by A P Bateman
The pain was unbelievable. He was sweating profusely from it, and not just the heat and exertion. He felt the tip, which was just below the surface of the skin. The tip had struck the bone. Stone hoped that the tip had not broken off or that shards of bone had not shattered. He dug his fingers into the wound, clasped the tip and pulled. It was agony, but a short sharp dose of it. He looked at the tip and the wicked-looking point looked to be intact. He threw the arrow down and drew the pistol from behind his waistband. He had no time to see to the wound, no time to look for the man. He simply took off through the jungle to put as much distance between The Saracen and himself as possible.
28
Stone could feel the blood seeping from his shoulder. It did not hurt quite as much now, more of a constant nagging throb, but he was focusing on getting away and that was taking his mind off the pain. At a particularly thick belt of trees he chanced a look and saw that most of his left arm and side was covered with blood. He needed to staunch the flow and he needed to take on some water. He had dropped the bottle, lost the plastic bag and had left the dead man’s water canteen near his body. All he had was the FN pistol in his hand and the nineteen rounds it still held. But he had also kept hold of the man’s earpiece and receiver.
He tucked the receiver into his pocket and put the earpiece into his ear. There was a blast of static and then he heard a voice. Calm, collected. Female.
“He’s approaching the slope. The terrain gets thick. Swing right, that’s east, and the gradient is much less steep, relatively open.” There was no reply. Stone had noticed that the unit had no throat-mic. Maybe The Saracen’s was the same as well. “Your arrow supply is low. A drone drop will resupply you at the top of the slope.”
Stone slowed his pace. He tried to visualise the man branching off to outflank him. He had reached the base of the slope. It only looked to be a hundred feet or so, but he knew that even the tallest mountains looked like nothing from the bottom. He looked at the ground above him. It was thick with foliage and debris which had washed down after the rain. He climbed twenty-feet through the thick brush, then turned and ran back down the slope and branched off to his right.
“The target is heading south! You will have to finish your climb now and traverse the top of the slope. Take the slope down at the southerly-most point and you should come out just behind him. Will redirect the arrow resupply until you get into a better position. The drone is ten minutes away. Repeat, ETA of drone-drop ten minutes. Location to be confirmed.”
Stone wasted no time veering off to his left. He was putting maximum distance between himself and the man he knew as The Saracen. He crashed through a tremendous network of spiders webs, their sticky gossamer covering his face and neck. It creeped him out a little, spiders not being on a list of his favourite things. Then he remembered something he had heard long ago, and started to gather up as many webs as he could. He pressed them into his wound, using his fingers to manipulate them inside. It hurt like hell, but he gathered more and pressed them in and around the opening. The bleeding was staunched quickly. Not only did the webs soak up the blood, they contained a coagulant property, the same that turned the web from liquid to its cotton-like state as it left the spider. It would clot the wound better than anything modern medical science had at its disposal. Stone pressed on.
“I have lost sight of the target, but he is in quadrant four-fourteen. If he stays on his bearing, he will emerge in the open ground at the foot of the hill. He’s done a double-back. We have assets on the ground getting ready for body removal. They will not engage, will hold position at the other side of the clearing, but he must not see them. Drone-drop re-supply of arrows will take place at the first spinney of banyan trees. Break for the clearing early. We have no cameras until the clearing. Do not kill off-line. If you capture, you will need to get the target to a good location for maximum bidding.”
Stone stopped and pressed himself against a tree. His lungs were heaving and his head thumped with dehydration. He caught his breath as best he could, visualising The Saracen’s progress. By his reckoning, the man would be almost level with him by now, but a hundred yards or so closer to the clearing. Stone kept the pistol ready in front of him and headed north. It was only a guess, but the shafts of light shone through the jungle canopy from right to left. It was not yet mid-day by his estimation, and he was learning to use the jungle and not fight in vain against it.
Ahead of him, an arrow knocked against the undrawn string and the shaft resting on the arrow rest, The Saracen eased himself slowly through the undergrowth. Stone could see him and beyond the man the light was brighter, the clearing already having opened up. Stone moved carefully, each pace timed with The Saracen’s own to minimise the noise. The gap had closed to forty-metres or so. Stone had a good shot, but he wanted more. Needed more. Needed a way out. He looked at the trees above the man in front of him, looked into the trees above his own head. There were no glowing eyes, no sign of a camera or a transmitter. The voice had declared the area a dead zone. Stone smiled to himself. That was exactly what is was. Or was about to be.
The Saracen was dressed entirely in black, in Arab trousers and a modified robe. He had a turban-style head dress that partially covered his face. Stone had encountered similarly dressed fighters in Afghanistan. He wore a quiver on his back, and Stone could see only two arrows poking out of it. The bow was short and dramatically recurved. It looked to be made of wood and horn. On his belt, Stone could see the Arabian kanjar – the classically curved middle-eastern dagger. This one was about eighteen inches long from tip to haft and sheathed in a silver scabbard.
Twenty-metres out, The Saracen drew his arrow back and swung to his right looking directly at Stone. As the arrow released, Stone hit the ground, suddenly aware that the man had known he was there and was most likely watching from the corner of his eye. Stone pushed himself back up and aimed his pistol, but saw the man drawing another arrow directly through the pistol’s sights. He rolled away, but The Saracen did not release. Stone knew that the archer would fire the moment he stopped moving, but would already be estimating a moving shot and getting ready to shoot accordingly. To counter this, Stone stopped and rolled back, catching a glimpse of The Saracen adjusting his aim. Stone fired. The Saracen ducked, and Stone stopped rolling and fired again. Both shots missed and the arrow released and grazed a tree, clattering off into the undergrowth. Stone kept the pistol on the man and got to his feet. The Saracen had his last arrow in his right hand, the bow in his left. He knew he wouldn’t make the shot. His eyes raged, framed by the wrap of material trailing off his head dress.
Stone nodded to the ground and the man dropped both the arrow and the bow. Stone stepped closer. Six-feet now separated them. The Saracen sagged, deflated. He had been captured and was accepting his fate. Stone was about to start questioning him when the man moved. In a flash he had spun around on one leg, kicked the pistol from Stone’s hand and had the kanjar drawn and slashing towards Stone as he completed his spin. Stone dodged left and backwards and the dagger scythed past him, whipping the still air with an audible swish. The man’s eyes looked devilish through the slit of material. He was advancing on Stone, swiping the air backwards and forwards, the blade travelling so fast that the silver edge seemed to track through the air like a child’s sparkler at night.
Stone kicked out but the blade slashed across his shin and he grit his teeth and cried-out as he heard the blade strike bone. He shuffled forwards and the next time the blade flashed, he smashed the man’s forearm with his own and punched, but the blow was blocked and the man swiped a backwards fist that connected with Stone’s jaw. The man was already bringing the blade downwards as Stone stepped backwards again, but this time he backed into a tree and had no place else to go. The Saracen saw his chance and lunged towards Stone’s stomach, but caught his foot on a tree root and tripped. Stone pushed the blade aside with his left hand and hammered his right fist onto the back of the man’s neck. He dropped down and straddled the man’s
shoulders, raised his fist again and hammered down on his neck. He kept going and didn’t stop until the man went limp. Stone’s one-hundred-and-ninety pounds gave him at least a twenty-five-pound advantage over his opponent and he used every single ounce of it. He had both heard and felt the vertebrae just above the shoulder blades dislodge after the fifth blow, but kept on hammering a few more times driving it out and snapping the spinal cord. The result was unmistakable. Every part of the man relaxed and lost rigidity. Not even a breath or groan was emitted from the lifeless body as it slumped to the ground and rested completely still.
The Saracen was dead.
Stone slumped down the tree, exhausted. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He needed water desperately. He checked the body and underneath the robe was a litre canteen, which he drank and finished in one go without drawing breath. It was warm, but clean and tasted wonderful. He bent back down and checked the body over. Attached to the belt was a coil of string, which upon closer inspection, Stone recognised as a spare bowstring. The string was made of hundreds of strands of fibre, no thicker than a hair, that looked to have been waxed and twisted. Each end was woven into a loop and in the middle of the string it looked like cotton had been wrapped repeatedly to provide a reinforced back stop for the arrow. Stone pocketed it, then noticed some plastic ties looped on the man’s belt. He took them off and looked at them. Then he thought of the last words the woman had said through his earpiece - We have no cameras until the clearing. Do not kill off-line. If you capture, you will need to get the target to a good location for maximum bidding… Stone thought what could have happened, how it could have turned out. Captured and taken to the clearing, where The Saracen would have awaited instructions as bids came in from the dark web.
And then Stone had an idea.
29
Stone had seen the car through the bay window behind Kathy Newman’s shoulder. It passed the open gateway slowly. It was the same shade of grey as the car he had noticed pull into a driveway earlier. He was sure it was a Ford Taurus. Not the kind of car that fitted into life around here. Nobody would drive a new Ford sedan. A new BMW or Mercedes maybe, or even an older premium marque, a few facelift’s back as to create a statement that they did not need to upgrade, that life had more to it than the attainment of this year’s model car - such as sailboats, and even bigger sailboats than their neighbours. The only Fords out here were pickups and soccer mom SUVs.
He watched the gateway, but the car had driven on. Perhaps it was a rental.
“You’re Kathy Newman?”
“Yes.”
Stone looked her. He could see how scared she was. She had softer features than the other woman he knew as Kathy. She was nervous and didn’t look like she had slept in days. “You are friends with Isobel.” He stated. “Tell me about her.”
She looked perplexed. “What do you want to know?”
“Where do you know her from?”
“High school.”
“She never mentioned you.”
She looked hurt, momentarily, then regained some composure. “We lost touch.”
Stone noted she had cared. He said, “She was best friends with a girl in college.” Again she seemed hurt. Stone saw a distance in her eyes. “Do you know who I mean?”
“The one who went on to join the FBI?” She seemed uninterested, a little jealous even.
“Yes.”
“Liz,” she said. “Elizabeth Delaney. I didn’t know her.”
“You know what happened to her?”
Kathy nodded. “She died.”
“How?”
“In the line of duty,” Kathy said. “That’s all Isobel said. She was cut up for a while, still is.”
“That was before I got together with Isobel,” Stone said. “Or just before…”
“Well, do I pass?”
Stone had been swayed not only by her answers, but by her expression. Isobel had moved on since their high school days, and this woman wasn’t as comfortable with it as she tried to appear. Stone had once been in a bar when his good friend announced a mutual friend would be best man at his wedding. Stone had thought he’d been fine about it, until he caught his own reflexion in the mirror behind the bar as he was talking about his friend’s wedding plans. The reflection had told a different story. It hurt to be second best. “I guess. It’s been a trying couple of days,” he said to her.
“Tell me about it,” she said. “But I think I was right when I said we don’t have much time.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I was followed here,” she said. “Or near here. I gave them the slip about ten miles out. Or at least I hope I did.”
“Are you sure you were being followed?”
“Absolutely.”
“What kind of vehicle?”
“A Ford sedan, grey. New looking.”
Stone looked at her. He was wary what to believe. “Kathy, I’ll be straight with you,” he said. “I met a woman who looked a lot like you. She impersonated you, in fact. She obviously had good intelligence both on you and on myself. I was fooled by her. She wanted to find her computer expert, Edwards…”
“My computer expert,” she interrupted. “A web expert to be more precise.”
“For searching the dark web?”
She nodded. “He’s one of the best.”
“Was. He’s dead.” Stone stared at her, using it to gauge her reaction. He added, “He was shot at close range.”
“Oh my god!” Kathy held her palm to her lips. Stone noticed she wasn’t wearing any lipstick or chap stick. Not like the woman who had left traces of berries on Edwards’ lips.
“There was no tech at the scene. No smartphone, no tablet and no laptop.”
“Then it was stolen. Edwards was always connected. He had an iPhone, the big new one, was always scrolling through feeds and searching the net. And he carried his laptop in a kind of weird looking case. That material hard core sports cars and street racers have all over them.” Stone frowned at her. “You know? Like a black weave.”
“Carbon fibre?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“So what was Edwards working on?”
“Hang on,” she said. “Who was this person impersonating me?”
Stone looked at her again. He watched her eyes for a flicker. In his experience people looked one way when they lied. It was to do with the side of the brain used for spontaneous lying. When that person lied, they looked the opposite way. Both sides can be used, but not by the same person. Stone needed a control answer to see where she looked. But he’d already had it. She had said that both her and Isobel had lost touch. The truth was, Isobel had moved on, grown closer to her college friends and left her high school friends behind. Kathy’s eyes had darted right. They hadn’t done so since. He trusted her. “I don’t know, but she was good. She had a wall of photos with awards, achievements in your name.”
“Mine are in a drawer.”
“Mine too.”
“What else?”
“She had two big dogs.”
“Dogs? I hate dogs. I’m a cat person.”
Stone frowned. He could not understand why the woman had the dogs in the house. And it struck Stone that the man impersonating the cop could have been from another organisation. Unless he had been sacrificed. “She had a story about how her partner had left her with the dogs, the house, the SUV,” he said. “That she was in debt.”
“Well, that’s true. I’m crippled with debt. My father is in a home and I’m paying for it until his health insurance steps up. But there’s been problems…” she trailed off. “I have an apartment. Or I did until the block was burned down. I hate soccer mom SUVs. So she’s hardly mirroring me.”
“Whose is the Jeep outside?”
“My dad’s.”
“He’s in a nursing home in Virginia.”
“Yes,” she replied. She seemed surprised that he knew.
“The apartment, was it arson?”
“It was.”
<
br /> “Do you think it was to do with what you’ve uncovered?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“So whose place is this?”
“My dad’s. It’s been in the family for years. He inherited it from his mother.”
“Your dad is white American? This isn’t a Chinese area, especially not for him to have inherited.”
“He is. My mother was Vietnamese. She died three years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what? For my mother’s death, or being generalist about racial stereotype and race?”
Stone shrugged. “Both, I guess. Your dad was a Vietnam veteran?”
“Lord no! How old do you think I am?” she smiled. “He was a merchant seaman. He met my mother in Australia. She was an illegal immigrant there, boat people they called them, she managed to stay in the country. My father met her in Darwin when his ship had to put in for repairs, and he managed to get her back and into the United States.”
“You were telling me what Edwards was looking at,” he said. “What was your story about?”
“It was about betting and online services,” she said. “It kind of snowballed. I was investigating illegal gambling within the United States. Each time I uncovered something substantial, it opened up something else. When I got Edwards involved, he unravelled more than I bargained for. More than we both did, I imagine.”
“Like what?”
“I started to look at the sex industry, but as a story it wasn’t cutting enough. I mean, everybody knows that you can buy flesh. And then there’s the child pornography and paedophile thing, but I wanted something new. Sure, I was planning to give my findings to the FBI, but I needed to unearth what was becoming a huge story, finish what I started.”
“But the sex industry isn’t about betting.”
She smiled at him, a little coyly. “Oh my, you have a lot to learn. How many men could a woman take on at once? How big a phallic toy could be used before a woman actually passed out from the pain, or pleasure? How…”
