Purchasing land in Peru had been a struggle at first, but the price was incomparable to anything he might be able to find elsewhere. The international company who had owned the mine and rights to the surrounding land was about to file for bankruptcy in Peruvian court, and he had saved them a lot of money and grief by making a lowball offer on all of it. His bank hadn’t even batted an eye at the purchase of the property, knowing that Garza was more than good for the amount — he had always made it a point to never miss a payment that was rightfully owed.

  His long-term goal was to move the entirety of his operations out of the United States, from Philadelphia, and into Peru. It had, so far, proven to be a tax haven for his company, and he was already beginning to make side deals with some of the military officials in the area — a feat which was far easier in the less-stable economic environment of South America.

  He stopped pacing and looked through the rectangular window in the door. Dr. Prichard was still examining something on the monitors, his face masked in an expression of confusion and shaded blue by the LED display. Garza knocked twice in rapid succession, didn’t wait for Prichard’s response, and barged in.

  “Well?” he asked.

  Dr. Prichard’s eyebrows rose, then fell, as he looked up. “Oh, right… sorry. The… administration is complete.”

  “And?”

  “It was successful.”

  Garza sighed. “You successfully administered the drug, or the drug’s effects when you administered it was successful?”

  “Oh, right. Uh, well, I’m checking into that now. You know, without Dr. —”

  “I don’t have the time to onboard another doctor, Prichard,” Garza said. He knew the complaint well. Dr. Prichard had been advocating for hiring another doctor for the past month, after the brutal death of his colleague Dr. Ruth Jenner. “It will take weeks to even find someone willing to make the trip, not to mention the months of training you and I will need to provide.”

  “Yes, but —”

  “I understand the reasoning, Dr. Prichard,” Garza said. “But I am working against a much different set of pressures than you. Please do not ask again.”

  Prichard’s eyebrows danced again, but he nodded quickly and stood up. The chair bounced backward as he rose, and he fumbled around for his footing. At some point in the past month, Garza thought, the man had descended into a mad scientist routine. It was annoying, but Prichard was the best he had.

  “Right,” Prichard said, continuing a conversation that had apparently been developing only in his mind, “so when I administered the treatment an hour ago, the subject had quite adverse effects at first.”

  “At first?”

  “Yes.”

  Garza pinched his forefinger between his thumb and ring finger, trying to distract himself from his annoyance by causing himself physical pain. “How long were these adverse effects?”

  “Oh — right. Well, uh, five minutes?”

  “And then?”

  “And then the dosage’s side effects faded away and led to a more stable condition in the subject.”

  “I see. Results?”

  “Well,” Dr. Prichard said, “I believe the results are promising. Uh, here.” He shifted to the corner of the room, next to the bed where the patient, an elderly Peruvian woman, was asleep. He stood at the head of the bed and tapped the woman’s arm.

  Her eyes opened slowly, flickering, then they focused on Garza and Prichard. When they met the doctor’s gaze, they widened, a look of fear coming over them. She stiffened, her wrists jerking upward, but the vinyl bindings holding them in place at her sides did their job. After a few seconds of fighting in vain, she fell back to the bed, defeated.

  “The effects are subtle, as you have no doubt noticed. She is still very much the same person — her personality remains unchanged.”

  “And we will be able to create a version of the drug that can be successfully airborne-dispersed?”

  “Yes, I believe so, but it will take —”

  “But it worked?” Garza asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Prichard replied. “Very much so. She is far more willing to accept outside persuasion than she would without the medication.”

  “I see. Prove it.”

  Dr. Prichard flicked his eyes to Garza, then back at the patient. “Well… uh, you see… the dosage is but a single portion of the overall treatment plan that I have —”

  “Prove it,” Garza said again.

  “Right. Okay.” Prichard cleared his throat, then sniffed. The staff Garza had hired were required to speak and understand Spanish, and he and Dr. Prichard were no exception. With a fluent, smooth voice, Prichard gently called out to the subject in the bed. “Ms., uh, Patient 84, do you know who I am?”

  Patient 84 nodded.

  “Good. Now, if you would, please lift your right arm.”

  The elderly woman’s right arm rose into the air a few inches until it was caught by the strap.

  “Fine, thank you. Now, Patient 84, please lift your left arm.”

  She did.

  Garza stepped forward. “Will she respond to me?”

  “Dr. Prichard shook his head. “I — I don’t believe so, sir. The treatment — the remaining portion of the drug, at least, it’s — meant to be administered over the course of —”

  “Patient 84,” Garza said in Spanish, “do you know who I am?”

  The woman frowned, but didn’t take her eyes off Garza. She shook her head.

  “Okay, that’s fine,” Garza said. “Patient 84, please nod your head.”

  The subject seemed confused at first, but she eventually nodded.

  “Very good. Now, I would like Dr. Prichard to remove your straps.”

  Prichard began to argue, but Garza held up a hand. Prichard complied, leaning over the woman and removing the straps holding her to the bed.

  “Patient 84, please take the scalpel from Dr. Prichard.”

  Dr. Prichard balked. “But I’m not even holding a —”

  “Enough,” Garza said. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a medical scalpel, its metal razor-sharp edge gleaming. He handed it to Prichard. “Patient 84, please take the scalpel.”

  With a shaking hand, patient 84 took the knife from Prichard’s hand. She held it out in front of her, over her chest, the tip pointing upward. If there was any idea in her eyes that she knew what she was holding, Garza couldn’t see it.

  “Patient 84,” Garza continued, “please sit up.”

  The woman complied immediately.

  “Dr. Prichard, this is remarkable.”

  “Y — yes, sir. The serum is from your own discovery, the borrachero.”

  Garza nodded. The Columbian plant borrachero, which, when processed a certain way, produced a drug similar to scopolamine called "buradanga." It caused short-term amnesia, hallucinations, and — if a high enough dosage was administered — a loss of free will. By mixing in a few additives as well, including the plant datura stramonium, or “Jimson weed,” Garza’s team had created a serum that he was hoping could produce an almost zombie-like state of robotic compliance in his subjects.

  “Very good. Patient 84,” Garza said, “please turn the scalpel around and place the tip of it on your wrist.”

  “Garza,” Prichard said. “The complete dosage is not —”

  “Do it.”

  The woman’s eyes seemed to grow, a fiery rage behind them, but she did as she was told. He watched the tip of the blade descend onto the tired, weathered flesh of the old woman’s wrist, and she naturally turned her palms over as it fell. The blade landed on her forearm, between the radius and ulna bones.

  Garza did not hesitate. “Patient 84, please use the scalpel to cut a line from the bottom of your palm to your elbow. Do it now.”

  The patient looked up at Garza, her eyes pleading. But her hand was already in motion, the scalpel ripping through flesh as if it were a chef’s knife falling through a piece of fresh meat. Blood seeped out the newly formed crack, at first slowly, then increasing in volume until the woman’s arm was completely covered in crimson.

  Garza watched, fascinated. He had always had an interest in medical procedures and human anatomy, but he had never spent the time to learn either craft. Still, he was riveted to the scene.

  “Garza?”

  Garza held a finger up to his lips, silencing his employee.

  The woman began breathing heavily, her internal emotions fighting against the chemical brain damage that had consumed her consciousness. Her eyes fell to her arm, and Garza could see she was unable to process what was happening. Her environment was completely foreign to her, and her facial expression now reflected that.

  Garza watched, in a trance, as Patient 84 slowly and painfully bled out, her rising heart rate and internal temperature swing causing Dr. Prichard’s monitor to beep. The incessant noise finally got the best of Garza and he turned, exiting the room.

  “Get a janitorial crew out here that can clean this up,” Garza said, over his shoulder as he reentered the pristine-white hallway.

  8

  Julie

  “What do you think?” She asked Ben. Julie was sitting across from him on one of the white folding chairs that was still under the wedding tent. She was fidgeting, trying to get the short dress to lay properly across her legs. This is why I don’t dress up, she thought.

  “I don’t want to think about it at all,” Ben said, lifting his glass to his mouth and taking a sip. “We just got married, Jules. Can’t we just enjoy the evening?”

  Reggie and Sarah walked over, and Julie could tell they were going to sit near them.

  She smiled. “Yeah, I know. It’s just — “ she leaned in close to Ben and whispered. “This could be our chance, Ben.”

  “We had a chance to kill him, four times already. We failed.”

  “No, I’m talking about the Hall of Records.”

  “You really think it’s there?”

  “I think something’s there,” she said. Reggie pulled up a chair for Sarah, then another for himself. His prosthetic arm was in a cast, apparently offering him a bit of relief from the strain. “Garza may not know about it, but you and Victoria came to the same conclusion — the Temple of Solomon, the pillars — it’s all right there.”

  Ben nodded. “Still, it’s in the heart of Ravenshadow’s base. If they’re still there, they’ll kill us. And you remember the —”

  “The giants,” Reggie said. “Yeah, those assholes were something else.”

  When they had been in Peru, they’d discovered that Garza had been working on something sinister: recreating the Biblical Nephilim, ancient giants that once roamed the earth. By severing a bone, then healing it and resetting it with the addition of a strain of yeast, the bone would grow far more rapidly than previously possible.

  It had led to the creation of a small army of grotesque, massive soldiers — men from the Ravenshadow group that had volunteered.

  Or, like Reggie, had been volunteered.

  “They were sick and dying,” Julie said. “Their bone structure couldn’t handle their own weight. Garza said so himself, remember? There’s a good chance they’ll all be gone when we get there.”

  “Or there’s a chance he’s got a hundred of them now.”

  Sarah was quiet, but she looked at Reggie. They locked eyes for a moment, then Reggie turned back to Ben and Julie. “I don’t think it’s smart, Julie,” he said.

  Julie felt her stomach drop. Reggie was a trained soldier, an ex-Army sniper who had seen his fair share of fighting and bloodshed. There was no one besides Ben she trusted her life to more, and if he felt the mission was dangerous, she knew she would be wise to heed his advice.

  “With my arm,” he continued, “and our… history, it seems like we’d be better off waiting it out. See if he surfaces again.”

  “We may not have time,” Julie said, realizing that her voice had risen and was carrying throughout the tent. People were mingling about — a handful of workers they’d hired for waiting tables and cleaning, her parents, Mrs. E, wheeling her husband around on the television screen. Her mom looked over with a concerned look on her face. Julie gave her a thumbs-up sign and turned back to the conversation.

  “I get it,” she said. “He’s stronger than us. More prepared. But isn’t this exactly what we’re supposed to be doing? Isn’t the Civilian Special Operations a group that’s supposed to take on the projects that are deemed too dangerous for small-time law enforcement and too risky or politically driven for government?”

  “Julie,” Ben said, “this is different. We’re talking about a guy who’s been building an army. Possibly one with dudes who are twice our size. And he’s well-funded. The Catholic Church backs him, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got the governments of a few third-world countries in the palm of his hand, too.” He paused. Took a drink. “I just don’t see how we’d be able to do anything. Not by ourselves.”

  “We’ve got four, maybe four-and-a-half people willing to fight,” Reggie said.

  She and Ben looked at Reggie, who just shrugged and held up his prosthetic.

  “So what do we do?” Julie asked. “You told Victoria that we were definitely going to do something.”

  “I did,” Ben sighed. “But it was partly because I wanted to enjoy this — the wedding. And partly because, in my book, calling someone else to handle it is doing something.”

  “Who would you call?” Julie asked.

  “I don’t know — Mr. E’s got connections with the Joint Chiefs. Maybe they’ll be able to pull some strings with the different branches, and —”

  “You know damn well the US military isn’t going to fly to Peru to rout out a mercenary-for-hire. Not for no reason.”

  “So we give them a reason,” Ben said. “We tell them, uh, the Hall of Records is there, but we’re afraid it’s being guarded.”

  “…and they’ll call the Peruvian government, who’ll just send out a small team to investigate. Do you think for a minute Garza hasn’t already prepared for that outcome?”

  Ben stood up. “Jules, what you’re talking about — what you’re recommending… it’s insane. We went down there once already, to get these guys back. We almost got killed six ways to Sunday. Going back? It’s a death sentence.”

  Reggie nodded. “I’m sorry, Julie,” he said. “I’d have to agree.”

  “What are we agreeing about?” Julie heard a voice say. She looked up and saw Archibald Quinones, walking over from behind Ben.

  Reggie quickly filled him in. The older man, still wearing his Jesuit priest’s robe and collar, nodded along. When he finished, he leaned in to the group.

  “Well, if it helps one way or another, I may have some information.”

  They all stared at Archie.

  “Victoria Reyes pulled me aside about an hour ago. She said she had already spoken with you, Harvey.”

  Ben nodded.

  “She said you would not join her.”

  “Join her?”

  Archie nodded. “Yes. She told me she is going back to Peru. To find her father, and to try to talk him into letting her examine the mountain where she believes the Hall of Records lies. She invited me along, for my ‘historic expertise’ of the area.”

  Julie’s mouth fell open.

  “And she said she is leaving tomorrow morning, first thing, with or without me.”

  9

  Ben

  “She’s leaving?” Ben asked. “For Peru?”

  “Tomorrow, yes,” Archie said.

  “Is she serious?”

  “She seemed quite serious, Harvey.”

  Reggie stood up as well and faced Archie. “She’ll get killed, man. Why didn’t you try to stop her?”

  “I do not think that is true,” he said. “Perhaps, but I find it more likely her father will have mercy.”

  “Mercy?” Julie asked. “For Vicente Garza? He’ll torture her.”

  The group sat in silence for a moment, until Ben spoke again. “We can’t go,” he said. “It’s still a suicide mission.”

  “We went for Reggie and Sarah last time,” Julie said. “Are you saying we —”

  “She made her decision!” Ben said, nearly shouting. “If she dies, my hands are clean.”

  Julie glared at him, but Ben didn’t back down. It’s the truth, he told himself. It’s not my fault.

  “Harvey,” Archie said. “There is more.”

  Ben rolled his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “I was sent this article — it pertains to a Peruvian village situated very closely to our land, the land Garza was on.”

  He pulled up the article on his phone and held it out for Ben and the others to see. Ben read the headline silently, then waited for Archie to translate it from Spanish.

  “It says ’20 Villagers Missing Near Chachapoyas Valley,’”

  “And that’s related to Garza or Ravenshadow?” Ben asked.

  “The article says that a farmer who often traded with this village, visited them to find that they had all mysteriously vanished. There was food left on tables, smoking fire pits, even a laptop open with a half-charged battery.

  “The farmer told the police, claiming it was El Muki, due to the close proximity of the mountain range, and —”

  “El Muki?” Reggie asked.

  “It is a Peruvian legend, a superstition. A light-skinned man with reddish features and a white beard that lives in the mines of the Andes. He lures people into his mine to work for him, promising great riches. They never reappear.”

  “Well,” Julie said. “That sounds realistic.”

  “However it may sound,” Archie said, “the farmer who believed it died the following day.”

  “Seriously?” Reggie asked.

  “He complained of heart pain, went to a friend who was a doctor, and died in the doctor’s arms.”

  “Poison?” Ben asked.

  “Most likely, though the authorities in that region are not releasing any other details. It does seem likely that whatever this man knew, someone did not want him telling anyone about it.”

 

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