📖First Chapter: Dragged Down Deep by Michael Okon #FirstChapter

Title: Dragged Down Deep
Author: Michael Okon
Publisher: Chelshire Publishing
Publication Date: November 28, 2024
Pages: 331
Genre: Action Adventure/Monsters

Logan Osborne has spent his life chasing the shadows of the past.

As a child, he watched helplessly as his father was snatched from a fishing boat by what he swore was a mermaid. No one believed him then. No one believes him now.

Determined to prove that mythical creatures exist, Logan is drawn back to the small coastal town where his nightmares began after another mysterious disappearance stirs the waters.

Teaming up with his pragmatic colleague Elliot Sheppard and his fiercely loyal friend Penny Swanson, Logan dives headfirst into an adventure packed with danger and deception. As they dig deeper, the trio faces resistance at every turn—a secretive agency with its own agenda, a suspiciously unhelpful police force, and Logan’s old flame, who may know more than she’s letting on.

What they uncover is far darker and more terrifying than Logan ever imagined: the truth about his father, the secrets of Minatuck, and the horrifying reality of the Mermaid of the Hamptons.

Will Logan and his friends expose the lies that have haunted him for years, or will they be Dragged Down Deep into the swampy, secretive underbelly of a town that guards its mysteries with deadly intent?

Dragged Down Deep is available at Amazon.

 First Chapter:

Arizona High Desert

They say the early bird gets the worm, and that was the only explanation for Logan Osbourne to be hanging by his bloody fingernails from a six-story cliff in the middle of nowhere.

     He shifted uncomfortably, his leather jacket creaking, the sun rising over a ridge so that the intense rays burned through his clothing. 

     His boots were not made for climbing, but they were well worn and flexible enough to allow him to find a sturdy toehold on the rock wall. He wasn’t dressed for scaling rocks, didn’t have a shred of that kind of equipment. He had never thought to bring it along. The steady grumblings of the guide he’d hired drowned out the sweet morning bird calls. 

     “I told you that you could get a better look from that ridge over there,” complained Kangee Singing Voice, whose first name translated to “Raven” in his native Sioux. He wore an eagle feather in his jet-black hair probably as a nod to his ancestors who once roamed these hills. Logan smiled indulgently at him knowing the guide considered it part of the show and was a good photo op for the tourists. Though the man was safely ensconced on an outcropping of rocks ten feet below Logan, his agitation was apparent by the nervous movements of his hands. Logan saw him gesture with one finger to a smaller plateau on the other side of the basin. “Didn’t you get good enough pictures from across the valley?” The guide’s brows were lowered with consternation. “I mean, you have a zoom lens.” Kangee raised his voice, as if Logan couldn’t hear him. “This land is sacred, man, I could get in a lot of trouble for this.”

     “I know.…I know.…” Logan said soothingly. He was not really listening to Kangee’s litany. He wished Elliot Sheppard, his colleague and best friend were with him instead, but noooo, he drew out the word in his head. Elliot had decided to run home to do a food tasting for his wedding. Once Logan’s eyes spied the nest from the other side of the canyon, he had to get closer. It was as if a giant magnet was pulling him up that cliff.

     This was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, possibly the scientific find of the century. Food was food, Logan had told Elliot. Why someone would waste time eating something that ended up as sewage, Logan shook his head at the thought. He frequently had to be reminded to eat. It was not important to him. He found it distracting, to say the least. It drove his aunt crazy every time visited her.

     The guide’s grating voice interrupted his musings. “You don’t belong here. You’re no Sherpa, and this isn’t Mt. Everest,” Kangee whined.

     Logan let go of one hand, letting himself sway from the cliff. He hung on with one muscular arm, as though hanging from a jutting boulder was something he did every day.

     “Dude,” Kangee wailed. “I don’t want your death to be on my insurance.”

     Logan eyed the guide’s ratty clothing. “Seriously, you’re insured for this?”

     “I told you I was a professional.” Kangee’s voice was indignant, which brought a smile to Logan’s lips. It was hard looking pissed off while clinging to a rock wall sixty feet in the air. “For Christ sakes, move onto the ledge.”

      Logan accommodated him by placing his feet firmly on an overhang. “Better?” he asked. For him, it was a great feeling. Logan closed his eyes, enjoying the sun warming his face. A light breeze ruffled his hair. He sighed with contentment. The relief was short-lived, the guide’s glare hijacking the moment.

     Logan casually leaned over to look at the other man’s face. Kangee was beet red with rivulets of sweat pouring down his round cheeks.

     “No, today you’re the Sherpa.” Logan pointed to him. He reached up, exploring the next protuberance of rock with his fingers, looking to gain purchase and haul his body upwards, then added, “Hardly Mt. Everest. This is barely a hill.”  

     Logan considered telling him about his trek in the mountains of Turkey or the time he actually did climb Mt. Everest in Nepal, then decided against sharing the information. Kangee wasn’t interested in much beyond the promised two hundred-dollar bills folded neatly in Logan’s back pocket.  

     Logan’s foot slipped, sending loose debris below. Kangee ducked dramatically, making Logan roll his eyes. Logan paused, letting the tiny avalanche cease while he scanned the vast canyon. Its beauty was breathtaking. It looked like a fiery cauldron with orange and red rocks. The stone was flecked with mica so bright, it made him squint. Looking down, he watched a crooked creek wind its way through the rocky canyon floor sparkling like a silver ribbon. Stacked giant boulders dotted the landscape in shades from sand to rust.

     He searched the horizon, noting that the cliffs’ flattened surfaces made them resemble tabletops, the corners rounded from years of running water. The sun was a dazzling yellow ball burning his eyes. There was not a cloud in the sky.

     “Hold on, for Pete’s sake!” Kangee yelled, dodging a second minor avalanche. “All you said you wanted were some pictures! I’m going to get thrown off the reservation!” He began a stream of complaints Logan had listened to for the last forty-five minutes escalating as they climbed higher. “You’ve gotten plenty of shots already. You never said anything about going up the mountain.”

     Logan looked at the unrelenting sunlight, wishing he’d worn a hat. His dark hair was plastered to his head from the shimmering waves of heat. He should have left his jacket back at the car, along with Kangee, he thought ruefully. 

     It wasn’t even nine in the morning, and it was stifling. His newly inked tattoo itched, the bandage chafed by the strap of the canvas bag he had over his shoulder. 

     Elliot said he had been too hasty with the tattoo; Logan wasn’t even sure he got the colors right. But the shop was there, the tequila was flowing at a steady rate, and he barely felt a thing. 

     The inked skin bothered him less than Kangee’s complaints. “Well, I’ve come too far to go back at this point. You can return to the jeep, Kangee. I can see where I need to go and don’t need your help anymore.” 

     Logan glanced down at the rental. The black four-by-four looked like a dung beetle against the desert floor.

     He knew it wasn’t much further to his destination. The nest was above him, just over the next outcropping of rocks. Though it was well hidden, a colorful shell stood out in the desert landscape, and when he spied it from the other side of the canyon, he took off racing up the side of the cliff like King Kong climbing the Empire State Building, Kangee whimpering like a baby behind him.

     He estimated the distance to the next ledge where the thorny nest rested, the smooth shell of a giant egg within reach. His heart hammered with excitement. He could see the top of the speckled blue surface of the humongous egg resting there. Maybe he should have included a tattooed egg on his shoulder as well. It was gorgeous, the color as bright as the Arizona sky above him. Looking at the vibrant shell, Logan knew seeing it through a camera lens couldn’t do it justice.

     It was so close, Logan’s fingers itched with anticipation of touching the smooth surface of the shell. He had hoped to get a glimpse of the legendary creature, a few pictures with the camera the university had loaned him. Logan knew photos would not be enough. He never dreamed he’d be able to see an actual live specimen. Living, breathing proof of the mythical Thunderbird was within his reach.

“I’m not going to hurt it,” he said more to himself than Kangee, his tone soothing. “I just want to examine it.”

     He flexed his sore hands, gritty from the sand embedded in them. He had done it, finally done it, and when he returned to the campus, close up pictures of the egg in hand, plus some sort of DNA sample, not only would he get the elusive grant money but also the promised chair to start up a new department in Cryptozoology. His team would be the first to be acknowledged, accredited, and recognized for the course of study in this new field of science. It was long overdue in his opinion, not that anybody cared what he thought. More importantly, he’d beaten Aimee to the finish line. She would have stolen the egg.

     A grin spread across his tanned face, his teeth gleaming from the stubble of his beard. He wished he had a cigar to celebrate. Maybe tonight, when he Skyped to inform Elliot of their discovery. He would include Elliot, they were partners, after all. Partners in crime, he added with a laugh. They’d done some serious rule breaking together over the years just to get in the vicinity of a cryptid. 

     They’d been researching the legendary bird for a long time. Sacred to many of the indigenous tribes of North America, it was called the Thunderbird because of its powerful wings, which were said to have created thunder for the world. 

     This past year, both Logan and Elliot had interviewed Native Americans such as Kangee from Vancouver to Mexico, cataloging their folklore, searching for a common thread. Whether it was Lakota, Ojibwa, or Sioux, Logan was convinced the great bird could be found outside the realms of their mythology. Sightings were rare, they learned, but they existed, becoming more commonplace recently. It was as if there were an explosion of people seeing the mythical creatures.

           The two known photographs were grainy and looked doctored, but still the stories persisted. There had even been a half-baked special on one of the cable networks. It was a laughable production and did more to relegate his field to fiction than any of the pictures that popped up in the National Enquirer.

     The trail had started months ago with the tale of the capture of a huge creature in Mexico, its wingspan the length of a barn. Someone had called his mentor, Professor Haversham reporting the information. The professor validated the data, giving the leads to Logan and Elliot with the intent to bring in reliable proof. Elliot respectfully bowed out of this trip, but Logan wouldn’t let anything interfere with his pursuit of evidence.

     The mythical bird was reportedly hidden in the jungles of the Yucatan, but the political climate and drug wars made traveling there both dangerous and nearly impossible. 

     Logan took off for a few weeks. School was out, and he traveled there on a hunch, a pocketful of pesos and two leads to meet Guillermo Sanchez. All care of Professor Haversham. 

     Six hours on one plane, four on another. Twenty minutes later he negotiated a fare for a three-hour ride with a driver who spent the entire time practicing his English, babbling about his recent trip to Cincinnati.

“You sure you want to go there?” he asked when Logan rattled off the address. “It’s not safe, not a good place for Americans. I can take-”

“No, it’s all good. I have a meeting.”

“I’m not sure I want to go there.”

Logan didn’t even look up. “There’s an extra twenty in it for you.”

“Forty.” the cabbie demanded.

Logan nodded once. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“Really?” The cab driver’s eyebrow rose over his sunglasses. “With who?”

“Who what?” Logan asked without looking up. He was reading his notes.

“Who are you meeting?”

Logan said nothing for a minute then asked, “You taking me there or do I have to find another cab?”

“I got it, man. It’s your money.” He pulled out abruptly from the parking space preventing Logan from getting out of the car. They drove for a bit, the silence allowing Logan to close his eyes. It wasn’t long before the cabbie resumed his small talk. Logan suppressed a sigh, as the inquisitive driver circled back to the topic. 

     “Why are you here, man?” the cabbie asked. “What kind of meeting?”

     Logan gazed out the window without a response. He stopped sharing what he did for a living to avoid the inevitable eye-rolling and snide comments. Most people didn’t understand, their responses varying from condescension to contempt.

          The driver placed his sunglasses on the top of his head, his dark eyes watchful. “You a narc or something?”

           Logan shook his head with a smile. “I’m a tourist. I like to immerse myself in the local culture.”

     The driver’s lips thinned, his eyes darting to the mirror as if to study him.

     For the rest of the trip, the vehicle was thick with sullen silence. 

           Logan started with the first lead, taking them to an address in a small village that appeared deserted. The driver pulled over, twisting so his arm draped over the back seat. “Look everybody is gone, this is not a good sign.”

“Maybe they’re taking their siestas.” Logan’s voice was bored.

“You think this is funny?  Told you it’s no good, man. I don’t want no trouble. That will be fifty dollars more. Not pesos.”

“There’s not going to be any problems.” Logan held up his hand, a folded twenty in his palm. 

“I’ll take my money now.” The driver reached out for the cash.

Logan snatched his hand away. “When I get back. Don’t forget, we have another stop.”

The driver shook his head. “You’re crazy.” 

     Logan leaned over the front seat and pointed to the address. He looked down at the numbers on his crumpled paper. “That’s it. That’s the place.” 

“Look, the first sign of trouble, I’m out of here. With or without you.”

“Suit yourself.” Logan slid across the seat to exit the cab when a green weathered door of the colonial style building swung open, revealing a man with a gun slung over his shoulder, his hard face staring at them. 

  Logan sighed. This was not a good sign. Still, it wasn’t the first time he’d faced a hostile situation. Once he explained, paid them the necessary bribes, he was confident he could get the information he needed. It wasn’t as if he were there for anything but science. He opened the door placing one foot on the pavement.

“Trouble!” the driver shouted. “Hold on.” The cabbie punched the gas and took off, jerking Logan into the smelly back seat, the door swinging shut.

      “What the- Why are you leaving?” Logan yelled back. “He wasn’t pointing the gun at us.”

      “Yet! I told you the first sign of trouble we’re outta here.” The cabbie tore down the street, his forehead sweating. “Town belongs to the Ramira Clan. They are bad dudes. Nobody gonna talk to you. I ain’t gonna end up in a ditch. You’re not paying me enough. You looking to score drugs, or something?”

      “No! Not at all.”

      “I can get you-”

      “I said, I’m not interested,” Logan interrupted. 

The cabbie shrugged, then said, “You have two stops. Gimme the next address.”

     “Go back. I won’t be long.” Logan tried to reason with him. “I’ve done this before. It’s no problem.”

     The driver never slowed the car. “Then pay me what you promised. I’m leaving you here. I’m not staying,” he grumbled turning face-forward blabbering in a mixture of languages.

Logan spoke to him clearly in Spanish. “I’m doing nothing illegal. You don’t have to be scared.”

The driver responded with a spate of curses, then followed with, “I got a wife and three kids. I don’t need no cops, you get it, man?” 

“I’m not doing-”

“It’s not you. It’s them. They don’t ask questions. What are you looking for?”
          Logan weighed the value of sharing the information. He learned to be careful of talking about his job. Fighting the impatience building in his chest, he said, “Look, I’ll pay you double what we agreed.”

     He heard the driver say, “You’re nuts man. It ain’t worth it. You can see, ain’t nothin’ there but criminals.” Logan saw him staring at him through the rear-view mirror.  I don’t think you’re a tourist.” The driver waited for an answer, then mumbled, “Tourists don’t come here.”

     Logan sat back. He watched the taxi driver’s face, fear imprinted on his features. 

Twisting, he glanced back at the narrow streets, his trained eyes looking for clues. The guy was right Logan had to admit; there didn’t appear to be anything big enough to store a bird of that size.

     He shrugged, then rummaged through his knapsack for his notebook. Opening it, he found the sticky note attached to the inside flap of his leather planner. “Alright, then take me to the next stop.” He rattled off another address in a little-known town further south. 

     “If you looking for drugs, I can-” 

“I said, I’m not buying drugs.”

The driver made a left, getting onto the main road.

     They rode in silence for a while.

     “Who is Ramira?” Logan asked.

     “Better you don’t know,” the cabbie said, his gaze sharp. “Ramira controls everything in this area. If you don’t want drugs, what kind of business do you have with them?”

      “I’m looking for something.”

      The cabbie laughed. “What you do, you know, do for work?”

      Logan scratched his sweaty neck. “I’m a teacher… a researcher.”

      “In a school?” the driver asked.

      “I work in a college,” Logan said. “For a professor.”

      “If you’re researching for something, you ain’t gonna find it here. Ramira don’t like questions. Don’t like… attention.”

      Logan digested the information. Maybe it was a dead end. He’d traveled deep into territories where warlords controlled everything. Oddities were scarce in those situations. Things that Logan sought brought potential attention and he’d learned one thing concerning cryptozoology, most people wanted no part of these discoveries. This made his investigations difficult. If the area was crime-ridden, people didn’t want the notoriety it brought. The flip side, he’d learned, was most villages hid the truth as well, fearing the sensationalism that was usually followed by ridicule and finally, the debunking. It was a tough business he’d chosen, but he never regretted his choice.

      Logan sat back with another shrug. Much as he wanted to stop, he wasn’t suicidal. Well, not much, in his opinion. 

     The second address was located a fifty miles north of Guatemala, a village in the middle of nowhere. Logan got out; his legs stiff from the long ride. His khaki shirt clung to his back; the wrinkled sleeves rolled up revealing his tanned arms. “Stay here.”

      “No way, man. I’m going there.” The cabbie pointed to a sleepy taqueria. “I’m hungry.” He waited, then added, “I said, I’m hungry. I need some money to eat.”

      Logan dug into his pocket and handed him a few crushed bills.

      “You want something, too?” he asked.

      Logan shook his head. “Nah, not hungry.”

      “Okay, but I’m not gonna stop at another place.”

      “It’s alright.” Logan waved him off and walked into the one-story building.

      It was a repair shop, an old ‘48 Ford pickup on the single lift. Light filtered in through a glassless window. The air was thick with the smell of grease and oil. Mariachi music played on a tinny transistor radio that was probably older than Logan. A wooden counter had an antique register, the drawer open, a fly buzzing over its empty interior.

      “I’m looking for Guillermo Sanchez,” Logan said in Spanish.

      The sound of footsteps on the wooden floor, made Logan spin to find a heavyset man walking toward him, a rag in his beefy hands. 

      “What do you want with Guillermo?” he asked.

      “That’s between me and Guillermo,” Logan said. “Do you know where I can find him?”

      “He left yesterday.” He walked behind the warped wood of the counter, slamming the register closed. The bell chimed breaking the silence of the shop. 

      “Can you tell me where he went?”

      “Why should I?” the mechanic eyed him suspiciously. He placed both hands on the counter, the rag bunched in his fist. 

      Logan saw the distrust in the mechanics eyes. He relaxed his stance, allowing the man to size him up. He let the mechanic hold his gaze but kept his face neutral. Waiting for the right moment, he said, “I heard he has something I want… something I’ve been searching for.”

      The mechanic laughed. “Yeah, you and everybody else.”

 Logan’s back straightened, his face alert. “Someone else was here?”

The man nodded. 

“A woman? A woman with dark hair?”

           The mechanic didn’t answer. He wiped the dirty counter as if he were a barkeep. “There are many women with dark hair around here. What are you searching for, señor?” he asked.

      “I think you know,” Logan responded. 

      The mechanic’s face remained expressionless. He pulled a stool over and sat down. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “A chimera. A legend. A story.”

      Logan realized the man was waiting for his reaction. He could be anywhere in the world, whether he was in the mountains of Russia or the Sahara Desert, it was all the same. A slip in his emotions and he would lose the opportunity for information. The sources were weary of ridicule, disbelief, or exploitation.

As if Logan read his mind, the man said, “You want to come here and make fun of us. Take everything and give nothing back.”

Logan kept his face impassive. “No,” he added urgently moving forward. “No, I-”

      The man waved his hand in dismissal, his mouth turned down in disgust. “You don’t respect anything, you people.”

      “Are you Guillermo?” Logan asked. “Did you tell the woman… did you take her to see it?”

      “I told you, Guillermo is not here.” He rose to his feet as if to signal the conversation was over.

      “I have money.” Logan regretted his outburst as soon as the words left his mouth. Rookie error, he admonished himself. He was close, he could feel it. He blocked the man’s path. “I’m not here to hurt it.”

     “Sure. You just want to see the ave diablo?”

     “It’s not a devil bird,” Logan responded. “This is about the truth.”

“So, you want to study it, dissect it, kill it?” The man’s face was intense with hatred.

Logan backed away horrified. “No. I mean, study it, yes, kill it, never! The bird is sacred. It’s a precious part of your culture. People should know the truth. Know of its existence. We have to protect it.”

The man paused, his narrowed eyes sizing Logan up. “Why should I trust you?”

“Because Aimee Dupres will try to find it, first.”

“The woman with the dark hair.”

Logan nodded curtly, his throat tight. “You want me to be the one to discover it.”

The man didn’t answer. The silence built up around them like a thick blanket.

“I need to locate it first.” He paused and thought for a while how to express his thoughts. “We have different motives.”

“What is her motive?”

Instead of responding, Logan asked, “Did you trust her? The woman who was here first?”

The mechanic raised his eyebrows, then laughed a bit. “She will not like the place we sent her. It is what you call a wild, what do you call it? A wild duck chase?”

“Goose chase,” Logan corrected, suppressing a grin. “She’ll deserve it. We’re different.”

“Perhaps I’ll send you on a wild goose chase as well, eh?”

“That’s not the bird I want to see.” Logan smiled. “I am a scientist. A cryptozoologist. I want to prove it exists, validate the legends.”

“How do I know you are telling the truth?” the man demanded.

Logan paused knowing that every word that came out of his mouth could bring him closer to finding the bird. “I am an animal behaviorist. I’m getting my postdoc degree and I work for Professor Arthur Haversham, the most renowned animal behaviorist in the world. We are trying to legitimize cryptids. We want to prove that the mythology is not a fable, but a genuine part of your culture because we respect your people. I have dedicated my life to finding these creatures and proving they are not figments of imagination. They are real, they exist.”

The mechanic sized him up and added, “You are not like the others, I think.”

“Not at all. If the bird is real?” Logan started, waiting to see if the man would confirm the information. “If the Thunderbird indeed exists it will prove the legends of the native people are based in truths. It can be revered and protected for the miracle that it is.”

“Guillermo is not here,” the mechanic said after a lull in the conversation. 

Logan felt himself deflate. Closing his eyes, a sigh escaped him. 

The mechanic studied him for a long time. He went behind his counter and grabbed a pad, then scribbled an address on a piece of paper.

“For real?” Logan asked, hope blooming.

The man nodded. “I don’t know if it’s still there. It may have been taken to a safer

spot. The woman-”

“She’s relentless.” Logan pulled out a wad of bills. 

The mechanic shook his head. “No, señor. We don’t care about your money. We care about the Thunderbird.”

     Logan gazed at the wide expanse of the volcanic highlands; their surface covered with lush greenery. Sweat trickled down his back in the un-air-conditioned cab. The driver shifted impatiently. “I thought you said that was your last stop,” he whined. 

     Logan dug into his pants and pulled out some cash. “Fifty dollars more,” he told him. ”American.”

     “Two hundred, American,” the driver answered. “It’s very far.”

     Logan closed his fist around the money, ready to stuff it back into his pocket. He had been reckless, spending Haversham’s money as if it was endless. But he couldn’t stop, he was so close.

     “Okay, okay. It’s gotta be at least a hundred more, then?” The driver tried to snatched the cash.

Logan yanked his hand away.

“Come on. You gotta give me some of it now.”

     “How long?” Logan asked.

     The driver pulled at his lower lip. “I don’t know. It’s very far. Another hour, maybe more? Depending on traffic. Just give me the money now.”

     Logan looked out at the dusty streets. “Seriously?” he laughed.

     “Okay, okay. I’ll take you straight there, no funny business. Forty-five minutes.”

        Logan shook his head. “Take me and I’ll give you the money there.”

     The driver smiled. “Vamonos.”

     If Logan thought the other village was remote, this was a village that time forgot. 

     The air was weighted with humidity, the road a narrow, twisting path surrounded by dense foliage. There was not a building for miles. The car slowed, and they arrived in a small town that consisted of a rutted main street with four tumbled-down buildings clustered together. 

     Logan got out; his muscles cramped from sitting. The driver dropped him at a cantina, an adobe building with one crude window. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

      The driver pointed to a flowering tree. “I’ll be in the shade over there.”

      Logan walked into the saloon, dust motes sprinkling the stagnant air like fairy dust. 

     In the corner sat a man so wrinkled, he looked like a walnut. Wearing a stained white suit, he was hunched over a ceramic bowl, dipping a tortilla into a stew that made his lips smack with appreciation. 

      “I’m looking for Guillermo,” Logan stated.

The old man looked up, shook his head and went back to eating his meal.

“Guillermo?” Logan inquired again. “The mechanic sent me.”

“Eat first,” the man said after a long pause. He jerked his head toward a doorway, shouting for somebody named Teresa.

A woman shuffled out of the back, her face as seamed and brown as the parched earth outside. Her hands resembled the claws of a vulture. Logan considered them as she placed a plate of food before him. The aroma of ancho chilies wafted up. Logan’s stomach gurgled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten.

The old woman laughed; her dark eyes merry. She made quick movements of her hands toward her mouth in the universal mime of eating. Logan nodded with a smile, took the proffered spoon. He was suddenly ravenous and tired at once and knew he had to eat to survive. Logan tucked into his bowl of stew, spooning chunks of pork into his mouth. 

      Logan finished his meal, sitting back in his chair replete. He suppressed the questions bubbling inside of him, excitement warring with the knowledge that he was close and didn’t want to alienate the old man.

Guillermo pushed his plate away, burping noisily. “You are here for the Thunderbird?”

“Si?” 

Logan nodded wordlessly.

           “Many people ask about the Thunderbird.” He leaned forward as if to confide a secret. “Nobody believes us. After all, we are just simple people.” He made a rude noise.

      “I believe you,” Logan said, watching the man for a reaction.

      “It has been a secret for many years. It’s dangerous to be the holder of this secret.” The old man sat back, picking at his teeth with a dirty fingernail. He took a folded map from a pocket, then waved it in his hand. “Information is not free, and you do not look like a wealthy man.” He placed the map on the tabletop under his empty plate.

      Logan watched the man’s face and replied, “Sometimes it’s not about money.”

      Guillermo laughed and said, “I think you are very smart. Si. You are right, it’s not about money. But how do I know I can… trust you?”

      “How do I know you are telling the truth?” Logan said.

      The man laughed, his yellowed teeth like a collection of pebbles in a riverbed. He pulled out a long green feather from the deep recesses of his suit jacket. The color was as bright as the emerald trees on his uncle’s Christmas tree farm, and just as lush. Logan reached for it, but the man snatched it away, shaking his head. “I don’t think so.” He let it drift down onto the table between them.

      It was like nothing Logan had ever seen before, the shaft was long and thin, broken in the middle, so when Guillermo straightened it, it stretched to over twelve inches. The vanes gave it an oval shape, the barbs iridescent in the fading light. The color natural. This was not fake.

     The man grinned, his face full of pride. 

Logan eyed him warily. He had bought many false leads over the years. He knew he was close, and it didn’t matter how much this man wanted. He would pay anything for the chance to see the bird. He was on his own and had thrown Haversham’s money around like water in order to get here. He had used it all.  He would have to dip into his own savings. He couldn’t call Haversham for more funds, not again.

     The elderly man spit in the corner with disgust. “Others want it, señor. I have heard a woman is searching for it.”

Aimee, he thought, his heart pounding loudly in his ears. He had to get to it before her. “Can I have the feather? I will pay you for it.”

“Why pay for the feather, when I can give you the entire bird.”

“You would do that?”

The man nodded. “For the right price, I can give you its direction. Nothing more. The rest is up to you.”

“Why?”

Guillermo say up straighter and Logan could see the integrity and pride in the man’s eyes. “It’s about the greater good. You need to get there before that woman, Aimee… Aimee Dupree. Sí?” He nodded.

“She’s been here?” Logan asked.

The man rolled crumbs of tortillas on the table into a ball. “Not yet. But, I have heard of her. She has a certain reputation..”
            Logan felt his face flush. The skin tightened on his scalp. “She can be charming.” He knew that for sure, had gotten lost in her charm. Logan paused hesitating with his next comment. “She has deep pockets. She will pay you more money.”

“For what, so she can capture it? Destroy it? Put it in the circus?”

Logan blurted. “That would be a travesty.”

The sharp cackle of a startled bird broke the quiet. A flock of green and red long-tailed resplendent quetzals exploded from a tree and took off above them. They watched the birds, the national birds of Guatemala, in shared appreaciataion. “A little too north. They’re usually found further south.”

“We love our birds. All our wild life.” Guillermo’s eyes pinned him with hard intensity. He sighed gustily. “It is a problem, senor. You need proof yet we don’t want the bird taken.”

Logan kept his voice as steady as he could. “I would protect it with my life.”

“You see, sometimes money is not the issue,” Guillermo said.

“Then why all the charade about demands for money,” Logan asked.

Guillermo held up a hand. “We have everything we need here. The Thunderbird must be kept safe. With no natural predators, it has flourished, and it is a matter of time before it’s discovered and destroyed. We have to keep it hidden in places where it can have its freedom.”

Logan nodded. “I understand. But if she gets to it first, everything you fear will happen.”

Guillermo waited a beat before replying, “And if you find it?”

 “I can educate the public and keep the Thunderbird protected in its natural surroundings.”

“You cannot capture the bird.”

“I would never take it. We just want proof.”

“Can you promise that?” 

“I must get there before her, Aimee.  How much time do I have before she catches up?”

The man laughed. “Oh, several days. She will not find her way from the jungle for some time.”

Logan tilted his head and asked, “What happens when she does get there?”

“Then it’s on to its next hiding spot, as we have done these past thousand years.”

“What can you tell me about the Thunderbird?”

Logan recorded every priceless story from the man’s vast store of tales. They talked well past midnight. Teresa ushered him into a room with a rusty iron cot that squeaked noisily when he flopped on it. Logan smiled, thinking of the bed he’d shared with Aimee in Haifa last summer. It had been equally as loud. His smile faded; his heart constricted. The Aimee he knew then was not the woman she was today. He rolled over, forcing her from his thoughts. Aimee would turn up, she always did. He had to get there first. He let the stories the man told wash over him, satisfied he would beat her to the specimen.

 Yes, they had seen a Thunderbird. Yes, it was big as a barn. The colors… Logan couldn’t believe the sketches in vivid detail the older man had shared. This bird was sacred. It had been taken away in secrecy by Guillermo. North, to its breeding ground. To safety. Logan had just enough cash to get back to the states, Guillermo refused to take anything. 

     Logan had the map and a destination. That end of the trip was Arizona.

     Another couple of plane trips, all heading back to the States. 

     He called Elliot to wire him additional money and Logan’s pockets were flush again. He’d pay him back once school started in the fall. 

Logan pulled into the small town of Sierra Mesa, Arizona late Sunday night in his rented Jeep, disappointed the tiny museum was closed on Mondays. He cooled his heels at the tattoo shop next door, tatting up his shoulder with his impending discovery. Painful, but worth it, he eyed the colorful image, flexing his lean muscles to see it move. Between the cost, and the risk of infection, Elliot would have called him an idiot and told him to wait until he was back home for such extravagant body art.

Elliot had booked Logan into a small hostel near his destination. It was close to a college town, and he felt at home there among the visiting student population. The hamlet was filled with quaint restaurants and small artsy shops boasting Native crafts in turquoise and silver.

     Using the internet at a cafe, he found a local guide in an advertisement. They met at the museum early Monday morning. The guide shook his head when Logan revealed where he wanted to go. “That’s sacred land. You’re not allowed there.”

He got up, abruptly leaving the building. Logan followed him out.

     “I just want some pictures of the scenery,” Logan called. 

     The guide put on his hat. “No!” he shouted, racing down the steps of the building.

     “Fine. I’ll go it alone,” Logan said more to himself than anyone else.

     Another man was leaning against the adobe structure. He peeled himself away from the wall, coming up silently behind Logan. 

     “I’ll take you,” he said simply. He was as tall as Logan, with the sun-darkened skin of his ancestors. “My name is Kangee Little Song.”

     “You don’t even know where I’m going,” Logan told him.

     “I know where you’re going, and I know what you want to see.”

      Logan nodded, “Yes, I want to take some pictures of the mountains.”

      Kangee smiled slyly. “You don’t want to see mountains.”

      Logan said softly, “That’s right.”

“I can take you.” He tilted his head while he looked furtively around. “I got the supplies.” He pulled a nylon backpack from the ground. “See? It’s like I’ve been waiting for you. I have water, a first aid kit, a flare gun. I’m a pro.”

     The guide was confident, cool, as if he’d done this a million times. Logan was thrilled.

     “Pictures only, right?”

     Logan nodded. “Pictures only,” he confirmed, holding up the Canon camera he had on loan from Haversham. 

     The guided laughed. “The camera in your cell phone would be enough. That’s what most of you people use.”  He paused for a long minute. “It’s going to cost you.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. No problem.”

     Logan was going after the find of the century. Money was the least important thing to him. 

That particular moment had finally brought him to this spot, dangling precariously off a cliff with his guide.

     Kangee’s incessant complaints didn’t rate high on his list, either, as they hung off suspended against the rock wall. He looked down to see the guide’s glossy head below him. They had started the climb hours ago. He could feel his heart beating like a kettledrum as his feet brought him closer to the summit.

     Heaving himself upward, Logan hooked his boot on the next outcropping, sliding onto the narrow ledge. He lay flat, hugging the warm rock. He placed his cheek against the stone, suppressing his excitement. His eyes smarted, and he admitted wryly it was from relief mixed with joy.

     Logan could swear he heard angels singing. It was right in front of him, bigger than any kind of egg he’d ever seen, the colors vivid, exotic. Having more of a cornflower hue with tiny speckled green spots, the egg lay on its side. 

     Attached to the nest were bright red strands of something light and soft that waved like streamers, as if celebrating the impending birth. 

        Man, Logan thought, Elliot would die if he saw this.

     He had to get moving. He knew they didn’t have much time. He rolled onto the balls of his feet and crouched down; his arms wide.

     Logan reached out, his mouth open in awe, his pulse pumping like a piston, as his fingers wrapped around the fine crimson strand caught in the mess of broken branches. It was a feather, the merest wisp, delicate and intense in contrast to the pale pallet of the desert. Logan separated a couple of plumes. He reached into his pocket for a small plastic envelope used for specimens. He stuffed a feather in, then secured it.

     “What are you doing up there?” Kangee yelled. “Sunbathing?” His voice was worried. His guide wasn’t so cool now. Logan smiled. Kangee held up the expensive camera. “Here, take this. Take some pictures, and let’s go already.”  

     The guide swung the camera in an upward arc for Logan to catch.

     “Don’t drop the camera,” Logan warned, his eyes only on the oversized egg. “You know what? Just hold the camera for now. I don’t need it yet.” He wanted to examine it, revel in the moment.

     Kangee climbed upward, his face coming level with the ledge where Logan now crouched.

     “Where are you going? You can’t touch that!” Kangee whispered.

     Logan ignored him. Reaching out, he gingerly picked up the egg, marveling at its solid weight. His palm caressed the warm surface. 

Here was solid proof. There would be no question of the validity of its existence. “I’ve got it,” he called out to the guide over his shoulder. “Hand me the camera now.”

      He crawled around looking for broken pieces of specimens to take back to the lab.

     “Got what? You’re taking it? Are you crazy? You never said anything about taking eggs!” Kangee was screaming now. He looked wildly around and slipped down a few feet. “I’m getting out of here. You’re on your own, Kemosabe.”

     “Yeah, I hear you, buddy. Everybody for miles around can hear you. I’m not taking anything,” Logan said under his breath, totally absorbed with his find. He looked down to see Kangee sliding down the cliff as if his butt were on fire, the nylon bag with their supplies slapping his back as he went.

     Logan pulled the canvas bag he had strapped to his body, resting it on the ledge. He jerked with a start when the egg suddenly bucked in his hands. Hugging it to his chest, he felt the vibrations inside the hard shell. He would protect it with his life. A slow smile spread across his face. This was more than he could have possibly hoped for. He needed to take some pictures but Kangee had the camera.              

“Are you coming?” Kangee shouted breathlessly from a few feet below him. “Dude, I’m outta here.”

     Logan looked down the steep incline, seeing the top of Kangee’s head. “You’re not going to believe this,” he called down. “I think it’s about to hatch. Come back up. Toss me the camera, now.” He held out his hand, knowing the guide would have to move back up.

     “It’s too far.” Kangee’s back was covered in sweat, his shirt dark with it. “You got a ton of pictures on the other side of the canyon with the telephoto lens.”

      Yeah. But this won’t be fuzzy or grainy. This would be up close, Logan thought to himself.

      “Don’t take the egg, man,” Kangee called up. “They’re gonna flay me alive.” He continued his descent.

      “I told you I’m not taking it. Just bring me the camera. Hurry!”

     The steady tap, tap, tap under Logan’s finger reminded him of his discovery. He felt a vague sense of unease. He didn’t belong here, but it was an unbelievable opportunity. Not only proof, but the possibility of photographing a live hatching.                

 So much rested on this happening. The image of his father’s face flashed in his mind. He wished he could share this discovery with his late father.

     Logan heard the mother bird before he saw her when a keening wail filled his ears. Kangee’s scream of terror came a second later. He glanced down toward Kangee’s shout. Logan stood, speechlessly staring at the beautiful creature.

     The guide’s dark eyes were bulging from their sockets. “Put the egg back! She’s going to kill us!”

     Logan was buffeted by a windstorm created by the mother’s black leathery wings. Outraged shrieks shattered the air. The foul odor of its body filled his nostrils. The smell of death clung to the bird’s dry, weather-beaten wings. “Don’t worry, Mama,” he said softly. “I was only admiring your baby.”

     Shiny, iridescent green feathers covered its chest, a crest of the odd red feathers curled coquettishly around its small turquoise head, strangely incongruous with its reptilian features. The creature was the size of a small plane, with long, calloused limbs that sported twelve-inch sharp claws. 

     As if programmed to respond to its mother, the egg wobbled in his hands, the insistent tapping becoming furious. The mother shrieked like a banshee.

     Logan reacted without thinking, turning to scale down the cliff, realizing he was still holding the egg close to his chest. It weighed about the same as the fifty-pound kettlebell he worked out with in the gym. It felt solid, not fragile as he’d thought it would. 

     He called to Kangee to stop, but he didn’t answer. His back to the rock wall, the guide was standing on a small ledge, his face covered, the camera dangling from his hands.

     Logan assessed the rock shelf where Kangee stood shaking with fear. The entire face of the cliff was filled with ledges and outcroppings for them to hide. The shelf that Kangee stood on jutted out, almost enclosing him. “Squeeze into the crevice. I’ll distract it,” Logan called.

      “Put the egg down!” Kangee wailed.

      “It’s okay. I think it’s going to hatch. Wait!” Logan wanted nothing more than to watch the event.

     Kangee ignored him, scrambling from his perch, frantic to escape. Logan could hear his panicked breaths coming in short pants. If he didn’t do something fast, the guide would hyperventilate. 

     Logan crouched to put the egg down, Kangee’s cry of alarm making him twist. He could feel a powerful wind gusting, making his skin ripple. He wanted to get some closeups, pictures to record the moment but his hands were occupied with the egg. He tried to find his cell phone, but it was out of his reach in his opposite pocket. The excitement overpowered any fear he might have felt.

     The mother bird hovered just above Logan, her sharp talons lashing out, her beak poised. She caught his jacket and pulled him. His feet lifted away from the surface of the rocks. He fumbled, losing his footing, but held tightly to the bucking egg in his arms. 

     He heard the leather of his jacket rip. Logan gripped the ledge with one hand, his fingers leaving their imprint for all posterity in the soft sandstone as he pulled himself back onto a narrow piece of rock below the nesting place. He glanced backward. She was so close to him; he looked her straight in the eye. She moved nearer, trying to wipe him from the cliff face with her flexible wing, her beady orange eyes narrowed with hostility, until she saw her egg poking from the top of his arms. 

     He could swear she looked from him to her egg. The timbre of her calls changed from anger to distress. She fluttered in a frenzy, her movements stirring up a sandstorm of grit that blinded him. His eyes watered, and Logan sighed with resignation.

     This was not going the way he wanted. The Thunderbird cawed loudly, then circled away, hovering out of his line of sight, watching him carefully.

     He spared another look at his guide, satisfied that Kangee was well on his way to the ground. 

     At least he had the pictures he had taken from across the ridge of the nest, he thought, eyeing the camera flapping from its strap on the guide’s back as he raced down the mountain. Maybe he could get Kangee to snap a few shots once he was on the ground.

     “Whatever you do, don’t drop the…” Logan called when he heard Kangee screaming as if he was being tortured. He watched the camera slip off the guide’s shoulder to his elbow and finally down his arm. It hung suspended for a minute, then fell in a graceful arc to the ground.

     It came apart as it bounced off the jagged rocks, landing at the bottom in a million little pieces.

     “… camera,” Logan finished with a curse. 

      Hanging onto the rocks he pushed himself up another level to return the egg to its home. The head poked through the crack; its feathers plastered to its bald head. Logan lost his breath with wonder. 

     Without thinking, he reached for his jacket pocket awkwardly trying to get his cell again, losing his balance for a minute, then grabbed the rock wall. Pictures, he needed pictures. The camera was gone, he had to get something, at least one shot!

     He still had a feather as solid proof, that is, if he didn’t fall off the cliff and smash into a bloody mess next to the camera. 

     Their bag of supplies followed the camera landing in a puff of dust. 

     He could hear the guide yelling like a maniac as he descended. Logan looked from Kangee’s form to the monster hanging in the breeze, observing him. She was going to eat them alive. 

     With a heavy heart, he recognized this was turning into an epic fail. He needed to get this precious bundle to its spot and try to escape, with no record of the event. He watched the mother floating anxiously nearby.

     Pushing upwards with one hand, the other wrapped protectively around the egg, Logan was unmindful of the fact that his new charge chose that moment to poke its razor beak through a small crack in the surface of the egg. 

     The half-hatched chick seized Logan’s index finger, slicing it to the bone. He endured the pain with a long-suffering groan. “Another time, hatchling,” he told it, knowing he had to return it before either he or the guide was turned into dinner. 

     He placed the egg carefully onto the ledge, giving it a gentle nudge so it rolled to rest against its nest. He left a bloody mark on the egg’s surface. His hand throbbed, the blood welling in a ruby-colored gash. 

     Logan slid on his belly to the edge. He maneuvered so that he leaned on his flat stomach, then overbalanced himself enough to plummet downward a few feet, his chin and flank abraded by the rock face as his hands and knees stopped his descent and gripped the soft stone. 

     His palms were scraped raw, staining bloody handprints on the cliff surface. 

     The bird shrieked loudly. The sound bounced off the canyon walls, making Logan wince.

     “Kangee!” he yelled. “Take a picture with your phone!” 

     The bird dipped, swinging toward the guide, who took off like an Olympic runner toward the car. Kangee was out in the open with no cover. The creature pursued him like a fighter bomber, her claws clenched into fists. 

     Logan knew he had to distract it, so he screamed loudly, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the valley. With a loud cry, she wheeled around, looking for all the world like a kite on a string, her gaze zeroing in on Logan, who was exposed on the rocks like a termite. 

     She came right at him and slammed into his body crushing him against the rocks. She attached herself to the wall, enveloping him like a giant moth. 

     He could feel their hearts beating together, the hot breath of hell on the back of his sweating neck. The wings pushed at him as if trying to scrape him off the rock face. Dust rained down where the bird’s talons dug into the surface stone. She gave an ear-splitting shriek of frustration, then ejected from the cliff.

     She flew upwards, circling like a vulture, waiting for him to fall.

     Logan slipped, his feet going out from underneath him. He landed hard on his butt on a short outcropping. He saw Kangee was nothing more than a dot on the horizon, halfway to the town where they’d started from.

     The bird crowed triumphantly. It rose high in an arc, then danced on the breeze, facing off from the other side of the canyon. The wind rippled along the wings, making them look like fabric.

     Logan used the opportunity to rocket down the side of the cliff. His torn fingers gripped the fissures, nails breaking off. His toes dug in, catching himself from falling to the canyon floor. His abused knees were a mess, the skin along with the material of his pants worn away. 

     Logan twisted his head around to get a look at the magnificent creature flapping angrily, stirring up a hurricane. He watched the red crest of feathers on the top of her reptilian head wave at him. 

     He fumbled again for his cell phone from his pocket, his numb fingers unable to grab a hold of it.

     Logan felt tears smart his eyes at this lost opportunity.

     The sound of the bird’s flapping distracted him from giving his loss any more thought. The wings reminded him of the sails of a ship catching wind. His regrets vanished and the cell phone was forgotten as she charged forward, coming at him in a frontal attack, her claws catching the hole of his jacket, ripping it another few inches, dislodging him once more so he slid further down, the rock burning his face. 

     The creature wheeled away, coasting around the canyon, her loud cries surrounding him. With a screech, she swooped down triumphant, once again queen of her domain.  

     Logan wasted no time scrambling, or perhaps plummeting, he later remembered, down to the base of the cliff.

     Kangee’s supply bag lay on the remains of his camera. He reached for it but missed, the returning predator making him dodge for a deep valley between two boulders. 

     He squeezed in the tight ravine. The bird landed above him and pecked through the tall rocks, trying unsuccessfully to get him. 

     He was trapped. He debated if he could wait her out. He eased the phone from his chest pocket, taking a series of pictures as well as some video, his fingers stiff and achy. It wouldn’t be National Geographic material but at least he would have some element of proof.

     Logan looked at his watch. Twelve hours to nightfall, he counted. His blood froze as a new call rent the air from the opposite direction. 

        Hot damn, here comes Papa, he thought wildly. He filmed his attacker, but it moved with a speed that was hard to follow.

     He glanced up at the beast filling the sky over him, wondering just how big the mother bird’s mate was going to be. Her reptilian head looked up quickly, searching for help.

     The hatching mewed from the nest.

     “Hey!” he shouted; his voice raw. “Junior’s calling!” The mother bird watched him; its beady eyes sharp with hostility. 

     The newly hatched chick gave another weak cry, drawing the mother’s attention. She abandoned her pursuit to fly upward in a giant circle. 

     She was magnificent. Logan waited what he thought was ten heartbeats, then rushed from the rocks, reaching out to grab the supply bag, then made a dash for the car.  

     He took off sprinting, his heart beating wildly, the bag swinging from his wrist. Dodging boulders, he wouldn’t look up but concentrated on the objective of escaping alive. He could hear the beat of wings behind him from the other bird.

     Sweat poured from his scalp onto his abraded face, the stinging pain blinding him. He jumped over a small stream, becoming airborne like a basketball player, but felt the hot wind of the monster’s flight fanning his back.

     Logan spared a quick glance, his lips tightening. This one was twice the size of the other, its beak thicker, the eyes angrier. Uh-oh, Daddy’s home. Logan leaped over a cluster of rocks that would have set his high school track coach into a spasm of ecstasy.

     The car appeared around the bend, below him in a small dip. He picked up speed, his boots flying over the ground.

     Logan knew he was close. One leap and he was golden. He backed up, gauging the distance, his breathing harsh in his own ears. Gathering speed to make the dive for the vehicle, he raced toward the end of the small plateau.

     Digging his feet in, Logan sprang forward, jumping to the safety of the car. He leaped high into the air, the bag flying ahead of him, dragging him with its weight. He braced himself for a fall that never came. 

     The Thunderbird grabbed his jacket in his beak and soared high. Logan watched unbelievingly as the ground grew further away. He gathered the nylon bag to his chest, his fingers digging frantically inside. Where was it? He searched; his hands clumsy. 

     The canyon filled with the creature’s screams as he got a bird’s-eye view of the entire area. 

     His palm closed around the butt of a flare gun. Twisting sideways, away from the bird’s face, he pulled the trigger. The pistol erupted in an explosion of bright red light. 

     The monster’s eyes rolled with fear. It stopped dead in midair, hung suspended for a nanosecond, then dropped altitude at an alarming pace. 

     They were falling toward the ground. Logan braced himself for impact. 

     The bird opened its mouth with a loud call. Logan felt the air rush past him as the Thunderbird dropped him.  

     He picked up speed falling toward earth. Closing his eyes, he awaited the crash.

     Logan heard the cries grow more distant as the bird moved upward, guiding his small family to disappear into the horizon.

     Logan plummeted down and landed sideways on a bed of stiff grass, the breath rushing out of him. With numb fingers, he pulled out his cell phone, snapping unfocused pictures of the pale down on the belly of the fleeing Thunderbirds.

      A face floated into his line of view, framed by a curtain of dark curls. 

      “You’re a mess, Logan.” 

      “Aimee,” he whispered, regret tinging his voice.

      He felt her hands run down his limbs, hissing when she patted his tattoo. 

      “You’ll live.” She plucked his cell phone from his numb hand, shaking her head. “I need this.” She bent down to caress his aching cheek. “You make everything so hard.”

      He opened his mouth to reply, his sight wavering, the piercing sun blotting out her face. She disappeared and he wasn’t sure if he dreamed her.

     He lay there wondering why he was three times a fool to want to do this. He rolled flat. The world receded for a moment, and he was back with his father in a boat twenty years ago.

     Oh yeah, he thought vaguely. That’s why.

About the Author:

Michael Okon is an award-winning and best-selling author of multiple genres, including paranormal, thriller, horror, action/adventure, and self-help. He graduated from Long Island University with a degree in English and then later received his MBA in business and finance. Coming from a family of writers, he has storytelling in his DNA. Michael has been writing from as far back as he can remember, his inspiration being his love for films and their impact on his life. From the time he saw The Goonies, he was hooked on the idea of entertaining people through unforgettable characters.

Michael is a lifelong movie buff, a music playlist aficionado, and a sucker for self-help books. He lives on the North Shore of Long Island with his wife and children.

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