The Maya 1.43

Previously On The Maya...

Paloma says she is okay with George Kirkegaard's attraction to Amara Barclay because he still wanted to see her. Kirkegaard tells her about his failed newspaper business, and his anger rises again. Paloma puts an arm around his neck and they kiss for the very first time. Paloma connects his angry feelings with helplessness.

Discovering that they're conversation has caused their dinner to get cold, Paloma goes inside to warm the plates. At the same time, Kirkegaard hears the back gate door latch and goes to investigate. He sees no one, but out in the driveway, he feels something brush past him and he sees flickering colors. Then they are gone. Fearing he's hallucinating, Kirkegaard returns to the back patio to find Paloma there on the phone. Agent Smith wants to speak with him.

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The Maya—a living legend covert operative-for-hire that no one she encounters can remember.

George Kirkegaard—a former newspaper owner forced out of business by state government.

Eugenio Stavros—a shipping magnate on a trip to the mysterious Isle of Use to renegotiate a steel contract.

Amara Barclay—a savvy, independent multi-millionaire entrepreneur and socialite with unparalleled beauty.

Mr. Tic and Mr. Snake—two U.S. government officials running off-the-books dark ops involving The Maya.

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And now...the next installment of The Maya.

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Stupid, stupid girl!

Amara Barclay hid in the dense clump of palmettos along the roadside, helmet off, straddling the running motorbike. She was only six miles east from the onramp nearest to Paloma's house, but she couldn't go any further until she had wiped her eyes and calmed down. The helmet was fogging up from the inside due to her crying, and twice, she almost lost control of the bike.

She was a fool to think Kirkegaard could possibly be a spy. Why had she let it consume her so? Was she that afraid someone could know her secrets, after all this time?

And now, she had other emotions to deal with, ones she normally held in check, if felt at all. Why, she wasn't certain, but it made her angry. Affection, attachment, anything approaching sentimentality or love, were detrimental to her lifelong goals. She'd learned that from an early age. Do all you can today, for tomorrow never comes. It was a part of her power, her hold over others. But in one fell swoop, in one retelling of a dream, she was weeping like an infant.

Maybe Stavros was right. This island was somehow affecting her, and not for the better. The food, the water, the air, the people—she didn't know what it was, but she couldn't go soft. Professional, respectful, yes, but what she was feeling now, was neither of those things. This grief, of something lost, was anathema to her. It could destroy her. It could undo her true purpose here.

She reached down into a bag and pulled out a cloth. It was the closest thing she had to a tissue. She wiped her eyes, then wiped and blew her nose, and fell into a rhythm of long deep breathing.

She had kissed George Kirkegaard, partly to shock him, see how he would react, but mainly because she felt like it. At the time, she'd thought him a nice enough fellow, someone who deserved more than what life or fate was handing him. She still felt that way, but what she had mistook for some form of pity had somehow rebounded. She had become the pitiful. All over a dream?

No, there was more. Amara, used to having anything and anyone she wanted, was suddenly on the other end. George Kirkegaard, the common man, the ordinary, was suddenly beyond her reach.

She used the other side of the cloth to dry the inside of her visor, put the cloth back, and then replaced the helmet. That was enough. If there was any more detrimental emotions to deal with, it would have to be later. The sun had completely set while she was getting a grip on herself, and she had too far to go to waste any more time. The only concern she was not able to clamp down was whether or not she had been seen.

Twilight and sunrise were the two times where the invisibility of the acrylic was weak. She should have left sooner, before Paloma related her dream. She knew well before then that Kirkegaard was who he said he was. She knew it the very moment she saw them sharing Paloma's home cooked meal.

She banged the top of the engine with her fist. What now? Jealousy? No. There was nothing to be jealous about. Kirkegaard didn't even know Paloma had feelings for him. He didn't know she was here. How could he? Until yesterday, he didn't even know here existed. Somehow, this was all being arranged. Planets aligning. The gears of the cosmos. Fate. Destiny. Providence. Who knew? It only was, and she had no part in it. She wanted no part in it.

She...

A dark sedan passed her. It was so nondescript, she noticed it. Again. Instantly, she realized she'd seen it before. While she'd been cleaning herself up, it had gone by at least one other time. As that became clear, something else burst to the fore. She'd also seen it on a street near Paloma's house. In fact, she'd barely avoided hitting it as she blew past it.

Kirkegaard might not be a spy, but she knew a tail when she saw it.

Revving the engine, she peeled out in the dirt, got traction on the shoulder, and shot out onto the highway. Fortunately, there were no other vehicles within her field of view. She didn't know how it was possible, but the car had been following her, in spite of her precautions. How long, she didn't know either, but she had to presume it had been going on since she landed. Which meant, her boat ride last night might have been under surveillance, too.

She had no real plan of action when she caught up to the tail. All she knew was, she was mad, she needed to take it out on someone, and in practical terms, she would not be able to accomplish anything from here on out if she was being followed. It might not matter, if she was already compromised. She could take out one tail, and then three others would be placed. She needed to know how she was being tracked, so she could stop it from happening any further.

Somehow, she had to force the car off the road and incapacitate the driver, without killing either of them. The motorbike did not weigh enough to force the car off the road. She did not know how experienced her tail was, but she couldn't take their experience or skill for granted. For that matter, she didn't know how many adversaries were in the car. It was possible that a driver and four passengers waited within. It was also a possibility that the car was robotic, or otherwise remote controlled.

That last thought struck her as she came up alongside. Tinted windows prevented her from seeing within. As she drew closer, the vehicle made no attempt to move either towards her or away from her, but maintained its position in the lane. That might just mean the vehicle's proximity sensor was unable to locate her to take evasive action. But surely, if they were able to follow her, they knew she was right outside.

An idea flashed into her mind, and without considering it more than once, she came within arms length of the vehicle's side, raised up her left foot, and kicked the driver's door with her boot. There was a noticeable thunk, and the door flexed, but did not dent. She did leave a scuff mark. Maintaining her balance, she saw the vehicle still did not react. Either the driver was very good, or she was dealing with a robotic car.

A plan formed. She had no idea if it would work, but nothing better came to mind. She punched the accelerator, gaining a quarter mile lead on the tail, then she slammed on the brakes. The bike slid sideways, tires smoking, etching a long skid mark on the road. She was able to keep upright until she was almost at a complete stop. Swinging free, she laid it down, rolled, and then ran for the ditch.

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'The Maya' publishes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

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