The Maya 1.3
Author's note: Welcome to the third installment of "The Maya" (working title), an original work-in-progress that I've never published before. The first part is here, the second here.
Our story...
After being surprised by not one, but two assassins—one from the IIS (Leyla Zerjawy) and the other the KGB (Oleg Pavlov), Secret Service Agent Lance Simmons finds himself fighting for his life while trying to protect that of the President of the United States.
Injured, right arm useless, Simmons staves off both attackers for a few seconds. When both strike in sync again, he ducks under the deathblow of the Iraqi while pointing his gun at the Soviet.
There is a loud bang...
Zerjawy's sword flashed overhead, struck the wall and sent plaster raining down onto Simmons' head. Pavlov staggered back, using his left hand to clutch at his chest. Then he realized with relief what Simmons already knew. The sharp retort had not come from Simmons' modified and silenced Model 66.
The men looked toward the sniper rifle, where Zerjawy's gaze already fell. Standing in front of it was a statuesque and voluptuous being, appearing to be a woman, except for the head. Peacock feathers flared from a jeweled headdress, adorning a golden mask with a jutting beak-like nose. At first, the mask seemed to be made of the same metal. Then, the eyes opened and the mouth moved.
"Put down your weapons," the being said, with a voice resembling neither male or female. When none of the three complied, the being pounded a six-foot metal staff. Simmons and Pavlov recognized it as the noise from earlier, but slacked jawed and wide-eyed, they didn't care about that anymore.
Aside from concern that the being had somehow entered the room without any of them noticing, Simmons was trying to identify this woman with the bird-like face. She wore what amounted to a tight-fitting bikini top fashioned with jaguar fur, and a matching loin cloth. An emerald necklace, a chain with the same gems hanging from her thin waist, bronze gauntlets and greaves completed her ensemble. The rest of her was bare, toned and browned. To Simmons, she invoked the image of a South American Goddess.
From Zerjawy came the woman's unlikely identification. The Iraqi's awed utterance contrasted with the disdain in her narrowing eyes.
"The Maya?"
The being acknowledged Zerjawy with a slight nod.
"You're joking, right?" It was Pavlov. Face flushed, he straightened up, his freehand moving to the back of his head. A leer formed. "The Maya?" His eyes did not leave her, but his body turned slightly toward Zerjawy. "She looks like a showgirl!"
At that moment, the two-way declared, "Vanguard on final approach."
"No!"
In one fluid motion, Zerjawy freed her weapon from the wall and launched toward The Maya. Simmons tried to gain his feet, but Pavlov shoved him down as he also propelled forward. The window to kill the President was closing and the assassins were not ready to give up yet. Neither had failed in a mission, and they didn't want to start now.
In fairness, however, neither had faced The Maya.
While he watched the Soviet and the Iraqi spring forward, Simmons kept his eyes on The Maya, his mind reviewing what he knew about the mercenary-for-hire. It wasn't much. There weren't any reliable witnesses or sightings. Some who met The Maya simply vanished from the face of the Earth, never to be heard from again. Others, bruised and broken, were left without a single memory of their encounters. Because of this, even basics like gender and age were not known. An occasional token was left behind by the Maya—the only thing pointing to the mercenary ever being there.
Simmons wondered then which he would become—a missing person, or a survivor with faulty recall.
Neither appealed to him, but he decided he'd rather meet his fate with dignity. Resigned, he got up, just as Zerjawy's limp body, followed by Pavlov's, landed at his feet.
It had taken The Maya just two blows to dispatch the world class assassins. From his vantage point, Simmons was not able to see the blows land, blocked as he was by the backs of the Soviet and the Iraqi, but he heard them. They were unmistakable. With one outward thrust, The Maya drove the top of her staff past Zerjawy's sword and into her temple. It caught the Iraqi in midair and she arched and flopped like a rag doll. The staff then shot left, catching Pavlov in the fleshy part just beneath the left jaw. His own weight and momentum drove the staff inward. His feet rose off the floor and The Maya shoved. If Pavlov was still conscious on the way down, his awkward descent knocked him out.
Frozen, Simmons stood there, waiting for The Maya's next move. In a blur, The Maya advanced, but instead of coming after him, she removed something from the base of Zerjawy's ponytail, then picked up Pavlov's bat and began unscrewing the bottom of the handle. As she did, she turned to the sniper rifle.
"What are you...?" Simmons advanced, raising his gun. Is she here to kill the President, too? That he couldn't allow. But before he could do more, the staff lashed out, clipping his wrist and batting the revolver away.
"Preventing a tragedy," The Maya said.
Excerpts from 'The Maya' are posted every Tuesday and Thursday.
Copyright © Glen Anthony Albrethsen, 2014-2018. All rights reserved.