Jungle Agenda

By Maureen A. Miller

From USA TODAY bestselling author, Maureen A. Miller, comes adventure and romance in the jungle.

Deep in the Guatemalan jungle, a yearly event draws some of the top collectors of rare antiquities. The patrons of this event are an ensemble of the richest criminals in the world. Drug lords. Corrupt politicians. Eccentric CEO's. They are there for the sole purpose of getting their hands on illegal artifacts.

Mitch Hasslet, a war photojournalist relegated to a desk job, is the sole witness to a heist of Mayan artifacts. Recruited by the mysterious director of the Museum of Art and Antiquities, Mitch is sent to the last location the stolen shipment was tracked to. Guatemala. Acting as a museum staff photographer, Mitch joins a group of archaeologists. His goal is to locate the artifacts as swiftly as possible so that he can collect his compensation and get the hell out of the jungle.

Alexandra Langley is about to run out of funds. She has yet to discover the lost Mayan civilization she knows lurks in the rainforest. To achieve her grant, she will accept the museum's latest nuisance, Mitch Hasslet, and any other obstacle that is sent her way. Unsuccessful and desperate, Alex has decided to move the group to a portion of the jungle referred to as, "No Man's Land"—a sector where archaeological teams have ventured but never returned.

As Mitch and Alex inch towards passion, will their bond protect them in a jungle filled with deceit?

Previously released as JUNGLE OF DECEIT

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maureen A. Miller
• Release date: Dec 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005184674

Maureen A. Miller

USA TODAY bestselling author, Maureen A. Miller worked in the software industry for fifteen years. She crawled around plant floors in a hard hat and safety glasses hooking up computers to behemoth manufacturing machines. The job required extensive travel. The best form of escapism during those lengthy airport layovers became writing.Maureen's first novel, WIDOW'S TALE, earned her a Golden Heart nomination in Romantic Suspense. After that she became hooked to the genre. In fact, she was so hooked she is the founder of the JUST ROMANTIC SUSPENSE website.Recently, Maureen branched out into the Young Adult Science Fiction market with the popular BEYOND Series. To her it was still Romantic Suspense...just on another planet!

Book preview

Prologue

Port Newark, NJ – April 22nd

Mitch Hasslet aimed his lens at the aft of the ship docked a hundred yards away. He narrowed the viewfinder on the cracked white letters.

Dorian Gray.

Christ, he hoped there was a portrait stored somewhere that flattered this rusted heap. Perhaps in its heyday, the freighter shined with fresh black paint and gleaming brass fixtures—but not now. Now it looked like a ghost ship ready to embark on a voyage to a prehistoric island.

On deck, crewmen were busy preparing for their valuable cargo as Mitch swung his camera in the direction of two police cars entering the barricade. In their wake, a trio of armored trucks stamped with the Museum of Historical Art and Antiquities insignia were flanked by two additional patrol units. The entire convoy pulled up idle at the foot of a ramp that led into the bowels of the Dorian Gray.

Mitch’s curiosity flared at the sight of wooden crates towed on mobile skids by the armed security representatives of the HAA Museum. Some of the fanfare in the papers came to mind.

Rare Mayan artifacts.

Brutal pieces of art.

The display had stirred up controversy and even warranted a disclaimer at the entrance of the museum.

Not for the faint of heart.

Systematically, the shutter clicked as Mitch captured images of the wooden crates hauled like behemoth creatures into a cage.

When two Apache helicopters descended on the pier, his camera continued to snap. As if a beehive had split open, a battalion of camouflaged uniforms erupted from the choppers and flooded the dock, encircling the comparatively small police force. Men he had presumed were part of the ship’s crew now drew weapons of their own, joining in the invasion as the explosive percussion of AK-47s pierced the brackish air.

It happened so fast. Outnumbered, and with only futile attempts to fight back, the police and museum force were circled to the tune of more gunfire. Mitch flinched at the sudden blare of violence—a sound that plagued him often in his sleep. He searched in vain for a way to stop this madness. It was this preoccupation that enabled a figure to slip up behind him undetected.

At the last second, he turned and came face-to-face with a swarthy man bearing a scar on the corner of his lip. The disfigurement extended the slash into a macabre smile.

That Cheshire grin was the last thing Mitch Hasslet saw as the butt of a rifle cracked his jaw.

Waking up on the hot tarmac with a swollen eye and a battered jaw, Mitch lumbered to his car. The guerillas, or whatever the hell they were, were long gone, as well as the shipment from the museum.

He needed to call for an ambulance. Men were down.

Before he could even get his scraped knuckles to cooperate, a black stretch limousine pulled up alongside his car. He jerked back, startled to have not heard the motor.

A tinted window slid down with a hiss as the driver, indiscernible behind sunglasses and cap, inquired in a deep voice, "Mr. Hasslet? Mitchell Hasslet from the Chronicle?"

Mitch nodded and rubbed his jaw.

Please get in, sir.

Staring at the sleek limo as if it were an alien craft, Mitch managed a gruff, Excuse me?

Please get in, sir. Mr. Nicholson would like to have a word with you.

The crazed expression of Jack Nicholson in The Shining flashed in his mind.

I don’t know a Mr. Nicholson. Mitch’s voice was hoarse. But if you have a cell phone in there, can you call 911?

Sunlight reflected off the driver’s glasses.

It’s been taken care of, sir. Please get in.

Hey, look, Mitch’s fingers worked their way around his door handle, "I don’t know how you know my name, but I need to get to the authorities now. Some men have been shot, there’s no time for this bull—"

The rear window of the limousine rolled down with a soft purr. An indistinct silhouette filled its frame and a disembodied voice called out, Mr. Hasslet. I am Phillip Nicholson, the Director of the Museum of Historical Art and Antiquities. I would really appreciate a moment of your time. He paused and added with the benevolence of a holy man, Trust me, the police and ambulances are on their way.

On cue, sirens could be heard in the distance. Mitch felt his jawbone throb and winced at the glare from the driver’s sunglasses.

The car door opened in silent invitation, and the blast of air conditioning felt like an ice pack against his swollen cheek.

Please, Mr. Hasslet. We need your help.

A headache struck with the force of a two-by-four, and inside the limo, the sound of ice cubes cascading into a glass posed a greater temptation than Delilah.

Mitch cast one last look across the deserted dock.

Son of a bitch.

With a slight limp, he climbed into the back seat.

Chapter One

Guatemala – April 23rd

Ushered into the jungle−into a nucleus of archeologists and engineers, Mitch felt as out of place now as the time he was lost in the catacombs of a Spanish convent. Then, like now, he sensed accusatory eyes and heard whispered conversation that suspended as he drew near.

Punishment.

That’s what this was. Punishment for recklessness in Serbia.

A photographic journalist was supposed to take pictures, not play an action hero.

After the tragedy in Kosovo, Mitch was relegated to the streets of New York. No longer capturing photos of soldiers in battle or humanitarians in action—he now worked for the New York Chronicle. And when there wasn’t an actor walking his poodle down Fifth Avenue for Mitch to chase, he was tossed mediocre assignments such as the museum shipment bound for South America.

Mitch remembered some of the missions from his glory days. He recalled those reverent nuns and how he had to switch on his charm. It was time to try it again for these skeptical archeologists.

I’ve read about Dr. Langley. He turned to the young man beside him. What was his name? Charles? Charlie? It’s gotta be quite the hoot to work for someone with such an esteemed track record, Charlie.

Covered in mud, the man scratched his nose. The skin beneath bore a deep tan, nearly the same color as the smeared clay. Narrowed green eyes glared for a moment and then he snorted out the exposed air hole. Name’s Chuck.

Right. Mitch attributed his flawed memory and reduced patience to the six-hour flight. He drank in a deep breath of humid air before continuing.

"So, Chuck… A mosquito took a chunk out of his neck, but he refused to scratch it. I understand that you were part of Frank Langley’s excavation in Egypt. Some say he stumbled upon the tomb by accident. Mitch’s eyebrow inched up. Some say he has an incredible knack for finding buried treasure. A virtual Indiana Jones, he mused as he fell into stride alongside Chuck. It must have been a real coup to be in on that."

Another snort and this time Chuck’s dirty hand swatted the air in dismissal as he turned his back on Mitch and muttered something like, Mister, you don’t belong here.

Right.

Well, so much for charm.

But, Nicholson said that it was Dr. Frank Langley that Mitch had to impress, not this gritty recruit. It was Dr. Franklin Langley who was critical to his cover, even though the esteemed doctor had no reason to suspect that Mitch was here for anything other than to contribute his photo-journalistic talent.

Phillip Nicholson, the enigmatic director of the Museum of HAA had used persuasion methods no less subtle than those of General Patton. They involved neither violence nor extortion, but Mitch had stepped out of that limousine with the unsettling sense that he had just been brainwashed.

Oh, hell, he should give himself more credit than that. He had not been brainwashed. Nicholson, albeit stranger that he was, seemed to know every motivational button to push. And push he did. How the man came by so much knowledge still nagged at him, but it was too late to reconsider. He was in the middle of the freaking jungle.

As far as this ragtag crew of students and archeological minions were concerned, Mitch Hasslet was in Guatemala to chronicle their expedition on film. They had no idea of Phillip Nicholson’s ulterior motives for him, and as Nicholson pointed out—it had to remain that way.

Unless this dig was documented, photographed, and published by the end of the year, this team’s grant would be revoked. That’s what they thought Mitch was here for. Even as he looked around, Mitch caught their furtive glances—their arrogant disapproval of his presence in their domain.

Do I care?

No.

In the past twenty-four hours, he had been beaten and then shoved on board a chartered plane for a six-hour flight. In mid-air, he was given a barrage of injections to prevent God-knows-what type of diseases. And finally, he was jostled into a Land Rover to this remote realm of the Guatemalan jungle for a mission he had grudgingly volunteered for.

Did he care if they looked at him with disapproval?

Hell no.

Mitch turned to a blonde man he had nicknamed Hollywood for the simple fact that the man reminded him of a surfer. Do you know where I can find Dr. Langley? Mitch asked.

Another unwelcome glare and then a copper-bristled chin tipped towards a nearby Jeep. Over there, working on the engine.

Hollywood seemed less critical and more curious. He stared at Mitch for a moment. Mechanics are hard to come by out here. He shrugged under a perspiration-stained tank top. You learn to be resourceful.

Mitch grunted in staged empathy and then followed the angle of Hollywood’s chin to the set of boots protruding from beneath the belly of a rusted Jeep. Heck, he half expected Fred Flintstone’s giant feet to kick-start the antique. Mitch knew a thing or two about engines, and there was no way this clunker could be too complex. Perhaps if he got the relic running, he’d make a good first impression.

He moved in closer and called out to the sprawled figure.

Doctor?

There was no response—maybe an inarticulate grunt intended for the bowels of the Jeep.

Dr. Langley? He stepped beside those boots and stooped over, hands on knees.

A muffled bang followed by a husky curse ensured that Mitch’s first impression wasn’t the one he had intended.

The figure that wriggled from beneath the Jeep was a feminine one, and Mitch’s eyes greedily latched onto the slim hips as they twisted out into the sunlight.

This damn well better be good. She hoisted upright and rubbed her hands on her khaki pants.

I’m sorry. Taken aback by such a vivid image of femininity in this dirty, testosterone-laced camp, Mitch stammered, I thought you were Dr. Langley.

With the back of her hand, the woman reached up to brush golden bangs from her eyes. "I am Dr. Langley."

Stunned, Mitch sought a clever response. Eyes that had been deprived of sleep—deprived of lots of things lately, roved over the agitated female. She had to be in her early thirties, with shoulder-length blonde hair and jade irises that changed colors each time the tree limbs twitched above. A smudge of grease covered the patch of skin below her left eye while the rest of her face glowed from a healthy tan.

Tempted by that streak of oil, Mitch wanted to reach over with his thumb and wipe it away.

His glance dropped to her clenched fists resting against baggy pants that hinted at the lithe figure beneath them. Her stance was belligerent, but he just found the overall effect appealing.

Who are you? she asked with the charm of a cornered porcupine.

Perhaps her voice was edgy, but the woman challenged his blatant perusal and assessed Mitch with the same measured inspection.

It really better be a good answer, she added, because I have a knot growing on top of my head with whatever your name is on it.

It had been a long time since Mitch felt a smile that was anything more than a muscular reflex. Clearing his throat, he offered, Mitchell Hasslet.

The declaration incited little reaction. He held out his hand and added, Mitch, the photographer you asked for.

The woman glanced down at his hand. Ohhh—no. No. Her head shook from side to side, resulting in a pendulum effect of glossy hair. "I didn’t ask for you. Tanned arms crossed over her chest. You were forced on me by the museum."

Mitch kept his hand out, waiting for her to return the salutation—challenging her to do so. For the waif-like image that she portrayed in her oversized clothes, this woman did not seem intimidated by him in the least. She took his hand, shook it firmly, and then tossed it aside—all before Mitch realized that he had been dismissed, left to stare at her receding back.

Wait. His voice came out hoarse. It was enough to halt her stride. I thought Dr. Langley was a man. He felt a certain sense of humility when he admitted that.

Slight shoulders slumped beneath a white T-shirt and the blonde crown dropped back in silent appeal to the sun. After a moment’s deliberation, she turned around and pinned him with almond-shaped eyes that stunned him into submission.

Alex Langley. When there was no reaction, she added, Dr. Alexandra Langley.

Alexandra. Mitch wasn’t even aware he had spoken the word aloud until he heard her clear her throat and saw those eyes narrow.

"That’s Doctor Langley to you, Mr. Hasslet. Alex’s tone was aggressive. If you’re looking for Franklin, you have the wrong dig."

She turned away and fired over her shoulder. Oh, and I suggest that you get your equipment out of the Jeep before Chuck leaves. She was nearly out of earshot, but he heard her assert, "Where he’s going, your camera may come back—leaking."

Then Alex was gone.

Okay, tactical error. Mitch had been told he would be joining the ranks of Dr. Langley’s dig. The journalist in him called for a quick internet search for Dr. Langley before he left. Every hit that came back credited Franklin Langley with another monumental achievement. Not one single instance listed Dr. Langley, junior.

It was odd. He could have sworn Nicholson said he was here to track down Franklin Langley. Maybe the eccentric museum director had received misinformation.

Too puzzled and too tired to replay that bizarre conversation in his head, Mitch stood in the core of an active camp with raucous students swarming around him as if he were an offering to the Queen Bee.

But, he had already met the Queen Bee.

Maybe her stinger was potent. Maybe she ruled the hive with wit and confidence. He didn’t know too much about Alexandra Langley. Not much at all. But he was certain of one thing. With that silken hair and glistening skin—she would taste better than honey.

Okay, so Chuck had his camera.

Which one was Chuck again?

Mitch searched the bevy of tanned faces, most camouflaged by layers of grime. He recognized Hollywood. Hollywood had picked him up at a remote airstrip nearly thirty miles away from here. During that bumpy ride, the man had introduced himself as Wes—Wes Porter from San Diego.

Wes.

Bleached hair was glued to Wes’s temples by perspiration. He used his forearm to wipe his eyes and nodded at Mitch. Lost?

One, two, three, Mitch counted until he harnessed his derisive reply. Kinda hard to get lost with all this racket.

Wes tipped his head back and took a long swig from a water bottle. He capped the container and glanced around the camp.

Studying Wes, Mitch realized that the man wasn’t as young as the rest of the students. He probably topped forty. That, or just too many years in the sun had triggered deep grooves around his eyes and mouth.

We’ve got to start packing up. Wes’s icy blue eyes met his. You know how it is— he nodded at a nearby scuffle, "—heavy items like these tend to make noise."

At this rate, Mitch thought he was going to have to sleep with one eye open for fear that this mutinous pack would drag him off as a sacrifice to some Mayan God.

Anything I can do to help? The offer was sincere. His real purpose for being here would not commence until sundown when he could sneak away from this camp. For now, he might as well try and make his presence less offensive.

Aren’t you supposed to be taking pictures or something? Wes stooped over and whipped a canvas off a bulky slab of rock. Isn’t that what you should be doing instead of ogling Alex?

Okay then, Mitch thought. So that’s how it was. Alex was Wes’s woman. Figures. Women always go for the blonde, bronzed Adonis type.

I don’t ogle, Mitch injected as he leaned in to help hoist the slab into an open crate. It’s not my style.

The carving in stone depicted a warrior crowned with a helmet of feathers kneeling above his rope-bound captive. It was a disturbing image because it hinted at the violence that was sure to follow in a time when violence prevailed.

You’ll never get anywhere with her. Wes folded a tarp across the slab, blotting out the unsettling graphic.

I wasn’t looking to. That, too, was sincere.

Discovering that the esteemed Dr. Langley was in this case, a woman, was an interesting twist, but it didn’t change the fact that he had a mission to complete before he could get out of this godforsaken quandary. I do admit to being a little shocked, however. I thought the doctor’s name was Franklin Langley.

Wes shook his head and stooped to hammer the lid onto the crate. A common mistake. Frank Langley is Alex’s father, and he doesn’t have half the raw instinct or talent that his daughter does.

The last statement was uttered with enough husky conviction to make Mitch give Wes another assessment. Maybe on a second glance, the bronzed Adonis didn’t look so much the Hollywood-type, but more like a hard worker who’d spent too many years in the jungle and harbored deep feelings for the woman that employed him.

I’m not interested in staking a claim on your property— Mitch moved in to assist with the next crate, —if that’s what you’re afraid of.

Above the flat wooden surface, their eyes met in a silent face-off.

Alex is no one’s property, Wes declared quietly.

The way you talk—

No. The finality in the word suspended anything Mitch was about to add. For that fact, so did the sudden emergence of the object of their debate. Alex stood at the center of a group of men, and though she was not short, she was dwarfed in that ring. Still, she dominated their attention with commanding hand gestures and verbal authority. She was a militant leader with the finest figure Mitch had ever seen.

No one interrupted her. No one disputed her.

How does she do it? Intrigued, Mitch dragged his glance away from Alex.

Control them, you mean?

Yeah. Of its own will, his head swung back towards the lithe blonde in her baggy khakis and a white T-shirt.

Wes gave up the battle with the crate and parked down on the corner of it. It hasn’t been easy on her.

Tempted to sit as well, Mitch glanced at the wooden box, which eerily resembled a casket. Shrugging off the association, he bent his knees and dropped onto the splintered surface.

I’d like to say I can imagine. His arms crossed in the same fashion as Wes’s, so that they resembled a couple of old men, gossiping on a front porch. But I don’t think I can.

What more is there to say? Wes began. She’s a beautiful woman, working with nearly a dozen young men. She’s their boss. If she was to yield even an inch, they’d be on her like syrup.

Now why did he have to go and use that analogy, Mitch wondered. Images of Alex Langley and syrup suddenly made the oblong crate even more uncomfortable.

To his utter dismay, Alex picked