The Island (Rob Stone Book 3)

by A P Bateman

  Stone flinched at the memory, but he needed to recall it. The sand is crimson with dark blood and heads are scattered in front of him. Some are from women, most belonged to men, but there are children’s heads amongst them too. Their eyes are open, all looking upwards. It strikes Stone that the eyes have moved there after being severed. There must be a moment, however brief, when the person knows something of what has happened to them, that the head knows it has been separated and all is lost. Men to both sides of him are whimpering, sobbing. Stone realises he is also. His legs feel leaden, his hands bound so tightly he has no feeling in his fingers. His heart is racing, beating so rapidly he feels he will pass out. He hopes he will, hopes to see no more of this. Hopes to feel nothing of it when it comes.

  The first American soldier is pulled out from the line. He is scrabbling and kicking out wildly but the men are tough and strong and wiry. They are used to people reacting this way and have him pressed hard to the ground and lying motionless with apparent ease. Like a panicked goat before slaughter. Stone knows the man to be tough and strong, but he has little fight left in him. The man with the sword turns and smiles at the rest of the soldiers in the line. Stone cannot hear the background noises anymore. Only his own pulse hammering in his ears. The soldier is pulled up to his knees in one swift motion, a man holding each shoulder and pulling his tethered arms back like a lever. The sword is raised, poised over the man’s neck, then raises higher still, the executioner ready to strike the deadly blow. The sword moves through its final downward arc. The blood covers all the men in the line. The soldier is still kneeling, but his would be executioner drops down onto his knees beside him, sword in hand, most of his head now gone in the shower of blood and bone and brain that has covered the prisoners. Grenades explode releasing great plumes of acrid smoke, bullets ping and thud and whoosh through the compound and every enemy is cut down as he runs, stands or takes shelter. The smoke clears and a group of men, heavily armed, communicating through throat mics and signalling each other with hand signals work their way through the compound. Wounded enemy fighters are dispatched without a second thought with silenced pistols or short carbine rifles. The surrendering Taliban are killed quickly and without malice – merely humanely dispatched like cattle. Less than two minutes and the compound has been taken and secured. Stone feels like he is going to vomit. A large, fit man bends down, slices his bonds and hands him a bottle of water. He talks in a western drawl, pats him on the shoulder. Stone does not hear what the man had said, but thanks him profusely. He is crying tears of euphoria, utter joy and relief.

  Three months and a lot of paperwork later and Stone is training again. He has transferred to Airborne Rangers and his goal is to join the elite Pathfinder and Reconnaissance Unit of just two-hundred men. Those same men who had rescued him. A special forces unit that did not officially exist but still managed a three hundred-million dollars a year budget from the Pentagon. A unit that made, developed and deployed the .637 calibre long range sniper system and made verified kills of over seven-thousand metres in Syria. The short-barrelled compressed cylinder rifle used a Sabo bullet system which separated in flight to release a hyper-sonic Teflon bullet. The unit also developed SkyWing – a silent electric-powered dual wing entry system that enabled free-fall from forty-thousand feet, but could take its operator over one-hundred and fifty miles against wind direction to the drop-zone. The system also housed all of the operative’s weapons and equipment.

  Without the rescue from the elite Pathfinder and Reconnaissance Unit, Stone would have died in Afghanistan. He had trained and worked on nothing else until he won his place on their selection course. A gruelling thirty-week programme which saw segments of training in a hot zone. Stone had been transported unofficially into Afghanistan for parts of his reconnaissance training alongside serving operatives with the elite unit. After he had passed out and become one of six new recruits to hold the numbers at two-hundred, and only the nine-hundred-and-third Pathfinder and Reconnaissance Unit soldier to serve, he had gone back to Afghanistan for his second official tour of duty.

  Working in the hills, mountains and valleys of the most hostile territory on earth, Stone had numerous ‘contacts’ with the enemy, and had avoided as many battles to move silently and unseen through their world to collect intelligence and make his own hostage rescues.

  Towards the end of Stone’s tour, a senior officer with the Pathfinder and Reconnaissance Unit dropped a card with a telephone number on it into Stone’s lap. Afghanistan was drawing to a close for American troops and word was the Pathfinders were being side-lined in favour of missile-armed drones flown from a hangar in Nevada and boots on the ground when required from Delta Force and the Navy SEALs.

  “The cowboys and Indians days are over now,” the officer had said. “A man like you needs to learn new skills, but still make use of the one’s he’s already got. And above all, pass them on to others. Don’t hang in there waiting for another war to happen, or wishing the one we had didn’t end. The President inherited this one and won’t be looking for another. He’s too busy closing down this one and finding ways to pay for it. With your skills, you’re halfway through the training for a new career. Call the number, drop my name and you’re as good as in.”

  Stone had called and his transition from the Airborne Rangers to the Secret Service had been handled swiftly and seamlessly by the man in the Pentagon whose number was on the blank white card. A year later and Stone was running a team of fraud investigators in the treasury. A chance meeting with the White House chief of staff and Stone ended up on presidential protection duty. After three years’ rotation Stone had taken over an FBI investigation which had been run by his brother. His brother had died on that case and Stone had taken over and solved it. It was a deniable operation, but the President had seen what he was capable of, and he had remained on a duty retainer to handle sensitive cases that found their way onto the President’s desk.

  Stone hesitated at the point in the sand where he had fought the warrior. The sand was full of tracks and scuff marks from their fight. And drag marks up to the jungle. He had now remembered substantial, but sporadic pieces of his past, but they were enough to give him confidence in his abilities. He knew now that he had lived a life unlike many, and that he could handle whatever was thrown at him. He had seen into his past and although the warrior had been bigger and equally as fit, Stone could see that the training and service he now remembered pieces of had ultimately given him the advantage.

  He was hot, his skin and shoulders in particular, sore from the exposure to the sun. He would make more mud paste to block out the sun’s rays. What protection it had once afforded had been washed away with perspiration. He knew he needed water and once again, it had become his priority. He walked up the beach, following the tracks made from dragging the warrior across the sand.

  Stone could hear the buzzing long before he reached it. The sound of the flies sounded like a toy drone – high pitched and constant. He felt trepidation, knowing that it came from where he had left the man tethered. He felt a pang of guilt. The flies would have been attracted to the blood and sweat. The poor man would not have been able to fend off the swarm. Stone’s stomach fluttered and his legs felt heavy, leaden. He pushed the brush aside with the spear and looked down at the man, his legs motionless and his hands still bound.

  It was the eyes which shocked Stone the most. They were open, lifeless and staring upwards. Like the eyes of those unfortunate souls in the remote Afghan village who had been beheaded in front of him all those years ago. And he was transported there again. Hot, exhausted, scared and staring at the decapitated head of another man, another time, another place.

  9

  Kathy had copied the data onto a USB memory stick for Stone. He had no cell service, so used Kathy’s land line to phone and speak to one of the tech guys at home and get him over to Secret Service headquarters, or the “H” building as it was known. Stone wanted to work quickly on it, see if the tech guy could get i
nto the bank transfer aspect further. It was a tenuous link, but he hoped the Secret Service Treasury Department could cover an angle and therefore he could keep up with the investigation. If it was decided that it did not fit into the Secret Service’s remit, then Stone had a contact in mind with the FBI he hoped he’d be able to meet with and hand over. Either way, with what he’d seen he had told Kathy that it needed official involvement from the government. He had convinced her that if he could maintain contact with the investigation, or if he could get his contact with the FBI involved, then she would be able to follow with press involvement. It wasn’t strictly his promise to make, but he was senior enough to pull the right strings.

  He had told Kathy he would meet her late tomorrow morning at a coffee shop he used on 14th Street, close to the White House. She had a meeting at the Washington Post with the editor so it was mutually convenient.

  Stone started the Mustang and glanced back at the house to see Kathy peering from behind a curtain. She dropped the curtain and disappeared from view. The two dogs were standing on their hind legs and watching him leave from the front door. Just like those damned idiot brothers on prom night.

  He turned the car around, it’s V8 reverberating on tick-over. A glance in the mirror before he accelerated away confirmed that the dogs were continuing their vigil. As was Kathy, who was standing in the lounge window talking on the phone. Stone couldn’t see whether it was her cell or landline, but the hour was late. Perhaps she was calling Isobel in New York and thanking her for the introduction. Or maybe it was a guy. The thought made Stone shrug. He liked her, but what had it been? Four hours? He decided to put it back in the box, there was no room at the moment for a romantic involvement and who was to say Kathy liked him too? There were the glossy eyes. She beamed intelligence, but also a coyness that Stone had found so inviting. Then there was the smile, the fiddling with her hair or her ear, the leaning across the desk with her hips swaying towards him, the brushing against his arm, the kiss on his cheek…

  He smiled to himself. He would be the first to admit that despite being what the majority of people would call a handsome man, he lacked all social skills in both dating and the signal reading of reciprocated attraction which preceded a date. He often looked back on assignations and thought, oh yeah…When it was too late, and too much time and history had passed he would see the signal, see that he had been given a romantic green light. He was looking forward to meeting her again, looking forward to coffee with her. But he knew that the reason for helping her, for listening to her in the first instance had been more than simply curiosity. Having come out of a relationship by mutual consent, he had floundered on the dating scene, allowing work to become an excuse. His work had taken him around the nation as the President defended his presidency on the campaign trail and sought his second term in office and Stone had concentrated upon nothing but keeping the most powerful man in the world safe from harm. A good man, and an honest politician, the President was now secure in his second four-year term. As his personal bodyguard, his go to man in a crisis, Rob Stone was now able to start thinking about what lay in stall for him after the man’s presidency. It was unlikely another man such as the President would come along – the presidency was an increasingly tempting platform for unlikely glory seekers and billionaire’s with no talent and dangerous opinions, but with a bank account big enough to cover the tab - and Stone had decided he would step away from protection and perhaps become an instructor in the Secret Service, or bow out of government service altogether. This had left him with uncertainty, and Isobel texting him to ask him if he would meet a friend of hers worried about the whereabouts of her source had filled a familiar void. He had enjoyed the prospect of a new challenge and was curious about the woman he had agreed to meet. He had attempted to Google Kathy, but no photographs seemed to exist in his searches. It was unusual, given that her wall of fame had been so full. He had tried the usual suspects – Facebook, Instagram and Twitter, but Kathy Newman did not seem to go in for publicity. He had eventually found some grainy images of her connected with older stories. She had changed since those pictures, especially her hair which was now cut short in a business-like bob. He wondered who she had been talking to. He glanced at his watch, the luminous dials showed it was after mid-night. The technician should be in the computer suite on the fourth floor by now and Stone would be there within twenty-minutes.

  The lights glared in his rear view mirror, the car behind on full-beams. Stone dipped the mirror and eased off the accelerator. The road was as wide as a two lane despite the single yellow line running down the centre. The car’s lights filled the mirror, the gap closed to single feet. Stone dabbed the throttle and the Mustang surged forwards and opened the gap to fifty feet. The car behind changed down a gear and closed the gap back up. Stone had no idea what the car was running, but it was powerful for sure. He was in no mood for a drag race and indicated right, eased over close to the shoulder. The car slowed too, pulled around and then matched Stone’s speed.

  Stone had spent too long in a world where reactions kept both you and your VIP alive. Too long to be caught out so blatantly. His sixth sense told him to brake hard and he did. The gunshot rang out and Stone saw the muzzle flash flare over the hood of the Mustang. The passenger tried to follow the Mustang through the weapon’s sights, but couldn’t get his arm back far enough. The pistol in the gunman’s hand was way out of its arc of fire. Stone had his FN Five-Seven pistol in his right hand. He took his left off the wheel and dropped the electric window. It had only lowered five inches and Stone got the weapon out and fired a sustained ten-shot burst at the rear quarter of the car. The car surged forwards and the exhaust growled. Stone tucked the pistol between his thigh and the leather seat and flicked his headlights onto full-beams to light the way, and to distract and disorientate the driver. Then he floored it.

  The Mustang roared and Stone pulled back out onto the road and gained on the car. It was a powerful Audi with a twin turbo-charged V8. It surged away from the Mustang as Stone worked up through the gearbox, but the sixties coupe held the gap as the speed entered three figures. The road was wide and straight and there were no other vehicles in sight. Stone knew the road remained straight for about a mile. He glanced at the speedometer. One-forty. The Audi was fast, but limited to one-fifty-five. The red button on the dash had two words scribed in a metal plate surrounding it: Move It. Stone pressed it and grabbed the wheel as the boost from the two nitrous oxide canisters in the trunk hammered him back into the seat and the dial on the speedometer went on fast-forward, hit one-eighty and ran out of digits to move any further. The surge continued and the Mustang shot past the Audi like it was braking harshly. Three hundred metres clear and Stone hit the brakes and held the middle of the road. The Audi started to brake, but slewed sideways before straightening up, the driver shocked by the turn of speed of the classic. Stone’s carbon ceramic brakes stopped the Mustang in half the time and the Audi filled the rear view mirror. The inevitable happened and the big German sedan slammed into the rear of the Mustang and the two cars drifted and slid out of control travelling at least sixty miles per hour. Stone straightened the Mustang and the Audi slid past coming to rest in the centre of the road. Stone got the pistol back in his hand, the sights trained on the driver’s window. The Mustang’s headlights shone on the trunk, but the light was plenty enough to illuminate the driver. He was a white man with slicked dark hair and was wearing dark suite. His pistol was finished in stainless steel and glinted in the light a second before Stone emptied the rest of the magazine into the door and the man started to dance in his seat before slumping forwards, his head slamming into the steering wheel and sounding the horn.

  Stone got out, changed over to another twenty-round magazine. The tiny 5.7x28mm spear-tipped, boat-tailed bullets had incredible penetration capabilities and a flat trajectory. They had sliced through the door, the driver, the dead passenger’s body and the passenger door. Stone advanced, his weapon trained on the body in the driver
’s seat, daring him to move. He didn’t, and when Stone looked inside the car, he wasted no time in holstering his weapon. He wouldn’t be needing it again in this company. He reached inside the Audi’s shattered window and pulled the man away from the wheel and pushed him back into the seat. The horn ceased and the night was silent again. Stone looked up and down the deserted road. He took out his cell phone and cursed when he saw there was no service. He looked around and weighed up his options. He knew Kathy would still be awake, or at least in the ball park of being awake.

  And she had great coffee.

  10

  Stone had felt the rise of bile in his throat, but supressed it. He could not afford to waste precious fluid. He needed water desperately and the lizard brain part of his subconscious was paying attention to the details. His humanity part, the conscience and feeling part, was trying to take in what had happened, was reacting naturally.

  The man did not look to have struggled. Perhaps he had been unconscious, but Stone dismissed this when he thought of first seeing the head resting in the body’s lap. The eyes were wide and scared and looked directly upwards. Almost as if they were focusing on the bloodied neck of the body above it. There was a great horizontal gash in the bark of the tree. It had been made with a sharp blade and with considerable force. The body, its hands still tethered, had been unable to shift or sag. There was blood splatter a long way up the tree. It had sprayed onto the underside of the leaves and had dripped back down like dew droplets in the morning. The head would have fallen and rolled. Stone was quite convinced it had been arranged as he had found it for visual effect. There was a lot of blood on the ground. Stone kicked at the debris of leaves and twigs and the flies dispersed, as did their incessant buzzing, but they soon came back; spiralling wildly in the dank air and pitching back on the body, gorging themselves on the blood.