The Conch Shell of Doom Read online

  CONTENTS

  Required Legalese

  Also by Ryan Hill

  Dedication

  Chapter One - The Copper Canyon

  Chapter Two - Where Do You Think You’re Going?

  Chapter Three - To Be or Not to Be

  Chapter Four - Eye Got You

  Chapter Five - I Forget

  Chapter Six - The Kindness of Strangers

  Chapter Seven - The Morning After

  Chapter Eight - Old Wounds

  Chapter Nine - The Amateur Detectives

  Chapter Ten - Best Laid Plans

  Chapter Eleven - Stake Out

  Chapter Twelve - Trouble in the Big House

  Chapter Thirteen - The Price of Loyalty

  Chapter Fourteen - The Wrong Man

  Chapter Fifteen - Prison Life

  Chapter Sixteen - Black Death

  Chapter Seventeen - Death Becomes Her

  Chapter Eighteen - The Consequences of Running Your Mouth to an Immortal

  Chapter Nineteen - Father of the Year

  Chapter Twenty - Wake Up

  Chapter Twenty-One - A Storm is Brewing

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Not-So-Great Escapes

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Hideout

  Chapter Twenty-Four - The Truth of the Matter

  Chapter Twenty-Five - Business Hours

  Chapter Twenty-Six - The Armory

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Carpool

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - The Scotch Interrogation

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - Go Time

  Chapter Thirty - The Sacrificial Lamb

  Chapter Thirty-One - Trenton Maroney: Live in Somebody Else’s Flesh

  Chapter Thirty-Two - Let Slip the Birds of War

  Chapter Thirty-Three - Sharks!

  Chapter Thirty-Four - We All Scream… for Ice Cream

  Chapter Thirty-Five - Second Thoughts

  Chapter Thirty-Six - This Situation Calls for a Take-Charge Kind of Guy

  Chapter Thirty-Seven - Not Always Cute and Cuddly

  Chapter Thirty-Eight - The Calm After the Storm

  Chapter Thirty-Nine - Kiss Her, You Fool!

  About the Author

  The Conch Shell of Doom

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Just don’t steal the novel, okay? I worked really hard on it.

  Copyright © 2016 Ryan Hill

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0-9974628-0-9

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9974628-0-7

  Cover design by the awesome Michelle Johnson

  https://www.facebook.com/BlueSkyOverBoston/?fref=ts

  All rights reserved. The scanning, uploading, sharing, or tomfoolery of any part of this novel without the permission of the author is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. It would also make me sad. If you would like to use materials from the novel (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected]. Thank you for being cool about all the legal stuff in advance.

  Visit the amazing author at www.ryanhillwrites.com and sign up for Ryan’s newsletter at http://eepurl.com/7wfaf.

  First edition: May 2016

  Also by Ryan Hill

  The Book of Bart

  Dead New World

  For the Hill gang

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Copper Canyon

  Franklin Maroney distanced himself from the pathetic, painful groans coming from behind the bush. After seven years of scouring the globe for the Blade of Hugues de Payens, the blasted thing would be in his possession within the hour, provided Wade didn’t have a nasty case of Montezuma’s Revenge. Franklin estimated they’d lost at least two hours so far because Wade refused to listen to reason. Don’t drink the water. You’ll get sick. Stick with beer.

  “I know… You told me so.” Wade wheezed.

  “One of these days you’ll learn.” Though Franklin doubted it.

  After three years together, it’d become a given that Wade would put them behind schedule. A flat tire, forgetting to pay off the right police officer, a case of the runs… the list went on and on.

  A flock of birds passed overhead. Flying would’ve made completing the journey infinitely easier for Franklin. The train they took into the Copper Canyon shaved a week’s worth of walking off the timetable, but that still left a five-day hike. Five days in the Mexican heat with Wade and his exploding stomach. Three hours in, Franklin gave strong consideration to killing the poor guy and ending both their suffering.

  Wade emerged from the bush, face pale beneath a faded Yankees cap. He’d lost a few pounds since the trek began. His cheeks had more definition. Sweat-soaked clothes hung looser over his body. Belt pulled even tighter on his shorts. Veins more pronounced on his arms. He took a GPS locator out of his backpack.

  “Looks like we’ve got about a two-hour hike north, then we get to climb that big fella right there.” He pointed to a mountain ahead.

  The natives called it El Caballero Durmiente—the Sleeping Knight—and to most people, that was what it looked like. To Franklin, it seemed more like a dead man lying on his back, arms stretched out at his sides. Then again, his perspective was different from most others'. To call him an old soul was a massive understatement.

  “No time like the present.” Franklin marched forward. He doubted Wade’s two-hour estimation accommodated his frequent trips into the bushes to relieve himself.

  The two were silent for much of the hike, taking turns cutting through the thick leaves and branches blocking their way. Wade groaned with each swing of the machete. He was covered in a thin, misty layer of sweat.

  “Here.” Franklin held out his hand for the machete. “Take a break.”

  Wade gave it over and then rested his hands on his knees. “How are you not sweating? I’m dying out here.”

  “Guess I’m just in better shape than you.”

  Franklin knew that wasn’t entirely true, but he didn’t elaborate. Wade had enough problems keeping his pants clean.

  “Prob—” Wade slapped his mouth shut, watching a snake slither over his shoe.

  Franklin tried not to laugh at his friend. He slid the machete under the snake and flicked it into the trees. The reptile disappeared into the brush with a hiss.

  “Thanks.” Wade took off his hat and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Good thing I just cleaned myself out. That would’ve been a close one.”

  Franklin smirked. He liked Wade. Sure, the guy didn’t come close to being the best person Franklin worked with, but for all the man’s faults, he also wasn’t close to being the worst. That title belonged to Caleb, a farm boy from the ninth century. That kid was terrible. He whined the entire time. Franklin almost felt relieved when a shark took Caleb’s head off. It didn’t help that Franklin hated children on principle, mostly because he couldn’t bear any of his own.

  “Come on.” Franklin moved forward, slicing through the brush with the machete. Wade took a few more minutes to rest before rejoining his boss.

  Thanks to only one more stop to empty his bowels, Wade’s estimate turned out to be pretty accurate. He and Franklin reached the base of the mountain in a little over two hours. Wade let his backpack drop to the ground and then leaned against a boulder. He poured the remaining water in his canteen over his head.

  “Mind if I sit this one out, chief?” Wade asked. He didn’t bother wiping the water off his face. “Montezuma is about to avenge himself again.”

  “No problem.” Franklin looked up at the steep climb ahead. “Just keep an eye out.”

  “For what?” Wade handed over the GPS. A small, red X blinked
on the screen. “There’s nothing out here but us.”

  And snakes. Of all sorts. Some the kind a simple flick of a machete won’t save you from. “I don’t know. Ruffians. Banditos. Indigenous cannibals.”

  Wade’s eyes went wide. “Cannibals? You never said anything about cannibals. Look at me. Why would someone want to eat me?”

  “Conjecture, Wade. Fire a round in the air if there’s trouble. Hell, someone does try to eat you, shoot ‘em in the mouth. I don’t care.” Gazing up at the mountain, Franklin let out a deep breath. All that remained was to finish the climb, and he’d have the blade. And finishing the climb was going to be a pain in the ass.

  Located in the heart of the Copper Canyon, the Sleeping Knight was a twelve-hundred-foot mountain with an almost-straight-up, ninety-degree climb. Franklin stepped on a large rock and pulled himself up to the next one. The ritual continued, and after a while, he’d made it to five hundred feet. His muscles ached, begging for a rest.

  Sharp rocks jutted from the side of the mountain. He leaned against them and caught his breath. As he gazed across the horizon, the Copper Canyon stretched for miles, like a giant landscape painting. On the ground, Wade seemed no bigger than a coin. Franklin checked the GPS. Three hundred feet until his destination. That high up the mountain, there weren’t any trees to provide shade from the sun. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. He laughed. Wade would’ve gotten a kick out of that.

  Franklin looked up. That three hundred feet felt like a thousand. He understood more than most the need to hide something as precious as the Blade of Hugues de Payens in a random spot, like the boonies of Mexico, but he’d have zero complaints if someone just hid the damn thing in a drainage pipe behind a 7-11. The climb was more than a little ridiculous.

  Franklin tucked the GPS back into his cargo shorts and resumed climbing. A few pebbles came loose with each step, forcing him to move slower and with exaggerated care. That worked until about one hundred feet to go, when everything fell apart.

  A rock the size of a football broke free as he reached for it. The rock tumbled down, bouncing off the side of the mountain on its way to Wade. Franklin swung back and forth from one hand, nothing but eleven hundred feet of air between himself and the ground. He refused to look down. He knew the fall would be awful. Why visually confirm it? At least he had quick reflexes. It would’ve pissed him off making that climb a second time.

  Swinging over to his right, Franklin gained more stable footing. He pushed against the rock above, checking to see if it would fall on his head. It didn’t. Continuing the climb, he reached a plateau and pulled himself up. He stretched his back and noticed a crevice cut into the side of the mountain. Finally. His burning muscles needed another break.

  Franklin smacked his hands together, a cloud of dust rising up. He glanced back down the mountain, a twinge of satisfaction tugging at him. So what if it sounded dirty? He’d climbed atop the Sleeping Knight. Climbing was never his thing, yet there he was, no muss, no fuss. Franklin took a pocket flashlight out, clicked it on, and walked into the crevice.

  The cave was rough and full of hard edges, as if it hated any sort of intrusion. Nature had carved it out over thousands of years, like it knew the cave could one day become a secret hiding place. Water dripped from stalactites, giving the place a sharp, rocky odor.

  Interesting. Didn’t think there’d be water.

  One could stay there for several days, if necessary. Maybe that was why Sir Chapman chose a spot one thousand feet up the mountain. The only other reason: he was a masochist who got off on ridiculous tasks, like climbing. Franklin cupped his hand under a stalactite, a small pool of water forming in his palm. He took a sip and made a sour face. It tasted like dirt. But his body needed the liquid after the climb. After forcing down a few more sips, Franklin journeyed farther.

  Past the stalactites, the flashlight picked up a crude, faded crucifix symbol carved into the rock. The design was angled and jagged. Franklin figured it had to be made with a large, blunt instrument. Perhaps even a sword.

  Sir Chapman’s sword.

  Franklin flipped the flashlight in his hands. He was close. Sir Chapman’s body couldn’t be far. Franklin wanted to jump in celebration, but the rocky ceiling had a low clearance. But still—all these years, and finally so close to the blade! The excitement could only be compared to an explorer discovering El Dorado or the City of Atlantis, times fifty. He moved deeper into the cave, adrenaline heightening every movement. Turning a corner, Franklin glanced back. The cave’s entrance was out of sight. From here on out, the flashlight would be the only source of brightness.

  “Should’ve brought night vision.”

  As he moved deeper into the cave, the beam picked up a glare against a piece of armor.

  Jackpot.

  “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sir Chapman.”

  Franklin inspected the withered remains of the knight. The rising dust made the skeleton look like it was encased in a body made of dirt. Chapman’s remains clutched a rust-covered sword to his chest. Franklin picked it up, and a cloud of dust and cobwebs made him sneeze. He banged the weapon against the wall, testing its strength. The metallic echo bounced back and forth against the cave’s walls, but the sword itself broke into pieces.

  Franklin frowned. That was a shame. Probably could’ve gotten good money for the artifact.

  He ran his fingers over Chapman’s armor, leaving clean lines amidst the centuries of dust. Why on Earth would Chapman climb up there in that? The ascent was a pain in the ass without armor weighing you down. Franklin nudged the body with his foot, tipping it over. The skull broke free and rolled to a stop against the cave’s wall. The dark eye sockets stared back at Franklin, as if they were witness to a heinous crime.

  “Don’t look at me like that.” Franklin took a deep breath. Instead of savoring the discovery, he was making a mess of everything. Turning Chapman’s remains into a mockery wasn’t part of the plan.

  Franklin turned the skull around, so it couldn’t see him. Moving back to the body, he noticed a hole in the back of the armor, surrounded by a dark stain. Blood. Had Sir Chapman climbed up there with the injury, or did it happen after? Franklin shone the flashlight around. No sign of a struggle, even one that took place hundreds of years ago.

  My man made the climb with a hole in his back.

  Franklin saluted the skeleton. “You, sir, are a badass.”

  He pushed the skeleton aside and found a dusty wooden box. It broke open with one swift stomp. He brushed aside a few pieces of wood, revealing a blade sheathed in cracked and peeling leather. Franklin picked it up. He slid the weapon from its cradle, his excitement forcing him to grin. “Hello, beautiful.”

  The Blade of Hugues de Payens.

  A thin layer of rust needed to be removed from the weapon, but the wooden hilt was plated in gold, and the tip split into a Y at the end. Anyone unlucky enough to be stabbed would have a devil of a time pulling it back out.

  Made by the first Grand Master of the Knights Templar in 1130, the blade was blessed with all kinds of otherworldly attributes. It could pierce anything, from a piece of paper to an impenetrable monster. Franklin gave up fighting back excitement. He flicked the knife against the air, happy beyond belief to hold a weapon that could kill his brother and end both of their curses.

  Franklin held each end of the blade, testing its weight. Surprisingly light. Most weapons from that period were clumsy and heavy, but not the Blade of Hugues de Payens. It was a masterpiece. Franklin swung the weapon around to get a feel for it. Very, very smooth. Heavier blades that were the same size didn’t move with half as much grace. The hilt couldn’t have fit more comfortably in his hand.

  A loud crack echoed through the cave. Franklin froze in place, eyes darting side to side. Only one thing made a sound like that.

  He’s here.

  “Damn.”

  Franklin put the flashlight in his mouth and then took a small mirror from his pocket. Since sound bounced off the wall
s like a pinball machine, there was no telling where the crack came from. He ran toward the exit and rounded the corner. The moment he saw the sliver of the cave’s entrance, an arm flew out from the darkness, crushing his throat. The flashlight fell out of Franklin’s mouth as he collapsed to the floor, coughing and out of breath.

  Mr. Lovell wore an overcoat with the collar flipped up, a black fedora pulled low over his face, and large sunglasses. What little skin that was exposed looked gnarled and discolored, like an outward expression of pain. He kicked the flashlight deep into the cave.

  “You’re slipping. Did you really think I’d lost your trail?”

  “Even in the dark, you look like burnt bacon.” Franklin got to his feet, blade at the ready.

  Mr. Lovell tsked. “Two thousand years, and you still can’t move beyond sticks and stones.”

  “Call me old fashioned.”

  “The blade.” Mr. Lovell motioned with one hand. He kept the other behind his back.

  “Let me guess. I hand the blade over, and then you use whatever you’re hiding behind your back to kill me.”

  “That’s disappointing. All the times we’ve played this game, and you still consider me predictable.” Mr. Lovell threw the object he’d been hiding at Franklin’s feet.

  He jumped back involuntarily, keeping the thing from touching him. Wade’s head rolled to a stop. His dead, glassy eyes and mouth stuck mid-scream revealed the terror of his final moments.

  It didn’t take long for Franklin to get over the initial shock. His lips curled at the sight of blood oozing out from the bottom of Wade’s head. Sure, the man was a mess, but nobody deserved to get their noggin chopped off in the middle of Mexico. Franklin felt bad for his friend, but he’d seen too much death for the pain to cut deep. At that point, Wade was simply another fallen comrade Franklin would raise a glass to in honor.

  “You shouldn’t have done that.” He lowered the blade, as if agreeing to Mr. Lovell’s demand, and moved toward the man, sunlight from the entrance hitting his chest.