by J. D. Weston
Stone Fist
A Stone Cold Thriller
J. D. Weston
Contents
1. Bad Blood
2. Eyes on You
3. The Golden Ring
4. Don’t Let Me Down
5. Blind Side
6. Checkmate
7. Blood
8. Low Places
9. They Seek Him There
10. Unleash the Beast
11. Feed the Beast
12. Prize Fighter
13. Killer Instinct
14. Showtime
15. Retribution
16. On Your Knees
17. The Beast is Born
18. Swan Song
19. Reflection of the Beast
End of Book Stuff
Free Starter Library
Also By J.D.Weston.
Stone Cold
Stone Fury
Stone Fall
Stone Rage
Stone Free
Stone Rush
Stone Game
Stone Raid
Stone Deep
Stone Fist
Stone Army
Stone Face
A Note from the Author
Did You Enjoy this book?
Acknowledgments
1
Bad Blood
Sweat dripped from Fraser’s swollen brow, collecting blood from the cut above his eye then fell to his knee, ran down his leg and discoloured his white sock. In the one minute break between rounds, Fraser tried to control his heart rate, but all around him was a fear-inducing blur of taunts, shouts, bright lights and abuse. Ahead of him, in the far corner, his opponent, Mackie, sat staring back at him while his trainer held up a water bottle to suck at.
“Let’s go, boys,” called the ref, a middle-aged man dressed in a white shirt and black trousers that struggled to contain his excessive paunch. “Round five.”
There was no bell. The audience didn’t fill an arena. The ring was in the basement of a pub in Plaistow where bare-knuckle fighting provided high stakes for every villain worth his salt for miles around. But the bare-knuckle fights at the Golden Ring Pub had one major difference; they were no holds barred fights to the death.
Plaistow was Fraser’s home turf. Mackie was the guest fighter, but he was good, and he had got in early with a debilitating blow to Fraser’s sight in round two.
“Get a move on,” called someone from the crowd behind Mackie.
“Yeah, get up and fight, you pussy,” another shouted.
Mackie’s red shorts were in the centre of the ring. Fraser could see them, rocking from side to side as his opponent bounced from foot to foot to stay warm and loose.
Fraser pushed off the ropes but held onto the ropes for a second. His vision was returning, or so he thought. He turned his head from side to side trying to focus on something, anything. Movement in the corner of his eye caused him to duck instinctively and Mackie’s arm swung across the top of Fraser’s head, grazing his shaved scalp. Fraser jabbed at his blurred shape, felt the connection, and followed through with a combination, the last of which glanced off Mackie’s sweaty body and sent Fraser stumbling forward.
That was when he knew it was over.
A hook out of nowhere connected with Fraser’s head. He raised his arms to block the attack, but it was too late. The blows came fast, hard and with relentless brutality. The gloveless, hammer-like punches finding their mark every time.
Three punches sealed the deal. The first to his temple slowed Fraser’s world to a crawl. The second to his nose brought with it the familiar iron taste of his own blood. The third was an uppercut that shook the life from Fraser’s mind and turned his world to a dance of swirling lights.
Darkness came as he hit the floor and felt the warm rush of adrenaline fighting a lost cause.
Spinning lights greeted Fraser when he woke. Angry shouts from the wild audience waned and dropped an octave as if someone had slowed time to a crawl.
“Finish him,” yelled a man, who had climbed up onto the ropes and leaned into the ring.
But all Fraser could see was a dark silhouette above him that seemed to spin as if Fraser was laying on a turntable. The man’s voice was rough and hoarse from shouting but carried authority. The man wasn’t just a member of the audience; he was Del Dixon, the renowned South London gangster who managed Mackie.
“Mackie, get in there and finish it or I’ll get in there and finish you myself.”
More faces appeared at the ropes, keen to see the fight come to its ultimate conclusion.
Two knees dropped down onto Fraser’s shoulders, slippery with sweat. The spinning slowed enough for Fraser to make out Mackie’s blurred form.
For a moment, the two fighters locked eyes, sharing some kind of kindred understanding.
Fraser understood what Mackie had to do. He was ready.
He nodded once and closed his eyes before Mackie delivered his final blows. The first was a hook that forced Fraser’s head to one side, ripping his neck muscle and breaking some teeth. But the pain was short-lived. The second blow crushed Fraser’s temple against the canvas floor of the ring, fracturing his skull. The third broke his jaw.
The fourth punch turned the lights out for Fraser, but enough consciousness remained for him to hear the taunting, muffled count of five, six and seven, before Mackie’s final punch opened Fraser’s fractured skull and consciousness leaked away like bloodied water into a drain.
2
Eyes on You
“What are you going to do, John?” asked Mick, as he handed John a tumbler of brandy. “You can’t pull out now. There’s only a few days until the next fight. Dixon will start a bleeding war if you pull out now.”
“I’m aware of the time constraints, Mick. I’m thinking. Can't you see I’m bleeding thinking?” replied John Cooper. He loosened the collar of his tailored shirt and ran his hand through his silver brush of short hair.
“I reckon Dixon’s boys got to him before the fight,” said Mick. He paced the floor of John Cooper’s office, swirling his brandy and trying to put the images of Fraser’s crushed skull to the back of his mind. “I mean, he was a dead cert. Never lost a fight. Never been knocked down. And in one bleeding fight, the most important of his life, he goes and gets himself killed. It doesn’t make sense, John.”
“So what do you suggest then, Mick? You seem to have all the answers. What do you suggest we do? I just lost two hundred grand on a dead cert. If I pull out now, I’ll lose another three.” He fumbled with his silver cufflinks and rolled his sleeves to show an aged but tanned and toned pair of forearms. John had worked his way up the ranks. He’d done his share of dirty work. Being so close to losing it all over a fight was not part of his master plan.
Mick eyed him above the rim of his brandy glass.
“If you’ve got a plan, Mick, now’s the time to mention it.”
“Only one thing we can do, John,” he replied, matching John’s tone, a trait he knew he respected. He returned to his pacing, a habit John recognised as Mick running scenarios in his head, seeing all angles. “Make sure we don’t bleeding lose. If we win the next one, we’ll be three hundred grand up.”
“Don’t give me ifs, Mick. Ifs aren’t going to give me a boner. Ifs aren’t going to put money in my bleeding pocket, are they?” He sank his drink and held up his glass for Mick to refill. His number two might know how to talk to him, but he still had to be put in his place every now and again. “No. No, what we need is a dead cert.”
Mick span back to face him. The long tails of his three-quarter length jacket followed shortly after.
“With all due respect, John, Fraser was a dead cert.”
“Fraser wasn’t a dead cert. He was a loser, Mick. No family. No obligations. And he had mo
re debt than Greece. What do you think he was thinking when the fight started going pear-shaped for him? He wasn’t thinking of his wife and kids, was he? No, he wasn’t. There was nothing to make him try harder.”
“Nothing worth fighting for, you mean?” said Mick.
“Exactly. He knew what he was up for and he knew who he was up against. As far as Fraser was concerned, if he won, he’d have fifty grand in his bin to blow on hookers and coke, or he’d have been killed. Either way, he couldn’t care less.”
“So we need someone who’s married?”
“Not necessarily married, Mick. But someone with a few more scruples. Who have we got?”
“Bill Jackson. He’s not married, but he’s got a couple of kids.”
“No, he’s a mincer. He dances about too much. I’m not having three hundred bags of sand sitting on someone who can’t keep bleeding still for three seconds, let alone stand in a ring and have the crap beaten out of them.”
“How about Fox?”
“Stan Fox?” said John, dismissing the idea before Mick could even make an argument. “When was the last time he fought?”
“I don’t know, but word is out that he’s training again and in good shape, by all accounts.”
“No, Mick, be serious. Stan Fox is an alcoholic. All Dixon would need to do to convince him to go down in the first round would be to tell him there’s a bottle of vodka in hell with his name on it, and he’d flop before the bleeding bell rang.”
“There must be someone, John,” said Mick, handing him another brandy.
“Why haven't we thought about this sooner?” asked John. “I mean, we put five hundred grand on the table, two for the first fight, three for the second. And we haven't got any contingency? Why the bleeding hell not?”
“Well, John, Fraser was a dead cert, right? You even said it yourself once. You wouldn’t even enter into the bet if we didn’t have Fraser.”
“Yes, Mick, but Fraser, in case you hadn’t noticed, just had his head caved in by some South London bleeding pikey, and if we don't have a replacement for the fight in two weeks’ time and I have to hand over three hundred more of my hard-earned grands, I’ll be caving your bleeding head in.”
“Alright, John, alright. We’ll sort it, okay?”
“No, Mick, it’s certainly not alright. Alright is certainly not what it is. Here’s what I want you to do.”
“Go on, John. Anything. You name them, I’ll find them.”
“No, Mick. We’re not going to use anyone we know. Dixon will be one step ahead. We can’t have the slimy little bastard getting to them before the fight, and we don't know who he’s already got to, do we? No, we don't.”
“So who then, John?”
“Someone new, Mick. Fresh blood.”
“Where the bleeding hell am I supposed-”
“On the streets, Mick. Find me someone.”
“Someone married, yeah?”
“What I need, Mick, is someone who can stand in the ring with the hardest pikey I’ve ever seen. Someone who we can offer a carrot to. And someone who might have a thing or two to lose.”
“I’m on it, John. I’ll talk to Nigel down the gym. He might-”
“You’ll talk to no-one, Mick. Take Jack with you.”
“Jack’s a bit of a loose cannon, John.”
“Even more reason to take him with you.”
“Got it,” said Mick. “I’ll go get him now and call you with what we find.” He sank his drink, put his glass down and opened the door.
“I’ll tell you what you’re going to find, Mick,” said John.
Mick turned at the door and raised his eyebrows, waiting for John to finish.
“You’re going to find me a dead cert.”
The morning dew that clung to the wild grass soaked Harvey’s feet and legs with every stride he took. Wispy leaves and branches whipped at his face as he tore through the brush and clean, fresh air filled his lungs with every rhythmic breath.
The early morning fog hung across his neighbour's field, blocking his view of the beach and the sea when he broke free of the forest and ran into the soft mud that stuck to his boots and doubled their weight. The three-hundred-metre stretch of dirt that ran alongside the field to the beach road was littered with potholes. Only when Harvey had launched himself over the small hedgerow, run across the old tarmac and reached the sandy beach did he open himself up for the final sprint along the water’s edge. A full five-hundred-metre sprint.
Harvey passed the old man who swam naked in the cold sea each morning. He waved mid-sprint as he did every day, then slowed for the five-minute jog home. Only when he reached his driveway did Harvey start to walk and warm down. He stretched, kicked the mud off his boots then entered his house by the back door, which opened into the kitchen.
He tossed four small logs into the wood-burner then, from a metal pail he kept beside the fire, he grabbed a handful of dried kindling and made a small pile inside the stove. He lit a match, waited for the kindling to ignite, and then moved two of the logs either side of the flame. It didn’t take long for the oils in the pine to find the flames. He closed the door and stripped off. Before he went to the bathroom, he poured a jug of water into the cast iron kettle that sat on the burner and left it to boil.
With no hot water in the pipes until the wood-burner had been running for thirty minutes, Harvey took his usual cold shower. It was a habit he’d formed from necessity. He’d heard stories of macho characters in films like James Bond who took cold showers because it made them feel alive and woke their senses so they could operate at full efficiency. For Harvey, he’d been for a run and needed a shower, so he took one. It was simple.
He had just stepped in when the door to the bathroom opened. The movement was caught in the corner of his eye, but he turned away, pretending not to see. In the reflection of the chrome shower rail, a shadow passed behind him, slow and stealthy. He continued to rinse the mud from his short, dark hair, counting down all the while and gauging the timing of the attack until he was sure his assailant's hand would be just inches away.
He turned and grabbed a wrist, twisting it up and backwards so their body fell into his, and dragged Melody into the shower screaming from the sharp sting of the freezing cold water. Soaked in her nightdress and with water dripping from her hair, she wrapped herself in a towel, cursing him.
“One day, Harvey Stone,” she said. “One day, you won’t see me coming.”
Harvey didn’t reply. He turned his back on her, finished rinsing his body, and switched the water off. Taking the towel that Melody offered him, Harvey stepped out. Melody edged backwards out of the room, smiling at him.
“Go and stand by the fire,” said Harvey. “It’ll be hot by now.”
“I’d rather stand here watching you,” she replied. “I missed this.”
“You missed what? Launching an unsuccessful attack on me and having your morning ruined by a cold shower?”
“I wouldn’t change it for the world. What did you do when…”
“When what, Melody?” asked Harvey. “When we were split up?”
“Yeah. What was life like for you? How was it different?”
“It was the same as it is now,” replied Harvey, as he turned to face Melody. “There was only really one major difference to my life.”
“Oh,” she said, biting her lower lip, “and was it something to do with what we did last night?”
“No,” said Harvey, wrapping the towel around his waist and preparing for another attack. “I had to make my own coffee.”
As Melody’s face dropped and she whipped her towel at him, the kettle on the wood-burner began to whistle.
“Timed to perfection, Mr Stone.”
“We’ve got a long drive ahead of us. We need coffee.”
Melody continued the conversation from the open kitchen-lounge area, shouting through to Harvey as he dressed.
“I still can’t believe Reg is getting married. After all these years, he’s never struc
k me as the type, you know?”
“He’s happy. I think we both owe the guy more credit than he gets. Let him have his moment,” he replied, as he walked into the kitchen, pulling a clean t-shirt over his head.
“How many times?” asked Melody, as she handed him a coffee then reached for her own.
“How many times what?”
“How many times do you think he’s saved your life?” asked Melody. “I mean, all the dumb things you’ve done, all the broken bones and nearly getting yourself blown up, and Reg has taken care of us from behind his laptop, sitting in a van.”
“Too many times,” said Harvey, as he stoked the fire with two more logs. “Too many times.”
“Left jab, right jab, hook. Left jab, right jab, hook,” said Old Man McGee, leaning into the pads as Tyler followed his commands. “Watch my feet. Watch my feet. Lead with your right. Right jab, left hook. Faster, Tyler. Right jab, left hook. Watch my feet. Watch for the change. Too slow. Back to basics. Left jab, right jab, hook. Left jab, right jab, hook. Good. Watch for my feet to change. Look at my eyes. You don’t need to look at my feet to see them move.”
Tyler held McGee’s eyes and dealt him the required moves, hard and fast.
“Move, Tyler. You’re flat-footed. Get me up against the ropes. I’m moving, Tyler. Follow me. Left jab, right jab, hook. Watch my feet. Are you tired?”
Tyler watched the pads dance in front of him. He bounced from foot to foot and landed the three punch combination.