Alicia myles 1 - Aztec Gold Read online

  Aztec Gold

  (Alicia Myles #1)

  By

  David Leadbeater

  Copyright 2014 by David Leadbeater

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher/author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase any additional copy for each reader. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Thriller, adventure, action, mystery, suspense, archaeological, military

  Other Books by David Leadbeater:

  The Matt Drake Series

  The Bones of Odin (Matt Drake #1)

  The Blood King Conspiracy (Matt Drake #2)

  The Gates of hell (Matt Drake 3)

  The Tomb of the Gods (Matt Drake #4)

  Brothers in Arms (Matt Drake #5)

  The Swords of Babylon (Matt Drake #6)

  Blood Vengeance (Matt Drake #7)

  Last Man Standing (Matt Drake #8)

  The Disavowed Series:

  The Razor’s Edge (Disavowed #1)

  In Harm’s Way (Disavowed #2)

  Threat Level: Red (Disavowed #3)

  The Chosen Few Series

  Chosen (The Chosen Trilogy #1)

  Guardians (The Chosen Triology #2)

  Short Stories

  Walking with Ghosts (A short story)

  A Whispering of Ghosts (A short story)

  Connect with the author on Twitter: @dleadbeater2011

  Visit the author’s website: www.davidleadbeater.com

  Follow the author’s Blog http://davidleadbeaternovels.blogspot.co.uk/

  All helpful, genuine comments are welcome. I would love to hear from you.

  [email protected]

  This one's for Amber and Jade.

  Contents

  Other Books by David Leadbeater:

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY ONE

  TWENTY TWO

  TWENTY THREE

  TWENTY FOUR

  TWENTY FIVE

  TWENTY SIX

  TWENTY SEVEN

  TWENTY EIGHT

  TWENTY NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY ONE

  THIRTY TWO

  THIRTY THREE

  THIRTY FOUR

  THIRTY FIVE

  THIRTY SIX

  THIRTY SEVEN

  PROLOGUE

  The City of Tenochtitlan,

  Mexica,

  June, 1520 AD

  The boy perched on the highest point of the highest hill, watching. His name was Acalan, meaning ‘canoe’. He had no idea why a boy named so would fare particularly badly at watery pursuits nor why his parents, artisans both, had named him after a water going vessel. Even the tiacotin, the slaves of his household, questioned it though not knowingly within earshot.

  His eyes swept the gleaming city below. The Spanish were everywhere, their conquistadors prancing in full armor atop their horses, already conquerors in mind if not in reality. And though their leader, the one called Cortés, had departed days ago, it was later said, to fight off fellow Spaniards that were coming to arrest him, there was still another in charge tonight—one they called Alvarado.

  This preening deputy governor had finally consented to the Aztecs’ many requests to allow them to celebrate the festival of Toxcatl, granted after the imprisoned leader of the Aztecs, Montezuma himself, made an impassioned plea. They were all down there now, almost a thousand men gathering in the Patio of the Gods, mostly lords and nobles, naked except for their glittering jewels and feathered headdresses, surrounded by singers and drummers, readying themselves for the festival’s beginning.

  The Spaniards watched dispassionately.

  Acalan squinted harder, trying to distinguish the familiar figure of his father making ready in the square. The men all looked very much alike from this distance, the women—he was starting to realize as he progressed in years—not so much. One in particular, Chimalma, meaning shield-bearer, had already caught his eye, her sparkling flirtatious gaze the core of his dreams. He looked away from the area of the main temple, seeking her dwelling, but the white pathways were full to bursting with so many dark-haired people on this early eve that it was impossible to tell one from another.

  The sun was starting to set, a fiery blaze on the horizon. Some would say a portent of bad things to come. Others—warriors and priests—would say death and slaughter were never far away from a culture that practiced human sacrifice.

  The festival would soon begin. Acalan, in his curious way, was looking forward to it. This night always produced a fine spectacle. Maybe even the sly, stoic Spaniards would be impressed. The boy sat back and sniffed the air, allowing his senses to wander, the smoky reek of fire vying with the natural heady scent of fresh air. The grass rustled and the soil scraped into ruts beneath his bare feet as he dug them in hard, enjoying the sensation.

  Let the men have their ceremony. All Acalan needed was this sense of freedom. The arrival of the Spanish, though at first welcomed by Montezuma and many other lords, had instilled within the community an underlying, multifaceted sense of dread. If the Spanish were indeed returning gods, then why didn’t they act so and why were they insatiably greedy? If they were conquerors why didn’t they fight? And where was their leader now?

  Acalan stretched as the noise coming from below intensified. A caterwauling of religious admiration spread its passionate voice across the heavens, rising up on a self-centered cloud, the nobles engrossed in their worship. Acalan watched with a kind of fascinated disinterest. He saw the men whirling in their fancy garb; saw the musicians around the outside playing furiously, the great noise beginning to swell yet again. Acalan flicked a glance over the watching Spaniards—their faces rarely changed expression and tonight was no exception. From his vantage point he could see further afield and it was he that first saw the disturbance.

  Nothing major—just a change in pace and raised voices. It came from over by the Spanish compound, impacting Acalan’s awareness more than if it had come from anyplace else. The conquistadors were forming together, amassing into a unit and their captain, Alvarado, was shouting at them.

  Acalan wanted to smile. Perhaps a thief existed in their midst, or a rebel. It could be that they were getting a dressing down, but Acalan’s parents had taught him to always be wary and trust very little, and thus he wasn’t surprised, just alarmed when the men formed into lines and began to march out of the compound’s gates.

  Having no concept of politics, but knowing violence when he saw it in the set of a man’s shoulders and the way of his walk, Acalan bounced to his feet and se
t off down the hill like a bolt of lightning. His parents were at the Patio of the Gods, as was most everyone else. On this night they would have no warning of the approaching menace.

  Acalan’s feet whispered through the tall grass, swishing their way through the clumps like scythes with the speed of his passage. At one point he lost his balance, falling head over heels for a few moments, and the scene vibrating up from the square below assailed his vision like a tumbling kaleidoscope. He fancied he could hear the march of the men, the dull clunk of their weapons, even the sly sibilance of their murderous breaths. He fancied he could hear the tuneful lilt of his mother’s voice, the intonations remembered from a happy childhood of sweet songs, and the thudding in his heart rose until he could no longer bear it.

  He caught himself, arrested the fall, then stood and screamed. “They are coming! Beware. They are coming!”

  But of course the chanting and the music drowned him out. The people were ear-splittingly ecstatic in their celebration of the festival of Toxcatl, oblivious to all else.

  Acalan despaired.

  He ran on. The soldiers approached the square, their leader taking point. Acalan expected them to stop and shout, to halt proceedings, to gesture and accuse and march somebody off to captivity. He expected a dangerous stand-off, the Aztecs outraged at the interruption and the Spaniards forcibly trying to drive their collective will home.

  What he didn’t expect was the heart-stopping suddenness with which the Spaniards drew their swords, the violent vigor with which they charged forward, the happy abandon with which they began to chop down his people.

  Acalan cried out as he ran, an entreaty to the gods. Even from this distance he could see the blood flow, the bodies collapse as they were hacked apart. A cry went up from the square, a cry to arms, but the Aztec warriors would not arrive in time to save their brethren.

  A mass of people poured away from the massacre. The Spaniards let them go, concentrating their murderous efforts against the Patio as if seeking some kind of retribution. Several townsfolk went to the aid of their lords, but were treated none the less ruthlessly.

  Now it seemed, only now, the Spaniards were showing their true colors. They laughed as they slaughtered, stabbed helpless men time and again in a form of torture, chopped a man’s head clean off and then kicked it around between them. They did worse to the women, leaving none alive.

  Acalan sped down beyond the bottom of the slope, mercifully losing sight of the massacre and threading the streets toward his parents’ abode, heart heavy and pounding, desperately, staggeringly hopeful that they’d made it out alive. Screams and the sounds of death and dreadful laughter now infused the night air.

  Acalan came around the final corner.

  His mother’s arms were open, her face the epitome of relief. His father’s face was grim.

  “This is the first night of their destruction,” he said. “If Montezuma won’t help us, we will help ourselves.”

  *

  Following the events referenced during the night above, the Aztecs laid siege to the Spanish compound until Cortés returned and even elected a new leader. Following the Spanish captain’s triumphant reappearance, having subdued and indeed gained even more followers during his time away, the imprisoned king, Montezuma himself, was killed and Cortés decided the Spaniards’ best chance was to break out of the city at night.

  During this night—later called ‘La Noche Triste’, the Night of the Long Sorrows, the Spaniards, under cover of a rainstorm, broke out along a narrow causeway. A battle of ferocious intensity ensued. Hundreds of canoes appeared alongside the causeway, filled with warriors. Weighed down by plundered gold and equipment, the Spaniards stumbled along, some losing their footing and drowning, sinking into the mud below so burdened were they with treasure that was not theirs to take.

  Thousands died that night. Even native women, cooks and housekeepers that had been given to the Spaniards, died amidst the rage of battle.

  Unknown to the Spaniards, and little documented since, were the actions of the Aztecs during the weeks following the original massacre at the Patio of the Gods and the return of Cortés. They took firm action. Whilst the Spaniards under Alvarado were besieged in their compound, the Aztecs amassed the majority of their remaining wealth—a great treasure trove of jewels and gold coins, the largest monetary treasure ever assembled. Even the buildings were stripped of their gold and gems.

  It is said that seven caravans set out, following a northern course.

  Writings tell of the caravans traveling for a long time, but no one knows where they ended up or the actual treasure location . . .

  ONE

  Alicia Myles gripped the monster between her thighs, holding on tight as it bucked and weaved under her.

  Damn British roads aren’t made for bikes, she thought. Too many unrepaired potholes.

  The Ducati rumbled as she laid it down around the next curve, engine growling like a restrained predator.

  Its rider, the same kind of animal, allowed her mind to wander as the road finally straightened out. Her new boss, Michael Crouch, had gathered a new team together after the devastation of his old unit, the Ninth Division, and his subsequent exit from the British Army. Objectives changed, but loyal contacts didn’t, and Crouch already knew he could rely on dozens of well-placed, well-financed, highly-influential connections to help him succeed in his new venture.

  But first he needed a world class team.

  Hence the recruitment of Alicia.

  Crouch’s new HQ was situated somewhere in Windsor, UK, and it had taken her many hours of confined air travel from Washington DC to get here. The Ducati was an indulgence; rented near to Heathrow airport it was a tribute to a former friend.

  The road unfolded before her, a blank empty canvas, an endless journey with hazards around every corner, the way her life was lived.

  At that moment a raucous noise interrupting her thoughts. The shrill, cantankerous tones had become more than a constant companion, more a never ending nightmare since they’d left DC, and filtered through her Bluetooth headset even now whilst they rode on separate bikes.

  “This ain’t how I remember London. Goddamn trees and shit. And tractors. Every bloody bend—always another tractor.”

  “Quit yer whining,” Alicia breathed back. “Before I leave you twitching in a hedgerow.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the voice said. “Y’know, I’m starting to think with you it’s bark worse than bite.”

  Alicia raised her eyebrows, unseen beneath the helmet. Her companion was known as Laid Back Lex and was a member of the biker gang Alicia had briefly joined several months ago. Following the gang’s near-annihilation at the hands of the dreaded Blood King and the death of Lomas, its leader and Alicia’s boyfriend, the gang had drifted apart. Lex remained the only member that had clung to Alicia, heart-warming at first, not so much many months later when his incessant droning had begun to flay her nerves like a leather-jacketed hunting knife.

  “Is that what you think?” she breathed. “Man, do you have a lot to learn about me.”

  The place Crouch had described was approaching on the right, confirmed by a beep from the satnav. Black iron gates stood open. Alicia slowed her bike, allowing the machine to drift to a stop right outside the entrance, and stared down the long, winding path that led to the house.

  Another unknown road. From leaving home she had followed some kind of road, content to let it lead her wherever it so chose. From the Army to questionable military allegiances to Matt Drake and his SPEAR team; then to Lomas and the Slayers, back to SPEAR and now here. The path wound ever on. It meandered, it twisted harshly, but it never brought her any kind of solace.

  She sighed. Lex was at her side, staring. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  She took her helmet off and gestured that he should do the same. She shook out her blond hair. “How old are you, Lex?”

  “Thirty. Ish.”

  “Any regrets?”

  “Course not. Life’
s too short for that shit.”

  “And the future? What does it hold for you?”

  Lex appeared confused. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

  Alicia slapped her forehead with her hand. “Of course not! All I’m saying is this—we can’t keep on running forever.” She gunned her bike, opening the throttle, and roared down the path.

  Trees swayed and rustled around her, the wind whipping through them before striking her face. Ahead, the path curved and a stately house appeared, large enough to house an army. Alicia pulled up in between a Mini Cooper S and a blue Mitsubishi Evo. Not the best sign. The Mini was okay and probably belonged to Crouch but the Evo no doubt belonged to some young upstart.

  She hadn’t joined a new team to be the resident babysitter.

  Lex pulled in beside her. “Shit, man, move over. Can’t get a goddamn space.”

  Alicia had had enough. With all the recent traumas and the long trip her patience was wearing thin. She rounded on the biker. “Christ, Lex, give it a rest. Do I look like a man to you?”

  Lex eyed her leathers. “Dunno. Be happy to take a look though.”

  Alicia struck faster than the biker could blink. One minute he was sitting, a grin of mischief beginning to stretch across his face, the next he was sprawled in the dirt, bleeding from the mouth, his bike held upright courtesy of Alicia’s lightning-quick right hand.

  Lex grunted.

  Alicia shook her head at him. “Show a little goddamn respect,” she said and walked off, letting the bike fall.

  The resulting high-pitched squeal followed her to the door of the house where Michael Crouch stood waiting. Her ex-boss’s boss’s eyes held more than a glint of amusement.

  “Haven’t changed, I see.” He squinted past her. “Are you sure we really need the biker?”

  Alicia shrugged. “I’m beginning to wonder. If nothing else he’ll be good cannon fodder.”