The Maya 1.1

Author's Note: This is the first installment of a previously unpublished original work-in-progress of mine. I started writing it about four years ago as a prequel to the two books I have already self-published.

I've been wanting to serialize one of my stories, but I wasn't sure which one to try first. I realized that this one, working title "The Maya," might be a perfect fit to be published here, since the story involves an island nation based on freedom and a lack of government or corporate control.

I plan to publish these installments, between 800-1,000 words each, every Tuesday and Thursday evenings.

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PART ONE: BEGINNINGS

U.S. Secret Service agent Lance Simmons dropped to the ground as the knife, intended for a spot between his shoulder blades, missed and sailed through the opening of the sliding glass door.

Simmons rolled to his side, simultaneously retrieving his Smith & Wesson Model 66 and fired a .357 Magnum round at his assailant. The bullet missed and embedded itself in the upper corner of the front wall.

As he scrambled to his feet, Simmons got a look at his attacker. The figure, covered from head to toe in dark gauze, was slight of build and fleet of foot. Even though Simmons had a revolver, his assailant was moving toward him, longblade shining in the ambient light. Like a Ninja, Simmons thought, though he seriously doubted his foe was Japanese.

He shot and missed his mark again, worse than before, and then the figure was on him, sword slashing. Simmons dodged, then backed away enough to avoid the blade so he could squeeze off another shot. An arm-length away from hitting its target, the bullet caromed off the sword as the figure slapped it away.

Holy...

The figure's skill with the weapon, its flexibility and speed, were phenomenal. And somehow, whatever The Ninja was doing, it affected Simmons' own timing. How or why, he couldn't think about now. He had to find a way to end this fight quickly, or he wouldn't survive it.

They circled the same area of the hotel room twice, The Ninja flicking the blade out any time Simmons went to lift his gun. Then, they both stopped cold, drawn to what sounded like the scraping of metal on a hardwood floor.

Three feet inside the front door they found a burly man, wearing a hoodie, jeans, boots with brass toes, and wielding an aluminum baseball bat.

Simmons knew it wasn't one of his men, and by the looks of things, he didn't belong to The Ninja, either. The latter bounded a couple steps toward the far wall, and settled into a stance where they could see both Simmons and the man Simmons now dubbed The Brawler.

Simmons retreated to his own corner as The Brawler shut, locked the door and moved in.

Then, without a word, The Brawler removed his hood. A light prickly stubble crowned his head, lined his jaws and chin. His nose was crooked, but his teeth gleamed white as he let out a laugh.

"A fine predicament, no?"

Simmons recognized The Brawler immediately from one of a myriad of mission briefs he received over the years. In the moment, he couldn't recall which one—only that the man had not appeared as a threat for this current mission, a now troubling miss for Intelligence—but it was a hard face to forget. Not for any scars or strange shape of the head, but the pure savagery in the steely blue eyes. The man's name was Oleg Pavlov, aka Iron Bear, and he was a brutal killer for the KGB.

A KGB now going defunct with the crumbling of the Soviet bloc. It made sense for Pavlov to be here, even if he had slipped the attention of the agency's famed analysts.

"Quite."

The response came from The Ninja, who curiously, performed a similar reveal. Holding the blade straight out in their left, pointing it back and forth at Pavlov, then Simmons, The Ninja undid the knot on the top of their head and began to unravel the wrap. Dark, thick hair in a pony tail appeared first, then lush eyebrows, followed by large hazel-colored eyes that were heavy-lashed and lidded. By the time the rest of the exotic olive-skinned face was bared, Simmons knew who The Ninja was, too.

Leyla Zerjawy, an operative for the Iraqi Intelligence Service's Directorate 14, a division answering directly to Saddam Hussein. While not known for the same level of beast-like ferocity as Pavlov, Simmons knew she was an adept assassin. Like the KGB, however, an IIS agent had not been deemed a credible threat on this trip, even though coalition forces had recently defeated Iraq in the Gulf War.

"How honorable," Pavlov said, addressing the Iraqi agent. The mirth slowly drained from his face. "It's unfortunate we meet like this, when we are one in purpose."

Zerjawy nodded slightly. As she did, there was a squawk, and then a muffled voice said, "Vanguard turning onto TS."

The announcement came form Simmons' two-way radio, still propped up on the desk. Eerily, Pavlov's and Zerjawy's gazes turned in unison from each other to Simmons. It was obvious, for now, it would be two against one, with Simmons odd man out. It also became crystal clear why both killers were here.

They meant to assassinate the President of the United States. What's more, they meant to do it with the Secret Service's own sniper rifle.

"Tag," Pavlov said, slow and menacing. "You're it."

Second Installment will be Thursday, February 8, 2018

_{Copyright © Glen Anthony Albrethsen, 2014-2018. All rights reserved.}