Heart of Stone (HOS Book 1)

by Rob Buckman

  The water wasn't deep, being only two feet above his head as he walked across the bottom. Debris had collected over his original excavation, but it didn't bother him. The loose gravel and sediment would soon vanish into the nozzle. The underwater light created a zone of brilliance around him in the slowly fading daylight so that he didn't notice the day waning. Working steadily all afternoon, he stop only once to get a cup of coffee and a sandwich and refill the gas tank. Munching a sandwich he enjoyed the early evening light. Watching as the sun slowly turned the mountains in the East pink and gold as it sank to the horizon. That done he was soon back underwater, working again. Being somewhat monotonous his mind drifted to other avenues as he shifting rock and sucking up the exposed material. In a convulsed chain of images, his mind led him back to his meeting with Kat Ballard, seeing her face and body again. Wondering what it would be like to slip his hands around her slim waist and hold her in his arms. It would be some armful, part wildcat, part temptress, all woman. Whoever latched on to her had better hang on for dear life as he was in for one hell of a ride. If he wasn't serious, he'd better head for the hills, and hope he could run faster than she could. Once Kat Ballard set her sights on him, hell could freeze over before she stopped. His mind conjured up pictures of her dancing, eating dinner and just sitting by a log fire talking. The flames highlight the gold in her chestnut hair. The deep green pools of her eyes pulling him in, drowning him in their depth. It was a pleasant daydream, but he knew it wouldn't work. He put those thoughts aside, bringing his mind back to the present, not that the work needed much direction. By now, he could work on instinct, letting his body and hands do the work while his mind roved elsewhere. His thoughts drifted back to something else he did by instinct.

  Time hadn't healed him, just dulled the edges of his memory. He now lived his life as if drifting through a light mental fog, seeing nothing but his immediate surroundings. Caring for little or nothing beyond his day-to-day existence—eating, sleeping, and working whenever the mood struck him, until last night that is. She had come into his life, turning it upside down. Now, for the first time in many years he felt unsure of himself. He was supposed to be a soulless robot, purged of feelings and emotion. Trained to kill without the morality of right or wrong getting in the way.

  Over the years he'd learned his craft well, remembering a few of the hell holes around the world he'd spent time in, Lebanon, Ireland, Rhodesia, North Africa, Nicaragua, and Europe. There wasn't a lot of difference in them. After a while, they all faded together and became one, jumbled, an illusion. The predominant impression was hot, wet and uncomfortable or cold wet and uncomfortable. He thought it all long behind him now, having turned his back on their whole insane world. No matter how many you killed, there were always more assholes or idiots they wanted you to get rid of.

  "Just one more, Mike, and then you can go home and play." But the last one they wanted him to kill had been the wrong one, an agent that had gone bad they said, forgetting that the man was someone he called friend.

  "What! You don't want to kill any more!? What's the matter with you, turning chicken on us!?" The other variation was, "You'll do it or else!"

  He told them what they could do with the ... 'or else'. Go pound sand. He listened first to the veiled threats, then to the not so veiled threats. In the end, he laughed in their collective faces. He didn't give a damn and they knew it. Hating him for not fearing death as they did. To him, death would be a merciful relief from this sad endless nightmare called life. Each day it was an effort not to go over the edge and kill somebody, just for the hell of it, even himself. That was his curse. He liked it, liked the hunt, enjoyed being death’s messenger, turning killing into an art. But assassins aren't supposed to have a conscience, or scruples about who they killed. No likes or dislikes about an assignment. But by some odd twist of fate, he did care, hating himself for it. A large rock falling on his finger brought him back to what he was doing in a hurry.

  'SHIT!' That lady could get a man into trouble in short order he thought. He chased the images away, concentration on what he was doing.

  The insatiable nozzle soon removed the newly accumulated debris, exposing his original cut. Two hours later, he was down to bedrock, cleaning out crevices and fissures, working his way closer and closer to the sheer rock wall of the mountain itself. It was at this point that he discovered a narrow crack between the base of the wall and the bedrock. The crack slowly widened as he working his way up stream. A large rock, about half the size of a small car impeded his progress, and laying back, he contemplated it for a moment. Should he move it and work the remainder of the crack, or call it quits? Repositioning the light he examined it closely. Finding that it was not part of the foundation of the house size pile at the bend. In fact, from the way it was sitting, it was simply a matter of getting some leverage behind it and rolling it over out of the way. Gravity and the slope of the riverbed would do the rest. Ten minutes later, it rolled over and with a deep rumble, vanished into the dark water. Behind it he found the crevice opened into a wide crack running back, and up into the rock wall itself. The Crack was packed solid with sand, gravel, and small rocks. But, as he happily discovered, not cemented in place. In short order, he repositioned the dredge and had the nozzle in place and sucking the material out, working his way in and up. After clearing this out, he'd call it a day, as the cold was starting to get to him. Whether it was the poor light in the crevice, or because he was tired; he wasn't paying particular attention to what he was doing. His hands simply working on instinct as he pulled out rocks larger than the nozzle, sucking up the material. One rough chunk was stuck, and jamming himself between the walls of the crevice, he used his pry bar to work it out. Feeling round in the dark for a place to put the point. It broke loose, and reaching over his shoulder, he started to throw it away. At that moment, the light caught it. Even so, he almost let it go. A quick grab and he had it again, his heart pounding, fatigue forgotten the moment he realized what he had in his hand. Working his way back out he grabbed the light, repositioning it so it shone in the crevice.

  "MY GOD!" He yelled, bubbled erupting over his head. "So that's where you been hiding all these years!" Before him, running back up into the rock wall was a band of white quartz, heavily veined with gold. The chunk in his hand he had broken off of the main vein.

  Now he understood why no one had ever found it. Also why chunks of float were found from time to time. Every few years the river would rise and shift large rocks around. Sweeping them away and exposing this crevice to the river. Imagine the force of the water breaking pieces out and carrying them downstream. The bit he held must have at least ten ounces of gold in it. With a sense of panic, he began breaking up the quartz, sucking up the freed material, sending it to the surface. A chance like this came along once in a lifetime, and he wasn't about to let it pass. At last, he forced himself to stop, shaking his head. His dredge wasn't set up the handle gold this size. It didn’t matter, now he knew where it was he could come back with the right equipment to work it. Even if it meant blasting the wall out of the way, or working down from the surface. By the look of the way the vein was running it would have to be done anyway. Carefully, he cleaned up the hole, sucking up the remainder of the loose material before pulling back and carrying the nozzle hose to the surface. It didn’t take long, even in the dark to get the dredge back across the river and cleaned up for the night. Sitting with a cup of coffee in his hand and a cigar, he looked at the gold pan before him. In the light from the Coleman, the gold shone softly. This was one session where he panned the concentrate down to pure gold. Finding he'd collected about two and a half pounds, and at today’s prices represented about thirty thousand dollars, more than he’d seen in one place at any one time. In some way, it was intoxicating. It represented freedom from worrying about money, or worrying about old age. Its beauty represented other possibilities, like adorning a beautiful women's neck, wrist or ankle. His thoughts drifted to one woman in particular, thinking of how
she would look like naked with a gold slave chain around her slim waist.

  "Damn it! Why do I keep thinking about her?"

  Bringing his mind back, he poured the contents of the pan into a leather sack and prepared to retire for the night. Tomorrow he would pack up the dredge, as with this discovery he would have to change his mining method. As he tucking the sack away in his pack, he solved the mystery of the intruder, discovering what was missing. The chunk of float he found the day before was gone. That only left the mystery of who had taken it. He was too excited to worry right now. He drifted off to sleep thinking of ways to mine the gold, and ways to spend it. Morning dawned cold, but clear. Winter wasn’t far away from the feel of it. Hot coffee and breakfast were welcomed, driving the chill away, and improved his outlook on life—that was until he was interrupted.

  "Hello the camp!" A voice called from the tree line. Even before that. Mike didn't need the call to tell he had company. His ears and Max's growl told him that. He contemplated telling them to piss off, but feeling in such a good mood, he decided not to. At least his visitor was polite enough to call before entering.

  "What can I do for you?" He asked, as two men appeared.

  "Can we come in?" Mike contemplated his coffee for a moment.

  "Yes. Come on in." It was the least he could do, seeing they had asked.

  Two men entered the clearing, looking around. Both spotted Max and Maxine, as Mike had named her. Noticeably nervous. Neither of the wolves looked friendly as both had the hackles raised. Mike didn't like the look of these two either. If he had hair on his back, it probably would be standing as well. Both were large, running towards being what was commonly called the 'bent nose' types. Someone you'd send to collect a long outstanding debt.

  "What can I do for you 'Gentlemen'." He asked. Neither of them made any threatening gestures, nor were there any weapons in sight.

  "Well, you see." The larger of the two began. "We been doing some survey work around here for a week or two looking for land to buy. Thought we'd come up and talk with you about yours."

  As there was nowhere to sit, both stood. Uneasily shifting back and forth from one foot to the other. They were between the rock and the hard place, with Mike in front and the two wolves behind them. That they were carrying was obvious, the bulge of the weapon showing under their hunting jackets. That was another oddity. All their clothing was new, as if it had just come out of a box, including their boots. It made a lie out of their claim of doing survey work for the last two weeks. These two clowns wouldn't know one end of a transom from the other. It was also odd that they hadn't asked his name, nor bothered to find out if he owned any land. That told him they knew who he was. That bothered him. He didn't like people poking their noses into his affairs. Especially people he didn't know.

  "My land is not for sale." Mike said, his attention on preparing and lighting his first cigar of the day. They looked at each other. Whatever program they had worked out wasn't, or couldn't work. How do you plan around two wolves? When you didn't even know they'd be there.

  "You haven't heard our offer yet." The taller of the two said.

  "Makes no difference. It's not for sale."

  "We've been instructed to offer top dollar!"

  "The answer is still no."

  "Look buddy..."

  "Shut up Bill! Whatever Bill friend's name was, he was a little more cautious than his friend. He looked at Mike, forcing a smile that was anything but friendly. "Is that your final word?" Mike yawned, partly from lost sleep, deliberately from boredom.

  "When you get back to town, I would strongly suggest you two buy hearing aids. You two are definitely going deaf." Bill move forward, but his friend’s arm shot out, stopping him.

  "No. Let’s keep this friendly." He said, giving Mike a dirty look.

  "Take your friend’s advice Bill. I also would suggest—only suggest mind you—that you get the fuck out of my camp as quickly as possible! I'm just about out of patience with you two idiots!"

  Mike stood up, as Bill rushed him, anticipating the move. "STAY!" Mike yelled as Max started forward. Clenching his fist with his right thumb sticking up, he poked the man in the eye as he came in, and predictably, his hand shot up to protect his face. It was instinct. Mike immediately snapped kicked him in the crotch, dropping him choking and gagging to the ground. Bill's friend reached under his jacket, and Mike expected a gun but seeing a knife come out instead. Knife or gun, it didn't make any difference. His hand was already inside his jacket, as he was prepared to draw and fire before the man cleared his weapon. Mike smiled, letting go of the 'Beretta', pulling his knife instead.

  "You want to dance as well?" Mike asked softly, stripping the big Bowie from its sheath.

  Two inches by twelve inches of razor sharp, hand forged steel gleamed in the sun light. As soon as it was out Mike turned the knife in his hand so he held it with the blade laid back along his forearm, edge towards his opponent. He held it in front of him, left arm cocked and ready behind it, feet spread, one behind the other, weight forward. It was an unorthodox stance, for a moment it confused his opponent. The man held his knife in the more traditional knife fighting position, upright in his fist, thumb on the back of the tang, point towards Mike, edge down. He held it low for the upward stab or slash, both hands held away from the body. The idea was, that since the hands were so far apart the opponent would have to divide his attention between both. In Mike's case it didn't work, he kept his eyes fixed on the man's eyes. They would signal the move if it came. Mike wasn't interested in a stabbing attack, more counter and slash as he came in, thereby knowing his opponent's thinking, and mode of fighting. The 'Bowie' was big enough and heavy enough to cut to the bone, and along it. Severing tissue, muscles, and arteries along the way. Plus, by laying it back, flat against his arm, he could use it in a block, punch, or slash. Whatever the case called for, once the dance started. The man looked at Mike for a few seconds as if contemplating his options. Whoever this guy Mike Grainger was he was no pilgrim fresh off the boat. To hold a knife that way, didn't mean he knew how to use it, but he was betting he did. This guy was just too ready, the knife coming out too slick for his liking. He backed off.

  "You've got it friend. There will be another time and another place, then we'll dance."

  "Have your life insurance paid up when we do. Whoever zips up the body bag on your face will want to collect!" Mike's smile was the same you see on sharks just before they strike. "Take your friend and get out. You will find that he needs some medical attention." Mike backed away from the groaning body on the ground. The knife vanishing back under his arm.

  Sitting down he finished his coffee and cigar, giving them a half hour start before following them. Moving off about a thousand yards he dug inside a hollow stump, unearthing a long case wrapped in oilcloth. Never a trusting man, he'd place it here the first night he'd set up camp, just in case. Un-wrapping the package, he assembled the weapon with loving care. The SIG/SAUER SSG 2000 sniper rifle was one of the items he'd kept when he'd left the 'company', considering it a fringe benefit. The rife was chambered for the original 7.62 mm NATO round, but he preferred the 7.62 British. These being driven with cordite instead of the American double-based nitro ball powder, turning the bullet into a so-called magnum round, what the Brit's call 'High velocity'.

  These were capable of driving through a quarter to three eights inch steel plate and still inflicting damage on their way out. He locked the ZEISS/Digital-ZA 8x56 T telescopic sight to the quick-release side-swing bridge mount. He then loaded and dropped a four round magazine into the well, hearing it lock in place. He loaded two more and dropped these into his pocket. Unless his talent was slipping, or they had a small army out in the bushes he didn't think he'd need any more than three rounds, one sighting, two killing. His hidey-hole gave up a few more of its secrets which he distributed in various pockets just in case, before covering the hole back up. After a quick survey of the trees, he vanished into the forest. These two were easy
to track, as the one named Bill did a lot of stumbling and falling down. By this time, his nuts should be the size of grapefruits and getting bigger. Mike hadn't been kind when he put the boot in, driving it in and up and into the man's crotch with all his strength. Feeling something squash and break under the impact, Bill's nuts most likely. At first, he thought they were heading for the fire trail. But they crossed it below where he'd parked the dredge trailer. Heading down to the road somewhere above town. He spotted them at last on the road, heading towards a Ford 'Bronco' parked in the trees. Laying down he sighted on the vehicle, zooming in to read the number plate. They might just be dumb enough to use their own transport. Either way, their own or a rental, it would give him a lead. Zooming back, he watched them come into view. By now, Bill looked as if he had a basketball stuck down his shorts. His face bright red, tears pouring down his cheeks. His friend didn't look any too happy either. Opening the door he bundled him into the passenger seat—not that he sat. He turned and knelt on the floor, his upper body over the seat. Swearing and cursing his partner slammed the door, walked around to the other side and got in and drove away. Mike was about to get up when he saw the 'Bronco' slow. Its tail light coming on.

  "I'll be dammed." Quickly, he scrambled up, running round the shoulder of the mountain. If he remembered correctly, there was a gas station come grocery store about five hundred yards up the road. Finding a better position, he found that they had pulled in. The driver got out, returning a few moments later with a bag of ice. This he gave to his partner, then walked over to the pay phone, dialing a number.