by Robert Clark
A tired female receptionist sat at the counter. Wrapped in her winter coat, with an electric heater tucked between her legs, she barely noticed the newcomer. As her eyes met his, and she realised he carried with him no animal, she raised a gloved hand and pressed a button beside her computer.
‘You’ve got a visitor,’ she said into a small microphone beside the monitor. Her droll of a voice grated on the man’s ears. He didn’t like American accents.
The door to his right buzzed open, and the receptionist nodded for him to proceed. He did so, closing the door hastily behind him and removing his hat and gloves. The room was a small clinic. Posters encouraging healthy diets for dogs and cats lined the walls, stopping only to allow for a series of white-painted cabinets on the far wall. In the centre of the room was a high table with a blue mat sat atop it that smelt highly of disinfectant.
Standing on the far side was a man. His enormous gut was barely concealed beneath a set of navy scrubs. His tired skin had a faint air of jaundice to it, with heavy purple bags beneath sullen eyes. The veterinary surgeon had to be in his late forties, or early fifties. He loosened his grip on the pistol ever so slightly. This was not a man with whom he needed to worry about.
The man in the charcoal coat had faced dozens of opponents much fiercer than this vet. Hundreds maybe. It was the life he had chosen all those years ago in a land far removed from this western world and its overindulgent lifestyles. He regarded the figure before him, not as a fellow equal or even of the same species. This was a neanderthal. A sub-human. The greased-back hair that barely covered his scalp only worsened his opinion of the vet. Perhaps a quick death was a mercy than living a full life like that.
‘You the guy I spoke with earlier?’ asked the vet. His thick New York accent did all kinds of damage to the word earlier.
‘Yes,’ said the man in the charcoal coat. ‘I was told you might be able to help me.’
He withdrew the roll of notes from his left pocket. His right still gripped the pistol.
The vet raised his hand.
‘Not so fast,’ he said. ‘First, I’ve got to know you can be trusted. This is a serious business here. I can’t be seen conducting this sort of deal with complete strangers. I could lose my license.’
‘I promise you, no one will ever even know I was here.’
‘Janice will,’ said the vet.
‘Who?’
‘Janice. My receptionist. She’s got a big mouth. Likes to use it a little too much, if you know what I mean.’
‘Perhaps you should look for a new receptionist?’ suggested the man in the charcoal coat.
‘That’s not what I meant. She likes to talk. She sees a guy like you in a place like this with no animal, and she likes to talk, you understand?’
He understood. The vet wanted more money. They always did. It was another reason he hated Americans.
He nodded.
‘How much?’ he asked.
‘Double what we agreed on the phone,’ said the vet.
Which was fine. He had brought triple.
Just in case.
He pulled free his right hand, leaving the pistol in his pocket, and counted out the new amount. The vet’s eyes lit up at the sight of the unfolding wad of cash. The man in the charcoal coat noticed. He stopped counting. He had a better idea.
He held the whole stack out.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said, watching the vet. ‘If you double the amount, you can have it all.’
A flicker of doubt crossed the vet’s face.
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘We don’t hold much stock. I already promised you more than I should have.’
‘Then I’ll take all that you have,’ said the man in the charcoal coat. ‘And you can keep the rest as a show of good faith, should we need to meet again.’
‘You said this was a one-time thing,’ muttered the vet.
‘And that was the arrangement, but plans can change. I’m sure you can understand that.’
‘What do you need this stuff for?’ he asked.
‘That is for me to know, and you to speculate, should you so wish.’
The vet’s eyes darted between the money and the man holding it. He weighed up the decision.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe this is a bad idea. I don’t even know you from Adam.’
The man with the charcoal coat returned the money to his pocket.
‘Have I made a mistake in coming here?’ he asked.
‘This is serious shit,’ said the vet, ‘I’ve got to jump through a hundred hoops just to prove to the cops I’m legit. If they find out-’
‘They will not find out,’ insisted the man in the charcoal coat, ‘I can assure you of that.’
But it appeared the vet had already made his mind up. The man in the charcoal coat had seen it happen countless times. When they lose their nerve, there can be no changing their mind. And when that happens, there can be only one outcome.
He put his hand on the grip of the pistol. Held it steady.
‘Then it would appear you have wasted my time,’ he said, his voice cold, ‘and you have made a very powerful enemy.’
‘Hey listen, dickbag,’ snapped the vet, ‘I ain’t the one who went around asking strangers if they’d like to buy narcotics off me. You should thank your lucky stars I haven’t called the cops on you. Do the world a favour and go back to whatever shit hole of a country you came from and-’
The round hit him square in the chest. The man in the charcoal coat had whipped the pistol out with ease, just like he’d practiced, and put a bullet right into the vet’s heart. He staggered backwards as blood sprayed around the small, disinfected room, and he fell onto his back.
A shriek from the other room told the man in the charcoal coat that the receptionist had heard the disruption. He spun around, kicked open the door and fired twice at the space she had been sitting. The first bullet hit the wall right where her head had been. The second hit its mark. She was dead before her body hit the floor.
Turning back around to face the vet, the man in the charcoal coat noticed he wasn’t dead. Crawling towards the counter by the window, the vet reached up for a sleek black phone docked in its cradle. The man in the charcoal coat let him go no further. The fourth and final round of the night caught him in the temple, and the vet slumped down to the floor.
Returning the pistol to his pocket, and reapplying the leather gloves he’d recently purchased, the man in the charcoal coat began his search. He knew what he needed, it had been carefully detailed in the email he had received earlier that day. A quick search of the small room was all it took. He placed four of the tiny vials in his pocket beside the wad of cash and looked around. No cameras. No surveillance. He hadn’t touched anything with his bare hands. In fact, he could be certain he hadn’t left a shred of evidence anywhere in the dingy clinic. He turned and took the stairs back down to the landing and hastened out into the street.
He took a different route home. One he knew to lack CCTV or a strong police presence. Cops ruled the roost in large swathes of New York, but not everywhere. All you had to know was where to look, and where to not be looked upon. And the man in the charcoal coat knew exactly that.
The journey was longer, but that was to be expected. Less than two hours from start to finish, and only minimal damage control. No one would expect more from him, he knew.
The building in question was in East Harlem. Not the worst place the man in the charcoal coat had ever seen. In fact, the place he had grown up could only aspire in its dreams to be so affluent. But that was why this building had been chosen. A safe house should be exactly that. Safe. Secure. Free from persecution.
The man in the charcoal coat opened the front door and ascended the stairs to the fourth floor. He withdrew a key from his trouser pocket and pushed it into the lock. Before he turned, he knocked three times. Slow and methodical. Then he turned the key.
The man on the other side of the door lowered the Kalashnikov.
‘You’re back,’ he said with a smile.
‘What did you expect of me?’ the man in the charcoal coat said, a grin stretching beneath his stubble.
‘Thirteen said you would get lost,’ said the man with the Kalashnikov. ‘He said your navigational skills are that of a child.’
‘I did not,’ called out a voice from the other room that the man in the charcoal coat recognised to be Thirteen. ‘Nine is telling you lies, brother.’
The man called Nine chuckled, and hastened the man in the charcoal coat inside.
‘Did you collect what you needed?’ he asked as the man in the charcoal coat took off his outdoor wear.
‘But of course,’ he replied, ‘there is a reason I am number Two after all.’
‘Because you are as stubborn as a mule,’ said Nine, ‘and no one wanted to argue you should be Twenty instead.’
Two laughed. Carefully, he retrieved the vials from his coat pocket and carried them through to the far room. There was Thirteen sitting beside the bed. His eyes lit up as he saw the payload carried by Two.
‘I knew you would succeed,’ he said with a grin. ‘I have faith in my brother.’
‘And in Allah,’ insisted Two.
‘Yes of course. Praise be to he.’
Thirteen outstretched his hands and took the vials from Two, placing them down on the bedside table. Two looked down at the bed.
‘How is he?’ he asked.
‘No worse than before,’ said Thirteen. ‘His temperature is still high, but with these drugs, I expect that to come down soon. His wounds are healing nicely.’
He pointed at the bandage around the patient’s stomach. Last Two had seen, they had been covered in blood. These bandages looked clean.
‘Considering the state he was in when you brought him in, he’s doing a lot better,’ said Thirteen.
‘Excellent,’ said Two, ‘give me a timeframe.’
‘Well, he’s got broken bones everywhere. Those will take months to recover from. We’ll have to see if there’s any lasting damage, so only time will tell. With cases like this, it’s a marathon, not a sprint.’
‘But he’ll survive?’ asked Two.
Two looked from him to the man in the bed.
‘I would say so.’
‘Excellent,’ said Two. ‘I shall let One know the mission was a success.’
Thirteen smiled, and Two left the room. Finding the laptop in what had become his bedroom, Two sat down and turned on the device. After a couple of minutes repeating a process ingrained into him to deter anyone from tracking the signals sent out from the small laptop, he opened up the secure web browser, and logged onto the website.
There were no new messages. The last being an update sent hours before. Two opened up a new message and typed in his update.
Everything went according to plan. We have what we need.
Two hit send. Almost immediately, he saw a response was being typed.
Excellent. And what is the condition?
Two read the message, then typed back.
Stable. High temperature as expected, but expected to improve in the next day.
A final response came back.
Send update in the morning. One.
Two did not need to type a response. Instead, he switched off the laptop and returned it to his cot. Two knew just how pleased One was at the return of the Asset. The journey had been a long and arduous one, but now they had turned a corner, and everything would soon be back on track.
Two stretched out on his cot and looked up at the sky through his bedroom window.
Yes, he said to himself. With James Stone back under their control, everything would soon be back on track.
James Stone Will Return
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About Rob
Robert Clark is the author of the James Stone thriller series.
By day, Rob is a Professional Crastinator, but by night he furtively types away at his keyboard, bringing Stone’s explosive endeavours to the page. Rob began his own literary journey in 2012 while studying a Masters Degree in Creative Writing at the University of Salford, wherein the spark of James Stone was ignited.
Rob’s dream is to be able to pursue a career in writing, buy a plot of land in the middle of nowhere, and build a wildlife sanctuary with his wife Milly, away from the woes of the world.
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Also by Robert Clark
No More Shadows
Aftermath
The Fate of Glass
Second Solace
The Line
Impact
Second Solace
Copyright © 2019 by Robert Clark
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Book and Cover design by Robert Clark Design
Contents
Prologue
1. The Price of Failure
2. Out of the Frying Pan
3. Dust and Bone
4. Second Solace
5. The Trial of James Stone
6. The Behavioural Sink
7. Hospitality
8. The Art of the Deal
9. The Mission
10. Progress Report
11. Mole Hunting
12. A Candlelit Dinner For Two
13. Tension
14. The Search
15. The Others
16. Roadtrip
17. Hope's Salvation
18. A Night Under The Stars
19. Grapefruit
20. Ambush
21. The Curtain Call
22. The Shattered Record
23. A Brand New Day
24. Hang Time
25. Vox Nihili
26. Rebirth
27. Burn It All
28. What Comes Next
29. Below
30. The Interview
31. Exhaustion
32. The Three Musketeers
33. Under the Mountain
34. The Prisoner
35. The Great Escape
36. On The Road Again
37. The Moment
38. Countdown
39. Blackout
40. The Westmorland Plaza
41. A Second Date
Epilogue
James Stone Will Return
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