Simon Gray stopped fighting years ago when he left the Army, but the CIA has made him an offer he can't refuse: the opportunity to take down Guatemalan arms dealer Yum Cimil. Cimil considers himself Maya royalty, and is planning worldwide destruction to usher in the Maya Fifth World on December 21, 2012.
Simon knows all too well the damage Cimil is capable of. This time, it's stolen nukes and a presidential kidnapping. Decades earlier, it was more . . .personal. Now he'll get his chance for revenge, but stopping Cimil won't be enough. Homo sapiens isn't the only hominid with skin in this game, and Simon must prevent an attack that threatens the very existence of the human race.
EXCERPT:
PROLOGUE
The Yucatan Peninsula
Mayan Long Count: 10.10.10.10.10, Tzolkin 1 Oc, Haab 13 Pax
(September, 1037 A.D.)
Balaam wasn't expecting his world to fall apart that day. However, an apocalypse can put a dent in the best of plans.
As he passed under the sacred arch leading to the temple, the smell of carrion reached his nostrils. He wiped his face, as if to dispel the odor, and his hands came away covered with grime and sweat. His legs felt heavy moving up the weathered stone steps, and he knew it wasn't all due to fatigue from his twelve hour journey. The stench increased, his heart started beating faster, and he wondered if they were dead already. As he gazed into the central courtyard from the top step, he stopped wondering.
The bodies adorned the grassy space as if arranged with a purpose. Some were seated, some lay on their backs in a pose resembling sleep. But this was no siesta. Even from where he stood, he could tell they were dead. The signs of the great sickness were on them, the dried skin and shriveled flesh.
Balaam dropped to his knees, and his moan shattered the humid silence. The birds on the arch took to the sky. His head sank to the cold stone, arms outstretched in supplication. As an assistant to the priests, he had seen his share of sacrifice, and even offered his own blood as part of the ceremony. He'd never understood how jamming thorns in his flesh pleased the gods, but he wasn't foolish enough to question it aloud. Questioners found themselves at the top of the pyramid with their hearts ripped out.
Even though he'd known the end could be coming, he couldn't accept that they were all gone. After a long minute, he dared to breathe again and rose to his feet. Balaam did not consider himself brave, but the news he carried was even more terrible than the carnage that lay before him. He had to see if anyone was left alive.
He examined the first body he came to, seated in a high-backed reed chair. He could barely recognize the man. The mysterious disease that had ravaged the land in recent years struck down mostly priests, hideously disfiguring its victims in the process. It took their hair first. Then it consumed them from within, the flesh just disappearing from their bodies over time. No one knew what caused it, but clearly the gods were angry.
Before he had left to consult the seers at the retreat near Tulum, the priests here had found an herb that appeared to alleviate the symptoms. By drinking the herb in a strong tea, they lived many moons longer. Obviously it had stopped working. Still struggling to control his grief and fear, Balaam muttered a single word. "Itzamna."
Only Itzamna, creator of all things, could be responsible. In an odd way, this gave him comfort, as if confirming the omnipresent role of the divine. Avoiding the lifeless bodies as much as possible, he crossed the courtyard, focusing on his feet as they compressed the wet ground. He passed under a rounded doorway into the darkness of the main temple.
As always, he felt in the blackness of the hallway something akin to the security of a swaddled baby. His hands moved to trail along the walls with familiarity born of countless repetition. Despite the familiar space, his mind struggled to explain what he had discovered in the courtyard. All at once he felt oppressed by the cave-like building; he began to run. He burst out of the hall to face the altar, no longer able to hold his tongue.
"In the name of Itzamna, is anyone alive? Chelte, are you here?"
He received no reply. Throwing his frail body to the ground, he knelt in front of the altar with a moan. It seemed only the pale light of the torches bore witness to his grief. For long minutes, all he heard were the ragged gasps of his own breathing.
"Balaam, is that you?" A weak and raspy voice pierced the stillness. Balaam raised his head and looked left, eyes wide with surprise. He could just make out a figure slumped against the wall, and he jumped to his feet. He found Chelte, the oldest of the priests, sitting in a pool of blood.