The Templar Map

by K R Hill

  “Oh,” said Gregory, as though choking. He dropped to his knees. The weapon in his hand fell to the pavement.

  “You messed with my family,” said Ted. “I thought everyone around the city knew better than to mess with Ted’s family. A big bad man like you, you sneak into a woman’s home and attack her? Now look at you, down on your knees, looking at the world for the last time.”

  He fired again, and Gregory fell face down. His head thumped against the sidewalk.

  Ted rolled his wheelchair to the curb, glanced at the approaching trash truck, and tossed his pistol into a trash can. “I’m guessing you guys have some business to take care of. Like right now.”

  Jax ran over and wrapped her arms around Ted. “You came to save me, Ted! You’ve been saving me ever since high school.”

  Ted laughed and patted her arm. “I saved you because that was my promise to Dalton, a soldier’s promise. He had to go away to save you. I told him I’d look after you.”

  “And that’s what you did.” Dalton extended his hand to the man in the wheelchair. “You gunna be okay?”

  “Go now, you guys. You got a dead body on the sidewalk. There’s no need for you to be around here.” Ted rolled down the sidewalk. When he was about twenty feet away, he turned. “I’m heading to the hood. I got a lady down there that used to be a nurse. She’ll take care of me good.”

  Gregory’s attempt to get the Key had cost them time. Dalton knew they had to move fast. The first stop they made was in Little India, where he picked up the copy of Solomon’s Key. Looking at it, he had to admit that Singh had been right: his brother-in-law made a pretty good copy. Now all he had to do was make Rossi believe it was the real thing.

  Nick was playing with the assault rifle the entire drive. “Are you sure this thing still fires?”

  “It still fires,” said Dalton. “If you want, I’ll shoot one of those beanbags at you.”

  “Oh, hell, no. I don’t need to be reminded.”

  There’s a jetty that separates Seal Beach from Long Beach. On the Long Beach side, the suburb that backs up to that jetty is one of the most exclusive areas of the city. The houses on that long spit of land, wedged between Los Alamitos Bay and the beach, sell for over seven figures.

  At the end of the long street to the jetty, sits the old yacht club building. Dalton pulled up beside the club and searched for a parking spot. They walked along the sidewalk, up the pathway bordered by ivy, and continued up the side of the staircase to the roof. It vibrated as they climbed.

  Dalton smelled the ocean and felt a stiff breeze the moment he stepped onto the roof. Just over the side, less than ten feet away, were the jetty and the swift-flowing black ocean. Sailboats bounced over the swells. A few fishermen stood on the rocks, moving their poles up and down.

  “Don’t get too close to the edge,” said Dalton, pulling Nick away.

  “How do we know they’re going to show?”

  “Because I have the one thing they want most. And neither the Italians nor the Israelis want to risk the other getting it. They’ll be here.”

  “I love this bulletproof vest, but man, it really makes me itch.” Nick reached under his coat and scratched.

  “Jax, you and Nick, you’re stationed at the top of the staircase. There’s no other way onto the roof. All you have to do is hold your ground. Make sure nobody else gets up the staircase. Allow the commander up, and then close it.”

  “How many times you gunna tell us that, Boss?”

  “As many times as it takes to sink in. We’re standing up here in the wind, with nowhere to go, no escape, so you best be sure you know what we’re doing. We all want to walk away from this. Got it?”

  “They’re here!” shouted Jax, waving her hand.

  Nick ran over and took position beside her. He leaned forward with the assault rifle and pointed it down the staircase. “Only the commander!” he shouted.

  Commander Rossi stepped onto the roof. When he saw Dalton, he walked to him. “You are not asking for money? All you want is my assurance that we will stop pursuing you. Is that correct?”

  “You take Solomon’s Key and walk away. That’s the deal.”

  “And you have the Key with you?”

  The sound of gunfire rang through the air. Several shots hit the edge of the rooftop and threw debris on the roof. Men shouted in the distance. A car skidded to a halt.

  “It’s the Israelis,” shouted Nick, moving from the edge of the rooftop and carefully peeking over the side.

  “Hold the staircase. Don’t let anyone else up!” shouted Dalton.

  Commander Rossi tapped the telephone in his ear and spoke. A moment later a shot knocked Nick off his feet.

  Nick hit the rooftop face down, rolled, and moaned.

  “Sniper!” shouted Dalton. He stepped sideways quickly and looked at Nick.

  Although Nick was laying on the ground, Dalton didn’t see any blood. He knew the shot must have hit the vest. He might have a broken rib, or gotten a bruise that was going to last about two weeks and hurt like hell, but he was alive.

  Jax shouted and fired twice down the staircase. “They’re trying to come up!”

  More gunfire sounded on the street. Dalton heard an engine race, and the sound of two cars crashing together. Glass broke and scattered over the street.

  “Let us conclude our business,” shouted Rossi.

  “Jax, get down, there’s a sniper on that roof.” Dalton ran toward her and motioned with his hands for her to lie down.

  She dropped to her knees and then onto her belly, crawled forward and looked over the edge, and fired a couple of shots onto the staircase.

  Dalton marched over and hit the commander on the shoulder. “Stop this! Nobody has to die here.”

  “Then hand over the artifact. Put Solomon’s Key in my hand, and we’ll be happy. I only need to speak one word into my telephone, and all this will stop.”

  Nick climbed to his feet, staggered forward, and fired the assault rifle.

  The first being bag hit the commander in the back of his knee, and dropped him to the rooftop. The second shot hit Dalton in the shoulder and spun him around.

  “Give me the Key,” shouted Nick. “Give it to me now, or I’ll kill you both!’”

  A sniper’s bullet whizzed by Dalton’s face and grazed his cheek.

  “Nick, what the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m doing what I should’ve done days ago. Give it to me. That thing is worth millions. I’m tired of making peanuts. That money is mine now.”

  “I can’t stop them,” shouted Jax, ejecting the clip from her automatic, shoving another one into the handle. “They’re too well armed! There’s too many.”

  Dalton reached into his coat and pulled out the Key.

  Commander Rossi said something and grabbed the Key. His mouth fell open as he stared. “Solomon’s treasure,” he said in awe.

  Dalton jerked it out of his hand.

  “If you want it so bad, here it is.” He held Solomon’s Key out as he walked toward Nick. When he was five feet away, Dalton shouted and threw the artifact, ran and jumped over the side of the building. He wasn’t in the air for more than a second before he hit the water. Even as he swam, he watched Commander Rossi on the edge of the roof, holding both his knees, shouting into the phone.

  ***

  The secretary rushed into Sophie Devonshire’s office. “You have two interviewees waiting in the lobby, Ms. Devonshire.” She sat a stack of mail on the desk.

  “Thank you, Louise. I’ll be down to get the first one shortly.” Sophie sorted through the mail and pulled out a brown envelope that looked interesting. With her gold letter opener, she cut open the envelope and poured several documents and photos onto her class-topped desk.

  Among the notarized documents, the birth certificate, the photos of Sophie Devonshire and her teenage friend, she found a letter, and read:

  This is the case I have built against you. Here you will find records that prove that Sophi
e Devonshire died in 2005. You’ll also find notarized statements from neighbors and schoolmates who mentioned a particular birthmark on the left wrist of Sophie Devonshire’s best friend, Sadie Crawford. That means that whoever is reading this letter is not Sophie Devonshire. If the case against Jason Dalton is not dropped, copies of this evidence will be sent to the Los Angeles Police Department, where a certain lieutenant will be very interested in the contents.

  Sophie leaned back into her chair and stared at the ceiling. She stayed like that for more than five minutes, then picked up the phone and pressed her attorney’s number.

  ***

  Ted stretched out on the masseuse table and laughed. Through the circular hole where his face rested, through which he often drooled, he could see the shapely ankles of a woman as she worked his shoulders, and occasionally reached for a warm rock that she placed along his spine.

  When the doorbell rang, Molly stopped the massage and hurried across Ted’s loft to the front door.

  He climbed up on the table as Molly was speaking to a deliveryman through the door.

  “He won’t leave the package, Honey.”

  Ted kissed her on the back of her neck and gently pulled her away from the door. “I’ll take care of it, Baby.” He reached over and picked up the 9-mm door gun.

  “Who is there?” he asked.

  “This is FedEx. I have a delivery for Ted Martin.”

  “Just leave it on the porch.”

  “I have to get a signature. I cannot leave it. But if you refuse delivery, I’ll take it back to the depot, and you could come and retrieve it later.”

  “Okay, I’ll take it.” Ted opened the door, shoving the gun into the crack as soon as it parted from the frame. Over the top of the weapon he saw the delivery driver’s uniform and pulled the door open.

  He carried the package across the loft to the kitchen area, where he sat at the wooden picnic table and tore open the paper. As soon as he saw a bit of color, he jerked his head away as though he’d been slapped. “Holy crap,” he whispered. He stuck his finger inside the package and touched a stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills. Then he lifted the package, about the size of a home printer, set it back down on the table, and pounded with his fist to see if it felt the same everywhere. It did.

  The package was nothing but banded hundred-dollar bills. He tore a little more of the paper off. There, inside the package, on top of the bills, sat a map.

  Ted pulled out the map and looked at it. Down toward the southern part of Mexico was a circle drawn around the name of a town.

  “I believe it’s the rainy season in Honduras,” he whispered, and laughed.

  ***

  They waited at the border and watched men and women and families cross over the walking bridge between the United States and Mexico. Dalton hunched his shoulders under the weight of the new backpack.

  Nick kept his hand on the top of his backpack at his feet.

  Only Jax’s backpack was not black. Hers was made of a flowered fabric. Every other detail—size, number of pockets, design—was the same as the black ones.

  “I think it’s best if we don’t cross together.”

  “I’ll go first,” said Jax with a big smile, rocking onto her tiptoes.

  “How’s that rib of yours, Nick? Can you carry your pack?”

  Nick nodded and swept his hair back. “Yeah, I’m good. It hurts like hell, but I’m not gunna set down my money.”

  Dalton rubbed his shoulder. “That bean bag shot to my shoulder hurts like hell, too.”

  “It was your plan.” Nicked laughed.

  Dalton chuckled too, and said, “It was the only way I could think of to get the Key out of Rossi’s hands, and it worked. Anyway, if we get separated, we’ll meet in that little town.”

  “Okay,” said Jax. “I’m going.” She waved and repositioned the pack, then stepped into the flow of pedestrians heading for the border.

  “How long do you think they’re going to be looking for us?”

  “I think the Vatican guys will be searching that jetty for a long time. And that’s just the way I wanted it.”

  Nick chuckled and lifted the backpack. “When we Skyped with Singh, it was hanging on the wall of the Temple behind him. It was just hanging there with a hundred other relics.”

  “Hiding in plain sight, that’s the best way. And Sophie Devonshire changed her story, so I don’t have to worry about prosecution. Now it’s only that organization I have to think about.” Dalton started walking.

  Nick hurried after him and grabbed his arm. “What are you talking about?”

  “The organization that Devonshire ran. His henchmen are only interested in the cash. And we have it. It was only a matter of time before somebody came.” Dalton took an embossed business card from his shirt pocket.

  Nick read the card and turned it over. On the back was a handwritten note that said: We would much appreciate the return of our property.

  “What do we do?”

  “Well,” said Dalton. “I’m going to the tropics to enjoy life. Legally, I believe Sophie Devonshire owns the money, and she doesn’t want it. So, I’m going to have fun with Jax, and keep looking over my shoulder.”

  Dalton shouldered his pack and walked across the bridge, into another country.

  Nick followed a few minutes later.

  The End

  On the following pages, for your enjoyment, I’ve included two chapters of The Killer Trap, book two in the series.

  Chapter 1

  Long Beach, California:

  Connor blew the whistle and threw up his arms. “That’s a foul. Two shots.”

  The fat kid laughed and dribbled the basketball toward the foul line. A few parents jumped off the YMCA bleachers and shouted.

  “You can’t push him when he has the ball.” Connor looked past the boy who had drawn the foul. A heavy bald man pulled his tie from around his neck and threw it to the ground as he marched across the court.

  “Mr. Connor, watch out,” said one of the ten-year-old players.

  Connor stepped away from the players and waited for the man rushing toward him. The guy had thirty pounds on him and stood a couple of inches taller, he noted. As the angry man got close, a breeze pushed open his jacket and revealed a black pistol on his hip. Connor thought about the kids having fun on the basketball court. They were his responsibility. Children plus an angry man with a gun did not add up well.

  “Why you no give ball to my boy?” The big guy with the Russian accent threw his arms about and grabbed Connor’s shoulder.

  The raised arm on his shoulder meant that half the guy’s body was unprotected. Connor stepped close and hit the big man in the solar plexus, that sweet spot below the breast bone.

  The guy doubled over and moaned and shook his head.

  Connor realized he was going to recover and might attack at any second, so he turned sideways and hit him with an elbow to the jaw. That dropped the threat to the concrete. The instant the Russian fell, Connor removed the weapon, ejected the magazine and the cartridge from the firing chamber, and slid the pistol out of reach.

  “Call 911!” he shouted. “Everyone, get inside. Tell them to call the police.”

  The kids stood motionless, as if frozen in place.

  He shouted again with the full force of his lungs, and the children sprinted off the court in a pack.

  The police arrived minutes later. Two uniformed officers, a man and a woman, came running onto the court with weapons drawn. When the pair found no threat, they put their service weapons away and locked handcuffs on the suspect. Once he was sitting in the back of a squad car, they began taking statements.

  “So, the guy was shouting and rushed at you across the court. As he approached you saw a gun. He grabbed you by the shoulder. You were afraid for the safety of the children. Is that correct, Mr. Marin?” The cop stopped writing and tapped a pen on his notebook.

  “I had a split second to act,” Connor explained. “I saw the gun and my training
took over. I had to make sure the children were not going to get hurt.”

  “Military?” asked the cop.

  “Army Ranger.”

  The cop nodded. “And you’re a PI?” He handed Connor back his driver’s license.

  “Yeah, why?”

  The patrolman turned and set his notepad on the squad car and motioned with a raised chin for Connor to follow him. They walked to the front of the car. “This guy has Russian mob tatt’s.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “You have a permit to carry a concealed weapon. If I were you, I’d exercise that right for a while.” The cop’s eyes grew large. “Ya follow?”

  “Point taken.”

  It took Connor an hour to pacify the YMCA manager and finish with the police. Once that was all out of the way, he went to his locker, then took a quick shower and headed across the parking lot to his car. He sat sideways in the driver’s seat and rolled down the window. Although it was mid-January, and getting close to evening, the temperature had reached the high seventies. Inside his car felt like an oven, and the steering wheel was so hot he couldn’t hold it. With his legs sticking out the door, feet on the pavement, he was rolling down the windows to let the heat out when his phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at the screen.

  Remember Sanchez and Daly? read the text.

  Connor jerked back in his seat. The names took him back to his years in the army. He remembered laughing with them in a bar in Bogota. He remembered playing with their children. And just like all the other times he’d thought about his Army buddies, he saw the bloody apartment where Sanchez and his family had been murdered. It was a memory he could not erase. It still woke him at night. And every time he jumped out of bed, he remembered taking a vow with the three surviving members of his Ranger squad, to find the cartel executioners who had murdered their brothers.

  Before Connor could respond to the text, another one arrived: it was the rendezvous coordinates of his last Ranger mission. There was only one person who could have sent the text.