Following the sudden disappearance of treasure hunter Ben Sanders in Mexico, beautiful archaeologist Suzy da Silva is snatched from the cloistered environs of Oxford University and thrust into a deadly maelstrom of intrigue and discovery.
Joining forces with astrophysicist Tom Brooking she crosses four continents, to unlock the dark secrets of Tutankhamun’s tomb, the Holy Sepulchre and the mysterious Mayan Temple of Inscriptions to reveal a mysterious truth.
Together they risk their lives, pursued by martial assassins and renegade special forces, fighting the forces of evil to discover hidden knowledge so precious that it has lain dormant for over a thousand years…
“Masks of Lost Kings” is solid entertainment. Ancient mysteries, conspiracy, murder and Suzie – the young archeologist with a provocative theory. It’s all there from the depths of Egyptian tombs to terror on the streets of Cairo. She is on a grant to study in Egypt and gets involved in an enigmatic tangle as brooding as the Sphinx. She doesn’t know what’s going on and neither does the reader. That all adds up to an engrossing story.” – Amazon Reviewer, 5 Stars
And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:
CHAPTER ONE
They emerged from the black, dripping jungle night already bruised and drenched from the hot
rain of the Tumbala Mountains. Ben and José, his tribal guide, were making progress, but it
didn’t feel like it. In every direction unbroken jungle spread out around them in spirals of
verdant green, impeding their every move, slowing down every step as it clutched at their limbs,
trying to trip them up and hold them back. Something was following them in the trees above
their heads. Ben guessed it was monkeys disturbed by the flames of José’s Cahune palm torch
and made anxious by this intrusion into their nighttime privacy. Mosquitoes patrolled in jerky
circles, mounting regular painful attacks on their sweating skins. All around, the buzz of cicadas
crested and receded like tropical ocean waves, making it hard to listen for any sounds of
impending danger.
Just like the heat, a sense of menace cloaked the ancient Mayan rain forest like a deadly veil.
The gods had been starved for over a thousand years. Now they wanted a sacrifice. They
demanded blood.
The temptation to turn and run was almost overwhelming, but Ben knew he couldn’t give
up now. This search for a sacred truth was his chosen quest. If he could pull this off, his
reputation as an archaeologist and astrophysicist would be assured. He would win his place in the
history books forever. His hunger for the truth had led him inexorably toward this ancient prize,
the captivating pyramidal Temple of Inscriptions. Beneath its stone interior lay the mysterious
subterranean death crypt of King Pacal that Ben was risking everything to unveil. The tribal
elders and survival experts he had consulted had all issued the same warning, telling him of the
wet season’s bloodthirsty mosquitoes, vicious horseflies and mud traps that could suck in a man
up to his knees, or worse. Everyone said it would be best to wait until the place dried out in
summer, but the lure was too great and Ben was too impatient. He couldn’t risk waiting even for
a few months and losing out to a rival. Inside this jungle lay a giant Mayan lost city, with a secret
concealed for a thousand years, a secret that he now had the code to unlock.
The sweet smell of orchids filled the hot, wet air and brilliant blue butterflies floated
randomly past, like musical notes, suspended in narrow beams of moonlight.
Ben’s shirt snagged on the spiky tropical leaves, making him twist awkwardly. His foot shot
out from under him, toppling him sideways. Suddenly he was falling through the air as if the
ground had opened up beneath him. Grab something, his mind shrieked. Anything! A jolt
slammed through him as his hand caught a tree root, halting his fall, while his left knee smashed
into hard stone. Dirt and rocks were falling around him. His muscles screamed in pain as he
clung on in the dark. He must be hanging over the side of a ravine but he had no idea how deep
it was beneath his flailing feet. The root shifted in his hands as the earth began to surrender its
hold. He glanced up, and a fresh shower of dirt stung his face. Above him was a sheer vertical
wall of rock. He could see from the glow of José’s fire torch that he had fallen at least twenty
feet. He braced himself to look down; despite the darkness it looked like a fall of at least another
hundred feet beneath his dangling muddy boots.
“José, throw me the rope!” Ben shouted, his voice hoarse.
Terrifying empty seconds passed before Ben saw the end of the rope just a few feet above
his head. Letting go of the root with one hand he snatched at it, his fingertips glancing against it
and then finding purchase. Transferring his weight, he felt the rope give as José struggled to hold
him. There was no choice but to trust the man he’d only known for a few days. Letting go of the
root with the other hand he started to haul himself upward. At the lip of the ravine, José braced
himself against a rock to shoulder his young American employer’s weight. A few minutes later,
Ben was lying on the floor of the jungle, gasping for breath, his heart thumping, elated to still be
alive.
“I thought I was a goner,” Ben exhaled, when he was finally able to pull himself to his feet.
“Lets get moving, José, we’ve got work to do!”
“No hay problemo, Don Sanders,” José grinned, equally relieved to have avoided going
back to his village to explain he had lost the important foreigner down a ravine. “Soon we see
the jungle temples. We go around the ravine south, then along, and we are in Palenque soon,
very soon.”
Pointing forward with the greasy smoke of his palm torch, José cut a swathe through the
cloud of mosquitoes that had gathered. When he first arrived in the jungle, Ben had been
stunned by its ecological diversity. But, since then, it had stung him, sucked his blood and
dehydrated him to a harrowing thirst. Now he just wanted to claim his prize and get back to
civilization. He shivered as a territorial howler monkey bellowed threateningly in the distance.
José led as they forced their way through the undergrowth for another hour, every limp
sending a wave of pain through Ben’s badly bruised knee. Suddenly José halted and peered
through the foliage ahead. Ben followed the guide’s gaze and thought he could just make out
unusual shapes looming into the moonlit sky about a mile to the southwest. Was this the ruins of
Palenque? The colossal pyramid city some experts called the cradle of Mayan civilization?
“Let me through, what is it, José?” Ben pushed him aside. “Are we here?”
José dropped to the ground, lying prostrate, his torso pressed to the jungle path, peering
ahead. Ben carefully knelt down to get the same view. From here, he could see a panoramic view
of the stone plaza of Palenque, spectacular in the low moonlight, a ghostly hologram of ancient
pyramids. Ben could hardly breathe with the excitement of finally being so close to his goal.
As they stood up, the flickering light from José’s torch illuminated the face that suddenly
leered out of the foliage several feet beyond Ben’s shoulder, making them both recoil in shock.
“Shit!” Ben exclaimed. The giant stone skull loomed out of the undergrowth. José was
transfixed by the stare of the black hollow eyes, overawed by this giant Mayan harbinger of
death. “It’s just a slab of stone, José! Ignore it,” Ben instructed, eager to push on. “It’s just a rock
sculpture.” Ben looked around. “José, we’re here, we’re finally here, the Temple of Inscriptions!
Get over it, would you? Come on!”
Mustering the last of his strength, driven by the renewed energy now coursing through his
veins, Ben set the pace, racing toward the silhouettes of the pyramids, refusing to be slowed by
the vines and trunks that twisted toward his limbs.
His senses had gone into overdrive, heart pounding with another welcome rush of
adrenalin, his footsteps eventually thudding across the plaza stones, his vision tunneling into the
immaculate features of the step Pyramid, the Temple of Inscriptions. Now, at last, he was truly
on the verge of a great discovery and had only to infiltrate the crypt inside for everything to be
revealed. The pyramid seemed to glisten before him like a spectacular granite prize. He reached
the foot of the grand stone stairway, the steep, carved steps stretching skyward. This was the
awe-inspiring resting place of King Pacal.
José crept up behind him, breathless and quivering like a frightened animal, terrified that his
wild-eyed young employer was about to offend the ancient jungle’s demigods and bring the
wrath of the heavens down on both their heads.
Ben knew that, from the start of the expedition, José had feared an ancient curse contained
in the crypt would envelop and kill them, like the legendary Tutankhamun’s curse. It had taken a
lot of talking—and a lot of money—to persuade him to overcome these fears and lead Ben to
this point and reveal how to get inside. Within a few hours José would be safely back with his
family, furnished with amazing tales with which to regale tourists for the rest of his life. Ben had
more important things with which to concern himself. He didn’t need José’s primitive fire torch,
so he extracted his flashlight, handheld tally counter, compass, and a metal crowbar from his
backpack.
The crypt was locked but unguarded. After all, who would ever imagine anyone going to this
much trouble to try to break in? If things went according to plan, he should be in and out in less
than twenty minutes.
A powerful wave of apprehension washed over Ben as he prepared to enter the pyramid,
but he pushed it aside. There could be no turning back now.
“I’m going in,” he said, pointing his crowbar to the pinnacle of the pyramid. José shook his
head and looked like he might be about to weep.
“I feel evil spirits at work here, the curse of Pacal. My tribal elders warned me not to come.
Please, please—” José’s begging voice faded as Ben walked trancelike up the steps of the pyramid
toward the flattened summit.
The distant howler monkey let out another territorial bellow. Was it trying to warn them?
Had the evil spirits awoken it?
Ben’s knee was sore with pain as he reached the top of the ninth and final layer of steps. At
the summit he found the silent stone room called the Sanctuary. As he entered through the
center of its fifth stone doorway, he was enveloped in silence, all the jungle noises suddenly
evaporated. A cone of light from his flashlight scythed through the dark room and he shivered as
he imagined the grotesque sacrifices that might have been made here, the torrents of blood that
would have washed over the stones. Then he saw it.
The padlocked metal grill was above an open stone floor plug, the plug having been thrown
away long ago by officials. He crept toward it.
Centering the crowbar on the padlock, Ben levered with all his strength, bearing all his
weight downward, sweat springing from every pore of his body. He felt some give in the lock,
but it was hard to keep a grip. He pushed harder, harder—it wasn’t moving—harder, harder …
his grip slipped. BANG! Thrown to the floor, his shoulder almost exploded as it hit the hard
stone flanking. But adrenalin masked the pain as he saw the padlock split open, leaving two
broken pieces on the floor.
Wrenching the metal grill aside, he squeezed through into a triangular stairway tunnel,
leading him down into the darkness of the Temple’s underworld. The steps were smooth. He
shone his flashlight around and saw that the ceiling was corbelled, stones stacked carefully on
top of one another to support the massive weight of rock. Awash with sweat, his hand slipped
from the wall and he stumbled painfully. He gasped for air; it was like trying to breathe through a
wet blanket. The tunnel’s descent was fast and steep and Ben tried to get a firmer purchase
against the smooth walls. He shone his flashlight down again, carefully counting the stone steps
as he went with the tally counter. Soon, there were five thousand tons of rock above him and he
could almost feel the weight of it on his shoulders. Outside, the walls had been lavishly
decorated with murals and stucco sculptures of Mayan life, but here it was devoid of life, just
plain, anonymous walls. The steps seemed to be getting steeper, almost vertical and he had to
slow down for fear of slipping again and falling to the bottom.
Breathing became even harder. It was stiflingly humid. Could he survive this? Then he
paused, smiling in relief; he had reached the middle chamber. His flashlight started to flicker and
dim. He cursed himself for not thinking to bring spare batteries. He switched it off for several
seconds while he caught his breath. Impenetrable black surrounded him. He was two hundred
feet down and even steeper steps now led out beneath ground level. He knew that the tunnel
bored its way through the bedrock toward the magnificent death crypt of Pacal. He felt his way
to the first step down; it was tiny and treacherous.
Unbeknownst to Ben and José, two men were soundlessly descending the steps just above
them, camouflaged in black balaclavas and leopard-spot uniforms, primed with assault M16s,
stealth-assisted with infrared night sights.
Counting the steps down the narrow corbelled stairway, it was all exactly as Ben expected
from his research. It seemed like time had stopped as he crawled inside the Crypt of King Pacal
and switched his failing flashlight back on again, shining it quickly around, wanting to get his
bearings before the faint beam might die. The giant sarcophagus lid was as inspiring as he had
always imagined and he knelt beside it in awe, trying to take in the enormity of the moment. He
had finally arrived in the secret chamber of Pacal, a living Sun god to the Mayan people. Ben had
solved the code all by himself. He was going to be famous when he got back to civilization.
Running his fingers over the bas relief on the top of the sarcophagus lid, which showed
Pacal lying in a position like an Apollo astronaut ascending to the stars, he leaned closer to study
it. A beast from the Underworld was reaching out to devour him and carved on the breastplate
with beautiful precision was a tree of life, the Foliated Cross. It was astonishing and scary at the
same time. The flashlight beam was flickering, reminding him that he had limited time and
couldn’t afford to indulge himself. Battling to get enough air into his lungs he stood up and
made his way back up the stairs with the light out, carefully recounting the steps on the way up
to the Sanctuary.
“Doctor Sanders?” A distant voice cut through the darkness.
Ben froze.
“José? … José?” he called back. But in his heart he knew that this was not José’s voice
calling to him. “Who’s there?”
Then he remembered what he’d been instructed.
“The ceiling is corbelled—” he called.
No response.
“Who’s there? Hello? Hello?” he repeated. His fear urged him to turn the flashlight on and
dispel the blackness, but his survival instinct warned him to stay invisible.
“Doctor Sanders?” the voice repeated, louder and closer.
“Who’s there?”
He could hear footsteps now, running fast and coming closer. His nerves gave way as he
flicked the feeble flashlight back on.
“Drop the torch!” the voice commanded, “Drop it now!”
Ben caught a glimpse of what looked like combat fatigues on the steps above him.
“DROP IT!” yelled a second voice.
Ben obeyed, helpless to do anything else.
“Turn around!”
“Who are you?”
“MOVE!”
The second man was pressing his machine gun to the back of Ben’s head, forcing him up
the steps so fast he kept stumbling and scraping his shins painfully against the stones, sending
him ricocheting off the walls. What the hell was happening? This was his secret that he’d earned
through dedicated years of hard, intensive work. He wasn’t just going to hand it over. Fumbling
to see the tally counter, he struggled to wipe it clean, memorizing the long count using all the
mental powers he had spent his life honing.
As they emerged from the Sanctuary room, one of the men snatched the tally counter from
Ben before marching him back down the outside steps to the foot of the pyramid where José
stood, distraught, next to a third heavily armed and camouflaged man.
“Don Sanders,” José begged, his voice quaking. “What is going on? We should never have
done this.”
It seemed to Ben their captors could be narco-traffickers, a common hazard in the region,
although not usually this far north in Mexico.
“We can pay you not to kidnap us,” he said, dismissively. He didn’t want them to know how
scared he was. “We are here on a scientific mission.”
The men said nothing, their expressions hidden beneath their balaclavas.
“So, what do you want?” Ben continued. “What are your orders? Just tell us what you
want.”
Without warning, the brutal and earsplitting crack of machinegun fire echoed round the
natural amphitheater of the surrounding forest canopy. Bullets raked through José’s legs. He
screamed in agony, jerking as if a thousand volts of electricity were passing through his torn
body. Ben pulled the crowbar concealed inside his jacket and hurled it with all his strength at the
head of the man firing the gun. It struck its mark and the man staggered back against the base of
the pyramid. Recovering his balance, the man swung his gun angrily round at Ben. Another short
round of rapid fire from the gun and Ben felt a bullet slice across the top of his skull followed by
a rush of warmth as blood began flowing down the side of his face. Ben reached up and felt a
loose piece of skin flapping across his scalp. Stunned by the speed and force of what was
happening, he slumped to his knees. The attacker lunged toward Ben and yanked away the piece
of partially severed flesh from the side of his head.
Ben’s scream ripped through the night, setting the howler monkey off once more.
A flock of giant fruit bats rose through the jungle canopy, startled by the explosion of noise,
and swooped around their heads. Ben clung on to consciousness as his captors dragged him and
José by their hands toward the opposite pyramid; the Mayan moon goddess Ixtab needed her
appeasement. They scaled the rock stairway of the pyramid, unconcerned by the screams of
damaged bodies smashing against each step on the way up to the ancient sky altar.
Reaching the apex, as if working to the beat of a divine metronome, the three men stopped,
stripped off their balaclavas and donned jaguar skins and headdresses with feathers. Ben was still
breathing, trying to hold on, his vision almost obscured by his own blood. José groaned, barely
conscious.
“Stop! Stop!” he pleaded.
Ignoring his screams, they hoisted the broken bodies onto the stone altar. At the leader’s
curt nod, the other two ripped back the bloodied fabric of their captives’ shirts, exposing their
chests.
“Please, NO!”
Turning to the first of their two victims, the leader raised high a samurai-sharp obsidian
dagger. It hung motionless for a split second, reflecting the brilliant white light of the full moon
as it prepared for its deadly descent. Then, with brutal speed, it ripped through the hot evening
air, plunging true and straight into the chest of its victim. Embedded deeply, the leader
maneuvered the blade left and right, slicing with the cold efficiency of a butcher. The selfappointed
nacom priest levered the blade around the heart, severing the aorta and vena cava.
Then, drawing the knife out above the ribcage, he cut a fist-sized hole in the flesh. Sliding his
hand into the cavity, he grasped the beating heart in his powerful fingers and ripped it out with a
single wrench. It pulsated and jerked in his palm as it clung to its receding life force, its exit
wound drenching the smooth rock altar beneath with thick, red blood. The assassins reached
into the dark pool to smear the warm blood all over their bodies, faithfully following the
ceremonial duties of the nacom priesthood. Finally, slicing it free from its life-supporting
arteries, the priest raised the beating heart high above the altar as an offering to the full moon.
The blood sacrifice was complete. The gods were satiated. Turning to the bleeding corpse, with a
single heavy kick, he sent it tumbling off the altar to roll down the side of the pyramid, coming
to rest in a distorted tangle of limbs at the bottom where, in ancient times, the priests would
have dismembered, skinned and eaten the corpse while still fresh.
Continued….
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At the heart of every crime, there’s a family…. That fact is what drives Barbara’s fiction. It’s issue oriented, threaded with elements of suspense and defined by its particular emphasis on how crime effects families, the victim’s family, the perpetrator’s family. She indie published her first novel, The Ninth Step, in August of 2011 and she hasn’t looked back since. The Volunteer came out in October of 2011 and in November 2011, The Last Innocent Hour, originally published by Panther Creek Press in trade paper was digitized for release as an indie e-book.
