The Templar Map Page 2

  Uri ran at him, using the headboard like a battering ram, and shoved him against the wall.

  The professor struggled until Uri knocked him out.

  Now that he was safe, he dropped to the bed. He tried to wipe his face and realized his hand was still handcuffed to the broken headboard. So, he stood up and smashed the headboard against a table. On the third swing it broke apart and he was free, a furry hand cuff clamped to his wrist. As he searched the room, he saw the earbud on the bedside table and noticed a blinking red light.

  He shoved the device into his ear and turned it on.

  “Uri?” said the commander. “The key has surfaced in Los Angeles. Get out of there and get on a plane.”

  “What should I do with these perverts?”

  “Where are they?”

  “Passed out.”

  “Sounds like you had a good time.”

  Uri turned off the phone.

  Chapter 4

  Nick hurried to the second-hand filing cabinets and took a clipboard and his cell phone from a top drawer. “That must be the Switzers,” he said. “Yeah, three o’clock, they’re right on time.”

  Dalton hurried to let his clients in.

  “Here’s the file.” Nick handed his boss a large brown envelope and tapped it several times. “The case is closed, so get the check,” he whispered. “Full payment, no installments. One big fat check.”

  Nick opened the door and greeted the elderly couple.

  Mrs. Switzer held her husband’s shaking hand and led him across the office.

  It didn’t take long for Dalton to explain the investigation and present the evidence to the elderly couple.

  Mrs. Switzer gasped and held one of the photos to her chest. “Harry, look, it’s Lauren.” Then she turned to Dalton. “She started getting in trouble with the wrong crowd, and about a year later she just disappeared. We thought we lost her, Mr. Dalton.”

  “You didn’t lose her. In fact, this is her address and phone number. We spoke to her, and she is looking forward to seeing you.”

  Mrs. Switzer clutched a handkerchief tightly to her mouth and sobbed. “Harry, we have a granddaughter!”

  “Her name is Helen.”

  After much talk, Mrs. Switzer asked her husband to write a check, but while he was writing

  it, she touched his arm. “On second thought, dear, let me write it. I want to give Mr. Dalton a nice bonus.”

  Over at the door, where the couple could not see him, Nick danced as though he’d walked into a Mardi Gras parade.

  “Well, thank you so much.” Dalton took the check and set it on the corner of the desk. “We are happy to have been of service.” He walked over and helped the couple to their feet, held Mrs. Switzer’s arm, and led her to the door.

  Nick was sniffing the check by the time Dalton closed the door.

  “Oh, the smell of money. I’d forgotten that smell.”

  “Now you can buy some glue to hold your cheapo camera in the ceiling.”

  “Fire-power is what we need. Did you figure out who planted those surveillance devices?”

  “Are you on that again?” Dalton walked to the desk.

  “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to find another job.”

  “Yeah, you can go back to building fake backgrounds.”

  Nick slammed a filing cabinet drawer. “Let’s get one thing clear: you didn’t catch me.”

  “No, but when one of your good fella’s clients decided you knew too much, you came to me for help.”

  “Do you have to remind me again?”

  “And you stopped that. You work for me now. Say it.” Dalton pointed.

  “I work for you now. I don’t help criminals anymore.”

  “You better not.”

  “Don’t you have that karate class today?”

  Chapter 5

  The black Lincoln rolled to a stop in the parking lot. The chain-link fence that bordered the lot was rusted and cut in places. The wind blew a red candy wrapper into a patch of dead grass. For several minutes the car stood still, gray exhaust rising into the cold morning air.

  The driver, Samoan tattoos on his tree-trunk neck, climbed out and opened the rear door. From the back seat, a man in his sixties placed a polished black shoe on the ground. Bits of glass crunched beneath his shoes as he stood.

  “Sir, do you want to take my weapon?”

  “No, James,” answered the elderly man, brushing a speck from his black overcoat. “I have Sadie with me.”

  “Sadie, Sir?”

  The older man pulled off a red leather glove and took a stub-nose revolver from his pocket. He smiled. “This is Sadie. Watch my six.”

  The chauffer nodded approval. “I always watch your back, Sir.”

  The two crossed the parking lot to a large truck parked parallel to the street. The sign on its side read BISHOP’S PLUMBING: THE FAMILY PLUMBER.

  “James, stay here, but be ready. This could get ugly, so keep the engine running.”

  James opened the back door of the plumbing truck, and Thomas Trenton Gregory climbed in and closed the door.

  The truck smelled of cigarettes and sweat. “Gentlemen,” said Mr. Gregory, nodding at two men seated behind a small table. He also greeted Jeremy, a long-haired young man with rounded shoulders and a pot belly, who sat in front of a console of electrical equipment, a brown knit cap holding back his hair.

  Mr. Gregory sat at the table. “Your commanding officer spoke highly of you. You were good soldiers. I need a simple extraction. You pick up the package, drop him off, and job done.”

  Jeremy stopped cleaning his glasses and tapped a monitor. “That’s the package there. His name is Jason Dalton. He’s the guy teaching the class.”

  One of the men shoved his sleeves up his forearms, revealing a Ranger tatt on one arm. “Permission to speak, Sir.”

  Mr. Gregory twisted off the cap of a silver Thermos and poured coffee. “Speak.”

  “The guy is teaching karate to children.” He pointed, looked at the other men in the van, and laughed. “Let’s just walk over and snatch him. How hard can that be?”

  The man laughed again and reached into his jacket pocket. His laughter stopped abruptly though, when he saw a revolver cocked to fire.

  The instant Mr. Gregory aimed the revolver Jeremy jumped from his seat and shoved a sawed-off shotgun against Mr. Tattoo’s face.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said the other man, throwing up his hands. “Everyone, slow and easy, let’s put the guns down.”

  “That’s a twelve-gauge in your face,” said Mr. Gregory, clicking his tongue as a parent would to scold a toddler. “You reached into a pocket. I hope there is not a weapon in there. That would make Jeremy here nervous. It’s all those energy drinks. The last time he pulled that cannon his hands were shaking so badly he tapped the trigger by accident. What a mess, clumps of hair and brain stuck to the walls.” He shook his head, but the revolver did not move.

  The man with the tattoo raised his hands and set them on the table.

  “Good choice,” said Jeremy with a sigh, lowering the shotgun. “I hate cleaning up; puts me off sushi for months.”

  “Okay,” Gregory nodded and clicked the revolver’s firing pin to its safe position. “Back to business. Now, this is my money, and I don’t want to waste it. That man you see teaching children has taught hand-to-hand in military facilities that Congress doesn’t know about. If you underestimate him, he’ll put you down, and I’ll be out my money. I don’t like to waste money. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” Gregory set the revolver on the table. “This is his file.” He shoved a folder across the table.

  The men read and passed photos between them. “Why all the blacked-out pages?” one asked.

  “He ran a black-on-black squad for Uncle Sam. Only the top brass can access to his file.”

  One of them pointed to the man on the screen. “He’s got more medals than—”

  “Is there a problem, g
entlemen?” Mr. Gregory placed his hand on the revolver.

  Jeremy raised the shotgun.

  “Transport him alive to the drop. This is half your payment. I’ll pay the other fifty percent on delivery.” Mr. Gregory reached into his coat and set a leather satchel on the table.

  One of the men unzipped it and spread the opening wide, revealing the contents to the man beside him. “We’re good,” he said.

  Mr. Gregory stood up. “Then until this evening, gentlemen. You walk into his office at seventeen-hundred hours, and should be at the drop by eighteen-thirty.”

  Chapter 6

  Dalton opened a gold envelope and pulled out a card. “It’s a thank-you from the Switzers.”

  “I wish we’d get more bonuses like that,” laughed Nick.

  “Man, this heat. I have to get some air.” Dalton tugged on the window, thumped the top edge with a fist, and tugged again. “I’m going to get a crowbar and–” He watched a Bentley pull to the curb in the street below. “Now that’s money.” He whistled.

  Nick rushed over and looked. “The driver checked our address. He’s coming up here, rich people with chauffeurs and expensive shoes. Oh, yeah, more money is coming our way. Quick, clean the office.”

  Dalton sat at the desk and shoved the glass of water into a drawer. Then he gathered up papers and shuffled them into a single stack. He was just setting the papers down when he heard high heels clicking on the landing. That sound took his memory on a quick roller coaster tour of women he had known, and he held his breath as she crossed the room.

  “I’m looking for—the sign on the door, it says J. Dalton, Private Detective.”

  Dalton looked her over, from the Italian kitten heels, to a neck line low enough to be intriguing. He didn’t know what to call the tight dress, or the distorted checkerboard pattern of the blouse, but he knew he liked them.

  “I’m Jason Dalton.” He stood and reached for her hand. “This is my assistant, Nick. Please, have a seat. How can I help?”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Sophie Devonshire.” She touched the pearls around her neck and glanced at Nick.

  “Nick,” said Dalton. “Can you wait in the other room?”

  When the door closed, Sophie Devonshire slid forward and lowered her head as though summoning courage. “I have a delicate matter that I need help with.”

  He looked up the moment she stopped speaking and walked around the desk and sat down. “I’m sworn to secrecy. What can I help with?”

  “I was going through my late husband’s things and came across a curious artifact.” She reached into her bag and took out what looked like an old piece of metal the size of a paperback novel. Strange writing covered one side. “As soon as I began making inquiries, bad things started happening.” She glanced over her shoulder, touched the neckline of her blouse, and pulled the fabric together.

  “First of all, Mrs. Devonshire, why’d you come to me?”

  “Oh—” She stared for a moment. “Yes, well, I came to you because a few months I was on a business trip to DC. I was at a political fund-raiser, and met a mysterious army officer. We chatted, and he recommended you.”

  “A black man?”

  “Excuse me?” she asked.

  “African-American? Was the officer you spoke to a black man?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Okay, Mrs. Devonshire, I know who that was. We served together. So, getting back to what you were saying, you mentioned that some bad things had happened when you tried to find out what this was. Define bad things.” Dalton examined the object.

  “Before I say another word, I wish to retain your services. That way, everything I say stays private. Is that the way it works?”

  She set a thick envelope on the desk. “Will this serve as a retainer?”

  Dalton opened the envelope and saw the bills were all hundreds; he guessed there was ten thousand dollars there. “That will be fine, Mrs. Devonshire.”

  “Please, Sophie is my name. I had a break-in at the house. Two men have threatened my attorney and demanded money to settle my husband’s bills but refused to show records of any kind. And two days ago, a man tried to steal my purse. Another man threatened me in public and demanded I turn over the artifact. I assumed he was talking about that.”

  Dalton scratched the object with a letter opener. “It’s plaster, he said, rubbing some of the crumbs between thumb and finger.”

  “I don’t understand. If it’s plaster, then why all the fuss? Oh, I forgot. These were taped to it.” She handed him a thumb drive and a small glass vial with a few granules inside. “There’s a photo of that thing on the thumb drive.”

  Dalton took the items and tapped the vial. “Maybe the photo is the real deal, and the vial holds scrapings to authenticate.”

  She opened her handbag and took out a silver cigarette case, removed one, tapped it on the case several times, and lit it. “My husband was a respected archaeologist, but he may have been involved in some dubious affairs. I need you to be a buffer between me and those terrible men. Can you find out what Andrew was involved in?”

  “I need your attorney’s card and the location where they tried to take your purse.”

  “These are the cards you need.” Sophie leaned forward and placed the cards on the desk. “That other card is my bank. I was coming down the steps when a man grabbed my purse.”

  “And he took it?”

  She smiled and her eyes brightened. “Not hardly, Mr. Dalton. I was raised in Texas. It’d take more than a punk in a hoodie to get my bag.”

  Dalton leaned back and nodded. “Good. I like it. You should be the–”

  There was a noise on the landing, and Dalton reached for his gun. As he opened the drawer he glanced at the clock. The hour hand moved to five-o’clock.

  “Oh.” Sophie slid forward on the wooden chair and turned. “That must be my driver. Don’t be alarmed. Mr. Abbyton, I won’t be long.”

  A figure moved in front of the glass door, and it opened quickly. A man in military black rushed into the room and knelt, pointing a short assault rifle. “Clear,” he barked, and another man ran into the office.

  Nick walked in the side door, and one of the commandos shot him.

  The force of the shot threw Nick against the wall, and he crashed to the floor.

  Sophie Devonshire screamed and ran into the corner, dropped to her knees and covered her head. Dalton grabbed the shovel and stood before her, ready to fight.

  The second guy discharged his weapon.

  White pain shot like a skyrocket through Dalton’s brain, and he doubled over. After the initial flash and shock, he realized he wasn’t bleeding or dying and knew they were firing bean bag ammo.

  The soldier who’d shot Nick jerked his weapon. “Someone wants to talk with you. Either you come standing up, or we carry you.” He discharged his weapon and hit Dalton in the thigh.

  This time the shot hit bone, and Dalton cried out and used the shovel to keep himself standing.

  He hobbled forward and was about to swing the shovel when the report of a handgun, so different from the hollow boom sound the assault rifles made, drew Dalton’s attention to the door.

  Into the office ran a huge man with a bald head, holding a revolver with both hands, jerking it about. He fired twice, two head shots, and the commandos fell.

  Sophie Devonshire ran and tried to reach the artifact on the desk, but Dalton lunged and got in front of her, and pushed her to the corner.

  The bald guy leaned forward and said: “It’s not here. I don’t see it.” He tapped the device in his ear and jerked his weapon about as though moving through a firing range or behind enemy lines. For a second he looked at Sophie and Dalton, and fired again.

  Dalton jerked the shovel to his face. The bullet hit and ricocheted through the window.

  “The time is up,” shouted someone from the landing. “Get out!”

  Before the killer fired another round, he saw the artifact on the desk, rushed over and grabbed it,
and ran toward the door.

  He nearly made it.

  Nick had inched his way to one of the assault rifles. When the killer turned and ran, Nick grabbed the weapon and fired twice, hitting the guy on the arm and hip.

  The killer doubled over and barked as he ran from the office.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Dalton groaned, leaned over, and touched Nick’s shoulder.

  “What the hell just happened?”

  “Is that camera thing you stuck in the ceiling recording?” asked Dalton, looking about the office. “The police will be here soon. Take the cash and Mrs. Devonshire and the surveillance, and get out of here.”

  Nick wheezed, climbed to his feet, groaned, and touched his chest.

  “They were firing bean bags. That’s why we’re not dead.”

  “Damn, I got kicked by a mule,” said Nick.

  “That mule got us both.” In the distance a siren screamed. Dalton motioned with his chin. “That’s got to be for us.”

  “I didn’t call it in.”

  “Someone did. Get Mrs. Devonshire safe at home, drop the cash and go to the diner. Remember the code-red diner I told you about?”

  Nick nodded. “Seal Beach, beside the jetty, right? Do I get a gun? Did you see me nail that fucker?”

  “You were shooting bean bags. You’re lucky the guy didn’t pop your head. Go now. I’ll meet you when the police are finished. Make sure you’re not followed. Just like I taught you.” He handed the particle sample to Nick, but let him tug before he released it.

  “I won’t lose it, boss.”

  He grabbed Nick’s arm. “Whoever sent the soldiers is still out there. Don’t let him find you.”

  “They’re the ones tracking you, right?”

  “We’re sure as hell going to find out.”

  Nick pivoted from right to left as though trying to decide which way to run, then jumped forward, hurried back into the office, and grabbed Sophie Devonshire’s hand and pulled her out the door.

  “Take my car,” she said, trying to run in heels.

  Chapter 7