by A P Bateman
She had wrapped her arms around her waist, comforting herself. “But why?”
“Rawlins, you mean? He wasn’t a cop. Something wasn’t right. As soon as you called out I knew. When he pocketed his ID wallet, I caught sight of his gun. A stainless steel pistol, leather shoulder holster. It was a custom Colt forty-five model 1911. Cops don’t carry those and they rarely wear shoulder holsters these days. And those forty-fives were what the dead guys in the Audi were carrying. I only saw a flash of silver when he replaced his wallet, but at the time I didn’t take it in.”
“But how?”
Stone held up a finger to his lips to silence her and looked around him. “Get your car keys. We’re going for a drive.”
12
Stone was dry and fully hydrated, but he was incredibly hungry. He rested with his back to the tree and his legs tucked up. The graze to his hip was sore, but now significant bruising was coming out. This indicated that he had injured himself only recently, but still he had no idea how or when. The rain had stopped, but the jungle did not get any lighter. It had passed to night and although he could not recall having been to the tropics before, he seemed to know that the nights came quickly. He had no way of knowing the time, but it was a long night. In the height of the trees he could see the eerie glow of eyes, most probably large fruit bats. He did not want to risk injury climbing for one, but in the morning he would try to spear one from the ground when he had enough light to see by.
He slept little; permanently aware that somebody had killed the warrior and that same somebody could be hunting him also. He started to become paranoid about having his back to the tree. The same sort of tree that had borne the slash mark of the sword or machete that had taken the man’s head. He had to calm himself, assure his paranoia that he was hidden, that the shelter would hide him from view and that the jungle floor, a sodden carpet of snagging overgrowth and fallen debris, would give away any would be attacker long before they got close to him.
He awoke with a start. He had not expected to sleep, and he experienced an unnerving vulnerability at having let down his guard. The light was brighter and shafts of light crossed his path and he knew he was facing south. He stepped out of the shelter carefully, stood and listened. The jungle smelled pungent, rotten. The temperature was hot and close. There was steam rising in places as the rainfall evaporated. He needed to press on, to get to the hill and see what he was up against, see if he was in fact on an island, or whether he would stand a good chance of following the coast to a settlement. Life was going to be too difficult in the jungle, the coast was making more sense.
Stone drank the rest of the water. The water traps would only spill and be difficult to carry, and water was best carried in the body. Never ration, always consume. He placed the sheets of bark on top of each other on the ground, dismantled the shelter and rolled them all up together. He bound them with the cord and fastened the roll over his shoulder. They were a precious resource and he was sure he would need them again sooner or later. He looked at the canopy, there was no sign of the fruit bats in the daylight. He had been sure that they were nocturnal creatures. If they were resting, then they should have been hanging from their perches now, and not last night in the darkness. There was no sign of them now and he had not witnessed them leave, but he would be ready for them tonight. Maybe he would see them come in to roost, if that was the term for what bats did to sleep.
He headed inland, supposing he had got the direction to the beach correct, and after two hundred metres of working his way through the thick undergrowth, the jungle started to noticeably thin out. He could see fifty or so paces ahead. The sky was suddenly visible; blue and cloudless. The sun burned the side of his face, but after the claustrophobia of the thick jungle, the searing heat was a blessed relief. His pace quickened, and the ground was dry underfoot. The freshness of the air was a relief also. It was still hot and humid, but the air was less heavy and the dank smell which seemed to stick in his nostrils and coat the back of his throat had gone. Already he was thirsty, and he knew that when the body felt thirsty then it was already dangerously dehydrated, so once again finding water was going to be his priority.
The ground opened up further and the trees gave way to pampas grass and clumps of thorny bushes. Banyan trees towered in sporadic growths and as Stone looked at a particularly large area of trees, he realised they were surrounding a large pond. He quickened his pace and as he neared, a flock of colourful birds took flight and his spirits were lifted at the thought of food and water being his for the taking. He dropped the spear and the knife, took the roll of bark off his shoulder and jumped into the water. It was cooler in temperature than the air, but not by much. It was reasonably clear; he could see his own feet as he stood chest deep. He swam a few strokes, dived down and came back up rubbing the water around his face. With any luck there would be fish and crayfish to catch. He tasted some of the water on the tip of his tongue, and it seemed clear and clean enough. He sipped some, then drank heavily. He knew there would be organisms in it that should be boiled, but he did not have the resources and he needed to make his choices accordingly. It was more important to drink and hydrate his organs than to avoid what sustenance he could get and waste energy looking for or crafting something to boil the water in, only to fall ill due to dehydration.
He swam to the bank and was about to grab a branch to pull himself out when he realised it was a crocodile’s snout. He froze in the water, his eyes staring at the green glass-like eye of the animal. Mentally he figured the creature to be on the wrong side of huge. He was in a quandary – the animal would be fast near the water, capable of snapping and lunging with great speed. But if the animal got into the water, then it was in its element. It would have the speed, agility, the underwater eyesight and Stone wouldn’t stand a chance. One bite, one solid hold and it would spin in a death-roll and snap his limps in two. Stone kept eye contact with the beast, lowered off the bank and eased himself back into the water. Still he kept his eyes staring into the creature’s lifeless eyes. He could see the reptile’s nostrils flare as it breathed. Stone eased to the side. One pace, two, three… and then he lunged up the bank and rolled to his right as the crocodile lunged and snapped and he heard the jaws and teeth bite together just a few feet behind him. Still Stone kept moving, rolling and then when he rolled onto his stomach he jumped up and ran twenty-feet clear of the bank. He turned and saw the great creature, it’s head backwards, its jaws high in the air. It held its chest high off the bank with its stubby front legs, its back in an inverted arched. It slowly lowered its head back down and rested still. It did not take flight into the water and it did not turn to seek a follow-up attack on the lucky prey. Stone saw the knife and spear on the bank and he walked cautiously towards them. He picked up the spear and the crocodile still did not move. Stone could see the beast looking at him, its left eye at the back of its socket as it watched, yet kept its head towards the water. It was keeping its options open, its escape into the water a mere fraction of a second away. Stone came up on it from behind. The animal could not see directly behind itself, but still did not move. Stone wondered whether its arrogance or lack of fear was simply due to the fact there were no natural predators. An evolution of confidence and indifference. Stone realised that the animal was at least twelve-feet long from its snout to the tip of its tail. It was black in colour with a light, creamy-coloured underbelly. The back was armoured with great jagged scales, raised and prominently high on both sides of the animal’s spine. Stone raised the spear high above his head and as he got up to the tail, his feet either side of it, he threw himself on top of the crocodile’s back and plunged the spear into the back of the animal’s skull. There was a brief struggle and Stone released the spear, got his hands down onto the snout, forcing it closed and adjusted his weight over the animal’s back. The animal struggled less, and Stone got his right hand away and onto the haft of the spear. It took all of his strength, but the spear drove deeper and the animal went limp. Stone got
to his feet, but kept the spear in place. It had been a quick death, certainly quicker than his grandfather’s goose all those years ago. And now his spirits were at the highest point they had been since he had woken on the beach yesterday morning. He had water and he had food. Now all he needed was fire.
Stone pulled the spear clear and walked around the animal. Near the bank he noticed two wooden posts had been driven deep into the ground. There were pieces of rope frayed at the base and he picked them up. It looked as if somebody had attempted to construct a trap. Perhaps they wanted to kill the crocodiles for their skins. Stone looked at what had been constructed but couldn’t imagine what purpose it would serve. But he knew the frayed rope would make good tinder for a fire. He tried to wriggle the posts free, but they had been driven deep into the ground with a heavy sledge hammer, and he could not be bothered to waste his energy on them. There were smaller pieces of firewood around and he could simply pick them up. He caught hold of the animal’s tail and pulled it back from the bank. It was heavy, at least two hundred pounds. He wanted some distance between himself and the water. Where there had been one, there would be others. He reflected, almost humorously, upon how lucky he had been swimming in the pond, but he needed to keep alert. And not just for other caiman or alligators or crocodiles, or whatever the hell they were. He needed to be alert for the person who had killed the warrior.
13
Kathy drove her BMW X5 and Stone rode in the passenger seat with his weapon drawn and resting in his lap. He was watching all around him for a vehicle following, or one waiting by the side of the road. He had put down the vanity mirror and angled it so that he could keep a lookout behind them.
Unsure what to do with them, and still repulsed at what she had witnessed in her house, Kathy had woken her neighbour, sold him a tale of a breaking story and asked if he’d take care of the dogs. The neighbour had been practically asleep on his feet, his wife calling down from upstairs the whole time to find out what was happening. Kathy apologised profusely, told the neighbour she was sorry and that she would make it up to them. Stone got the impression it had happened before, although not at such a late hour.
The crash site had been deserted. There was no Audi and no debris. No broken glass, no bullet casings and no traces of broken brake light clusters from a 390 GT Mustang. There were tyre marks on the highway, but nothing else. They could well be tyre marks from any other auto-incident, or rednecks lighting up their hot rods with burnouts. It was the most thorough job Stone had ever seen, and the political angle remained with him as well as the financial. The clear-up would have taken resources, mainly personnel, but that was difficult to organise in itself. And sending a man to assassinate them at such short notice meant some serious connections. If these were not men from a government agency, then they had to be ex-government agency employees. Perhaps ex-CIA. And in Stone’s experience, ex-CIA personnel were often used when the CIA wanted deniability. If it walked like a duck and sounded like a duck…
Stone had got back in the BMW and told Kathy to drive them into the city. He had a cell phone signal now and he made a few curt calls. The first had been to his tech guy, but had gone straight to his voicemail. The next had been to the Secret Service Domestic Security Rapid Reaction Unit. Quite a mouthful, but not as difficult to remember as the acronym. He explained what he wanted and was told it would take two hours. After swearing profusely and making a few threats, a small team was sent to secure Kathy’s house and await the arrival of the rest of the team. The coroner would arrive after the rapid reaction team turned up to sweep the entire house for electronic surveillance equipment. Stone had also told of his suspicion that the landline had been compromised in order for the 911 call he had made earlier to have been intercepted and impersonated. Again, he felt sure that there was either a rogue government angle, or that whoever was behind it was well connected financially and had employed ex-government agents.
His cell rang seconds after putting it back in his pocket. He took it out again. No number was displayed. “Stone,” he answered curtly.
“Special Agent Stone, this is Agent Andrew Reece, duty officer.”
“Nice shift you got yourself there, Andy.”
“Yeah, whatever. It is what it is.”
Stone knew Agent Reece. The two hadn’t always got along, but it was currently amiable. Stone had some seniority with Special Agent status, though he never pulled rank more than he had to. Reece had taken the fall for a sting that had gone wrong. To lure a counterfeit and money laundering gang out of hiding, he had lobbied the higher echelons to use real money. A lot of it. The money went missing and the gang gave the treasury agents the slip, and although after a somewhat protracted inquiry there was no further comeback or suspicion resting on Reece, he was manning a night desk for the foreseeable future. So much so that he was talking of heading into the world of private security and flipping his middle finger at the Secret Service.
“What’s the problem?” Stone asked. His attempt at humour hadn’t seemed to have worked on the disgruntled agent.
“According to Ramirez’s wife, you got him out of bed and into work around midnight.”
“So? Tell him to call the union,” Stone replied tersely.
“I guess he would if he could,” Agent Reece paused. “He stopped at a set of lights on Chevy Chase. Took a bullet in the head. Car-jacking gone wrong, the police have called it.”
Stone hesitated. He knew the man well, was saddened and shocked. “Was he still driving his Prius?”
“Yes.”
“Kind of old and dented for a car-jacking, wasn’t it?”
“Can’t all drive Pebble Beach Spec Mustangs.”
“Ouch.”
“Sorry. No, you’re right. Connected to what you’ve stirred up?”
“That’s my thinking. Too much of a coincidence. He was a tech, but he was level three field agent trained. And all service personnel are required to carry a sidearm, due to the heightened terror alert. He wasn’t going to fall foul to some junkie who fancied a new ride. And who the hell is going to steal a well-used Toyota Prius?”
“I’ll send a team round to liaise with the police department.”
“Thanks. Can you reiterate that the line was tapped and that they impersonated a dispatch operator? These guys have probably packed up and shut down, but it’s worth checking junction boxes for signs of tampering as well as listening devices at the house.”
“Okay. What is all this, Rob?”
“Trouble,” Stone said. “Nothing but trouble.”
14
Stone found the branches he wanted on the ground. He cut some of the seeding heads of the pampas grass and scraped the ground with the spear to gather the debris he needed. He chose to pick up fallen wood because it wasn’t green and would burn better than live wood. Next he examined the spear and using the knife he hacked the last ten inches or so off the shaft and chopped it down to a fine point. The spear shaft was hard and dry. He split a fallen branch down the middle and cut a vee to the centre halfway through. He gathered some fine debris as tinder and piled it on the ground. He took the pieces of frayed rope he had found by the curious-looking manmade frame and pulled out the fibres until it looked like a large pile of hair. He then placed the branch on top, split side up with the vee above the tinder. He placed the point of the hard spear shaft on the vee and started to rub the stick between his hands, the point drilling into the vee. After a few minutes, the wood at the vee started to smoulder, and fine, burning saw dust spilled out onto the tinder. Stone stopped and blew gently. It didn’t take, but he was ready for that. He spent the next half an hour or so repeating the process and re-adjusting the tinder and a piece finally caught. Stone got down on his belly and blew carefully, a steady stream of air to the base of the smouldering, blackening pile and the tinder burst into flames. He carefully placed small pieces of wood and debris on the flames, then after a few minutes he arranged larger twigs and sticks until he was confident it would take some larger branch
es and continue to burn without the risk of being smothered.
Stone turned to the crocodile beside him. It was a surreal scene, and for the first time since he had awoken on the beach, he smiled. Then he chuckled. He picked up the knife and figured the tail would be meaty and offer the easiest part to butcher. He had skinned a deer once with his uncle after a rights-of-passage hunting trip and imagined it would be similar. He found the skin tough, but the underside was easier to cut through and he managed to get a few strips of meat off the carcass. He cast his eyes over the ground around him and noticed a few rocks scattered in places. He found a flattish one and placed it in the middle of the fire. He banked the fire up on all sides and placed the strips of meat on the rock. He could forget about them now and turned his attention to digging some holes to line with the bark water traps near the fire. Then he set off to the pond and tentatively kept an eye out for his dinner’s companions while he filled the traps with a large wrap of bark which made a useful, if wobbly bucket. The water traps would hopefully clear as the sediment and any living organisms dropped to the bottom.
Fire, water and food done, he looked for a suitable place for a shelter. The sky was a crystalline blue with a few wispy clouds. It did not look likely to rain, but it was the tropics and one could never be certain. The fire would provide comfort, but he had to treat his situation as hostile. A man had tried to kill him, and he in turn had been slaughtered. The murderer was still at large and Stone had to assume that his life was under threat. He would rig up a shelter in the fringe of trees. He would be far enough away from the crocodiles, yet able to survey the pond and open area. And he would hear someone approaching from his rear, the overgrowth and jungle debris would alert him of that.
