Arena of Souls- a Brock Stone Adventure

  Arena of Souls

  A Brock Stone Adventure

  By David Wood

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Arena of Souls- A Brock Stone Adventure (Brock Stone Adventures)

  1- The Mark

  2- The Bug

  3- The House

  4- Trinity

  5- The Book

  6- The Room

  7- The Message

  8- The Chase

  9- The Office

  10- The Library

  11- The Captain

  12- The Train

  13- The Train Again

  14- The Triangle

  15- The Vortex

  16- The Reef

  17- The Island

  18- The Beasts

  19- The River

  20- The Tribe

  21- The Escape

  22- The Valley

  23- The Revelation

  24- The Traitor

  25- The Cave

  26- The Battle

  27- The Arena

  28- The Mist

  29- The Altar

  About the Author

  1931- Washington, D.C.

  Brock Stone returns from places unknown to claim an inheritance and unravel a mystery his grandfather left behind. Stone and his companions set off on an action-packed adventure where enemies lurk in the shadows and the past comes to life in David Wood's pulp adventure, Arena of Souls. A classic adventure tale in the tradition of Doc Savage!

  Copyright

  Arena of Souls- A Brock Stone Adventure

  Copyright 2014 by David Wood

  Published by Gryphonwood Press

  Cover by Drazenka Kimpel

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Gryphonwood Press

  1- The Mark

  “He’s just a kid,” Stumpy muttered. “If he’s seen thirty, I’ll eat my hat.” His hand drifted to his hip, and the solid comfort of the Colt .45 secreted under his jacket. Once he got close enough to his mark, he’d fill the wheat with air. There was no question the guy was a wheat: no hat, no jacket, no belt, loose-fitting shirt worn open at the neck. He was as out of place in the big city as anyone Stumpy had ever seen.

  He lowered his head, tipped his hat forward, and moved with the crowd that scurried along B Street. He’d heard tell the government was going to rename it Constitution Avenue, but it would always be B Street to him. He liked things simple. The people around him seemed intent on their business, and none would have any reason to take notice of one more plainly dressed man in a group of many, and that suited him just fine. Hide in plain sight; that was the ticket.

  The sky turned gray, and thunder rumbled in the distance. The scent of rain lay heavy on the cool breeze, and the people around Stumpy quickened their pace. But not his mark. He strolled along as if he hadn’t a worry in the world, his blond head and broad shoulders sticking up above the throng of humanity. His size might pose a problem in a tussle though Stumpy could handle himself all right, but the convincer on his hip rendered the point moot.

  “Brock Stone,” Stumpy muttered. “Rich orphan, football hero, army washout. Where have you been the past two years?”

  Stone suddenly left the sidewalk and headed across the Mall in the direction of the Lincoln Memorial. Stumpy had to double-time it to keep pace, so long were Stone’s legs and so great was the distance eaten up with each long stride. He uttered a curse. Of the many types of people he despised, tall men were, fittingly, at the top of the list. The next time a dame in a gin mill told him, “Sorry, you’re too short,” he was going to burn the place down.

  Stone navigated the throngs of tourists and climbed the steps up to the gleaming marble monument without breaking a stride. Stumpy found a spot in the shelter of a nearby tree where he could keep an eye on Stone. On the steps, he might be noticed, and that was no good. His orders were clear: follow him, learn what you can, and then ice him when the time is right. Besides, why climb all those steps if he didn’t have to?

  He leaned back against the tree, drew a rolled newspaper from his inside jacket pocket, opened it to the front page, and held it just high enough that he could peer over the top. The headline screamed CAPONE PLEADS GUILTY, but the article held no interest for Stumpy. He had a feeling the judge wasn’t about to accept the slap on the wrist Capone had negotiated with prosecutors. No sir. Making an example of gangsters was a big thing these days.

  Stone didn’t remain at the top of the memorial for very long. He descended the steps and headed back toward B Street. Stumpy tossed his paper into a nearby bin and returned to stalking his quarry.

  Some men might feel conspicuous walking armed down a crowded street, following a man who would be dead by sunset, but not Stumpy. He was completely at home in this warren of crowded streets and tall buildings. The lion had its savanna, the tiger its jungle, and Stumpy had the city. At moments like this, he could almost imagine himself to be the angel of death.

  Except Stumpy got paid a lot better.

  A forked tongue of lightning split the sky and thunder boomed like cannon fire. Everyone flinched at the sound. Everyone except Stumpy... and Stone.

  “Do you have nerves of steel, or are you just a twit?” Stumpy found himself growing more and more curious as he stalked his prey. Understanding the man you were going to kill was important— it helped you predict his actions, but for Stumpy, it was more than that. There was something about taking a life that bonded you with that person in an intimate way. It was the closest to spirituality he ever came; Christmas and Easter mass included.

  “I’ll know more about you once I put this baby into action.” He patted the flat, rectangular package tucked into his belt just to make sure it was still there. He’d never used it before, but his employer had explained how it worked, and it seemed simple enough.

  The first drops of rain spattered the street and a forest of umbrellas sprouted in response. Suddenly, Stone was not so easy to see. Stumpy quickened his pace and caught sight of the big man as he disappeared into an office building. The sign on the front read Edgar Porter and Associates, Attorneys At Law. Stumpy had learned that Stone’s parents had passed away a few years back while Stone was in the army, right about the time Stone seemingly disappeared from the face of the earth. Probably he was here about his inheritance.

  Stumpy hurried to the front door and paused. It would be a close thing. If Stone spotted him, Stumpy would have to end things right there, and that meant a major cut in pay. The deal was simple: half for the information, half to put an end to the big man. He caught the door with his heel, and leaned against the wall, pretending to take respite from the rain beneath the tiny awning, and strained his ears to listen.

  “May I help you?” a silky, feminine voice asked.

  “Brock Stone. I have an appointment.” Stone’s words were curt, but his tone was polite, if not friendly.

  “Yes, sir. Mister Porter will be meeting with you personally. Second floor. You’ll see his door when you reach the top of the stairs. He’s expecting you, so feel free to go right in.”

  Stumpy dared a glance inside. Stone was climbing the stairs and the secretary, a doll with chestnut hair and curves in all the right places, stared after him with a look akin to hunger in her brown eyes. No way he’d be able to slip past her. A quick glance up the steps told him that Porter’s office was on the back side of the building. He’d try there first and see how it shook out.

  His feet clopped on the wet pavement as he ducked through an alley and circled around to the back of the building. Winded, he took a moment to catch his breath as he scanned the back face of the law office. Unlike its marble facade, the back wall was red brick, with an iron fire escape running to the roof. Perfect!

  Stumpy took out the rectangular package, a small case the size of a book. He unsnapped the end flap, and withdrew a tiny box with an antenna and cuplike attachment, and flicked the switch on the bottom. A green light flickered to life, telling him the transmitter was live. Next, he withdrew an earpiece on a coiled wire, inserted it in his ear, and plugged it into the device inside the leather box. Finally, he flipped a switch. Static crackled in his earpiece, and the recorder inside began to whir. Satisfied, he crept up the fire escape.

  Porter’s office was typical for a rich guy: oversized and ostentatious. Through one of the half-dozen windows, he saw the attorney, a bear of a man with glasses and thinning hair, seated behind a mahogany desk, facing Stone, who sat ramrod-straight in a leather chair. Cautiously, Stumpy pressed the cup to the window pane, turned it until it stuck, and drew away from the window. Through the earpiece, he could hear the men’s conversation, the sound tinny and hollow, but the words clear as a nice glass of gin.

  “If you don’t mind my saying, you’re a difficult man to reach, Mister Stone.”

  “I’ve been traveling out of the country for some time. I only returned a few days ago. That’s when I received your letters.”

  “I understand. I fear I have
bad news. Your grandfather passed away three weeks ago.”

  So this was about an estate, but not that of Stone’s parents. Stumpy listened with keen interest.

  “How did it happen?” Stone’s voice betrayed no emotion, but when Stumpy stole a glance through the window, sadness painted the young man’s strong face and flooded his downcast brown eyes.

  “I only know it was sudden. The doctors do not believe he suffered.” A brief pause, the whisper of shuffling papers, and Porter went on. “My instructions are to give these to you. It’s your inheritance, though I’m given to understand there’s very little money in the estate.”

  “Money I have. My parents left me everything.”

  “You’ve had more than one loss in the past few years.”

  “More than you know.” The sound of tearing paper, and Stone uttered a confused grunt. “He’s left me his mansion on the Potomac and a copy of The Lost World.”

  “That’s a fine bequest,” Porter said. “I’ve been to the mansion. It’s but a stone’s throw from Mount Vernon and offers a beautiful view of the river.”

  “It’s a dust and cobweb-filled rat trap,” Stone said. “My grandfather seldom ventured above the first floor. More than once, I asked him why he held on to the place, but he would just laugh and say he needed a house large enough to hold all his secrets.”

  “I assume the book holds some significance?”

  “It was my favorite book as a child. I lost count of how many times I made him read it to me.” Stone cleared his throat. “Mister Porter, I neither want nor need the mansion. Can you see to its disposal?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sell it, give it away, burn it to the ground for all I care. My parents’ house in Alexandria is more than enough for me.”

  “I think that would be a mistake.” Porter spoke slowly. “Your grandfather made a point to impress upon me the importance of you assuming ownership of the mansion. I’ve never seen him so insistent.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “He said I should insist that you sit in the window seat and read the book one last time, whatever that means.”

  “I know what he means, but I’ll be hanged if I understand his reasons. I suppose I should get this over with. Thank you for your time, Mister Porter. I’ll be in touch.”

  Stumpy switched the recorder to the Off position, removed the earpiece, and set it on the fire escape. He would learn no more from this meeting. Drawing his Colt, he moved back to the window. It was time to close the deal.

  2- The Bug

  Brock Stone stood and reached out to shake Porter’s hand. The attorney rose to his full height, almost at eye level with Stone’s six feet, two inches, and clasped Stone’s hand. Although he worked behind a desk, the attorney’s grip was strong. Stone opened his mouth to bid Porter goodbye, but paused when a flicker of movement at the window caught his eye.

  “Down!” Stone leapt forward, vaulting the desk and crashing into Porter as the window exploded and the sound of two gunshots in quick succession filled the air. The two men fell in a heap on the floor. Moving fast for a man of his size, Porter scrambled for the shelter of the desk, a bullet pinging off the hardwood floor only inches from his heel.

  Stone rolled to the side, grabbed a heavy wooden wastebasket, and hurled it at the shattered window. It struck the surprised attacker on the wrist, sending his next shot upward. Plaster rained down as the bullet cracked the ceiling. A side table followed the wastebasket. Stone was a powerful man, his muscles honed by years of football, military service, and the training he’d done on his own in the time since. The table cracked the attacker across the forehead as another bullet went astray.

  Stone’s assailant, a barrel of a man, carried a Colt 1911. Assuming he’d begun with a full magazine and one round in the chamber, he still had three shots left. His face a crimson mask from the gash on his forehead; the man looked around for Stone, who sprang to the side and pressed against the wall, inches from the window frame, waiting.

  Stone strained to hear movement over the patter of rain. A foot scraped on metal, perilously close, and then the barrel of the Colt appeared in the window.

  Stone grabbed the weapon in his left hand, yanked it forward, and struck out with the back of his right fist. The man cried out in pain as Stone’s hard strike crushed the bridge of his nose. He reeled backward, instinctively pulling the trigger as he stumbled.

  Stone released the weapon as it discharged, and the man seized that moment to flee. Footsteps pounded on the fire escape, and Stone sprang to the window to give pursuit. He was halfway out when a bullet pinged off the window facing inches from his head.

  “Wait!” Strong hands hauled Stone back inside. Porter had pulled him back. “You can’t chase him down the fire escape,” Porter said. “You’ll be far too exposed. If he has a spare magazine, you’ll be like a target in a shooting gallery.”

  Stone doubted the assailant would have fled, had he been carrying spare ammunition. In any case, it wasn’t in his nature to run from a fight. He shook free of Porter’s grip and returned to the window in time to see his attacker dashing down the alleyway. The attorney had slowed Stone enough to let the man get a good head start.

  “I’ll take my chances.” Stone sprang through the window, descended the fire escape three steps at a time, and took off down the alleyway, splashing through puddles as he ran. The rain had stopped, but a haze hung in the warm evening air.

  During his playing days at Virginia Military Institute, he’d seen duty as both a running back and defensive back, and had been the fastest man on the team. In seconds, he had his quarry in sight. The man was fast, considering his short legs, but Stone was faster. His powerful strides devoured the intervening space at a rapid clip.

  The alley opened up onto a busy street, and the man sprinted into traffic without regard for his own safety. A bus slammed on the brakes, just missing him. The driver yanked the wheel hard to the right, and the big vehicle rode up onto the curb and came to a screeching halt, blocking the alleyway.

  Undeterred, Stone hit the ground and belly crawled underneath the bus, the smell of oil and ozone heavy in the air. He was halfway across when it began backing up.

  As the big tires closed in, Stone spun a quarter of a turn and rolled forward. He tumbled off the curb and into the street, the front wheel grazing his foot as it passed. Spotting him, the driver cried out in anger, but Stone was on his feet, looking around for his quarry. He saw him, silhouetted in the back of a cab as it disappeared down Virginia Avenue.

  Stone had lost him.

  Seething with anger, he jogged back to Porter’s office, passing on the front door and instead taking the fire escape back up.

  “The police are on their way,” Porter said as Stone appeared in the window. He looked down at the shattered glass strewn across the floor and raised his hands. “What do you think he wanted?”

  “To kill me,” Stone said. “I should think that would be obvious.”

  “Why here? Why now?”

  “For that matter, how did anyone know I was back in the country?” Stone retrieved the copy of The Lost World he had dropped on the floor during the attack, and turned to look out the window. The jagged shards of glass gave it the appearance of a predator’s gaping maw. In the corner, an object clinging to one of the remaining slivers caught his eye.

  He removed it and held it up for Porter to see.

  “It’s a listening device.” He turned it over in his hand, scrutinizing the small box. “Fairly advanced, too. I’ve seldom seen its like. This tells me a few things.”

  Porter scratched his chin. “Such as?”

  “The man I chased was likely a hired thug, working for someone with a lot of resources. Someone who didn’t just want me dead, but wanted information.”

  “Do you think they’re interested in your inheritance?”

  “Perhaps.” Stone pocketed the device and turned back toward the window. “The only thing I’m certain of is, I need to get to my grandfather’s house as quickly as possible.”

  3- The House

  A shadowy figure lurked in the doorway of Stone’s Alexandria townhouse. He slowed his approach, readying himself for a fight, but relaxed when the figure moved out into the moonlight.