Shrouded in Secrets

By Kim McMahill

The massacre of an unarmed South American village, the destruction of one of the greatest man-made wonders of the world, and multiple museum thefts ignite a desperate scramble to locate a deadly group of terrorists.

An international team led by the ruggedly handsome but emotionally scarred CIA agent, Cash Luker, scours the globe in an attempt to keep ahead of those striving to bring thirteen mythical relics together.

As Cash's team closes in on those responsible for the devastation he must conquer past demons in order to save the woman who has captured his heart and prevent destruction of legendary proportions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Prism CW
• Release date: Aug 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781940099088

Kim McMahill

Kim McMahill started out writing nonfiction, but her passion for adventure, stories of survival against the odds, and speculating about the future of humanity and our planet, soon turned her attention towards fiction. She has published eleven novels, over eighty travel and human-interest articles, and contributed to a travel story anthology. Growing up in a beautiful mountain west community, traveling the world, and enjoying a twenty-year career with the National Park Service, has given her the opportunity to live in amazing places, experience incredible adventures, and witness many changes in our world, all of which have helped shape her stories.To learn more about Kim and her writing, visit https://KimMcMahill.blogspot.com, or follow her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/KimMcMahillAuthor/, on twitter at https://twitter.com/kimmcmahll, or on Instagram at https://www.instagram.com/kimmcmahill/.

Book preview

novel.

CHAPTER ONE

September 18, 10:30 P.M.

Asháninka Village, remote jungle of Peru

KOKUSH INHALED THE smoke from his pipe and forced the intoxicating tobacco deep into his lungs. Still, no clear visions penetrated the fog, only a feeling of dread he could not explain or expel from his mind.

The Asháninka men, bodies painted and seated on woven mats around their revered shaman, passed a hollowed-out gourd filled with thick, bitter liquid. Each man sipped the hallucinogenic drug made from a native vine and handed the bowl to the next, until the syrup was gone.

A low beat from the two-headed monkey-skin drum grew louder as a melancholy mantra emanated from the group, drowning out the deafening hum of the nighttime insects. The men rose and continued to chant and sing as they began the ancestral dance used to encourage the spirits and wise supernatural beings to communicate with Kokush. The women joined in, the ground vibrating in response to the rhythmic stomping of their feet, while the children watched from under the raised-floor houses encircling the communal area.

Flames blazed in the center of the ceremonial grounds, casting an unnatural glow over the dancers and eerie shadows skittered through the trees. A sweet smoke from the wood and herbs burning on the fire filled their nostrils, coaxing the participants into a trance-like state of mind. Moving with a graceful ease made possible by the intoxicating effect of the vine and tobacco, they waited for their ancestors to speak.

As the shaman often did, Kokush slipped silently from the circle, giving his people the illusion he had vanished and joined the spirit world. He had been taught the art of disappearing by his grandfather, which wasn’t difficult once his audience succumbed to the drugs and got caught up in the ceremonial fervor, and the thick smoke created a hazy curtain to conceal his movements.

He usually used the tactic to reinforce to the villagers that he possessed special powers and was worthy of being their spiritual leader. Tonight, he needed time to organize his thoughts and try to decide what to do. He didn’t want to frighten his people, but he was certain something evil would soon descend upon them. Unsure of what or when, how could he warn them? His gut told him they should flee, but he didn’t know how soon or how far they needed to run.

If wrong and no danger came their way, he would lose credibility. The obligations of shaman and keeper of the sacred bundle had been in his family for as long as the tribe had existed. He took his calling seriously, refusing to fail in fulfilling the responsibilities bestowed upon him.

The sound of gunfire and screams interrupted Kokush’s thoughts. He rushed toward the commotion, but held back at the edge of the clearing, out of sight, concealed by the jungle and the darkness. He froze, the scene unfolding in front of him too horrific and unreal to grasp. Five figures, all clad in black and heavily armed, moved deftly through his people, striking down everyone in their way. At first, he thought the brutal Shining Path rebel fighters had returned. Unfortunately, he feared this was a force much more sinister.

He searched the chaos for his warriors. All accounted for, though none had had time to arm themselves against the intruders. He witnessed his son, the strongest of the village fighters, charge a black-clad figure. A shot rang out, throwing him, blood oozing from the wound on his bare shoulder. The young man regained his balance and dove for his target, screaming the call of war, ordering the other warriors to fight to the death.

Two bodies hit the ground with a thud. In helpless silence, Kokush witnessed his son struggle to overcome the much larger man. Pride swelled in his aching heart as he gained an advantage, straddling the intruder. The moment of hope was short-lived. No sooner had his son grappled to the top, he slumped over. Kokush reeled as the large adversary pushed his beloved son off, the young warrior’s body rolling over onto his back, exposing a long blade embedded deep into his abdomen.

The unarmed Asháninka were powerless against the superior weapons of the ruthless intruders. The village fighters had used the element of surprise to their advantage for centuries, but this time, it was they who were taken unaware.

One by one, Kokush watched his brave and fierce warriors fall, but his mind remained on his son. Kokush’s wife had died in childbirth, giving him only one child, who would have inherited the responsibilities of shaman. Kokush wanted to help his people, but to expose himself meant death. Only he could protect the sacred bundle and fulfill his obligation to his people, and for that, he must survive.

Women screamed and ran for their children, but few made it far before they too, fell to the ground. Some were clubbed, many stabbed, and others shot. Soon the sound of gunfire and screams diminished, replaced by the terrified whimpers of children. Families who were able to reunite clung to each other, fear filling their eyes as a man kicked the fallen bodies to see if any remained alive.

The five armed strangers moved among the Asháninka people, herding the survivors into a tight group near the fire. One person, whom Kokush recognized as a woman by the way her black high-necked, long-sleeved top clung to her breasts, held the villagers at bay with a frightening looking weapon, while the remaining members of her group checked every dwelling.

The intruders searched each home, and then set the palm-leaf roofs afire. Heart aching for his people and his village, Kokush pleaded with the spirits for guidance, but they had deserted him. His mind, empty of all thoughts except for fear and grief, struggled to focus on the necessary. He remained motionless, hoping, as the last structure went up in flames, the evil people would leave, but he doubted that would happen.

The intruders returned to the terrified group of villagers and said something to the leader that Kokush could not understand. They spoke in a language he didn’t recognize. He had been out of the village several times. On those trips to the city, to protest the encroaching development threatening their way of life, he heard people speaking Spanish, English, and a number of indigenous tribal languages, but this was something so different. He’d also learned about guns and acknowledged he was no match against the deadly weapon.

The tallest man, the one who had killed his son, grabbed Kokush’s uncle by the hair and pulled him to his feet. The brutal man yanked Uncle’s head back and placed the blade of his blood-stained knife to the old man’s throat. Kayanakú, Kokush’s daughter-in-law, rushed to his aid, but the butt of a rifle struck her temple and she fell to the ground, clutching her swollen belly. Kokush made a move toward the clearing, stopped abruptly, and melted back into the shadows of the trees. His eyes focused on a drawing held out in front of Uncle’s face. Kokush’s knees buckled and he slumped against a tree as he realized these people were aware of the sacred relic’s existence.

Uncle shook his head back and forth, tears streaming down his weathered cheeks. The intruder tightened his grip on the old man’s hair, while another held the image in front of him, screaming demands in a language no villager understood.

Kokush looked on in disbelief as his uncle began to chant. The sorrowful song of death lasted only seconds before the blade sliced his throat. The old man slumped to the ground in a pool of blood, while the rest of the villagers took up the melancholy song. As the volume grew, Kokush lamented the end of his people.

He now knew what evil the spirits were trying to convey. If he had been a better spiritual leader, he would have understood the bad omens and reacted in time to save his village and the secret his ancestors had successfully guarded for thousands of years.

As he watched the slaughter of his friends and family with a numbing pain in his heart that threatened to crush his ability to act, he accepted there was nothing he could do to save them, but he had to try to keep the secret safe. The powerful relic could not be found, or his people would not be the only ones to suffer and die.

Turning his back on the agonizing cries of his people, Kokush slipped off into the trees. He hadn’t hidden the treasure far enough away from the village, but at least it remained safe for the moment. He needed to retrieve the sacred bundle and hide until he found a new home for the relic. He doubted the evil ones would try to follow, since they did not know of his existence. He knew the jungle intimately, so if he used stealth, there was still hope the secret could remain safe, and the power prevented from falling into unworthy hands.

Kokush knelt at the base of a horóya tree. He issued a silent plea to the spirits to guide him, protect the relic, and deliver them both to a safe place. He removed the shell tied at his waist and began to dig. After several minutes, the implement scraped the surface of a gold-gilded box. Dropping the shell, he finished clearing the soil from the box with his calloused hands.

He gently lifted the small chest from the place where it had rested undisturbed for the last fifty years, when he had inherited the responsibility from his father. He set the precious item on a cloth made from tree bark, quickly wrapped it, and secured it with a piece of vine. Standing, the bundle under his arm, he turned to find himself staring into the cold, dark eyes of the woman in black.

A tiny red light moved from his stomach toward his skull until he could no longer see it, but he sensed it rested on his forehead. If he spoke her language, he would try to explain the dangers of the relic when misused, but he knew she wouldn’t listen, even if he could communicate with her in a common tongue. As he stared at her with pleading eyes, her four companions arrived. They stood at her side, holding similar guns to the one trained on him, the expressions on the faces painted black in order to blend into the night unreadable.

Kokush gripped his bundle tighter and begged the spirits for help. He waited only a second for an answer before apologizing for failing where his forefathers had succeeded. The tribe had entrusted him with a force so great, that if unleashed, the consequences were unfathomable. The secret had been easy to keep, since most of the modern world believed the relic’s existence and power were only legend. Obviously, the story now had believers.

A vibration from the bundle made Kokush’s arm tingle. The thought of never seeing the contents of the box again caused him to lament his imminent death and fear for all humanity. The relic was imbedded with power, good and bad, and a great deal of knowledge vital to unlocking many of the mysteries of mankind, as well as information to assist the guardians of the universe to avoid mistakes of the past. Under his arm, he held so much good, but together with others of its kind, and in the wrong hands, it could bring about havoc and destruction beyond any earthly comprehension.

He took a small step backward. Nothing happened, so he attempted another. A noise exploded in his head at the same instant he felt himself falling. Trying to hold onto the bundle, unable to feel his limbs, he sunk to the forest floor. As he rested on the ground, his mind overflowed with tranquil thoughts of rejoining his village, and he experienced no pain or sorrow, only peace.

CHAPTER TWO

September 20, 9:00 P.M.

Giza, Egypt

MARJORIE BURTON STOOD on the balcony of her guesthouse room and gazed toward the Sphinx. The music and historical narration booming over the tinny loudspeaker finally ebbed, and the colorful laser lights transformed into a golden illumination, making the Sphinx glow, giving it an enchanting aura and a noble grace. Throngs of people exited the seating area and filed toward the chaotic streets of Cairo in a reverent hush.

Marjorie understood their awe. She never tired of looking at the massive stone masterpiece, and when the crowds thinned and eventually left for the night, the monument’s power grew, and its stoic grimace seemed to mock those who tried to unlock its secrets.

She rubbed the ache in her neck, thinking over the project’s progress, while the sounds of honking horns and the smell of rotting food from the encroaching city assaulted her senses. At one time, the Sphinx and the Pyramids of Giza overlooked ancient Cairo, carrying on its business at a respectful distance. Now the structures appeared to be losing the battle to avoid being swallowed up by the growing metropolis of nearly twenty million people closing in on the Giza Plateau from all sides.

As the last tourist left the seating area, some of the lights flickered out, signaling to Marjorie it was time to leave the hot, humid confines of her dingy room behind and make her way to the site, where Kamal would be waiting for dinner and to begin the night’s excavation. They did most of their work after sunset, due to the heat, as well as to avoid the mobs of tourists and hawkers who overran the site during the day, making accomplishing anything a difficult task.

Every time Marjorie came to Cairo, she swore she would never come back. The crowds grew exponentially, those selling souvenirs became more aggressive, and the politics deteriorated with each visit, making her work much more difficult and dangerous. But the draw of the Sphinx was powerful, and rejecting an opportunity to delve deeper into the mysteries of the ancient site proved impossible.

Recognizing her good fortune to be part of the excavation of a recently discovered room in the burial preparation building adjoining the Sphinx did little to diminish her frustration with the slow progress. With only her Cairo Museum counterpart, who seldom left his office, and her two assistants, Kamal and Ahmed, the dig proceeded at a snail’s pace, and funds for additional help had never materialized. Marjorie feared her time would run out before they cleared the debris from the newest chamber and found out if any treasures remained inside.

The British Museum of Mankind had given her six months to work on the project, but made it clear there would be no extensions unless something of major historical significance was uncovered. They had been generous in the past, even though she had yet to locate anything noteworthy, and now their patience was wearing thin. At only thirty-four, she had thought there was plenty of time to prove herself, but donors, who provided much of the museum’s funding for field work, expected immediate results and notoriety.

Marjorie wove her way through the congested alleys outside the guesthouse until she found her favorite food stall. The wind swirled, mixing the spicy aromas from the many vendors’ dishes with the stench of sewage and pungent odors of decaying scraps, creating an uncommon aroma, and making her nauseous. Despite her sudden loss of appetite, she bought thin local bread and curried lentils for herself and Kamal, then headed toward the Sphinx.

Each day Ahmed and Kamal worked with their Cairo counterpart at the museum inputting data and analyzing their finds, and then the two young men toiled half the night with her removing debris from the newly discovered room. Tonight, she and Kamal would start out together until Ahmed relieved him halfway through the shift and continued on with her until the morning crowds arrived. She realized her assistants had to be exhausted, existing on little sleep, but she had no choice except to keep up the brutal pace. Ahmed grumbled occasionally, while Kamal expressed his discontent more fervently, and she feared he might soon walk out on her.

The moon, stars and city lights illuminated the area enough that she didn’t bother to turn on the flashlight dangling from her wrist as she walked toward the Sphinx, hands filled with two water bottles and the just-purchased food. The guard at the gate to the complex let her in, saying nothing, as usual. When she reached the excavation chamber, she spied a lantern burning brightly outside the barred and locked entrance, but she saw no sign of Kamal.

Marjorie set her load down and called out, but received no answer. She was torn between anger at him for leaving his post and fear something bad had happened to her surly assistant. The gate over the entrance appeared intact, offering no indication of trouble, but she knew remaining alert and cautious on any archeological project could mean the difference between life and death. The lucrative black-market antiquities trade made looters dangerous if anyone stood in their way.

She glanced around for something to use as a weapon and her eyes rested on a small rock hammer Kamal must have left behind. Marjorie grabbed the tool and stuck the handle through her belt, called out again, then made a quick check of the many corridors linking the rooms in the burial preparation building—still there was no hint as to Kamal’s whereabouts.

By the time Marjorie reached the gateway leading out of the Sphinx complex, the guard had left his post and the lock was left to look closed, but hadn’t been clicked shut. Letting herself out, she ran toward the guesthouse, trying desperately not to let her imagination run wild and panic.

Ahmed, are you awake? she whispered as she tapped on his door.

Marjorie didn’t want anyone to see her at her male assistant’s room for fear of offending any conservative onlookers, but her patience wore thin as worry for Kamal’s safety and a nagging sense something was drastically wrong filled her mind. She knocked louder, then reached for the doorknob—it was unlocked. Glancing in both directions down the hallway, she eased the door open and nearly collided with Ahmed as he stumbled toward her, his eyes half-covered with the t-shirt he pulled over his head while walking.

What is it? he asked, annoyance etched on his face.

Kamal. He isn’t at the site, but I can tell he’s been there.

He probably had to go to the bathroom. We are still human, you know? We’re not machines.

No. He didn’t take the lantern. I called to him and received no answer, and then I checked all the rooms and corridors. Something is wrong. It’s too quiet.

Marjorie knew neither of her assistants liked taking instructions from a woman, especially a foreigner. Accepting their attitude as primarily cultural, it didn’t bother her much, but she hated the fact they had no respect for her as a professional. While she hadn’t made any significant discoveries in her career, or published many earth-shattering papers, she was thorough and competent. She had good technique and was as capable as any other archeologist—man or woman—of making the next major find. She just needed a bit of luck and a little cooperation.

I’m sure everything’s fine. Why don’t you go get food while I check on him?

No. We’ll look together. Besides, I already bought dinner. I feel responsible for you two. I’m the head of this project, and if anything goes wrong, I’m the one who’s accountable.

Why must you Western women always take charge? he demanded as he turned his back on her and strode into his room, leaving the door open.

How tired she was of her two assistants questioning her on everything. She suspected they criticized her leadership to their Egyptian counterparts. But, they had been good workers, and Marjorie needed them. She only hoped they didn’t realize it, or she would have an even bigger challenge on her hands.

Marjorie fought the urge to give Ahmed a strong shove in the back to get him moving faster. He took so much time splashing water on his face and searching for his shoes that she was certain he was trying to annoy her or stall. Fidgeting, she smoothed an errant strand of her short blonde hair behind her ear, while watching Ahmed slowly lace his shoes. She hated his shoes—the tread on his soles left tiny divots in the sand, reminding her of the holes created by the creepy spiders that had invaded her tent the last time she had worked on a dig in a remote part of the Egyptian desert.

She could tell he wasn’t convinced they had a problem, but at least he quit arguing, though he continued to move slow enough to make thoughts of strangling him with his belt flash through her mind. He meticulously fed the leather strap through each belt loop of his pants. She watched impatiently as he cleaned his glasses on the tail of his shirt and ran his fingers through his unruly mop of dark, curly hair.

Let’s get this over with, so maybe I can have a couple hours of sleep before relieving Kamal in a few hours, he said as he grabbed a flashlight and followed Marjorie out into the night.

They hiked the short distance between the guesthouse and the gate to the Sphinx complex in silence. Marjorie’s mind whirled, wondering if she should have gone straight to the authorities. She had no proof anything was wrong, though every nerve in her body sizzled on high alert.

The guard was here when I arrived, but gone when I left.

Ahmed ignored her comment and kept walking. They reached the entrance to the chamber and nothing had changed. She waited as Ahmed called out to Kamal half-heartedly and strolled around the corridors she had already checked.

Are you satisfied? You two always question every word I say. I’m tired of having to prove everything and wasting valuable minutes. I realize you don’t care about the timetable established for the project, but if something has happened to Kamal, your hesitation to my concerns might have—

Quiet.

Marjorie stopped in mid-sentence and listened. At first, she heard nothing, but after several moments the sound of metal scraping against rock reached her ears. She glanced over at Ahmed and watched his eyes track the sound to the same place as she had—outside the burial preparation chamber, near the Sphinx.

Ahmed flipped off his flashlight and took several silent steps toward the exit. She followed his lead, stowed her light, pulled the hammer from her waistband, and crept after him. As they left the structure and stood on the hard-packed earth facing the monument, the noise grew louder.

We should go for help. The guard must be here somewhere. He couldn’t have gone far. He probably just went for food.

I’ll go. Why don’t you try to get closer and find out what’s going on? If you backtrack through the corridors you can reach a higher vantage point to the left side of the Sphinx, Ahmed replied as he looked down at the tool clutched in her hand.

Marjorie nodded in agreement, knowing it wasn’t a good plan, but unwilling to risk the safety of another one of her students. She had to ascertain whether or not someone was damaging the Sphinx, and if Ahmed left the area to search for the guard, he would remain out of harm’s way.

Once Ahmed was out of sight, Marjorie had to fight to hold back the fear. She was alone, scared, and angry. If someone harmed the Sphinx while she stood nearby and did nothing to try and stop the damage, the guilt would be unbearable.

Marjorie gripped the hammer handle, took a deep breath, and crept back toward the entrance of the burial preparation area. The scraping sounds grew louder as she inched forward. The silhouette of a man appeared. Marjorie froze, squatting low to the ground to minimize her outline. She squinted into the darkness, unable to make out the man’s identity.

The figure knelt near the left paw of the Sphinx, but she couldn’t see what he was doing. Suddenly, the man stood and ran away, scaling the fence separating it from the road. Kamal! Marjorie leapt to her feet, ready to call out, but before the words could be spoken, a massive explosion vaulted her to the side, throwing her into the bottom of the excavated trench in front of the Sphinx. Landing on her belly, face plastered into the dirt, she braced herself as debris rained down. Chunks the size of bricks pelted her back, forcing air violently from her lungs. She wanted to scream in pain, but with a mouth full of grit and her lungs void of air, no sound escaped.

When the shower of rubble finally stopped, Marjorie continued to lay still. The all-consuming pain confirmed she wasn’t dead. Wiggling her toes and then her fingers, she groaned in relief that everything worked. Her ears rang from the deafening sound of the blast, every inch of her body ached, but nothing felt broken.

As quietly as possible, Marjorie dug herself out from under the stone fragments and inched her way to the lip of the trench. She peered over the edge of the pit and the sight brought tears to