MAYA HOPE, a medical thriller - The Dr. Nicklaus Hart series 1 Read online

  Praise for Maya Hope

  * * *

  “A magnificent story, skillfully crafted…Dr. Tim speaks from first-hand experience on the mission field."

  —Don Stephens

  Founder of Mercy Ships

  “In his first book, Maya Hope, Dr. Timothy Browne draws from extensive international experience as an orthopedic surgeon to write a story filled with intrigue and authenticity. The book depicts great acts of evil – contrasted against loving, medical intervention on behalf of the poor and down trodden. In the midst of it all is the story of a doctor…a man who struggles to make sense of loss and grief as he encounters the greatest love of all.”

  —Jack Minton

  Co-Founder and President of Hope Force International

  “Dr. Tim Browne’s service in many of the world’s greatest areas of need – coupled with his extensive travel and knowledge of geo-political dynamics – create a recipe of adventure and authenticity…culminating in a thriller that is hard to put down until the very last page.”

  —Cherie Minton

  Co-Founder of Hope Force International

  “A soul-stirring glimpse into the mercy heart of my friend, Dr. Browne. I was transported to the mission field through the eyes of compassion. Eagerly anticipating the next book in the series.”

  —Frank Cummings

  Senior Pastor of Life for the Nations

  “Maya Hope has everything I like in a novel—a love story, a thriller that evolves like a movie, international settings and characters whose business deals take place in the shawdowlands between myth with murder, and a stumbling, self-centered man who reluctantly becomes a hero.”

  —Julia Loren, Author

  The Future of Us: Your Guide to Prophecy, Prayer and the Coming Days

  What could be better than a medical thriller written by a physician? Not since COMA by Robin Cook, and The Andromeda Strain by Michael Crichton, have I been this excited about a medical thriller.

  —Joni Fisher, Author

  South of Justice (Compass Crimes Series Book 1)

  MAYA HOPE, a medical thriller

  The Dr. Nicklaus Hart series

  by Timothy Browne, MD

  Second Edition © 2017

  Copyright © 2016 by Timothy Browne

  All rights reserved

  978-1-947545-00-7 (pbk)

  978-1-947545-01-4 (epub)

  978-1-947545-02-1 (hb)

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the author, except in the manner of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please respect the author and the law and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials.

  The events, peoples and incidents in this story are the sole product of the author’s imagination. The story is fictitious, and any resemblance to individuals, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Historical, geographic, and political issues are based on fact; the stories of the children of Central America are based on truth, however, the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

  Every effort has been made to be accurate. The author assumes no responsibility or liability for errors made in this book.

  Scriptures quotations used in this book are from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers or from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.

  Cover art, Guatemala Jaguar Temple Tikal ©Suzanne Parrott

  eBook layout & design by Suzanne Parrott

  Flag of North Korea, ©Gil C / Shutterstock.com

  Republic of Guatemala, ©pavalena / Shutterstock.com

  Korean peninsula political map with North and South Korea, ©Peter Hermes Furian / Shutterstock.com

  Printed and bound

  in the United States of America.

  To Isabella

  And all the children around the world

  who do not receive medical care.

  To my children,

  my children’s children

  and future generations:

  May you know

  Ephesians 3:16-19

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  * * *

  When I sat down to write Maya Hope, I thought writing was something you did alone. But like so much of life, God invites us into communion with others, and so it is with writing. I am extremely thankful for the wonderful community that helped make Maya Hope a reality.

  First, I thank Katy Joy Richardson. You have been a great source of wisdom and encouragement.

  Second, I have been extremely blessed to have a team of fellow authors who have coached, guided, and encouraged me, including: Julia Loren, Joni Fisher, Carol Gunderson, Ed Kugler, and Jeff Gerke.

  I would especially like to thank my editor, Burney Garelick. You are a true friend and your skill and tender loving care of Maya Hope have made it readable. Thank you for making me laugh and making editing fun!

  Thank you to Suzanne Fyhrie Parrott for your beautiful artwork, designs, and patient guidance in publishing—you are a true friend.

  I also thank my parents, John and Ginny Browne, who taught me how to love and demonstrated generosity and compassion with their own lives. In the second grade, I could not read because of dyslexia; they had the wisdom to guide and support me through those many challenges. Mom and Dad, can you believe I wrote a novel?

  Finally, words cannot convey my love for my three boys, Timothy, Joshua, and Jacob, and my daughters-in-law, Jamie and Sarah. You make life wonderful! With love, our family grows!

  And to my wife, Julie: your strength, your love, your faith, and your patient kindness are beyond measure. You deserve the most credit for Maya Hope.

  Prologue

  * * *

  The Existence of Evil

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Blood pooled in his open chest cavity, overflowed onto his shredded shirt and dripped against the ancient stone altar. His once-tanned ashen face was a stark contrast to the crimson wounds across his lower chin and eyebrow. The flesh around his wrists was torn and raw having been tugged and bound by ropes. His lifeless body lay on its back, stretched over the stone; his face turned upward, as if pleading for mercy. The man’s chest, split between the ribs on the left side below the nipple, was flailed open and his heart removed in the traditional Way of the Maya ritual.

  The jungle, silenced and confused by this horror not experienced in over 1,200 years, steeped in hushed tension.

  When Danilo realized what the men had done, he jerked his head away from the scene and vomited hard. He staggered and glanced back at the dead man as if to verify what he’d seen, only to be confronted by an asylum of terror.

  Sacrificial spirits spewed from the dark corners of the temple to merge with sulfuric fumes from hell itself to gorge on the unleashed evil. Wailing and shrieking filled the night as shadowy figures fought for dominance, dancing with fiendish delight and lapping the blood like wolves on a fresh kill. Stench and steam engulfed the demons and formed dark clouds obscuring the full moon that had illuminated the fresh corpse draped over the stone.

  A thunderous legion of warring angels, dazzling with light, appeared in a brilliant bolt of lightning just as darkness had all but drained life from the jungle, sending the demons screeching to their hellish destiny and knocking Danilo off his footing. This was the moment Danilo knew that the dead man’s spirit left his body
because evil had no right to claim a holy man.

  * * *

  The three killers lagged behind their hired local guide, Danilo Perez, who was being driven forward by the terror of the human heart in his backpack. He couldn’t shake the musty smell of wet moss that reeked with a strange sulfuric odor.

  Above their heads, a howler monkey bellowed. It echoed the killing screams and encouraged other monkeys, insects and toads to join the chaotic choir, and the jungle cacophony returned.

  Suddenly, a booming clap of thunder rattled Danilo, a searing strike of lightning shook the ground, and rain began to fall with a vengeance fiercer than this March rainy season. A torrent gushed from the sky, hitting the flora and fauna with a force that drowned the jungle sounds. Danilo looked through the towering canopy for the sliver of filtered moonlight, but it had vanished, giving way to frightening darkness as the storm devoured the jungle.

  Water saturated every leaf, and Danilo wiped his face on his wet sleeve only to obscure his vision further.

  While hacking a trail through the jungle with his machete, lead coursed through his veins, and his nostrils stung with the pungent smell of blood not even the rain could vanquish. He moved as fast as he could, hoping to distance himself from the ruthless killers with their strange accents and hardened faces as he led them back to their car. He squinted through the rain at the swaying treetops and tried to make sense of the shadowy figures overhead.

  Maybe I’m seeing things.

  He tried to quicken his pace, but every slash at the underbrush brought excruciating pain. His legs and arms grew heavy. As he forced his body to move, he remembered feeling this way once before.

  As a young boy in Guatemala, during a horrifying vivid nightmare, he had experienced a visitation. He often wondered if it was the devil himself. He remembered feeling pinned to the bed—too heavy to move.

  Now, in the impenetrable gloom of the storm he relived the nightmare, but this time it was worse—he couldn’t tell if it was rain that dripped down his back or the blood from his backpack that soaked him.

  Why had he agree to lead these men? The money, of course. But how could he have known he’d be carrying a human heart in his backpack?

  He heard the men behind him utter what sounded like curses.

  “Move!” one of them yelled.

  Danilo wasn’t sure if he had been pushed or if he’d buckled from an explosive clap of thunder, but he found himself on his knees.

  Time stood still. His knees sank into the dank jungle mud, and he was simultaneously transported back to his youth, kneeling at the altar railing with Aunt Sandra at the Church of the Holy Mary, La Iglesia de Santa María. He could smell the incense and candle wax that filled the sanctuary. He saw the priest hand out communion and bless the other children. The Father’s musky smell brought comfort then and now.

  Returning to the jungle mud, Danilo felt his legs sink deeper into the mire, but his wavering psyche sent his mind back through time to the moment the priest held him in his arms and prayed with him. Danilo was only eight when the rebels killed his parents. At their funeral, Aunt Sandra whispered in his ear as they knelt at the altar railing. “Danilo, bow your head and fold your hands together like a good boy. You must pay homage to the Lord.” She put her hand on the back of his head and gently pushed it down.

  In defiance, Danilo forced his head up.

  How could a loving God ever let this happen? I don’t know if I even believe in God.

  The loss of his parents had been too deep a grief.

  Of course Aunt Sandra had loved him. “I believe the Lord has something special for you,” she had often told him.

  If only she could see me now.

  * * *

  Danilo had never witnessed anything like what he saw tonight. Growing up in the midst of the war, he had experienced his share of death—unclaimed bodies in the streets, families torn apart by loyalties and conflict. But these men were different. Danilo had really never believed that evil existed. He thought life was unjust and to be survived, but the killing he saw tonight was evil incarnate.

  Danilo was accustomed to seeing many different types of people that visited the Tikal ruins. He made his living as a guide to the ancient ruins of the Maya empire and explaining what was known of their culture.

  In the last five years, more Asians hired his services. To him, they all looked the same. But these men were different: black clothes, black hair, black eyes, black souls, always looking behind them, always whispering.

  “Get up!” was all Danilo heard. The rest was in a foreign language, but spoken in such a way that the meaning was clear.

  Danilo willed himself forward and was pushed from behind. He thought he heard the raging river over the pouring rain, but wasn’t certain.

  * * *

  The three men hired him the previous week to tour the ruins. He thought he was doing well, as he showed them a few things off the usual beaten path. For most groups, this favor brought a sense of jungle adventure and, hopefully, a larger tip. These men seemed to care less.

  Only when they were shown the large stone at the base of the Temple of The Great Jaguar did they show any interest, whispering eagerly among themselves. Most tourists wanted their picture taken on the stone, like some sort of triumph over death as they stood on the sacrificing altar. These men had no camera.

  Loco for Asians.

  He thought it strange when they called him again yesterday for another tour. Although this time, they wanted to go at night. Illegal, of course, but in the small town of Tikal, he and all the guides learned how to move in and out of the ruins at any time, day or night. This request was unusual, but not unheard of. His friend had sneaked in a lusty young couple after hours and was paid handsomely to leave them alone so they could enjoy some romance among the ruins.

  Gringos, Danilo shrugged.

  When the men picked him up in town, they handed him a large wad of money. He didn’t have to count it to know he had really scored.

  “You may see some things that you will not speak of,” the taller Asian said to him as he climbed into the Jeep Cherokee, with its heavily tinted windows. He thought it odd that the man spoke with a near-perfect British accent. The other two men never said a word to him, and the three only spoke when he was out of earshot and then in Asian gibberish.

  * * *

  Danilo stumbled over a tree root, and his mind focused on the present. The mud was difficult to move through, but he knew from instinct that they headed in the right direction.

  “Yes, I know I can hear the river now,” he said to no one.

  This will all be over soon.

  They had less than a quarter of a mile to go before they hit the road where they had parked the Jeep.

  I’ll make a run for it when I get to the road.

  * * *

  On the trip out, Danilo sat in the front passenger seat to guide them to the secluded parking spot. It wasn’t until they stopped that he realized that they were not alone in the Jeep: a man was bound and gagged in the very back. He wanted to protest, but by then, it was too late. The wad of money swelled in his pocket.

  Probably more money than he’d made all last year. He would lead them in and look the other way. A quick night’s work and then a cold cerveza.

  He could buy his wife, Maria, and their son, Danilo junior, something extra special this Christmas. The most rewarding part was that little Danilo could finally have his surgery.

  He was born with a clubfoot, something so easily treated as a newborn, but because they could not afford the treatment, Danilo junior went without. Now that he was turning one, the toddler walked on the side of his foot as it continued to turn inward more and more.

  Soon, my son won’t have to suffer the humiliation.

  His mind tried to make sense of the killing, to justify his unwilling participation in the murder, yet the images continued to flood his mind as the trauma tossed his thoughts from present to past.

  Another push from behind.


  He wondered about the dead man.

  What had he done to deserve such an execution?

  Guatemala could be a brutal place, but killings were usually over money or drugs. This was different. This was done to send a message.

  Of what, I have no clue.

  The man was white, American or European maybe. He must have been unconscious during the drive, but when they dragged him out of the Jeep, it was like someone shot him with adrenaline—every muscle in his body fought for freedom. Danilo saw the ropes that bound his wrists and feet slice unmercifully into his flesh and the gag tear the corners of his mouth. The short, stout Asian with a severely pockmarked face struck the man’s chin, opening a bloody gash that sent him into submission.

  They dragged the man to the altar and threw him across the stone with such force, Danilo heard his forearm snap. The larger Asian ripped the man’s shirt open with one hand. From a sheath strapped to his back, he pulled a large hunting knife. With a quick strike of the blade, he cut the man’s gag from his face, flaying a large slice of his lower lip.

  But the man wasn’t dead.

  Danilo shook his head, trying to banish the words of the dying man who pleaded, gargling words through blood spurting from his lip, pleading not for himself, but for his wife.

  “My God, why are you doing this?” the man screamed.

  “You, American pig, you should not have involved yourself with our affairs.” The Asian put the knife to his throat.

  “What do you mean your affairs? I’ve cared for people in these villages for years!” the man gasped.

  “Do you think we are stupid?” the Asian growled. “We know you ordered blood work at the lab, that you have been asking about us!”

  The sharp blade pressed into the victim’s skin, opening a fresh wound. “You and the world will know soon enough what is happening,” the Asian declared. “By then, it will be too late!”

  Danilo watched as understanding came to the prisoner. “It’s you…you are responsible!” the wounded man cried. “The villages…the children…My God!”