The Cross of Sins

12814 University Club Dr #102
Tampa, FL 33612

Publisher’s Note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (or undead), events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher has no control over and does not assume responsibility for any third party websites or their content. The uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.

Copyright © 2008 by Geoffrey Knight

Publishing History
STARbooks Press / 2008
Dare Empire eMedia Productions / 2010
Storm Moon Press / 2012

Cover art by Dare Empire eMedia Productions

ISBN-13: 978-1-937058-80-7
ISBN-10: 1-937058-80-8

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
The Amazing Adventures of Elsa Strauss
From the Secret Files of Fathom's Five
About the Author

I

The Island of Kahna Toga, South Pacific

The naked flame of his torch swept the wall of the tunnel, illuminating rock and clay so dense and dry it looked as though it had been baked in a furnace. The young man wondered how long it had been since these caves had seen life. How long since they had known the stir of human breath, or felt the wary tread of feet pressing onward, inward, further, and deeper into the mountain. He guessed the answer was over a century, when the treasure he now sought was first hidden here.

If the legend was true, then these caves hadn't seen a living creature since 1899.

Since then, nothing had ventured inside. There was nothing here but stifling heat and suffocating darkness. And fumes. Like gas from a burst main. Hissing up through the pitch black. Through tiny crevices in the rocky ground and walls.

It was the earth's cocktail of poisons—sulfur and methane—that told him he was getting close.

From the seismic maps and geologists' reports that kept him awake during the plane trip to the island, the young man knew that soon the cave would open out, and he would be looking over a river of fire that oozed up from the center of the earth and streamed away into several deltas, churning and searing and slowly eating away at the belly of the volcano.

One week earlier, Jake Stone had received the following telegram.

To: Mr. Jake Stone. STOP. The Devil of Kahna Toga is no longer a myth. STOP. Wherever there's a will there's a way, wherever there's a priceless treasure there's someone who'll pay. STOP. Yours truly, P. Perron

He had received the message while in the expanse of his crumbling warehouse apartment back in New York. It was a sparsely decorated abode. In the middle of the space sat an ancient travel trunk resting on the floorboards with sleeves, jeans and cargoes draped down the sides. A worn and torn backpack hung from a hook on the wall. In one corner, there was a bathroom with no walls, just a tub and a toilet with a curtain and a few rusted exposed pipes running up the wall. And lying on the floor at either end of the warehouse space were two mattresses, both empty with messed-up sheets strewn over them. One was Jake's; the other belonged to Sam, a street kid who sometimes crashed at Jake's, ate his food, and then vanished again.

Jake scribbled a note.

He stuck it on an old nail that had been hammered into one of the warehouse's old pylons.

He opened the trunk, pulled out a few items of clothing, stuffed them inside the backpack, and then left the apartment, which was tucked away in the backstreets of New York's meatpacking district. He was on a plane to Paris within the hour.

The sender of the telegram was one Monsieur Pierre Perron, a wealthy French trader and fanatical collector of rare jewels, priceless treasures and objects of impossible beauty. He owned a villa in the south of France, an old tobacco plantation on the island of San Sebastian in the Caribbean and a mansion on the Grand Canal in Venice, each of which he had turned into his own private museum. For some years now, he had been compiling data from geological surveys submitted by the small but surprisingly efficient Kahna Toga Land Commission, which indicated that the temperature of the ground on Mount Kahna Toga—located at the north end of the tiny and remote Pacific island of the same name—was rising at an exponential rate. Crops at the foot of the mountain were failing. Vegetation was dying. Wildlife was slowly abandoning the region. Perron had in his possession enough scientific research to deduce that the mountain was getting ready to erupt. Of this he was absolutely certain. The only question was when.

Jake met with Perron in a suite at L'Hotel Lyon in Paris at 8:00am on a simmering Tuesday morning.

"I always forget," Perron smirked, one eyebrow raised suggestively, admiringly, as Jake was ushered into the suite by a one of Perron's goons. Although the offer had never directly been made, it was no secret that Jake himself was a treasure that Perron longed to possess.

"Forget what?" Jake asked, keeping his distance from Perron as the fat Frenchman stuffed a buttery croissant into his mouth and slurped it down with a bowl of coffee.

"How handsome you are. What must you do with all the money men like me pay you? What must it be worth to risk that pretty face of yours time and time again?"

Jake smirked. "What I do with my money is none of your goddamn business. Now, did you ask me here for the pleasure of watching you stuff your face, or did you get me here to talk about the Devil of Kahna Toga?"

Perron laughed. "That's why I like you so much, Mr. Stone. You're not just a cute ass; you're a smart ass, too. And straight to the point. No time for bullshit." The Frenchman finished off his croissant and polished his fingers with a cloth napkin. He pulled a cigar out of a sterling silver cigar case and flipped open a lighter. He lit his own cigar before offering one to his guest.

"They're from my own plantation. I'd be insulted if you didn't have one. You know I haven't even named these cigars, yet. I could name them after you, if you like. Stone Cigars. It has a ring to it, you know."

"Are you trying to flatter me?"

"Perhaps, although I'm not sure why I even bother. You're always keeping me at arm's length. It's so unfortunate that our contact is limited to the number of transactions I make. Have you ever noticed that? You spend all your time trekking through God-forsaken countries, chasing riddles, digging in the dirt, searching for yourself. Yet if it's money you want, I'm sure you have so many other talents you're yet to explore. Talents I'm more than willing to pay for."

Jake promptly changed the subject. "The Devil."

"Ah, yes, the Devil," Perron smiled, pretending to have forgotten the reason they were here. "The Devil of Kahna Toga. What's it worth to a man like you? What's it worth to be the one man to find the Devil of Kahna Toga? To take it from the mountain. To rescue it from that angry place before it blows. What's that worth? $40,000?" Perron grinned, trying on charm. "What would you say to that?"

Jake didn't say a word.

In the rich light of the Paris morning streaming in through Perron's balcony doors, 28-year-old Jake Stone cut a classic figure, with a set of fine shoulders branching wide and solid atop the firm trunk of his torso. He was sweating a little. Wet patches dappled his shirt, under his arms and down the middle of his chest. His white sleeves were rolled up and bunched high, revealing the veined forearms of a man who was no stranger to toil. His face was empirically handsome—dark skin, piercing green eyes, short black hair that perhaps had been combed earlier in the day, but now in the hot summer wind had been swept into a natural mess. In fact, it appeared his only physical flaw was the crease in his brow that etched an angry mark in his forehead at the price Perron had just offered him for the job.

Whether or not Jake looked like a New York catwalk model or a treasure-hunter for hire, he was by no means the kind of guy who would stand there and be met with the type of offer Perron had just made. Finding the Devil of Kahna Toga was worth at least twice that amount. Without saying a single word in reply, Jake Stone simply turned and exited the suite.

"Wait! Wait!" the Frenchman shouted, suddenly surprised and angry—and a little panicked.

But Jake had already vanished.

"Wait a minute!" The infuriated Perron dropped his cigar into an ashtray on his desk, lumbered out of the hotel suite and cut Jake off at the elevator at the end of the hall. "I'll be damned if I've spent the better part of three years trying to find the Devil of Kahna Toga and have it slip through my fingers, just because of some egotistical thrill-seeker!"

"Then I suggest you go find it yourself."

"I'm not one for apologies," the huffing Frenchman snorted.