The Lost Continent (3 page)

As Lucas stared into Wade's eyes, he watched as there was a rapid change. The whites seemed to change yellow and the brown pupil turned to black, contracting inward until it formed a sliver. Lucas blinked, not sure if he could trust what he thought he saw, as Wade's eyes were already normal once more.

“No...I suppose not,” said Lucas.
 

The three burly men at the bar made their way over, towering behind Lucas.
 

“And as I'm sure you've also surmised, the Order is
not
to be trifled with.”

“Oh really?” asked Lucas with a cocked brow. He swung his free arm back, his elbow striking one of the three dead in the chest. Lucas followed that by ducking as the man directly behind him attempted to grab him.
 

Lucas hit the ground and braced himself as he drove one foot into the man’s crotch. Lucas sprung up again as the man bent forward, using the gun as a blunt instrument to bring him down.

The first one had recovered from the elbow strike and grabbed Lucas’ gun hand as the Zastava went off. With the sound of the gunfire, some of the barflies decided now was a good time to make an exit but a few others stayed to watch.
 

Wade’s man had Lucas pinned against the table and the Greek mercenary struggled before headbutting him. The man pulled back and Lucas drove the edge of his hand into the attacker’s throat.

One more left, who tried to tackle Lucas right out. Lucas ducked and moved into the attack, using the man’s own momentum to flip him over on the back. Without missing a beat, Lucas took aim and put a bullet between the man’s eyes. He shot the other two downed men as well and then returned the Zastava to Wade’s head.

“You were saying?” he asked.

Wade just smiled and sipped his beer, as if he couldn’t care less about the entire incident. “You see, Mr. Davalos? This is why my organization is in need of your services and why we want you to continue this mission. You will be rewarded handsomely for your efforts, naturally.”

Lucas couldn’t help but grin slightly at the fat man’s arrogance. “I just killed three of your men in front of me. I’ve got a gun to your head. What makes you think you won’t join them?”

“Your itchy trigger-finger aside, if you wanted to kill me you wouldn’t still be talking,” said Wade. “You’re showing off, trying to make me afraid of you, but I frankly couldn't care less. I know what you’re interested in and that’s the money. And this job will give you more than you’d know what to do with. But if you’d rather kill me and walk away with only half a million dollars, that’s fine. On the other hand, if you’re more interested in making ten mil, why don’t you have a seat?”

Lucas was tempted to just pull the trigger but Wade was right—it wouldn’t be profitable in the least. So he sat, but he kept the gun aimed at Wade just in case the man said anything more to piss him off. With his free hand, he took a cigarillo and lighter from his pocket.

“What’s the job?” he asked as he began to puff on the end of the rolled tobacco.

“We have the Keystone, we know what it leads to, we just don’t know where the gateway is.”

“How the hell would I know that?” asked Lucas.

Wade reached across the table and took Lucas' cigarillo from his mouth. He sucked on the end of it and slowly exhaled the smoke as he answered the question. “Does the name James Churchward ring any bells?”

“Not even a jingle,” said Lucas.

Wade stomped out the cigarillo, earning him another dagger stare from Lucas, but the larger man gave it no mind. “Churchward was a soldier in India during the late nineteenth century. He discovered a set of clay tablets written in the Naga-Mayan language. The same as the Keystone.”

“And?”

“The tablets weren't very descriptive, but we believe they hid within them a location, a site where the Keystone can be used to return to the lost continent of Lemuria.”

“So we need the tablets,” said Lucas, drinking the tequila. “Where do I find those?”

“The Churchward Tablets, as they're known, are most likely in the same place where Churchward himself first viewed them.”

“You want me to go to India?” asked Lucas.

Wade offered a smile as he tapped his nose.

“Wonderful, I hear it's fucking scorching there this time of year,” muttered Lucas. “But if I'm going to do this, I need something from you.”

“And that would be?”

“You handle my travel expenses.”

Wade tapped the briefcase with his foot. “That should be sufficient to get you started. We'll be in touch soon to arrange for more.”

“This isn't going to be deducted from my final fee, will it?”

Wade grinned. “Why Mr. Davalos, I thought you weren't greedy?”

“Greed's got nothing to do with it, this is business.”

“Indeed it is. Don't worry, the job is ten million in cash plus travel expenses.”

“That's better,” said Lucas, finishing the tequila. He stood, lifting the briefcase. “Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a date with a waitress.”
 

Maxwell Finch examined the books on the shelf, running his fingers along the spine. All manner of dictionaries and texts. If one needed a translation, there was no one better to go to than Jackson King.
 

“See you're admiring the collection, old friend.”

Max looked up and saw King descending into the first floor of the massive library via a circular staircase. His dark head was bald save for the silver goatee, the only real indication of his age. When he reached Max, the two men shook hands and smiled.

“Good to see you again, Jackson,” said Max.

“The feeling's mutual,” said King. He gestured to the study. “Cognac?”

“Please.”

They entered the study where a pair of large chairs sat in front of a fireplace. Max took one of the chairs as King went to the liquor cabinet and poured cognac into two glasses. He carried them over and handed one to Max before sitting in his chair.

Max's eyes wandered around the study, admiring the massive, oak desk and the scrolls that lined the walls. Jackson King was a child prodigy, graduating from M.I.T. at the age of fifteen with advanced degrees in linguistics.
 
Over the past fifty years, he made his fortune working as an independent translator and code breaker, doing a lot of work for various intelligence agencies during the Cold War. He also worked for museums and corporations, translating whatever was necessary and sometimes interpreting as well.
 

King had mastered most languages spoken in the modern world and had a firm grasp on the ones he had yet to achieve fluency in. He also had a wealth of knowledge on the subject of ancient languages.
 

“I look at you and sometimes I feel like I went into the wrong line of work,” said Max, savoring the scent of the cognac.

King chuckled at this. “So what can I do for you, Max?”

“I've got something here I think you'll want to take a look at.” Max set the cognac on the table by the chair and reached inside his jacket, pulling out an envelope which he handed to King. Inside the envelope, King found glossy hard copies of the photos Elisa took.

“What is this?” asked King.

“The Keystone of the Naa'cal,” said Max.

“Where did you find it?”

“I didn't, Elisa did. Near Tortuga.”

King slowly looked up at Max. “Elisa Hill?”

“I've heard about your...encounter.”

“Encounter. Nice way of putting it,” said King. “My shoulder still aches at times.”

“She's a good kid, a good hunter, she knows what she's doing.”

“Reckless. She started off doing jobs for money. No better than a mercenary.”

“Well now she's a myth hunter for the right reasons,” said Max. “And you know what this concerns.”

King nodded. He produced a pair of thin glasses from his pocket and examined the photographs with them on. Max sipped the cognac and watched as his old friend tried to read the symbols.

“Do you recognize it?”

“It'll take some time, but I think I might be able to interpret some of it.”

“How long do you think it'll take?”

King lowered his glasses. “When do you need it by?”

“Elisa and I are meeting tomorrow morning at eight. Any chance you could have it translated by then?”

“Highly doubtful, but I will have some more information.”

“Thank you, my friend,” said Max. “You're a life saver.”

King looked up and shook his head. “Don't brown-nose, Finch. It doesn't suit you in the least.”

Max couldn't help chuckling. “You're always good for a laugh, Jackson.”

“Yes, I've been told I'm quite the prankster,” said King.
 
“But Max, you should really think about what it is you're trying to accomplish. Lemuria, really? All geological evidence prohibits the existence of any lost continents, let alone one the size Lemuria was reported to be.”

“The Hills believed in it.”

“And they went to their graves never finding it,” said King. “Robert and Tanya were my friends, too. But Lemuria is a fool's quest. I would've thought that after all these years, you would have learned as much yourself. You wasted thirty years of your life trying to find it and these photos are the closest you've ever come.”

“The Keystone exists, Jackson. Elisa held it in her hands before it was stolen from her,” said Max.

“Doesn't matter whose daughter she was, I don't consider that woman a reliable source.”

Max took another sip of his drink. “I trust Elisa with my life. If she says it's true, then it's true. Now will you help me or not?”

Jackson sighed and nodded. “Okay.”

***

Scott Sheen sat in a dress suit with a vest in place of the jacket. His short, round frame is what earned him the nickname Stubby. His tie and collar were loose and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. He rubbed the sweat from the bald spot on top of his head before returning to count the money, occasionally pausing to puff on a cigar.
 

The only light in the small office came from a hanging lamp above him that also generated more heat than he found himself comfortable with. Still, he tried to ignore it as best he could and continued counting his cash, separating them into piles according to denomination.

He heard a noise and looked up. Removing the cigar from his lips before he shouted, “who's out there?”

No response and he reached inside his desk drawer, pulling out a Magnum revolver. Standing from the chair, he moved to the front of the office and opened the door, peering out. “We're closed, get lost!”

Still nothing, so he stepped out and walked through the pawn shop, turning on the lights as he moved through. The newfound illumination gave him no indication of who else was in the shop. But he could see through the glass of the front door that the gate was open.
 

“Whoever you are, get the hell out of here before I ventilate you!”

He shook his head and went to the front door, closing the gate and locking it once again. After locking the front door, he plodded back towards the office when something wrapped around his throat and pulled him against one of the side walls.

“Ventilate? Now is that any way to treat an old friend, Stubby?”

Stubby gagged and the cable around his throat slackened enough for him to speak. He couldn't see his assailant, but the voice he recognized almost instantly. “Oh hey...Elisa! Long time, no see!”

“Probably not long enough.” Elisa released the cable and kicked Stubby forward. He tripped over his feet and fell flat on his face. Elisa walked towards him and planted a heavy boot on his back, slamming him back against the floor.

“The hell's this all about?” asked Stubby. “I know you're not in the biz anymore, but do I really deserve this treatment?”

“Good question,” said Elisa, replaying her last memory of Stubby. “Let's see...you were the one who gave Seth my location on that last job I did for you and almost got me killed, right?”

“Heh heh...oh that little thing,” said Stubby. “Listen kid, you gotta believe me, the guy had me strung up by the balls—literally! There was nothing I could do about it, honest!”

“Right, nothing you could do and because of that nothing, not only did I lose a big bounty on a werewolf, but I also lost the skins.”

“What do you care? Thought you decided that sort of 'anything goes' thing was too dangerous?”

“I did, but old wounds and all that,” said Elisa. She turned him over onto his back and knelt down, pressing a kukri against his throat. “Now let's have a little chat.”

“Heh...what about? If you wanna reminisce, I think I got a bottle of gin stashed away somewhere.”

“Very sweet of you to offer, but that's not what I meant. No, I want to talk about someone else. And I think you already know who I mean.”

“If it's Seth, I don't know shit! He's gone off the radar, honest!”

“Seth can go rot for all I care, I'm not interested in him. I want someone else.”

“And who's that?”

“Lucas Davalos.”

“Huh?” asked Stubby. “Davalos, what you want with that guy?”

“Ran into him in the Caribbean recently, not far from Tortuga,” said Elisa. “And he stole something from me.”

“What's that?”

“The Keystone.”

“What keystone?”

“Of the Naa'cal, you moron.”

Stubby began to laugh. “Now you're just messin' with my head! C'mon Hill, the Keystone of the Naa'cal? Even
you
should know that's just a myth!”

“It's real, Stubby. I had it in my hand and Davalos took it right out of my fingers.”

“Find it hard to believe you'd let a scumbag like Davalos get away with that,” said Stubby.
 

“He had a shotgun pointed at my head, there wasn't much I could do. Which is why I'm trying to find him now. I need that Keystone, Stubby. I spent the past few months in the jungles of South America tracking it before the clues finally led me to a small cove near Tortuga.”

“So you get the Keystone and what then?” asked Stubby. “Think you're gonna validate Churchward's crackpot theory?”

“You and I both know that what most people consider to be myths are anything but,” said Elisa. “So what do you say?”