by A P Bateman
He brought the motorcycle to a halt at the next bend. The road had been relatively straight. There had been the occasional break in the dune and there were houses on both sides of the road. He guessed the dune-side houses cost more with their waterside location and sea views over the Chesapeake. The houses were few and far between though. Some were older houses, basic. Old money. Or no money, but had been owned for a long time. Others had been bought, developed with no expense spared and sold on for millions. They featured a lot of glass and chrome and teak and were box-shaped. The older houses were timber-framed and largely painted powder blue and eggshell white.
Much of the land was national parkland. He had seen several signs indicating various species of birds, amphibians and snakes. Another sign was for turtles in freshwater lagoons and a sign warning people not to interact with egg-laying or hatching turtles on the shore side of the dunes.
Stone took out the note of paper and his phone and checked his progress with Google Maps. He was close. That was, if the cell phone belonging to the number hadn’t moved in the meantime. He dialled Max and waited. Again, he answered after five rings.
“Are you there yet?”
“Nearly.” Stone turned in his saddle and looked back down the road. A car was pulling into the driveway of a shore-side home. It was grey, too far away to see the make and model. “Is the cell phone still there?”
“Wait,” Max paused and Stone could hear him punching keys. “Yes. It’s registered to Mike Newman. Ring any bells?”
“The editor at the Washington Post said Kathy’s father was in a nursing home in Virginia. It could be his. Have you got anywhere tracing her father? Do you have a name?”
“I do now. I’ll search Mike, or Michael Newman and see where it gets me. I’ve drawn a blank until now. But to be honest, I’ve got a hell of a workload and…”
“Well don’t waste time talking to me,” Stone snapped and ended the call. According to the map on his phone the house was the next on the left. A shore-side home. Stone started the motorcycle and accelerated steadily over the sand.
He got a good glimpse of the sea, glistening and clear, as he rounded a bend and steadied the bike through the gateway into the short drive. There were no gates, but there looked to be the remains of a weathered gate tucked to the side. The paint had worn and flaked and the timber looked rotten. The house was a single storey wooden beach house. Stone hoped the wood had been taken care of better than the gates had been over the years. He imagined that the winters were harsh, the Atlantic not far from the mouth of the Chesapeake - storm waves pounding, wind onshore, salt spray and rain blasting into every crack of wood.
There was an old Jeep parked up in front of the house. It was a fifteen-year-old design, full of dents, rust and holes, and at odds with the neighbourhood. This was a premium neighbourhood, if a little casual and lifestyle-focused. Many were basic homes, but all were expensive. The vehicles he had seen so far in the driveways were premium brands, some a few years old, but mostly there had been a pattern. It could have been a maintenance guy’s vehicle, or a maid’s, but it wasn’t the vehicle to go with the million-dollar view.
Stone turned the bike around and switched off the engine. No matter where he parked, he always parked facing out. Warzones and close protection had taught him the importance of a quick getaway. He could hear the waves on the shore, a tiny shore break and the surge and ebb of the tide. Gulls dipped and rose on the wind and the calling was incessant. He hung the helmet on the handlebars and dismounted. The driveway had initially been spread with gravel, but much of it was now sand with tufts of beach grass poking through in clumps. He skirted the house, watching the windows as he walked. He wasn’t watching for anything other than movement, and for this he used largely his peripheral vision. It caught movement - just the slightest change in light and mass and shape - better than staring directly at one particular spot. It was how the best bodyguards saw a change in the crowd, a weapon aimed or a person dashing out.
The movement came from the kitchen window. Just a shift to the side. Like a nosey neighbour in suburbia. Stone kept walking and rounded the house. He was out of view of the kitchen, and he quickly ducked down, scurried back the way he’d come and climbed the deck. The front door was locked and he stepped back and lunged a front kick at the lock. The wood splintered. Soft, worn and weathered wood. The door crashed in and Stone drew the pistol and paced four good strides into the house. As he’d suspected, he’d been watched from the kitchen then that person backed out and made their way into the lounge, no windows to the side to witness him back-tracking.
The woman looked stunned, her mouth agape as she stared at the gun in his hand. She was similar looking to Kathy, but a little more wholesome. She was a little heavier, curvier and her hair was more natural. Longer, wavier. Still as black as jet though. Her Asian features were less prominent, clearly mixed race. She recovered, closed her mouth. Stone lowered the weapon.
“What have you done to my door?” she shouted, then shook her head and shrugged. “Oh, forget it. My god, am I glad to see you?” she said. “Isobel gave me a picture of you. I’ve been trying desperately to get in contact with you. You don’t pick up your voicemails, or you’re not returning my calls. I’m Kathy Newman. I don’t think we have much time.”
27
Stone thought of the things Kathy Newman – or the woman he’d initially thought was Kathy Newman – had said on that first night. She had known that he was the President’s man. His go-to agent in the Secret Service. At the time he had been surprised that his former girlfriend had divulged as much to her. Now, he was sure that she hadn’t. Isobel would not have betrayed his trust gossiping about what he did in the Secret Service. She would have told her friend that he might be able to help, and she would have helped set up a meeting, which she had, calling Stone to ask him to consider meeting with her friend.
It made sense now. Stone had been the victim of a counter intelligence operation by agents’ unknown. They had tapped and monitored his phone, diverted his calls, done the same with Isobel’s phone in New York, listened to conversations and drawn a plan based on the data they had recovered. They would have watched him, followed him, learned from him. They had probably got into his emails via Isobel’s. He knew they had taken control of his cell phone and listened to and deleted his voicemails. When Kathy Newman had contacted Isobel with her dark web story and her missing computer and web expert, they had inserted an agent to impersonate Kathy Newman. They had the upper hand then, and they’d had it ever since.
He shifted in the grass, but kept his movements slow. The pistol was comforting in his hand. It was close to bring to aim.
The first gunshot rang out, the bullet piercing his crisp white shirt just left of dead centre. The bullet travelled through the back and into the jungle beyond. A second shot sounded and found its mark next to the second. Stone did not move. He was laying deathly still on the ground.
Minutes passed and the gunman emerged on the fringe of the jungle. He held the rifle relaxed in his hands, his finger off the trigger, the muzzle towards the ground. Good weapon drills, experienced. It was all but dark, a hunter’s moon low in the sky. The gunman stood over his target. He rested the rifle against the same tree that had blocked his target’s head from view, bent lower to inspect his kill.
Stone was up and behind him, the grass he had covered himself with falling off him as he stood, the pistol aimed at the centre of the gunman’s back.
“Don’t move,” he said quietly.
The gunman flinched, then regained a little composure. He shook his head disbelievingly, smiled. He went to stand up but Stone jabbed him so hard in the spine with the muzzle of the pistol that he let out a howl and fell forwards onto his stomach. It was a substantial blow, would have moved the vertebrae a little, pinched the spinal cord. It would take a chiropractor some work to straighten the man up again. Nevertheless, he knelt up slowly, wincing at the pain and tugged at the white shirt which Stone had stuffed wi
th pampas grass. The trousers too, attached to the shirt by the belt, which Stone had weaved through the tears he’d made in the shirt. “Very clever,” he conceded. “They were right about you. Jesus, you outsmarted me with a fucking scarecrow…”
“I want some answers,” Stone said.
“Don’t we all.”
“Where are we?”
The man laughed. “We’re in hell, my friend. Or heaven. You take your pick on how you feel about killing.”
“It’s some kind of game.”
“It’s all a game, man!” The man swayed, Stone stood back and kept the pistol on him. “Life’s a big fucking game, man. At least here you get to live it!”
“Are you a soldier?”
“We’re all soldiers, man. Except you, that is. You’re the Secret Agent! You’re the bodyguard!”
“What do you know about me?”
“Odds on favourite! I thought I had you!” The man turned, but saw that Stone was too far away to attack, to close to miss with the pistol. “You’re the man! They said the betting went mad with you. Stratospheric. They said the requests came in thick and fast. Especially after they saw all that Tarzan shit you pulled. And that thing with the alligator? Fucking awesome! First you kill one and eat it, then you throw the SEAL team guy in and get the poor son-of-a-bitch eaten alive! That fucker was hard core. SEAL Team Six! He was on the crew who killed Osama Bin Laden! Said he took the shot, but I didn’t believe him. I bet there are twenty guys saying they all nailed that fucker!” He winced with a stab of pain, and looked at Stone seriously. “Now they are sending all kinds of requests. The bidding has gone crazy!”
“Bidding?” Stone asked. He noticed the man was wearing an earpiece. He raised the pistol and stepped forwards. The muzzle was close to the man’s face and steady. Stone snatched the earpiece out of his ear and pulled the wire. The small receiver unit pulled out through the neck of the man’s T-shirt. Stone stepped backwards a pace. “What requests? Who?”
“The internet, man. What else? All those dark web sickos! The people who are paying to watch us kill each other.” He tried to move, but felt a stab of pain in his spine and dropped involuntarily, like his legs had no feeling. He rolled onto his side and looked up at Stone. He seemed high, he had definitely taken, or been administered something. “The dark web is full of people like that. First it was snuff-movies, some poor East European girl drugged up and taken every which way by a group of rapists, before they strangle her or something nasty. Most likely the killing was faked, but even that shit is illegal. Then there’s child porn. Plenty of sickos eat up that shit. But this? This is new. Or as old as time. You make up your own mind. This is what they lived for in ancient Rome. Gladiator games, man. Spartacus and shit. The rich love this crap! Arab and Russian billionaires. New money Eurotrash, rich Americans. You’re famous, man! You’re the President’s man, the best of the best. Well, that’s what they want to find out. They’re requesting some serious shit now! But it will cost them. You’re going to get a war on your ass!”
“Who is doing this?” Stone stepped forwards and caught hold of him by his jacket. It was an old and well-worn olive military jacket. The kind many homeless veterans wore. He jammed the pistol under the man’s chin. “Who is behind this? Tell me, I’ll help you get away.”
The man laughed. “You don’t get it, man.”
“What?”
“We’re all a part of it.” The man closed his eyes. “We all agreed to it. And we all fucking love it.”
“You agreed to do this?”
“What else was there?” The man opened his eyes, they still looked dilated, like he was high. “We took the money and agreed to the terms. I was homeless, I didn’t know where my next meal was coming from. Now I have luxury buffets, cook-outs and barbecue. I sleep safe. I just have to come out here and hunt some bozo down every once in a while. I have money going into my bank, I’ll buy a life with that.”
“One payment.”
“What?”
“Each missing person has had one payment made into their accounts, shortly before they went off the radar. From a numbered account in Panama. A bank whose boss has disappeared and left the bank in turmoil. I don’t think he’s coming back.”
The man looked confused. “That’s not true. We get paid the same amount monthly. Regardless. Then we get a bonus if we win our bouts. There were ten of us, in the beginning. We took turns to hunt some guy or other, but then came the requests to battle it out with each other. The betting was raised and our fee was meant to have gone through the roof on account the hunts were going to be tougher.” His confusion passed as he gave way to anger. “It can’t be true!”
“Take it up with your boss. But I imagine when you’ve all killed each other he’ll be bugging out of here with a fortune in his bank. Wherever the hell that is.” Stone motioned him to get up. Just a sweep of the pistol, but the guy got the message. He started to stand but fell back down, his eyes drawn to the arrow shaft protruding from his chest. Stone ducked down.
A second arrow found its mark below the first in the man’s stomach. There was less resistance there, just flesh, muscle and cavity. The arrow almost went completely through, but the flights remained in view. The arrow had penetrated the liver. The blood was dark and thick. It had already reached the man’s lips. Stone reached out and caught the man’s hand. He heaved and pulled him towards him to safety, as a third arrow flew over him and struck the tree. The arrow was made from aluminium and the shaft bent as its velocity halted instantly. Stone could see the arrow head was broad and sharp.
“You’re fucked, man,” the man said, his voice wet and bubbly. “That’s The Saracen. He’s a Yemini, an Arab.” He gasped in air, quivered as he rushed his words. “He’s a master with a short bow. They think he was with ISIS, executed hundreds of people in Syria and Iraq using his bow. Your only chance is to get him in close. Those Arab fuckers can’t fight for shit. They rely on knives and other weapons. They can’t take a fucking punch, especially in the mouth.” He heaved for breath, shuddered. “I hate to think I’ve been screwed over. The others will too…”
“Where do I find them?”
The man looked at him intensely. “They’ll find you…”
Stone watched the life quickly leave the man’s eyes. He tugged at the jacket, but the two arrows made it impossible to remove. He pulled the body over, caught hold of the bloody arrow shaft that was protruding the most and yanked it through. It was difficult and made a wet, squelch as he pulled it clear. He pulled the second arrow out in the same manner, all the while scanning the moonlit ground ahead of him. He could not see the archer, or The Saracen, as the man had called him. He got the jacket clear and hastily put it on. He ripped at the dummy he had created and pulled off the trousers. As he put them on, his feet pushed out the grass stuffing and he fastened them quickly. He couldn’t locate the holster and spare magazine in the gloom and cursed inwardly, but he still had the pistol and he tucked it into the back of his pants and picked up the M4 rifle. The dead man had a rifle with a scope, but it was a heavy calibre hunting rifle and at best, would only have three rounds left in the flush magazine. He ignored it and took the man’s water bottle.
An arrow whipped past Stone and clattered into the belt of trees. Stone turned and looked in the direction of its travel and saw a figure, lightly silhouetted in the moonlight duck, down behind some cover. He brought up the rifle and fired off a round, a little lower. He kept the rifle sighted and waited. He doubted that he had hit the man with one shot, but it wasn’t his sole reason for firing – he had wanted to slow the man’s pace, give him something to think about. The act of stopping the enemy’s momentum was the biggest part of combat. Courage is often beaten by self-doubt, given enough time. And if someone is given that time to doubt their own ability, then they will start to consider their own mortality. Stone fired again. The time had been about right for someone to take stock, attempt to take a look. A bullet landing near them would give them something else to
think about. They would also worry that their enemy was advancing on them, out manoeuvring them, flanking them. Stone counted off ten seconds and fired another round. He then ran through the belt of trees at a sprint for fifty-metres, dropped low and re-sighted on the cover he had last seen the figure behind. He waited. He may well have hit his target. But he was sure he hadn’t and was sure he would be served well by waiting. He backed up to a tree and rested the weapon against its trunk, the open sights on the clump of cover where he had last seen The Saracen. Lower down was a thin branch which would provide a steadier aim point. Being lower to the ground was more preferable, bringing his profile and size as a target down considerably and making him more difficult to hit, so he crouched down and flinched as the arrow struck the tree just above his head. He fell backwards as a second arrow struck a point two feet lower – right where his body had been. He got the rifle up to aim, but a third arrow struck the weapon’s frame and glanced off into his shoulder. Stone cried out and dropped the rifle. He fell backwards, the arrow protruding from him and when he rolled the shaft bent and gouged the wound, sending a searing pain through him that felt like fire and ice all at once.
He crawled on the ground, thrashing his legs to get him behind a clump of trees before another arrow found its mark. He could not believe how fast the man had launched the arrows. And then he thought to the dead man’s words; he’s a master with a short bow…
