The Bulletproof Adventures of Damian Stockwell: Triple-Barreled Edition Read online

  The Bulletproof Adventures

  of Damian Stockwell

  TRIPLE-BARRELED EDITION

  Benjamin Wallace

  Copyright © 2016 by Benjamin Wallace. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by J Caleb Design

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio

  Table of Contents

  Horror in Honduras

  Terrors of Tesla

  The Mechanical Menace

  Horror in Honduras

  The Bulletproof Adventures

  of Damian Stockwell

  Benjamin Wallace

  Copyright © 2016 by Benjamin Wallace. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Crystal Roznik.

  Illustration by Teren Mabry.

  * * * *

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  DEDICATION

  For Sam, Sam, Brandon, Chris, Jess, Matt, James and everyone else who helped create the Stockwell mythos when we were just stupid kids.

  Prelude

  He collapsed. Partially from exhaustion, mostly from the native-hewn dart in his leg. The jungle floor welcomed him with the smell of rotted vegetation and the dampness of a billion drops of rain. It struck him hard.

  His panic overcame his shortness of breath and he turned on to his back and stared up at the seemingly impenetrable jungle wall. How he had run so far was beyond him.

  There was sound and no sound. A maddening silence that reverberated in his mind as his widened eyes struggled to see through the vines and trees. The pounding may have been coming from his chest. He had run for what seemed hours and his heart crashed at his rib cage to be let free, to abandon the body and continue running, but his leg said no.

  He risked a glance from the darkness to his leg. The barb had fallen free, but it still hurt. The pain was unjustly disproportionate to the wound. Had the barb been poisonous? Even now, as the blood rushed through his veins, was a primitive toxin nearing closer to his heart?

  A crack; it was unlike them. They had moved silently upon him in the growth of darkness. He had heard nothing until the whistling of the blowgun. It was only then, once he had been struck, that they appeared—dozens of them, stepping as if from the shadows to surround him. Each warrior dressed only in a sparse bit of cloth about his waist and a hideous mask before his face. They moved like the dead, silent and wraithlike, as they closed the circle about him.

  Had it not been for the now useless rifle he carried, he would have fallen earlier. Blazing round after round into the throng of natives, he had cleaved a path to freedom and let the jungle envelop him.

  Now they emerged, the jungle’s darkness providing no hindrance in their pursuit. One by one the demon faces of the masks appeared around him, staring with sightless eyes into the opening where he had fallen.

  He summoned his will to live and stood on his near useless limb. Grasping his rifle by the barrel, he screamed, though the masks had no ears, “Come, you godless heathens! I’ll shatter each one of your ugly faces!”

  Not one of the masks moved or even blinked. There was only silence in response. Then a whistle shattered the still. He grabbed his leg and fell to the foreign soil. His breathing slowed. His taunts were a weak spill from his throat.

  Weak, like an infant trying to lift a rattle that some cruel uncle had filled with lead, he pulled his right arm across his chest and lifted his head.

  “Dam. Dam.” The words drifted past his teeth as he lost control of his lips.

  He couldn’t move. The paralysis took from him the will to resist. From the jungle emerged a dark shadow. What dim light broke through the growth revealed an object in the shadow’s hand. The shadow moved closer and held forth the object; a carved death mask, chiseled from nightmares. The shadow placed the mask upon the fallen man’s face.

  Through these horrible eyes he saw bright flashes of light, a prism of pain. Then all became dark. All was quiet. He saw nothing. He heard nothing. He felt nothing. Yet he moved.

  1

  The Giant Awakens

  Damian Stockwell, captain-of-industry, PhD, man-of-action, awoke entwined in frilly, pink sheets. Lace curtains hung from the bed’s canopy and filtered the early morning light into a soft glow as it began to break through the window.

  Years had passed since he had experienced any transition between asleep and alert. Through dedicated practice and sheer force of will, he had trained himself to be fully aware of his surroundings the moment his eyes opened. The ability had saved his life countless times. Cowards were not uncommon in the world and they would sooner strike the helpless than confront a conscious man.

  There was no danger here. He lay in the comfort of a luxurious bed next to a gorgeous woman. He looked to the lady sleeping next to him. Blonde hair covered her features, but he knew them well. Beneath the golden locks were the delicate cheekbones and fine skin of a woman that lived amid the parties and pleasantries of high society. Behind the closed lids were the rich brown eyes of the woman he loved.

  Beautiful and peaceful, she slept; her chest rose and fell with even breaths that signaled a restful slumber. Her tranquility stirred in him a thought to wake her; together they could relive the passion of the night before.

  There were two ways to subtly awaken and arouse a woman that did not require a beachfront setting or diamond jewelry. The first involved the pollen of an exotic flower that grew only on a peak in Tristan da Cunha. Properly harvested, the flower’s scent excited the more delicate portions of the female mind and released a flood of hormones and desires into her body. Through thorough laboratory testing, he had learned that the effect was almost identical in nature to when a woman sees a man cooking in an apron. He did not have this flower or an apron.

  The second method, however, required no flora or cooking utensils. It required nothing but a precise and gentle touch. He had learned of it years ago in the ancient city of Timbuktu. The city had been the final destination in an automobile race that had taken him across the sands of the Sahara. Crossing the finish line had led him not only to victory in the Timbuktu in ’32 rally, but also to the city’s legendary library.

  Timbuktu’s rich legacy as a trading hub had brought more than spices to its walls. The trading of books had led to its development as a center of knowledge unlike any other in the ancient world. East met west and ideas were traded freely. Books, parchments and scrolls recorded this exchange of thought. This lore was stored in the library and protected throughout the centuries.

  In a dusty corner of the mud walled building, somehow dustier than the others, he had found an ancient Mali script that shared the secrets of the forbidden arts. Casting glances over his shoulder, he had unrolled the scroll and scanned it quickly, committing the ancient text to memory in both its native language and English. He did not want to risk a mistranslation. Considering the delicacy of the subject matter, he feared that an error in his linguist’s tongue could result in injury. Someone could lose an eye or, at the very least
, a great deal of dignity.

  Many of the sordid details in the scroll were an affront to his gentlemanly character. He led a forthright life of decency and much of what he read in the vulgar scroll challenged what he believed to be morally right. Yet his scientist’s mind had compelled him to read the text in full as his thirst for knowledge was insatiable and an understanding of other cultures, even their depravity, could one day mean the difference between life and death. So, he read each passage carefully, skipping none but those that made reference to “engorged like a water laden camel.”

  Now, back in New York, the lace curtains turned yellow sunlight into rays of pink that fell upon his lover’s face. He recalled a singular passage from the scroll and moved his right arm across the rising chest of Dahlia Singleton. His fingers found the ninth rib on her left side—the side closest to her heart.

  Proper pressure and rhythm applied between the ninth and tenth ribs would wake any woman in a state of desire. The wrong rhythm, the wrong pressure or the wrong location, and the object of one’s desire would awake in a fit of giggling.

  Damian had found the proper cadence hidden within the passage itself. The verse, if read in Mali, relayed to the observant reader the proper measure that brought passion. He repeated it to himself once in the native tongue and placed his finger on her rib.

  He tapped. An alarm sounded. Dahlia giggled and slapped him across the face, never waking from her slumber.

  Stockwell looked to his wristwatch. The alarm continued and the face of the dial began to flash red. It was not loud, but this quiet warble had stolen his attention from the sleeping beauty before him and disrupted his rhythm. The watch face flashed twice more before it became a pulsing crimson. It throbbed slowly like the final heartbeats of a dying man.

  His fears had been confirmed; he did not begrudge his lapse in attention. Damian Stockwell slid from the pink, frilly sheets and moved quickly about the room, gathering his clothes. A black tuxedo jacket was hung neatly across the back of a chair; the rest of his attire was scattered about the room and he set about collecting the pieces. As he retrieved his outerwear, he turned each article inside out, converting the formal wear to a worker’s uniform. The navy blue cotton was wash-worn and sooty in places.

  Dahlia stirred. Her manicured hands reached out for him and felt the empty space next to her in the bed. She awoke within a haze of sleep. Sitting up, she saw Damian dressed in the costume and fell back into bed searching for a pillow. “Dam. No more games. Not now.”

  “I’m afraid this is no game, my darling. I’m needed and I’ll not risk tarnishing your reputation by having anyone see me leave here.”

  She found the satin pillow and drew it across her face. “Okay.”

  “I regret that I must leave at all.”

  “It’s okay,” her voice drifted away.

  “I wish I could stay, but it’s a matter of life or death.”

  “It’s fine, really.” She tried to roll away and back to sleep.

  He stepped silently up to her and pulled the pillow from her face. Her skin was radiant. Even half asleep she was full of life. He leaned in and kissed her deeply. He felt her tiredness evaporate as she reached up and embraced him. Her kiss was full of a passion that no ancient Mali trickery could conjure.

  Lifting her from the bed into his arms took little effort. He matched the passion in her lips. Regretfully, he concluded the kiss and set her back into the bed.

  She looked at him and sighed, “Oh, Dam. You’re all man.”

  “I know. Can I borrow your mascara?”

  •••

  Costume alone is not a disguise. The mere application of accessories and makeup serve only to cover a man, not transform him into another. The simple application of cloth and cosmetic could be learned by any novice in a theater group, but for a disguise to pass beyond the lights of the great white way, it took an artist dedicated to the craft of subterfuge.

  Given the proper time, Damian Stockwell could transform his thick six-foot-four frame into that of an elderly matron, hunched at the shoulders and suffering from the gout. But, the intensity of the light on his wristwatch indicated that he did not have such time.

  Rubbed briskly between his fingers, Dahlia’s mascara had provided the right amount of coal dust he required. Separated from the petroleum jelly and applied to his face, the dust matched the soot upon his clothes and brought unity to the physical aspects of his disguise.

  It didn’t take much. A single unsightly blemish, he knew, would contrast from his striking features and draw attention from his presence. One distraction was all it took. Under interrogation, he doubted that even the most observant fellow would be able to identify the color of Stockwell’s eyes—striking silver-blue.

  As he rode down in the elevator car, he donned the rest of the disguise. It went far beyond appearance. It went beyond the physical and into his very being. Stockwell did not merely dress in a dirty blue shirt with the name Tom embroidered across the chest; he became Tom.

  Damian’s shoulders sank; Tom was meek. Too timid to ask for a raise, the man lived in squalor with his wife, three beautiful children and two ugly ones. Damian frowned; Tom loved his children, but by working two shifts to pay for rent, food, and makeup for the ugly children, he never had time to see them. Guilt measured against obligation but he was powerless to change the situation for Tom was an honorable man and he had to provide for his family first and address his own needs second.

  A mechanical chime sounded and the elevator operator announced that they had reached the ground floor. The doors opened and he stepped into a bustling lobby.

  Damian smiled through Tom’s frown. He was delighted to see the mass of people. He had always believed that the more people there were around, the easier it was to go unseen. Being another face in the crowd, while difficult for Damian, was something to which Tom had grown accustomed.

  His footsteps were absorbed by the plush carpet. This was fortunate as Damian limped; Tom had a bad leg. Tom told people that the affliction was the result of an old war wound but, in truth, the limp came from a near fatal foxtrot misstep in the ’20s.

  Damian crossed the room, excusing himself as he went; Tom was polite, if not confident. His apologies were mumbled and spoken with his head down. Still, no one noticed him. As always, Damian had chosen a disguise appropriate for the setting. The wealthy and well-reared patrons that filled the lobby were trained to ignore someone dressed as a plumber. Should Tom try to make eye contact, they would avert their gaze. Should he try to converse with them, they would signal for security. Not fitting in was the perfect way to disappear.

  Damian stopped to pick a piece of trash from the floor; Tom was fastidious. It wasn’t that Tom abhorred litter, but he had once received a reprimand for ignoring a gum wrapper that had been dropped on the floor and he feared a repeat of the incident. He could not afford to jeopardize his job. Should he find himself in the breadline, Jenny would undoubtedly leave him. Damian shed a tear; Tom wept. Tom loved his wife dearly and wished he could provide her with a better life. He had failed her as a provider. Of course, she wouldn’t see it that way. She still loved him after all of these years. He was the father of both her beautiful and ugly children and he would always be the man of her dreams.

  Dropping the litter in the trashcan, Damian exited through the revolving door; Tom struggled against the weight. He put his shoulder into the door and grunted as he shoved. Tom worried that he was getting weaker. He had always been able-bodied and strong, but lately he feared he had contracted something that was sapping his strength. It made him panic to think that it was anything serious—the fear of leaving Jenny and the kids behind was too much. Shrugging his shoulders, he self-diagnosed the ever-growing weakness as a cold and pushed through to the other side of the revolving door.

  The air was bitterly cold, but the warmth of the doorman’s smile was genuine and Tom matched it.

  “Good day.” Tom’s voice was gruff, shredded and raspy. He lit a cigarett
e and drew deeply the fine tobacco. Damian never smoked, but all of his disguises did.

  Murray MacDonald stood proud in his uniform. Brass buttons blazed in the rays of what early morning sun managed to break through the buildings of New York. Golden braids adorned the shoulders of the wool jacket that he had buttoned high to keep out the winter cold. The sentry was old but still capable of ushering on the hobos and unwashed masses from under the building’s canopy.

  “Good morning, Mr. Stockwell. I sent Henry for your driver.”

  “Beg your pardon, sir. The name’s Tom.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Stockwell?”

  Damian drew deep on the Camel hoping to aid the raspy voice. “Not Stockwell. Tom. I’m the plumber; there was a problem on fourteen. A plumbing problem. They called me in to clear things up.”

  The doorman appeared puzzled.

  “Which I did. Because I’m the plumber.”

  One long look and the doorman laughed. “Oh, you really had me going, Mr. Stockwell.”

  “Dammit, MacTavish. How did you know it was me?”

  “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “The disguise. How do you do it? And every time? This particular disguise has fooled master criminals, newsmen, and even my own mother.”

  Murray appeared shaken. “My apologies, sir. Perhaps you just have a certain aura about you.”

  “No. That can’t be it. My aura is also disguised as a plumber.”

  “A lucky guess then, sir?”

  Damian Stockwell put his hand on the old Scot’s shoulder and smiled. “I don’t think so, my friend. Luck favors the weak-minded. And you are not weak-minded.”