The Town (Rob Stone Book 2)

by A P Bateman

  “You’re insane.”

  “No. I’m a realist. Do you know, I can sell a healthy heart for five hundred grand? A kidney for fifty, a liver for a hundred thousand and a set of heart and lungs attached go for a million. We plan to do eyeballs, but we need an optometrist surgeon on board, and I haven’t found one yet. But I soon will.”

  “And you simply kill the people then cut them up?”

  Conrad laughed. “Well, we tried that. But it’s not as simple as you’d think. Even with experienced surgeons with their assistants on hand. No, it’s better to strap them down and remove the organs while they were alive. We toyed with anaesthetic and sedation, but…” He shrugged. “It’s all expenses, at the end of the day.”

  Stone looked at the straps buckled to the gurney. His eyes wandered up to the man he had knocked unconscious at the diner. The man’s wrists were bloody and raw, black and blue with bruising. He must have put up a fierce fight. Stone looked back at Conrad. “Got to keep the profit margin up…” Stone said flatly. He looked at Conrad, stared the man in the eyes. He had paced around the room as he talked, gestured at the gurneys, the bodies on top of them. Stone had followed. He had moved around in a clockwise rotation, Horse keeping three paces behind him. They had moved closer to the table and the kidney dishes and the tray of implements used for the cold-hearted extraction of a man’s kidneys, his heart, his liver, his lungs. Cut out while he was still conscious. Stone had the scalpel in his hand before Conrad could digest what was happening. He whipped the blade across the man’s throat and it opened wide enough to put his fist in, which he did with his left hand, pulling the man’s throat out amid a shower of crimson which hit the ceiling and covered every man in the room. Stone kicked back and caught Horse in the kneecap. He pushed off, using the man’s leg like a sprinter’s starter block. As he bolted for the door, he jabbed the man with the Ruger rifle in his eye, sinking the scalpel in until his knuckle touched his flesh. The man screamed, a blood curdling cry that followed Stone down the tunnel. Stone raced as fast as he could, but the gunfire followed him as well as the screaming, and the wall next to him sparked like a firework sparkler. He dashed left at the next tunnel and sprinted for the next opening which would take him out of the line of fire. He dashed right, as bullets impacted on the rock, fracturing shards off, the bullets ricocheting all around. The tunnel started to narrow considerably and the lights in the ceiling became less and less frequent, the tunnel growing darker with every stride. Behind him, more gunfire erupted. Stone was aware that they were close, he chanced a glance over his shoulder and was both surprised and almost terrified to see Horse was close. Frighteningly close. Stone kept pounding, he had always been a fast runner – a wide receiver and occasional quarterback in high school, there was no way a man of Horse’s size should be able to gain on him, but he had. Ahead of him Stone saw the metal gate. It was open. As he charged through it, he caught hold of it and slammed it shut. He heard Horse crash into it and curse. Then he heard the man wrenching it open, slamming it behind him. The other two men were shouting. Stone heard dead end! and lock the gate! shouted, but did not know from whom. Either way, it wasn’t good. The tunnel was decreasing in size all the time. It wound around to the right. Ahead was almost pitch black and the ceiling lights were now gone in favour of glass dome lights every ten metres. The walls of the tunnel were roughly hewn. There were no more doorways. Stone was slowing, he was breathing hard. Horse was not far behind, but as Stone ducked a piece of rock in the ceiling, he heard a scraping sound and a grunt. He turned to see Horse completely jammed in the tunnel. Stone stopped running and looked at the man. He was like a bear in a trap. His eyes were wide and his right hand was free, but the rest of him was in constant contact with the rock. Stone smiled, it was almost comical. Maybe it was the adrenaline. It did not occur to him at that time, that his exit was closed by five or six hundred pounds of bone, muscle and flesh.

  Horse was growling at him as he stood two feet from him, just too far to one side for the giant’s hand to grab him.

  “You saw what the man was doing here, and you still want him avenged? Innocent people forced to work, separated from their loved ones? Then people taken into that room of horrors, cut open alive and ripped apart?” Stone took the knife out of his pocket and opened the blade.

  Horse glared at him. “Just get on with it…”

  And Stone did. And Horse couldn’t stop him. And nor did Stone stop until it was done.

  34

  Horse’s body blocked the tunnel. Stone was convinced that the man would be immovable. He had jammed in so tightly, that he had been unable to prise himself free, even when Stone had done what he had done. The man’s screaming filled the cavern, but only for a short while. Stone had made it as quick as he could, but there had been a lot to cut.

  Stone had tried to push the body back, but muffled gunfire sounded off behind it and bullets exited through the giant’s chest. The two remaining men in the chase, upon discovering that Horse was dead, had fired through the body in an attempt to shoot Stone and were now tugging to free the macabre obstruction.

  Stone had no choice but to keep moving, but the tunnel grew narrower and darker all the time. Soon the lights ceased altogether and before long, Stone was feeling his way in the darkness. He took the lighter and flicked the wheel. There were sparks and a tiny flame flickered momentarily, but went out. Stone hastily removed his jacket and took out his knife. He shredded the lining of the jacket and removed the fibres. He made a pile and placed the strips of soft lining on top. He sparked the lighter and the meagre flame licked the fibres, igniting them quickly. Stone then piled more strips on the fire. He cut a thick piece of rubber from the edge of his boot and placed it on the flames. The rubber burned slowly, brightly. Stone started wrapping strips of material around the blade of the knife. He held them to the flames and then held them aloft when they caught. He took the coat with him. It was precarious, and the heat from the flames made his hand uncomfortable but he changed hands regularly and every few minutes he placed the burning torch down not only to give his hand respite, but to shred more material. The tunnel seemed straight, but Stone had checked behind and realised it was curving gradually to the left. It was narrow and low too, he had to tuck his five-foot-eleven-inch frame considerably. As he stood still, the flame sucked in the direction of his progress. There had to be a reason for the tunnel, and its size was not conducive to the effective excavation of minerals. The lack of lights meant that it was a place nobody needed to come to, but the continuation of its making meant it had been necessary. The draft was growing stronger. Stone figured it was funnelling the air. He looked at the flame. He took another fifty paces and the flame sucked so far it burned his knuckles. He could feel it the breeze tickle his face from the direction he’d come. The draft was suddenly much stronger…

  They had cleared the blockage!

  Stone ran. The ceiling was running lower with every pace, but it had to lead to something and Stone had figured out what. He could hear a noise behind him. Running footsteps and a metallic sound. The sling clip on one of the weapons was rattling as the man holding it ran and ducked his way down the tunnel.

  Stone could see an orange hue ahead of him. He knew where he was now.

  And he knew his problems were just beginning.

  35

  The ventilation shaft was vital. It allowed the air to be circulated throughout the mine. Uranium is also prevalent in areas of silver production and Claude Conrad would have known this when he had started the venture. The shafts of a mine are dug in such a way as to suck air out. Other shafts were dug in such a way as to allow the air to blow in. Stone imagined there would be mechanical fans and extraction ducts as well, but this old fashioned shaft was doing a decent job.

  He could see the exit now, and the light ahead was bright, even from across the valley. Stone imagined the heat coming off Big Dave’s yard. He hoped the blaze could be seen from Abandon, hoped the few men with Gator could pull off their ambush s
uccessfully.

  Stone got down onto his hands and knees as he negotiated the last few metres of the tunnel. He had dropped the burning cloth a while back, put the lock knife back in his pocket. He rolled up his sleeves and as he was at the end of the tunnel, he rubbed his hands in the dusty residue of the bored-out rock.

  As the assault rifles clattered away behind him and the bullets fragmented against the rock or sailed out into the night, Stone swung himself out into the open. A thousand feet above the jet black lake below, and a thousand feet from the ridge above him.

  The cliff was as sheer as he’d imagined, two days before when he had driven to see Bart and Big Dave. He had marvelled at the sheerness, the daunting prospect of climbing such a wall. He had noticed the tiny holes in the cliff face, assumed they had been caused by erosion, but now he knew differently. Now he knew they were identical ventilation shafts. He had doubted his ability to climb such a vast and vertical obstacle at the time. Now he was in the middle of the edifice, with no rope, pitons or carabiners. No resin, climbing boots or crampons to afford grip. He needed to get clear, to make himself a difficult target for the two men. Up was always easier than down. In fact, if he had to recede on this climb, he knew he would die. The realisation of this was all-encompassing, final.

  He branched to the right, following a crag just deep enough to take his fingertips. His bulky walking boots had some grip, but he wasn’t getting any feel from them. They were cumbersome and he wished he’d had time to kick them off. He had managed twenty feet before the first gunshot echoed out into the night and the single bullet skimmed the rock between his legs and hands. He flinched and nearly lost his grip. The second bullet came so close to his arm he felt some heat, or air displacement. He kept climbing, moved a little to his left as the fissure in the rock changed direction. The third shot clipped the heal of his boot and he lost his footing. He hung for a second, dangling in the air a thousand feet and ten unimaginably long seconds from death, but scrabbled his feet back into the cracks with his toes and regained purchase on the rock.

  The fissure had opened wider and Stone pushed his left hand into the crack up to his knuckle. He arched his back and saw the man below leaning precariously out of the air shaft, the rifle aimed above his head using just one hand to steady it, like a giant pistol. The other hand was gripping either the rock or his companion’s hand. Stone was directly above. He reached into his pocket and took out the lock knife, opening it with just his right hand using the thumb-stud. The blade clicked locked. Another shot rang out and the bullet skimmed up the rock face, hit a lip and ricocheted off into the night passing terrifyingly close to Stone’s head. Stone held the knife by the very tip of its handle, the blade dangling downwards. He best guessed it, steadied his hand and let go. The knife dropped perfectly straight, eight inches out from the rock face. It thudded to a halt in the centre of the man’s forehead. Whatever grip he had, he released and fell, tumbling silently to the lake below. Stone did not hear a splash, and from his height and in the darkness, he did not see the impact or the ripples on the dark lake. He wasn’t looking anyway, simply working his way up the fissure to the next set of crags and the jutting rocks above.

  The climb was the toughest Stone had undertaken. It took an hour. He had revisited religion too, praying for strength and mercy and making all sorts of promises he was likely to forget. When he finally edged his aching body over the ridge and into the saplings and undergrowth which fringed the precipice, he vowed it to be his last climb. Somewhere, there was a fast motorbike with his name on it.

  He rested where he lay for the best part of twenty minutes. His legs and arms were cramping, but he had nothing in the tank. No reserves left. He could hear gunshots across the valley, saw the muzzle flashes. He would never make it over there and he simply watched until they died down. Some had been victorious; others defeated. He rolled over and pushed himself heavily to his feet and trudged through the undergrowth. His muscles screamed for him to stop, but he had to keep going. Had to get back.

  Back to the mine.

  36

  Stone was painfully aware that he was unarmed. He had carried the lock knife since his brother had died. As boys they had taught themselves to throw the knife into trees, and had used it to make bows and arrows and spears. Being the younger child, he had not been allowed a knife, but his brother had been given it by an uncle and the two boys shared it, keeping it in a cookie tin in their treehouse. Later that same cookie tin hid pornographic playing cards, quarter bottles of bourbon and cigarettes. But the knife always remained. The knife had been in pretty poor shape when Stone had been given it by his sister-in-law at his brother’s wake. It had been twenty years since those carefree days playing in the woods. He had paid for a knife maker to replace the spine, reattach the bolsters with brass bolts and threads and re-hone and re-point the blade. Lastly, the knife maker had drilled and set a thumb stud into the blade so that it could be opened with one hand. This had also given it its perfect balance. It threw well, and as Stone discovered tonight, it didn’t rotate if it was dropped from a great height. He was saddened at the loss, but he figured if this went his way tonight a coroner or FBI agent would be getting it back to him some day. Or maybe not. Maybe the lake should keep its secrets.

  As Stone stood in front of Claude Conrad’s house, he was no longer faced with the tactical disadvantage of darkness inside the building. The lights were on and he could see a figure moving about inside.

  He skirted the house and approached from the gable end. He pulled himself up onto the porch and walked quietly across the deck. The door was open. He looked inside and saw the lounge was empty. A man crossed the corridor, then walked back. He had a sheaf of papers in his hands. Stone recognised him as one of the gunmen from the mine. Stone crept carefully through the lounge. The corridor bore the doorways to a utility room and a downstairs bathroom. The man crossed over again and Stone could tell he was searching for something. He crossed the room once more, this time with a large holdall or sports bag. His rifle was leaning against the kitchen counter. The room was a large kitchen-diner and there was a dark wooden bureau along one wall housing books, files and folders. The man was now kneeling in front of the open doors of the unit and appeared to be opening a safe housed inside. Stone picked up the rifle and flicked the selector down a click to single shot. The man looked up, turned around slowly. He had the safe door open, his hand inside. Next to him the large unzipped sports bag.

  “Bugging out?” Stone commented. The rifle was trained on the man. There was less than twenty feet between them.

  “There’s more than enough money here for two,” he said nervously. “There’s nobody else left. They all went to the lumber yard. I heard the shooting. Nobody has come back.”

  Stone studied him for a moment, the man couldn’t look him in the eyes. “I’m figuring Claude Conrad was old school. I’m figuring he has a nice big revolver resting on top of all those banknotes in there. Probably stainless steel. A three-fifty-seven magnum at least.” Stone stared coldly at the man. “I’m figuring your hand is resting on it now. Or damn close to it.” The man moved and Stone fired. The man slumped down. The shot was centre mass, through and through. He didn’t move. The wall behind was painted by a splatter of blood and bone. The bullet had passed through the man’s spine.