Curse of the Pharaoh: A Brock Stone Adventure

As he swung wide, he caught a glimpse of more men in dark suits running out of the museum and onto the lawn. A few seconds later, he heard gunshots and the sound of breaking glass.

The DeSoto made a sharp turn and the limousine followed suit. Once again Alex was swept across the slick grass, toward the sound of gunfire. He had a moment to catch a glimpse of three surprised gunmen, and then the cable attached to his hook cut their ankles out from underneath them and sent them tumbling like bowling pins.

“Picked up the spare!” Alex said.

Bullets flew in every direction. Pedestrians screamed. The limousine fishtailed and then slammed into an old oak tree.

Alex slid to a halt on the soft ground. His bones felt like broken glass. He climbed to his feet and looked down at his ruined suit. His jacket was torn to ribbons, his white shirt streaked with green.

“Are you all right?” a bystander shouted.

“Just peachy.” Alex hobbled over to the limo and freed his hook before retracting it. The driver lay slumped against the steering wheel. Blood trickled from his ears and nose.

“Have a nice nap,” Alex said. He looked around for Trinity and Constance. The DeSoto was farther down the mall, being chased by men on foot.

“Get yourselves out of here, ladies,” he said under his breath.

“They say talking to yourself means you’re crazy,” a voice said behind him.

Alex turned to see the goon named Max standing behind him. Before he could react, the man seized him by the wrist in a powerful grip. His hands were huge!

“And you’d have to be crazy to steal from John Kane,” the thug continued.

“I didn’t steal anything. And last I heard, John Kane doesn’t own the museum, nor its contents.”

“Don’t get clever.”

“I can’t help it. I have a superior brain.” He gulped as the big bruno grabbed him around the neck.

“If I squeeze hard enough, those clever brains will pop right out of the top of your skull.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Alex wheezed.

“He thinks he’s funny.” Artie, Max’s partner, staggered up to them. “Give him a smack.”

“You all right, Artie?” Max asked.

“Been better, been worse.” Archie cracked his knuckles. “I’m in the mood to hit somebody. I suppose Ginger will do.”

“Don’t rough him up too much. Mister Kane will want to question him.”

Alex thought fast, considered his options. There had to be a way out, but he couldn’t see it. Down the mall, Kane’s men had broken off their pursuit of Trinity and Constance and were headed this way. He was about to be severely outnumbered. Not that he was a match, physically, for either of these toughs.

“Let’s not be hasty, fellows,” Alex wheezed. “I can be of help to you.”

“As a punching bag.” Archie grinned.

The roar of an engine startled the three men. They looked to see a powerfully built man on an Indian Scout motorcycle come flying toward them. Alex seized the moment. He drove his knee into Karl’s groin. The big man barely flinched but he loosened his grip enough for Alex to break free and run.

The rider dropped his motorcycle into a skid, upended the surprised thugs, who fell flat on their faces. Before they could recover, the man righted his bike, caught up to Alex, and slowed his bike enough for him to hop on back. He gunned the engine and they left Kane’s thugs in their dust.

“It’s about time you made it,” Alex said to Brock Stone.

“I came as soon as I got your message. Why did you come alone when you knew John Kane would be here?”

“Trinity,” Alex said simply. It was all he needed to say.

Stone laughed and gave a shake of his head. “I understand. Sometimes you don’t get a choice.”

Interlude 2

April, 1926

Six Years Ago

The Rive Gauche, or Left Bank, was the home to thriving art and literary scenes. Here, writers like Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald mingled with visual artists like Marc Chagall and Pablo Picasso. The Left Bank was also brimming with cafés and brasseries. Stone wished he had time to sample them at his leisure.

“Only a few more months until your enlistment ends,” he reminded himself. “Then you get to make your own choices. Until then focus on the mission.”

His thoughts focused and his emotions in check, Stone glanced at his watch. One minute until his ride arrived. Stone hurried across the street and stopped in front of the Café Caderousse. He looked up and down the street, wondering how he was supposed to recognize this Marengo person who was supposed to be his next contact.

A horse-drawn carriage drew up to the curb and stopped in front of him. The driver, a broad-shouldered, thick necked man, seemed to be avoiding Stone’s gaze.

“Ahem.” The carriage’s lone passenger was a nattily dressed man with a lemon-sucking frown. He too did not meet Stone’s eye. “Would you care for a ride, sir.”

“No thank you. I’m waiting for someone.”

“Ahem!” The man pointed down at the side of the carriage. The words Calèches Marengo were painted on the side above a silhouette of Napoleon on horseback.