Aztec Treasure

Julio Salazar’s POV

Oil Rig in the Gulf of Mexico

As soon as the Doctor ordered the collar removed, I thanked Tezcatlipoca for the favor. I was getting out of here.

I didn’t do anything at first, waiting until the guards left for the helicopter to make my move. The Doctor was busy poking me with needles; he assumed that I couldn’t shift in the five-point restraints, so he was safe. The explosion gave me the perfect distraction. In two seconds, I did a partial shift of only my hands and feet, the limbs elongating and changing until I could pull the paws through. I shifted my hands back, removing the thick strap around my waist as the Doctor looked out the door. When I was free, my cat emerged, and he was pissed off.

I leaped onto the Doctor’s back, my claws digging in as my teeth opened wide. I crushed his skull like an eggshell, and he dropped bonelessly to the floor. I let him go, licking his blood off my teeth as I moved into the passageway. I held my head up, sniffing and listening for threats, and found none. There was a stairway at the end; I reached it and smelled salt air coming in. I bounded silently up the stairs until I reached the hatch leading to the helicopter deck.

I stayed in the shadows, searching the deck for guards. I could smell one male, but I didn’t see him until I was on the far right side of the doorway. He was standing near the rail at the north edge, talking on a radio. “I need extract NOW,” he told the person on the other end. “Two passengers.”

“Roger that,” the voice at the other end of the transmission said. “We’re fifteen minutes out.”

“Heading to the dock. Out.” He looked towards me, but I didn’t see anything to show he saw me in the shadows. “Fucking doctor is running out of time.”

I waited until he was a few steps from the opening before I leaped out. He reacted well, drawing a pistol and getting off a shot as my teeth grabbed his forearm. The bullet pinged on metal as my teeth bit down, crushing his bones. He let out a scream and dropped the pistol.

I used my weight to pull him down, then dragged him to the edge of the platform. He tried to fight, kicking with a leg, but a rake of my claws left his slacks in tatters and his ankle a bloody mess. I dropped him at the edge of the helicopter platform and shifted back. “Who are you,” I said as I grabbed him by the neck and pulled him to his feet.

“Daniel! DANIEL FRENCH!”

I was lifting him off the ground with one arm, with my grip hand partially shifted. He screamed as the claws pierced his neck. “And who sent you, Daniel?”

He pulled a remote out of his pocket, pressing the button. The oil rig shook as multiple explosive charges went off underwater. “The CIA is going to get you for this! You’re dead, and you don’t know it! You, Maria, Maritza, all of you DEAD!”

“Then I will see you in HELL.” With one hand on his neck and the other on his belt, I spun Daniel around and launched him like a hammer-toss. He cleared the safety nets, spinning horizontally like a boomerang as he plunged to the ocean. Daniel’s scream ended in a splat, fifteen or so stories below me.

I looked around as the platform began to tilt, already beginning its descent towards the bottom. I could see burning wreckage to the north, so that was the direction of land. I was at the top of a sinking oil rig, and I had no idea where.

The helicopter platform was now leaning out over the ocean, the whole rig listing twenty degrees as the rig continued sinking. I grabbed one of the rescue rings and threw it as far away as I could. The waters were much closer now, and I didn’t have much time. I held on to the upper railing and waited; I’d only get one chance to jump clear. I couldn’t jump early and end up with the rig landing on me or sucking me down with it. The platform tipped farther and farther over as it sank. When the edge of the helicopter pad hit the churning waters, I pushed off the railing and dove into the waters.

I plunged underwater almost ten feet, swimming forward as quickly as I could. I broke the surface again and swam away, desperate to avoid the structures now crashing into the water around me. I kept swimming for almost a minute before I let up; I could hear the death throes in the water as compartments collapsed and steel gave way. I stole a look back in time to see it slipping under the waves.

Treading water, I looked around for anything that could help. I knew from watching documentaries that offshore oil rigs attracted fish, and with fish came sharks. I needed to get out of the water.

I spotted the rescue ring I’d tossed and swam over to it, grabbing onto it with one arm. I was looking for something better when I heard a boat approaching quickly. The center-console fishing boat was coming my way. I waved an arm and yelled as they approached, and they saw me. Two men in their fifties were on board; one pulled me up as the other turned to look for others. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I was tired, naked, and streaked with blood.

“Here,” one of the guys said as he reached into a compartment. “Put this on.” He tossed me a T-shirt, and I pulled it on. I looked around as they searched for other survivors; several more boats were coming this way, and one of them was there to pick up Daniel and the Doctor. I didn’t want to be there when that happened.

I walked up behind the guy who pulled me up as he stood near the bow. One shove in the back and he was overboard.

“HEY! WHAT THE FUCK?” The captain was already turning, and I was on him a few seconds later. I grabbed him and broke his neck, letting him fall to the deck. Gunning the engines, I turned east to flee from the approaching vessels. The navigation system showed me exactly where I was, and I set the autopilot on a course of 070.

I removed the dead man’s clothes, thankful he was wearing a belt as he wasn’t in good shape. With the shorts, T-shirt, and boat shoes on, I took some time to look around. The boat keys were on a float with some others, one of which was for a Ford. Good; he probably left his truck at the dock. His wallet had a gas card, two credit cards, and a couple hundred in cash. I put it back in my pocket, then tossed his body over the rail as I sped away.

Like most offshore fishing boats, this one had a GPS navigation system built into the depth sounder. I played around with the controls to see the track, then scrolled back to the beginning of the voyage. They had put it at the Gulfport Marina.

I went northeast about twenty miles before turning towards Gulfport. Helicopters flew over, and I saw a Coast Guard patrol boat heading that way at full speed. It took almost six hours to get to the docks, and the tanks were near empty when I pulled into the marina. There was a long dock near the boat access, and I steered to it and tied up. I turned the boat off and pocketed the keys. I hopped onto the dock and up to the parking lot, clicking the remote until I saw the F-250’s lights flash.

I unhooked the trailer, then opened up the hood and removed the GPS receiver. These trucks weren’t cheap, and I didn’t want them tracing a stolen truck with it. I found a small toolbox in the back and used it to swap plates with the truck parked next to me. I fired it up and drove out, leaving the mess behind for the police to figure out.

I drove east towards Mobile before picking up I-65 north. I stopped once, filling the dual tanks with diesel and getting a bag of roast beef sandwiches and a big shake at Arby’s. I passed through Atlanta before midnight and was in rural Virginia by sunrise. I needed to rest, so I pulled off the freeway and drove until I reached the forests around Wright’s Corner. I found a church with a tree-shaded parking lot and parked in the back behind the church bus.

I left the wallet behind, leaving the money and cards in the cargo pocket. I did a quick search of the car and hit pay dirt; under the seat was a pistol safe, and the key was on the ring. Inside was a holstered Smith and Wesson M&P 9 Shield and an extra magazine. “Thank you, my Goddess,” I said as I slipped the firearm into a pocket and closed the flap. Heading into the woods, I walked a mile or so until I got to a creek. My nose and ears didn’t sense any humans, but I did scent deer.

It was a decent place to get some sleep. I stripped down, rolling everything in my shorts and tying it with the belt before stashing them under a fallen tree trunk. I shifted into my cat and walked to the stream, drinking my fill of water. Finding a large oak, I leaped up and climbed twenty or so feet up, ending up sleeping on a sturdy branch.

I woke after sundown and jumped to the forest floor. I pulled the clothes out, carrying them by the end of the belt in my teeth as I moved north in the moonlight. I found a rural home; outside was a pickup truck with a gun rack, and I could see a man in his thirties drinking a beer and watching television. Perfect.

I shifted and dressed, placing the holstered pistol behind my rear hip and covering it with the T-shirt. I stopped by the mailbox, verifying by scent and hearing that no one else was around. I snuck up close to the front door, then tossed a rock through the living room window.

“WHAT THE FUCK?” The guy yelled, then opened up the front door to see who did it. I fired once from six yards, putting the round through his right eye. He dropped like a stone onto the front steps, and I moved inside and verified he was the only one there.

I dragged him to the shed outside and left him there. Returning to the house, I went straight to the gun safe in the bedroom. It was one of those keypad-operated models, a discount brand offering little security. You could learn how to break into one of these on YouTube; it took me less than a minute to bypass the keypad and open the safe.

“Damn. Rednecks are good for something,” I said to myself as I looked inside. I took out an AR-15 carbine with a collapsible stock and reflex sight and a bolt-action sniper rifle in .308 Winchester with a 4-12x Leupold scope. I set both aside, tossing extra magazines and boxes of ammunition with them. Near the top, I found a Glock 22 in .40S&W and about two thousand in cash.

I put extra ammo in a range bag he had on the top of the safe, then zipped up the rifles in gun cases I found under his bed. It had been a great haul, and it was time to go. I hauled everything out to his truck, loading the rifles behind the seat and the range bag in the passenger seat. I drove east, stopping at a Wal-Mart for supplies before heading to a cheap motel. I shaved my head in the bathroom, then spent the rest of the night cleaning the guns, researching the CIA and President with my new Chromebook, and watching the news.

They’d fucked with the wrong cat. I'd take care of them, then I'd retrieve Maria and Maritza from those damn dogs.