’s some ancient Methuselah you’re seeking. I don’t look a day over thirty—haven’t looked a day past the ‘prime of life’ since I wrote my own chapter on the most famous stage in modern history.

  Back then my Hebrew name was Yehuda. I guess if history had left me hanging from some tree or tripping into a garden to where my guts squirted out of my condemned body, the world would be no wiser. My role in the ultimate betrayal long forgotten, maybe I’d be just a small footnote, and not the most reviled human being ever to walk this earth.

  You can thank the Greeks and Romans for that honor, unfortunately. Or, I guess I can...at least credit goes to them. Born in Kenoth in the region of Judea, and falsely accused of being a member of the ‘Sicari’. Yes, these are all clues.... Give up?

  The Greek for Yehuda is Yudas, and that name in Roman is Judas.

  So there...that’s me. I’m Judas Iscariot.

  But before you simply close this book in disgust, let me explain a few things. Things that could change your mind about the above claim, and take on a little of my perspective. In truth, I could literally give a rat’s ass if you believe I’m Judas or not. It’s not even the reason I’ve decided to write down my story. After all, if I don’t gain the final nine silver pieces needed for my restitution during my current ‘lifetime ruse’ as William Barrow, I’ll still be working on this project while you and everyone you care about has died and passed away. Perhaps all of you will land in the eternal Holy Mecca I so badly long for.... To be forgiven at long last and reunited with the One I looked on as a mere prophet and wonderful teacher, instead of the Lord of Lords that He is.

  How do I know the truth about Jesus now as compared to then? You’ll have to read on for that answer—and it comes in bits and pieces, really. No, it won’t be some pompous sermon. What I’ve learned these past two thousand years transcends anything and everything you’ve ever read in any book—including what is considered the standards for the Holy Scriptures—like the Bible, Koran, etc. You’d be surprised at the shenanigans I’ve witnessed that later became the accepted “truth from the very mouth of God Almighty.”

  So much is rubbish, and yet hidden within it all is the truth. Or, at least a version of the eternal truth.

  But I digress, again. Just know that I am supremely confident of this: everyone’s burning questions will be answered by the end of my story…the first installment of what remains of my earthly quest.

  So, back to this place called Al-haroun. While there are many places in the world that suffer from a host of calamities, only a few originate from a small epicenter within a few square miles. And not every one of these places contains what I need. However, since at first glance it is impossible to know for sure, I must research them all.

  As a town, Al-haroun is no stranger to the wrath of God, or if you will, the unfortunate reputation as a cursed place. That night, I viewed article after article, along with an endless stream of film images to support the stories—literally, an endless succession of earthquakes, floods, famines, wars, and plague. Even a rare tornado struck the town in 1942 that destroyed nine homes and killed three people. Not exactly catastrophic weather, unless you consider the fact this is Iran we’re talking about and not Topeka, Kansas.

  But all in all, if one considers the previous millennium’s host of travesties visited upon this small area, I have to consider the likely source: a single coin. Buried somewhere, and likely hidden from the light of day for centuries. Meanwhile, hundreds, if not thousands of lives have been ruined—either killed, homeless, or both. The last article I looked at talked about a rare blizzard from thirty years ago. That event took place in May, when things begin to heat up near the Alborz Mountains. More than three feet of snow fell upon the town, and the temperatures plummeted deeply enough to destroy livestock and crops.

  The people believe they’re cursed, that somehow they’ve offended Allah. If only they knew that something there—likely buried beneath the soil—was indeed offensive to God, they might burn everything to the ground and leave. Forever.

  My gut instinct was telling me a single silver shekel was responsible. One that bears Caesar’s notorious beak of a nose on one side and a proud eagle upon the back. Just like twenty-nine others I once accepted as payment for my evil deed. A moment of folly, and to think it could’ve been forty pieces of silver if Caiaphas hadn’t tried to cheat me by offering half-shekels instead.

  Anyway, I was certain my assumption was one hundred percent correct. As I studied the latest stories and pictures on the screen, my left hand began to tremble. This familiar sensation always confirms the truth of what my intuitions tell me.

  Silver ‘blood-coin’ number twenty-two is within reach.

  Satisfied, I turned off the viewer. I then returned the older film to the correct cabinets and the newer CDs and flash drives to their file drawers.

  It was time to request some vacation days, and make arrangements for a little trip overseas.

  Amazon Kindle

  Also available:

  Aladdin Relighted


  by J.R. Rain and Piers Anthony

  (read on to sample)

  Chapter One

  She was a fine beauty with almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones and lips so full they could hardly close. She stepped into my tent and shook out her hair and slapped the trail dust from her overcoat.

  I had been dozing lightly, one foot propped up on a heavy travel chest, when I heard a woman’s voice asking for me. With my foot still hanging over the ornately-engraved chest, I had turned my head with some interest and watched as a dark-haired woman had poked her head in my open tent. My tent was always open. After all, I was always open for business. Once confirming she had the right tent, she had strode in confidently.

  And that’s when I sat up, blinking hard. It was not often that such a beauty entered my humble tent. Granted, there had been a time when I was surrounded by such beauties, but that seemed like a long, long time ago.

  “Do you always sleep during the day?” she asked. As she spoke, she scanned my simple tent, wrinkling her nose. She stepped over to a low table and looked down at a carving of mine. She nodded to herself, as if she approved of my handiwork. She looked around my tent some more, and when she was done, she looked at me directly, perhaps challengingly.

  “Only until the sun goes down.”

  She had been looking at a pile of my dirty robes sitting in one corner of my tent. She snapped her head around. “I hope you’re joking.”

  “And why would you hope that?”

  “Because I will not hire a sluggard.”

  She was a woman of considerable wealth, that much was for sure. She also did not act like any woman I had even seen, outside of the many courtyards and palaces I had once been accustomed to. She reminded me of all that was wrong with wealth and royalty and I immediately took a disliking to her, despite her great beauty.