by J. D. Weston
Harvey pulled his injured leg over the seat. The key was in the ignition where he had left it. He pulled the clutch, turned the key, and tickled the throttle.
The engine caught on the first turn of the starter.
“Sir?” said Harvey, unsure of what to call the priest. “Thank you.”
The priest appeared to relax a little. He stepped up to Harvey, placed his hand on his shoulder, and looked him in the eye with the same confidence Harvey had seen the first time they had met.
“Do not thank me, Monsieur Stone,” said the priest with a smile. “France is grateful to you.”
The voices in the tunnel grew louder as the men approached the exit, excited by the sight of sunlight.
“But I fear not all of France understands what you have done,” said the priest.
“Is that the military or the prime minister’s security?” said Harvey, gesturing to the tunnel.
“It is the police. They will be looking for somebody to charge to cover their own corruption. If they catch us, you will never see the light of day again. They are not good men.”
“Will you be okay?” said Harvey.
“I will hold them,” said the priest, his smile broadening. “I have God on my side. Now go, and may God be with you, Monsieur Stone.”
The tangled mass of climbers and leaves burst apart and three men in police uniforms forced their way onto the beach, blinded by the sun.
With a twist of the throttle, Harvey kicked the bike into first gear, spun the back wheel, spraying sand over the men, and then tore along the beach. In his mirror, Harvey saw the men, angered and outraged at Harvey’s escape, and the priest standing with the peace and confidence of a man with God by his side.
Ahead of Harvey lay a stretch of coast, long and unbroken. Bright sunlight gave the wet sand a mirror-like appearance and the glistening Mediterranean Sea offered the peace that Harvey had sought for so long. The all-terrain tyres on his motorcycle tore across the surface of the hard, wet sand, and the wind that rippled across his skin brought a new lease of life. A new direction.
He slowed to a crawl then navigated a small track that led up to the beach road where he stopped beside a small junction. A sign pointing left directed him to the village of Argeles, where Harvey would find the ruins of a once loved farmhouse, and the burned possessions of a man who owned very little.
Ahead was the French network of motorways with its offerings of Europe, peace and solitude. London called to him with its promise of seeing Melody, Tyler, Reg and Jess. Their faces hung at the forefront of his mind.
It was Christmas Day. He imagined they would be drinking coffee by now and perhaps exchanging gifts over breakfast. He wondered if they would be thinking of him. He wondered if they understood why he sought peace.
Riding slow to savour the memories, Harvey rolled the short distance along the narrow lane to where his house once stood. The fire had consumed most of the wooden beams and only one wall still remained. The roof tiles and broken bricks were strewn across the debris, smothering any indication that the house was once somebody’s home.
Pulling the bike to a stop, Harvey stepped off and began a slow walk around the perimeter of the ruin, kicking the bricks to one side and stopping on occasion. Sometimes he thought he caught a glimpse of a photo sticking out from beneath the rubble. But he knew that no photos had survived.
He stopped beside the small vegetable patch Melody had tended. The plastic sheeting had melted from the blaze to reveal six neat rows of soil like a miniature ploughed field, all devoid of life. The green leaves of the hardy, winter vegetables had singed to wafer-thin, black images of leaves, frozen in time until Harvey touched them, and they crumbled to ash.
A tiny flash of green caught Harvey’s eye.
Buried under the cremated vegetables, a sole survivor stood proud. Its leaves flicked in the wind. Harvey pulled at the root, easing the carrot from its nest. It was only half-formed, but it was all that remained.
The sum total of Harvey’s life in France.
He tossed the carrot onto the blackened remains of his house and thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket. Then he rolled his neck from side to side, waiting for the satisfying click.
But his hand found something hard and alien.
He worked his fingers into a hole in his jacket pocket he didn’t know existed and fumbled until he pulled out the object.
He held the vial between finger and thumb up to the sunlight, rolling it back and forth, and staring in wonder at the red liquid.
In front of him were the ruins of his house and the remains of one dead man, one of many strewn across the town of Saint-Pierre. Harvey thought of Farrow. He thought of the guards that had died.
And all for one tiny vial of deep red liquid.
He shook his head in disbelief then let the vial fall into the palm of his hand. He rolled it back and forth, admiring the red light on his skin as the morning sun shone through the glass.
Then, taking one last look at the cause of his ruin, he dropped the vial to the ground and crushed the glass beneath his foot.
19
Bold as Love
A blanket of dark grey cloud hung low in the sky, so heavy it seemed as if it would crush the many couples, joggers and dog walkers beneath its weight. Standing alone on the bridge, Harvey watched the endless flow of water rush beneath him. The evening lights blinked on one by one. Their reflections in the water multiplied and fragmented.
Like broken glass.
Harvey stretched, rolling his neck from side to side and bending his legs, which were stiff from the two-day ride.
A few dots of rain found his face, inciting memories of the church tower. His hand felt his bruised ribs then lowered and touched the tender wound on his leg. In his mind, Gabriella fell from his grip.
A look of peace upon her face.
He leaned on the handrail and peered out across his city.
“I’m home,” he whispered. But the sentiment failed to raise a smile.
He pushed off the railing and limped towards his bike, then hoisted his leg over and started the engine. Leaving his visor up for the cool air to rouse him for the final mile of his journey, he rolled onto the road and slipped into the light Boxing Day traffic.
At a set of lights, he came to a stop beside a bus. He could have squeezed through the gap to the front, but he had neither the energy nor the desire to lead the pack of vehicles. On the bus, sitting at the window, a man in a heavy Kashmir coat was reading a newspaper. The headline caught Harvey’s eye. The traffic began to move. At the next corner shop, Harvey stopped to buy a copy and tucked it into his jacket to finish the journey.
Harvey stopped the bike in a small car park. He felt the familiar sense of relief when a long journey comes to an end and the engine shudders to a stop. Pulling the paper from his jacket, he climbed off the bike and leaned against it. The pages caught a few drops of rain that smudged the ink, but it mattered little to Harvey, who was interested in one article only.
French PM saved from assassination plot.
The sub-heading read: La Resistance is dead. The article described a heroic attempt to foil a plot to kill the French prime minister by a retired British army officer. There was no mention of Kane’s dishonourable discharge. The reporter described the rebellion group as frustrated French citizens who were reviving the infamous French Resistance, but had only served to taint the title. The prime minister had pushed an emergency panic button to alert the French special forces, who arrived on the scene to find more than one hundred rebels attacking the PM and his family. Major Cassius Kane was killed defending the PM and forty rebels were killed in the attack.
The attack was led by Ms Gabriella DuBois, sister of Francis DuBois, the rebel leader who was killed a decade previously in a government-led attempt to eliminate rebel forces. The father of Ms DuBois was also killed less than a year ago during the angry protests that caused riots and closures of France’s motorway network.
Ms DuBo
is was killed in the attack on the prime minister, which happened on Christmas morning. French police are looking for a man who escaped the scene and helped the Special Forces bring down Ms DuBois. The French prime minister has offered the unknown man, who wears a black leather jacket and rides a motorcycle, a reward to come forward. No other information about the vigilante is known.
Harvey closed the newspaper then rolled it up.
He pushed off his bike and limped towards the building, a small, three-story apartment block.
Flower beds lined the pathways and small areas of well-kept lawns filled the spaces between them. At the doors, Harvey was presented with a number pad to ring at the apartment. But he hadn’t even raised his hand when the door burst open and Melody flung herself into his arms. He caught her and staggered back on his injured leg.
“I knew you’d come,” said Melody, burying her face into his jacket and pulling herself against him, squeezing his bruised ribs. “Everyone will be so pleased to see you.”
She pulled away and looked up at him, letting her eyes wander over his body. He tried to stand straight but his leg wouldn’t allow it. Melody’s smile faded. She said nothing but examined Harvey’s posture, torn clothes and tired eyes.
She caught sight of the newspaper tucked inside Harvey’s jacket.
“Did you grow bored of sitting beside the fire?” she asked, her eyebrows raised. A smile returned to her face.
Harvey shrugged.
“I hear they’re looking for a man in a black leather jacket who rides a motorcycle,” said Melody, and moved in closer for another kiss.
She pulled away and raised an eyebrow once more in question, but failed to contain her grin.
Harvey didn’t reply.
End of Book Stuff
Stone Face - Book Twelve- Chapter One.
“One click of that button, Herman,” said Luca, as he tugged at the small growth of hair he was cultivating on his chin. “That’s all it takes.”
Herman Hoffman held his head in his hands, squeezing his ears to stop Luca’s taunting voice. The green light from the computer screen was bright in the dark room, and on the screen, monochrome cars sat in lines of traffic while pedestrians fought a perpetual battle for pavement space without breaking momentum.
“I can’t,” said Herman. “You can’t make me do this. It is not right. It is inhuman.”
But Luca raised his hand to Herman’s face, stroking his skin and caressing the outside of his ear.
“I think we both know that’s not true, dear Herman,” replied Luca. He twisted Herman’s face towards the closed door on the far side of the room. “How do you think the lovely Martina would feel about that? What do you think she will say when I tell her that her poor dear Herman has failed her and she must die?”
“Stop it,” said Herman, covering his face with his fingers, and peering through the gap at the door. “Just stop it all.”
“She thinks you’re a failure anyway, doesn’t she, Herman? Why else would she do what she did? Why else would she fall into the arms of another man?”
“You don’t know that. You have no proof.”
A vein, blue and thick, stuck from Luca’s left temple, and his eye twitched twice, followed by the left side of his mouth.
“I have all the proof I need, Herman,” said Luca. “The unexplained late nights. The missing money. And let’s face it, when was the last time she kept you warm at night?”
“That’s none of your business,” said Herman.
“Well, I’m making it my business. If you can’t be a man and stand up for yourself, perhaps I should. You’re not going to let people walk all over you, are you?”
Herman stared at the door.
“No,” said Herman, after a pause.
“So be a man, Herman,” said Luca with a grin. “Show them who is boss.”
“Does it have to be this way? Surely there must be another way.”
“No,” spat Luca. “It must be this way and it must be now. Strike while the iron is hot, Herman. All you have to do is hit the button on that remote, and your journey to becoming a man will begin. Albeit, a little late in life.”
A tightness began to squeeze at Herman’s chest.
His eyes watered, stinging from lack of sleep.
“You do want to be a man, Herman?” said Luca, running his hand through the tight curls of his dark hair, admiring his reflection in the window. “Do you want people to remember you as the man who stood up for himself? Or do you want people to remember you as the man who failed? The man who sobbed and wept and watched while his friend stood up for him and defended his honour?”
“But there are so many people down there,” said Herman. “There are so many innocent people.”
“Innocent?” said Luca, his mocking tone accentuating the word. “Herman, you have so much to learn. Every one of them down there is guilty of something. Every one of them deserves punishment in one form or another. And it’ll be you who delivers that punishment, Herman. It’s nearly time. Are you ready?”
“No,” said Herman. “I can’t do it.”
“So then I must make a man of you myself,” said Luca, still admiring his own reflection. His voice quietened. “But you must decide who is first.”
Dropping his head to his hands once more, Herman pulled at his hair, letting it run between his tight knuckles. Tears fell to the carpet and a low, monotone grumble grew from the back of his throat.
“Tell me,” said Luca. “I am losing my patience and the window of opportunity is closing.”
“How can I decide that?”
“Shall I decide for you?” said Luca, allowing anger to slip into his tone, but then catching it and softening his words. “Who should die first? Dear little Jan?”
“No,” said Herman.
But Luca continued his musings regardless of Herman’s outbursts.
“He wouldn’t even know it was coming. His neck would snap in my hands like a Christmas turkey, Herman.”
“Stop it. How can I decide who dies? I love them both.”
“Or perhaps the marvellous Martina should go first?” Luca continued. Then he stopped and stared at his reflection again in wonder at his imagination and raising a finger to his lips. “I might even have some fun with her before she goes. Now, there’s a thought.”
Herman raised his head from his hands. The emotion was gone from his face, leaving nothing but anger and hatred in his eyes.
“You wouldn’t,” said Herman.
Luca smiled at him.
“Oh, but I would, Herman. It’s not hard to imagine what she looks like beneath those slutty dresses she wears when she goes to see her fancy man, her bit on the side.”
Herman’s voice lowered. He stood from the desk with his back to the door and stretched his arms out to defend his wife and child from the monster that plagued his mind.
“If you lay one hand on her, Luca,” he began.
“Oh, yes,” said Luca, exaggerating his nonchalance.
“If you touch one hair on her body.”
“There he is,” said Luca, stepping forward. “That’s the Herman I wanted to see.”
“Get away from me,” said Herman. “Leave us alone.”
“All you have to do is hit the button, Herman.”
Herman brought the remote up into the dim light and stared down at the single button on the rectangular device.
“That’s it,” said Luca, glancing at the screen and then his watch. “That’s it, Herman. It is time.”
But Herman studied the button as if seeing the device for the first time. He gazed past the remote and his eyes fell on the computer screen. Hundreds of people passed by in an endless flow of human activity, while the lines of cars waited for their turn to drive forward another fifty feet.
Behind Herman, the bedroom door handle squeaked as Luca began to turn it.
“I can’t,” said Herman, as Luca pushed the door open to reveal Martina tied to the bed, her eyes wide and pleading. But the gag in he
r mouth prevented any sound other than a high-pitched muffle to escape. Jan was sitting on the floor, his hands bound to the bed frame and a hood pulled over his face.
“So then I’ll decide,” said Luca. His voice had dropped to a whisper. He stepped across the threadbare carpet to where Martina began to thrash against her restraints. Turning to face the bedroom window, he let a serious look of hatred wipe away his expression of delight.
“Stop it,” said Herman, pleading with Luca to end the torment.
“The button,” said Luca.
The muscles in Herman’s body slumped. His shoulders sagged and his voice quietened in an effort to reason with the man.
“There are hundreds of people down there,” said Herman. “Who do you think you are?”
“Push the button, Herman,” said Luca, as he flicked at Martina’s hair with his index finger, then traced the outline of her face to her chest.
“No,” said Herman. “Just stop it. Let them go.”
But Luca’s wandering hands were already unbuttoning Martina’s dress.
“Tick tock, Herman.”
“Okay, okay.”
Hearing the change in Herman’s voice, Luca looked up. His groping hand paused.
Martina stared at her husband. A look of dread filled her eyes.
“I’ll do it,” said Herman, holding the remote in the air.
Luca smiled.
“So you’ve decided to become a man, my dear Herman.”
With his eyes locked onto his wife’s in a look of apology and despair, Herman pushed the button.
Download Stone Face here.
A Note from the Author
Stone Army was one of the hardest, but most enjoyable of the Stone Cold Thriller series to write.
I felt Harvey needed some time alone to enjoy the life he’d worked so hard for; that peace and solitude he seeks.