The Templar Map

by K R Hill

  Dalton? He typed, and pressed send.

  Lieutenant Dalton to you, Sergeant. Connor read that and smiled.

  What’s up, Lieutenant?

  Payback time for Sanchez and Daly. Get to computer. Will Skype. Is Ghrazenko plan done?

  Roger that.

  Time to take him down, if you want the case. Might get hot. Contact in 30.

  Connor tossed the phone to the slick black seat of the ‘66 Mustang, closed the door and started the engine. For a moment he sat and listened. Although he loved the sound of a built small block with turbo mufflers, even that gentle rumble from the tail pipes didn’t bring pleasure. He’d been through hell with Sanchez and Daly on nine classified missions. On every one of those missions his life had depended on them. That had made them friends in a way most civilians couldn’t understand. And then the squad’s network got hacked. The rest was history.

  Now it was time for revenge. This was going to be an excellent case.

  Connor shoved the gear shift forward. His tires chirped on the asphalt as he turned onto the street and headed downtown.

  Chapter 2

  San Pedro, California:

  Falsen crossed the parking lot of one of those dive bars that line North Gaffey Street near the freeway. The sun reflected off the chrome of twenty choppers in a line. As he turned the corner of the dirty brown building, he heard music thumping through the wall.

  Falsen pushed aside the sticky, thick curtain and stepped into the bar.

  He was hardly inside when someone shoved him into a barrel-chested biker with a heavy gut.

  The biker spilled his beer. Blood flowed over his lips as he jerked a heavy glass stein from his mouth. The thumping music vanished.

  “You broke my tooth,” shouted the biker, his beard hiding most of the skull tattoo on his neck.

  “Step aside friend,” said Falsen. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  The biker tried to throw a right hand to Falsen’s jaw, but another man grabbed his arm.

  “He works for the Ghrazenkos. Let him pass.”

  The biker with the bloody lip muttered something, spit blood and backed away.

  Falsen straightened his coat and pushed his way to the bar. As the bartender was hurrying to a back door, Falsen grabbed him. The bartender wore a headband and held his shaking hands in front of his face.

  “I didn’t do nothing. I don’t want no trouble with the Ghrazenkos.” He flinched.

  Falsen shoved a photograph into his face. “I’m looking for her. You seen her?”

  The bartender swore he had not seen the woman. Falsen released the man and walked to the exit.

  He had just pushed through the curtain and stepped out into the sunlight when his phone vibrated, and he reached into his pocket.

  The first line of the text was an address. The second line read: Tasha X. Men with her X. X meant his employer wanted that person killed. Falsen had never seen his boss order such a flurry of killings. The shipment that was coming must be extremely important, he thought. It was rumored that Teddy Ghrazenko, the head of the US branch of the crime family himself, was involved with this shipment.

  Falsen scrolled through photos of Tasha and found the one of her playing in the snow. He touched her face, dropped the phone into a pocket, and drove to the address.

  It was one of those apartment blocks near the San Pedro harbor where tenants were constantly coming and going. That would be good, he thought. He’d be just another face to forget.

  After parking on a hill and watching the building for half an hour, he walked up the driveway between two buildings, looked around the parking lot and searched for the door he wanted. When he found it, he removed a pair of surgical gloves from a back pocket.

  Beneath his coat Falsen touched the knife clipped to his belt and the revolver. He inhaled deeply, telling himself not to think about the things Tasha had whispered during passionate moments.

  He twisted the doorknob with slow, cautious turns, a fraction at a time. When the latch clicked, he opened the door slightly, grabbed the warning bell before it jingled, and entered the hallway, crouching and staring into the darkness, listening for the slightest sound.

  Down the hallway he saw a muslin curtain. From the other side of the curtain he heard a man's voice. A woman answered. As her voice aroused memories, Falsen stood still and shook his head. A burning sensation spread across his cheeks. He turned to leave, took one step, then turned back into the apartment and went slowly forward.

  In the half-light of the room, it was difficult to make out furniture until his eyes adjusted. Taking small steps and moving with his arms held out at his sides, he made it halfway to the muslin curtain before a door opened.

  “Your boss is weak,” said the man behind him.

  Another man right in front of Falsen stepped through the curtain and adjusted a pair of brass knuckles over a fist. That he saw clearly. Falsen blinked a few times and looked into the cold eyes of the street thug, a person used to hurting others.

  “So, this is the enforcer everyone is afraid of, the famous Mr. Falsen,” said Brass Knuckles.

  Falsen spit on the guy’s leg, grabbed the knife from his belt, and raised his arms into a boxer stance, head tucked behind his arms, the knife held firmly in one hand.

  “There’s only two of you. That’s not enough.”

  “My friends are taking care of your big woman.” The guy with the spit on his leg smiled and jabbed, one hand and then the other, quick punches.

  The brass knuckles scrapped Falsen’s arms and tore his scalp. The pain was immediate. Blood flowed down his face.

  When the punches started to come less frequently, Falsen moved in, shoved the knife up under the guy’s chin and twisted it, felt the resistance of the windpipe and vertebrae against the blade. A quick thrust and the guy dropped.

  “Help!” screamed Tasha, from the next room.

  Something struck him hard across the shoulder, and Falsen turned, leaning into the damaged shoulder, pain shooting from his testicles to his shoulder.

  The guy behind him was tall and thin with long white hair. Again, he swung the club.

  Falsen jumped back and crashed against the wall. Blood flowed into his eyes, and he wiped his face. In his pocket he found the little revolver and fired twice through his coat.

  The first shot exploded the guy’s kneecap. The man wobbled and tried to swing the club while falling. The second shot created a small red explosion in the middle of his chest. The thin man staggered, bent forward, and dropped to the floor. He sighed one last time and straightened out.

  “Falsen, there’s two men in here,” shouted Tasha.

  He heard a slap, and Tasha screamed.

  “If you come through that curtain I’ll kill her,” said a man. “Tell your boss to stop that next shipment, and I’ll let her live.”

  Falsen backed up a couple of steps and charged through the curtain with the might and momentum of a fullback bursting through a defensive line. He ran straight into a gunman, lifted him off his feet, and smashed him against the wall. The knife cut through the guy’s abdomen and stuck an inch deep into the wall behind him.

  The man who’d been barking orders was crouched behind Tasha. He aimed and fired a big shiny revolver.

  One of the shots took a piece out of Falsen’s shoulder. It felt as though he’d been hit on the elbow with a hammer. The arm froze. He released the knife and fell to the floor. Lying on his side, Falsen reached over with his left hand, found the pistol, and fired one shot after the other at the guy’s feet.

  He got lucky. One of the shots blew out the guy’s ankle, and he crashed to the floor.

  Falsen rolled onto his back and supported his good shoulder against the bed. Lurching about, he climbed to his feet and ran to other side of the bed. Wounded and shaking and without the use of one arm, he pulled the gunman to his feet and shoved the knife up under his chin.

  The gunman dropped, smearing the wall with blood.

  Falsen kicked the gun
from his hand, sat on the edge of the bed and cut the zip ties that held Tasha to the chair. The black plastic ties were stretched thin over her heavy arms. The joints in the chair legs had been pulled apart with Tasha’s fighting. A few more minutes, thought Falsen, and his big, stout woman might have broken free and knocked a couple of the men around. That was the woman he loved.

  “Oh, Baby,” said Tasha. “Don’t pass out. Oh, look at your face, your shoulder. You’re bleeding badly.” She slid forward on the chair and wrapped her arms around him. “I’m so sorry.”

  He dropped his head and his chin touched his chest. “I got the order to kill you,” he told her, “but I have my own plan. I’m going to take over the organization. Van Koenig isn’t my boss any longer. Ghrazenko doesn’t need a middle man. I can sell Ghrazenko’s artwork without Van Koenig. Then we’ll move away and live happy on the money. Is that a good plan? Do you want to move away with me, Tash’?”

  “Oh, yes Baby, let’s move far away,” she pleaded. “We’ll go before Van Koenig finds out I’m alive.”

  He spoke to her softly, reassuring her. Then they walked arm in arm across the apartment to the back door.

  “I’m going to burn this place down. By the time Van Koenig finds out that you’re not here, it’ll be too late. Wait outside.”

  Flames had engulfed half the room by the time Falsen left the building. Once they were a few blocks away, he asked Tasha to wait for a moment as he took out his phone. Falsen typed a number, and said: “I sent the money. Set the plan in motion. The shot has to kill Van Koenig. Don’t miss. Follow the plan or I’ll kill you.”

  Book Two is here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07H44X4WD

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  K.R. Hill

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