Curse of the Pharaoh: A Brock Stone Adventure

“It was worth a try.” From somewhere inside her dress, Constance produced a stiletto knife.

The big man grinned. “That’s a fine knife. But old Artie’s got a bigger one.”

Trinity glanced back to see Kane’s toady brandishing a knuckle knife, better known as the Mark 1 Trench Knife. It was a weapon from the Great War, designed for close fighting. Trinity hated that she knew even that much about the weapon. She had been spending too much time in the company of Brock Stone and his friends of late. But that was a problem for another day. Right now, she had Archie to deal with.

“Brace yourself,” she said to Constance.

“What are you doing?”

“You don’t want to know.”

The DeSoto was equipped with a powerful 8-cylinder engine, another bit of trivia she had absorbed since rekindling her relationship with Stone. Trinity tried to keep one eye on Artie and the other on the street as she hit the gas. Up ahead, a stopped tour bus blocked their lane. A steady flow of traffic clogged the oncoming lane, and the sidewalks were lousy with tourists and government workers. This was going to take some tricky maneuvering.

“Trinity, there’s nowhere to go!” Constance screamed.

Behind her, Artie climbed to his feet and raised his knife.

“You’re right.” Trinity gave the wheel a quick jerk to the left and then back. Artie wobbled, almost fell.

Trinity slammed on the brakes. The DeSoto screeched to a halt. Trinity slammed into the steering wheel, let out a pained grunt. Constance yelped as she was hurled into the front floorboard.

Artie wasn’t so fortunate.

The bull-necked man went Oxfords-over-Bowler as the DeSoto’s momentum sent him flying. With a reverberant thud, he struck the back of the bus in an inverted spread eagle. He seemed to hang there, suspended in midair for a split-second, before falling to the street.

Trinity took a moment to catch her breath. Beside her, Constance climbed back into the seat and smoothed her dress.

“Is he dead?” Constance asked.

Remarkably, the big man stirred. He sat up, gave a confused shake of his head.

“That’s impossible,” Constance said.

“Obviously not.” Trinity cranked the wheel, hit the gas, and made a U-turn in front of an oncoming taxi. The driver hit the horn and made a very ungentlemanly gesture.

“Woman driver!” he shouted.

Trinity’s first instinct was to stop the car, get out, and give him a piece of her mind, but there was no time for that. Up ahead, a familiar vehicle was barreling toward them. Another of Kane’s simian thugs was squeezed in behind the wheel.

“We’ve got another problem,” Trinity said. “That is John Kane’s limousine.”

Constance looked back. “Archie is on his feet and he’s coming this way. He’s wobbling, but still moving. And he looks angry.”

Trinity considered her options. Traffic had them boxed in, and the two of them couldn’t fight these thugs.

“Trinity?” Constance said. “Maybe it’s time to run?”

Trinity set her jaw. “Yes, but not on foot.”

6 Eavesdropping

Alex saw a glimmer of sunlight up ahead and breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps he had finally found a way out of this ventilation shaft. It couldn’t come too soon. He felt claustrophobic within these tight quarters. Encouraged, he scurried forward flat on his belly.

He could see it now — a vent leading outside. He could work it free and, if worse came to worst, use his hook to lower himself to the ground. Either way, he would be out of the museum with most of the map.

“It’s something, anyway.”

He caught a whiff of fresh, warm air. He was almost there. And then he felt the vent shift.

“Uh oh!” Alex braced himself.

With a metallic squeak, the panel beath him gave way. He let out a shout and then he was falling. He crashed through ceiling tiles, felt something briefly arrest his fall. A moment later the sound of ripping fabric filled his ears and he dropped like a rock.

He landed hard and his breath fled his body. He groaned and rolled over on his back. Above him he saw spars, rigging, and tattered sails.

“Where am I?”

He heard the hollow echo of running footsteps, which slowed as they approached. Keeping low, he sat up and looked around.

He was inside a pirate ship. It hung suspended from the ceiling by thick cables. Its sails had slowed his fall. Something dark fluttered down and landed on his shoulders. A Jolly Roger flag. He couldn’t help but chuckle. What were the odds?

“What is it, Lincoln?” a voice said.

“The pirate ship is moving, Mister Jones,” a second voice said.

“Moving? What do you mean?”

“It’s swinging, like something pushed it, sir.”

“Nothing pushed it,” the man called Jones said. “We reopen to the public as soon as Mister Kane leaves. You have things to do.”

“They say the ship is haunted,” Lincoln replied doubtfully.

“That’s nonsense. You’re looking for an excuse to slack. Get to work.”

Alex listened to the sound of footsteps walking away, then he stood and peered over the gunwale of the ship. Down below, someone let out a gasp.