Rogue (An American Ghost Thriller Book 1)

by J. B. Turner

  Stone held his breath for nearly a minute.

  Were there others? Were others scouring for him? For his body?

  Stone’s killer instincts had been roused as he watched the men coldly neutralize the aide. He wondered if the same fate awaited him.

  Was that it?

  Were they going to be waiting for him when he returned to the facility?

  It was then that the germ of an idea began to form.

  Slowly, a plan was taking shape in his head. A plan to get him out of here.

  Stone waited, watching and listening for a few moments, before he continued along the path across the high ridge. Then he was behind the tree line, out of sight and out of mind.

  Fifty-Seven

  Brigadier Jack Sands was transfixed. Watching the real-time footage from a hidden camera on one of the shadow operatives as they made their way down the mountain. They were headed along a two-mile trail as the light faded. He looked at the other monitor, which showed the frozen image of rocks and boulders where the device had landed when Nathan Stone was pushed over the edge.

  The more he thought of Nathan’s untimely demise, the harder he took it. Stone, for all his coldheartedness, had never once let Sands down. A small part of Sands hoped Stone was dead, if only so he wasn’t suffering in agony, like a wounded animal.

  Sands had been told by two doctors within the facility that it was “highly probable” that Stone was either dead or incapacitated. To be pushed backward from such a height in such terrain would have meant fracturing either his back or his neck, losing pints of blood, and being unable to get back to base.

  The one consolation for Sands was that he knew they had a recovery team in place to get the body of Stone off the mountain.

  The missing aide wouldn’t be mentioned by anyone. At least not now.

  Eventually, awkward questions would be asked when it emerged that Crichton’s aide had arrived in Scotland too and was missing.

  Sands knew countless people died on remote, dangerous, and wild Scottish mountains each and every year. Sometimes discovered days after they’d disappeared.

  But he knew that the grave of the aide was highly unlikely to be found. No one would be looking for her there. They might eventually. But it would be local mountain rescue, and they’d be looking closer to where the senator was found.

  Not some wooded area in the foothills of the mountain.

  And if they did happen upon it and dig it up days later, perhaps weeks or months, it wouldn’t show anything. The drugs used to kill the aide would not be in her body.

  Investigators might speculate that the senator had killed his mistress and then killed himself.

  The possibilities were endless.

  His phone rang, and he instinctively sighed as he picked up.

  “Sands.”

  “Jack, it’s Clayton.”

  “Sir.”

  “So we got a man down?”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  “Dead?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Are we sending in a full team to retrieve him?”

  “Not a full team. I don’t think that’s wise, sir. That would alert Scottish police and God knows who else.”

  “So what’s the contingency?”

  “We have two operatives en route. They will deal with the girl.”

  “What if our operative is still alive?” Wilson said. “He knows too much.”

  Sands closed his eyes. “He will be neutralized.”

  “Once this is done, I want them out of the UK as soon as possible.”

  “Chopper already waiting for them.”

  “Hell of a way for Stone to leave us.”

  “It is what it is, sir. Besides, he’s Tom McMasters now.”

  Fifty-Eight

  Nathan Stone was tracking the two men as he headed through a high trail on the mountain. He’d caught sight of them fifteen minutes after they’d dispatched Jessica Friel. He had tracked them from afar. The pain was gnawing at him. But he could deal with pain.

  Stone watched through binoculars until they reached an isolated whitewashed cottage, curtains drawn, smoke from the chimney. He crouched low as they headed inside. He watched and waited. A light went on inside.

  Stone weighed his options. He decided to double back for a quarter of a mile before he traversed down a loop trail for more than a mile. Then through the woods. Eventually, he stopped. Through the trees and foliage, he saw the rear of the cottage.

  Logs piled high in a woodshed adjacent.

  He crouched low and retreated deeper into the woods, maintaining his line of sight.

  Stone found a dip on the forest floor and lay facedown. Branches crunched and he grimaced. He stared through the trees at the small, unassuming stone house. It might’ve been an old abandoned woodcutter’s house from decades earlier. Maybe a small farmhouse. Maybe even a bothy, a respite for hikers if they encountered harsh conditions on the mountains and needed a place of safety. Then again, maybe it was a cottage rented for the job.

  Stone knew his handler would be wondering where the hell he was. He might even have assumed he’d met his end on the mountain. A jolt of pain like a sudden electric shock in his sides reminded him of his ugly fall. He wondered if his handler had factored in him being taken out by a fall.

  His instincts told him to get back to the facility by hook or by crook. But the two operatives holed up in the cottage cast a further shadow over the day.

  Stone had seen the expert way they’d gained the young American woman’s trust, drugged her, and then dug her grave. There was a meticulous quality to it.

  He began to run some endgame scenarios through his head. He could do one of three things. First, he could make his way directly back to the facility and ignore the two operatives. That had simplicity and was probably what the textbook would call for, as well as what his handler would expect. Second, he could hunker down and sit tight for the next twenty-four hours, concealed by the vast woods and immense mountains all around him. He knew no mountain rescue team would find him without tracker dogs. Even if they did, he was just an American hiker who was in an unfamiliar landscape and had gotten disorientated. Third, there was an option no one would probably imagine except Stone.

  In the distance, he heard the drone of a chopper. He lay still. Then he closed his eyes.

  Stone felt the morphine begin to overpower the amphetamines in his system. He felt himself falling into a dark space. Flashing before him was the face of Jessica Friel as she took the drug, unaware that within a minute she’d be in her grave. His mind began to drift. He felt himself falling. He closed his eyes.

  Stone was floating on a stagnant black river, the sky on fire.

  Fifty-Nine

  Brigadier Jack Sands put on the red headset and began speaking to the more senior of the two-man backup team. “Very clean,” he said. “Compliments on a neat bit of work.”

  The operative said, “Mr. Clark, here, sir. Copy that.”

  “Ah, Mr. Clark . . . slight change of plan. The original deliveryman got held up. He needs to be shown the way home, do you copy that?”

  “Coordinates?”

  “I’ll send these through in a few minutes. But we believe it will be very close to where the original delivery was made.”

  “Yeah, we’ve got those coordinates.”

  “We believe he has compromised the operation. Needs a long sleep to help him recover, if he’s injured or incapacitated in some way.”

  “Copy that, sir. Long sleep?”

  “You know the drill, Mr. Clark. And I want your friend Mr. Thomas to proceed with that side of things. He will then make his way back to base, but without returning to your current location.”

  “Very well.”

  “Mr. Thomas will be responsible.”

  “And me?”

  “Wait till nightfall. I believe it’s late in such northern latitudes. So after midnight the chopper will find you. And you should be home in time for breakfast, Mr. Clark. I believe
you have fresh documentation at your location, am I right?”

  “Looking it over just now, sir. Anything else?”

  “No, that’s all.”

  Sixty

  Nathan Stone was roused by lights and a searing pain in his sides. He winced as he adjusted his position, deep in the woods. His gaze was drawn to one of the men with a flashlight headed out of the cottage and down the trail adjacent to the woods. It led straight back onto the mountain. He had a backpack on, huge, as if it was filled with equipment. He wondered if the guy, one of the two operatives who had neutralized Friel a few hours earlier, was going to do some recon and see what was happening.

  Stone had watched two choppers overhead earlier, perhaps winching down a crew to retrieve the senator. He knew it was only a matter of time before mountain rescue teams and police with dogs began scanning the hills at daybreak. He wondered if the operative was going to retrieve what he thought was Nathan Stone’s injured or lifeless body.

  The more he thought about it, the more he realized the operation had now gone into “neutralize Nathan” mode. It was possible the operative was going to recover his body and take it off the mountain. But that would be risky.

  So what was the purpose if it wasn’t to find a seriously injured Nathan Stone and dispatch him for good?

  Then again, once the operative saw there was no Nathan Stone to be found, it would be clear that he’d made it off the mountain. And that in itself would set alarm bells ringing back at the facility.

  The minutes dragged by as Nathan wondered what his next move should be. Pain burst in his back like electric shocks. He felt throbbing waves of agony wash over him.

  Stone ripped open the second pack of amphetamine and morphine mix and washed it down with water. He felt the drugs kick in after a few minutes. The pain was subsiding. He felt alive again. He pressed the LCD digital display on his watch. It showed 11:30 p.m. The hours had dragged. And now he was still hunkered down.

  Just after 11:45 p.m. the back door opened and the second operative emerged with a smaller backpack.

  Stone looked through the sights at the silhouette of the man outside the cottage. His mind slowed as he began to focus. He held his breath. Then he pulled the trigger of the dart gun. A near-silent phut was the only sound as he fired.

  The man grabbed his shoulder blade where the dart had entered.

  Stone watched as he fell to his knees and began to groan. He waited as the spectral figure on the ground emitted heavy breathing noises. The man had minutes to live.

  Stone lifted his head and pushed aside a branch to get a better look. His senses were all switched on. He knew they were alone.

  He got to his feet and walked out of the woods toward the man on the ground. Stood over him for a few moments. The man’s eyes were shut, mouth slightly open, as he gasped for breath. He was seconds from death and he knew it.

  Stone bent down and dragged the dying man inside the cottage. Shut the door. A corner lamp bathed the room in light. TV in the corner. Digital radio. He went through to the kitchen. Nothing out of the ordinary. Or upstairs.

  Stone took off the man’s backpack and looked inside. He pulled out a penlight and a 9mm Glock, an unassembled sniper rifle, night sights, and night-vision goggles. In the man’s pocket was an iPhone. He scrolled through the messages. Only one sender. Clearly a onetime-issue phone for a one-off job.

  The only sender was known by a moniker. The Sandman.

  Then he saw the message.

  Neutralize NS and the girl.

  A smiley face beside it.

  NS could only mean one person. The message was telling this guy and his fellow operative to take down Stone as well as the girl. They’d managed to kill the girl.

  But it was the final message, sent just thirty-two minutes ago, which resonated. Ferry. Then make your way back to the facility.

  Debrief thereafter. The Sandman.

  Stone paced the cottage. He felt sick as the full realization of the extent of the betrayal hit him. This was the command of the Brigadier. His handler. The man he had always looked up to. The man he had trusted. The man whom he thought looked out for his interests. He thought of him standing in the rain at the facility, smiling. His exterior exuded calm, authority, and confidence. But he was cutting Stone loose, leaving him to die. Nathan was expendable, just like the senator.

  The more he thought about the deception, the more isolated he felt. He had trusted this man. It was then that a burning anger began to build deep within him. A gut-wrenching anger, threatening to explode.

  Stone took a deep breath, knowing he needed to focus.

  He switched on the penlight and swept the kitchen with it. He saw a metal cellar hatch and pulled it back. He shone the penlight down. Chopped logs for the winter.

  He put the penlight between his teeth and dragged the man to the opening. Stared at the man’s closed eyes and pushed him down onto the logs in the darkness.

  Stone shut the hatch, knowing the man would be dead before he was found. Not a trace of what had happened to him. Except the tiny pinprick on his shoulder blade.

  He put on the backpack and winced at the pain. He went over to the side window and stared into the darkness. He made sure all the lights were off. Then he headed out the rear door, into the woods, and onto the trail leading back to the mountain.

  Sixty-One

  Brigadier Jack Sands’s headset buzzed into life as he stood in the control room. “Talk to me, Mr. Thomas.”

  The operative said, “I’ve checked the GPS coordinates where he was and rechecked, and there’s nothing.”

  “Gimme a break. No sign of anything?”

  “There’s no sign of him. I have, however, retrieved the pinhole camera he was wearing. Scanner picked it up.”

  “That’s something. Good.”

  “I’ve been over it and around it. No sign of life. But I can confirm that target one is off mountain.”

  Sands knew the operative was referring to Crichton. “Chopper picked him up.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Body’s at a UK military base in Scotland, before repatriation.”

  The operative sighed. “A few hours until the place is crawling.”

  “Get yourself back to your base camp.”

  “Copy that.”

  Sands pressed a button on the headset and removed it, ending the communication. He began to run the scenarios in his mind. He wondered if Stone had managed to crawl off the mountain and was headed back to base. Was he badly injured somewhere nearby?

  “Fuck a duck,” he said, shaking his head.

  Sands picked up the phone and dialed Clayton Wilson’s encrypted line. He answered on the fourth ring. “Sorry to bother you, sir. We have another problem.”

  Wilson said, “I’m listening.”

  Sands outlined the situation to Wilson, who listened in rapt silence.

  “You’re saying you don’t know where he is?”

  “Sir, you know better than anyone that in this game shit happens.”

  “Shit does indeed happen. OK, give me some possibilities.”

  “Possibilities? Let’s look at what happened. Stone neutralized Senator Brad Crichton as planned. Perfect. He then moved in to be seen as a helpful Good Samaritan hiker. What I believe transpired is Nathan got the flash drive from around the senator’s neck while the girl tried to get a cell phone signal a couple hundred feet up the mountain. Remember they were near the top, on an overhanging ledge. He then placed the flash drive in his own backpack when she was out of sight.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’ve looked at the footage again from Stone’s camera and it showed her coming down the mountain, then going across to Crichton. She held him, cradling him. I’m wondering if this was when she noticed the flash drive was gone and freaked out, knowing Nathan was the only one who could’ve taken it.”

  A long sigh down the line. “Possible. And plausible.”

  “She then spun around, realizing this stranger is a danger t
o her, and Stone was sent flying down onto a lower overhang. The pinhole camera became dislodged during the fall. And Nathan was clearly injured. How bad? We just don’t know.”

  “If he is injured, was it a head injury? If so, how bad? But there is plausible deniability. He’s an American student in Scotland hiking.”

  “I have to say, sir, with all due respect I don’t like loose ends.”

  Wilson sighed. “There are aspects of this operation that just aren’t gelling. I can’t ever remember so many things going so wrong.”

  “I think the first sign was that Stone contacted, or tried to contact, his sister.”

  “You think that might be preying on his mind?”

  “No idea, sir, but we really need to neutralize him. The fact we can’t even goddamn locate him concerns me.”

  “Jack, we have an operative missing in action. We gotta fix this shit.”

  “I intend to, sir.”

  “We’ve got to find him. And kill him. Do you understand?”

  “Absolutely. Leave it to me, sir.”

  Sixty-Two

  Nathan Stone headed through the woods, backpack on, weapons hidden, at least for now. He hiked up again onto the upper trail that skirted the mountain edge. He edged higher until he came to the isolated spot where he’d watched the two operatives kill the young woman.

  He took off his jacket and laid it on the bracken and stones beside the ledge. He knelt down, quickly assembled the sniper rifle, and attached the night sights. He stared through into an algae-green world, midges darting in the night air around him.

  He trained the sights on the lower trail, two hundred yards from his position, scanning it for any sign of life.

  He wondered when the second operative would return. He knew there was a high probability he would go back to the base camp and pass along the same trail.

  Stone wondered if the man would head up onto the high plateau trail he had accessed. It was a possibility, but he knew it was less likely.

  The more he thought about it, the more he could see what was happening. The second man had been dispatched to clean up any loose ends. And that included Nathan Stone.