by Rob Buckman
1
HEART OF STONE
By
Rob Buckman
This book is for adult reading only as it contains graphic violence, murder, mayhem, sex, beatings and the general disregard for rule of law and due process
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Copyright © 2016 by Rob Buckman. All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and designed to protect the guilty as well as the innocent. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
First Electronic Edition: July 2016 – First Edition 2010
PROLOGUE:
Moving across the open ground, Mike moved into concealment under a low bush, the cold rainwater dripped from the concealing leaves, soaking, adding to his discomfort. That, and his other discomforts were forgotten the moment the car came into view and he settled the rifle to his shoulder. Scanning the vehicle through the telescopic sight, he brought the cross hairs into focus, tracking first the left front tire, then the right before jumping ahead to the shooting point. In his mind, he went over the plan. 'First shoot the tires out to stop the car. Then do what you have to do to the people inside and get the hell out'. He thought. The moment he fired, the hunting party up in the hills behind him would know where he was. 'Five minutes, that's all you've got, tops'. He calculated.
'What about the people inside the car?' A distant voice in the back of his mind asked. It surprised him, as before he'd never had to ask himself that particular question. It only took a moment before the answer came. Edward and the other three men he'd kill, he knew that. 'Kat Ballard?'...
Kat Ballard? His mind refused to function. 'What are you going to do to Kat Ballard?' The question kept going around inside his head, bringing a pain to his soul. He thought about the night they had danced and he'd held her in his arms, the kiss. That ever so beautiful kiss with its taste of honey and promise. She was one of the reasons he lay under a dripping bush, soaked to the skin, cold, hungry, and tired. With two bullet holes in his hide, waiting to blow somebody away, someone he'd never met. He knew he was going to enjoy every second of it as well. Yet nowhere inside him could he find resentment for what she'd done. At most sadness for dreams that could never be. Plus the urge to teach her a lesson she'd never forget.
'Damn it! It hurts!' He thought, and it shouldn't. Not any more, not after what I've been through, and after what she'd done. But it did, each time his thoughts drifted to her. Feeling as if a cold hand had wrapped itself around his heart, squeezing hard every time her face came gentle on his mind.
The curve of a cheek, the subtle tone of reddish gold hair, or the way she held her head. Erect, proud, almost arrogant, emerald eyes flashing fire as she turned away that last time. Maybe the last time he would ever see her that way. The memory of her walking away sent a chill though his heart, ripping him apart. People like Kat Ballard weren't supposed to get to him, not any more, not after all these years. Believing it himself, having felt little or nothing for anything or anyone for so long he thought it normal, now he did. He wanted to live, to feel warm sunshine on his face, and taste the fresh breezes of spring. The cool wine of summer, and the crisp tingle of winter. To touch her again and feel her loving arms around him. 'If I'd never met her, all this would have been so easy.' He thought. Some stupid simpleton in the back of his head kept telling him that he loved her. Had loved her from the moment their eyes met, the moment the faint trace of her fragrance touched his heart.
"Bullshit" he murmured, laughing at the voice, but it sounded hollow, echoing back, mocking him. 'That bitch is as tough as nails, with a tongue like the edge of a diamond.' Falling in love with her would be like falling in love with a wild cat. One wrong move and she'd rip you to shreds.
'Yea. But you still love her!' The crazy voice echoed inside his skull, mocking him. 'You can no more hurt her than you could a new born kitten'.
"Damn it! Damn it! And damn her! You wait and see what I do to the bitch. She's going to wish I'd never been born!" He muttered. It was getting to the point where he couldn't even think straight with her in his mind. But he had to if he was going to survive. 'Bitch.' He muttered.
A week ago, life had been simple, live for today and let tomorrow take care of its self. He had his land, his house, and a friend. Plus something to keep him busy, what more did he need? He remembered when this had all started, ten short days ago. The only thought on his mind was cleaning a little sand bar off and dredging up some gold. At first, it must have looked so simple to them, and nothing more than some local hick they could intimidate. They’d twisted and manipulated facts to put him outside the law. Pulling strings, and collecting favors to get what they wanted. Until now, that is. They tried to force him to sell his land, planning to kill him and drop his body down a mineshaft if they couldn't get it any other way. What bothered him the most about this whole deal was he still had no idea what the hell this was all about. They’d come to kill him, puffed up with their own importance and power. Casually disregarding the law, walking hard heeled over everything and everyone that got in their way. They thought nothing could touch them and killing him would be so easy. Now they had run into a game they didn't understand. A game played by someone who understood it better than they did. They had come looking for him, expecting an easy kill, finding instead the target had declared total war. Soon they'd understand the phrase 'No quarter, No mercy.' If, they didn't, he'd teach them. Either way, it wouldn't matter. They'd all be dead, then it wouldn't matter at all. It was only a matter of a few seconds before the front tire came into view. A fraction of a second later the shot echoed off the hillside, blowing first the left, then the right tire. For a moment he thought the heavy car would go completely out of control and crash. But the driver fought the wheel, keeping it on the road. Even before the second shot stopped echoing across the misty hills, he was up and running. Down the slope and across the open ground, taking the fence with a quick leap, rolling over the top. The landing cost him, pain shooting through his side and pulling the wound open. Ignoring it, he stood up and walked out onto the roadway as the car finally came to a stop fifty feet away. He walked slowly towards it through the rain and mist. Weapon held one-handed straight up in the crook of his elbow. At least he’d give the men in the car that much of a chance. The driver jumped out first, dragging a MAC 10 from under his coat screaming in anger and terror. At least the man died game as the 7.62 mm from the AS80 punched a neat hole in his forehead, the back exploding out over the car and road in a red cloud.
CHAPTER ONE:
The roar and clatter of the suction dredge echoing off the rock walls was out of place in the rugged mountain. It shattered the peace and tranquility, intrusive, spoiling the magic of the alpine scenery. To the man underwater the sound was distant and muted, yet reassuring with its promise of life giving air. As the hours past, the sound receded, becoming a low background hum, noticeable only when it stopped, signaling the urgent need to surface and refill the gas tanks. The most predominant sound below the surface was the hiss and rumble o
f the regulator as the diver breathed. Loud and harsh as he struggled to move large rocks out of the way. Soft and gentle as he moved the suction nozzle back and forth to pick up exposed material. Sometimes seeing small nuggets or flecks of gold vanish into the all-consuming mouth of the nozzle. Gradually, he worked his way down to bedrock, hoping to find the richer material, turning the day from just wet and cold, to wet, cold and profitable. This part of the river did look promising at first, and Mike Grainger wondered if it was worth working the first time he’d seen it. He hadn't expected much, a few flakes and a nugget or two for his labor. Then he'd come across the first pocket in the cracked bedrock. That netted him three ounces of gold, and from all indications there were more, even richer pockets further in. Even so, he was still racing against time. Having started late in the season he was now playing catch-up, trying to pull enough gold out to cover living expenses till spring. Soon rain, snow, and ice would shut him down, but so far, he'd been lucky. The weather and lady luck had been on his side, having only rained twice in the last three months, and then only an inch or two, and in finding a few good pockets.
Over the years, his work had taken him too many parts of the world. From South America to Africa, Europe to South East Asia, coming home to this place after each assignment. He'd camp up here for months on end, hunting and fishing, or just exploring the cool green forests. He felt at home here, not only for the peace and quiet, but the solitude and absence of people. By most standards, he wasn't rich, being neither practical nor dishonest enough to retire in luxury. Never really expected to reach the age of retirement in the first place. He’d known about this place for some time, and by chance he'd been at the right place at the right time to buy it at a county tax sale. The owner had died in a hunting accident before he could pay off the lien. He'd used his savings to buy the property, refurbish, and redecorate the house that came with it. Most of the local residents considered this place something of a white elephant. As, apart from the two and a half acre bench on Thunder Mountain where the house stood, the rest of the land lay in a vertical, instead of horizontal position. Land speculators weren't interested either. They couldn't find enough flat space on the whole property to build a doghouse let alone multiple housing units, at least not without extensive and expensive blasting and grading.
He spent most of his time up here now, exploring the cool green mountains and forests, or just sitting in the living room looking out at the panorama. To Mike Granger, the view out the window alone was worth ten times what he'd paid for the property. In all his travels, he doubted he'd ever seen anything more spectacular. Thinking that no words could adequately describe the view of the snowcapped peaks turned from white to deep pink in the evening sun, or the emerald green forest cloaking the flanks, dark and mysterious. Here and there, white water streams cascaded down the slopes in their never-ending plunge to the far distant sea, all fresh, clean, unpolluted, and unmarred by human progress. His isolation and loneliness were almost complete. His one companion was Max, a timber-shepherd, a half wolf, half-German Shepherd mix. He had found Max as a pup, his mother, and rest of the litter all dead, apparently killed by some idiot hunter. After rescuing him, he'd spent three hours and suffering a number of bites from needle sharp teeth while picking shotgun pellets out of the tiny half-starved body. He’d spent two more months nursing that small bundle of biting fur back to health, all the time expecting to see it die. To his surprise the pup survived, growing fast after that, turning from a one-pound ball of angry fluff, into one hundred pounds of gray-brown muscle, and teeth. A year later he decided it was time to let it back out into the wild, where it belonged. Expecting to see a mad dash for freedom the moment he opened the cage, he instead received a puzzled look from the animal as it walked outside. First Max shook himself, sniffing the air, then trotted around the clearing nosing around, sniffing and pissing on everything in sight, marking his territory. After that, he’d headed into the house, taking up residence by the fire as if he’d lived there all his life. Mike just scratched his head in puzzlement, accepting the inevitable. From that moment on Max became his constant companion, tagging along as if it was the most natural thing in the world. This was one smart wolf, knowing a good deal when he found it. Free food, a warm place to sleep, and someone to scratch him behind the ear.
'What a life!' Mike thought, chuckling to himself. As it turned out, Max also earned his keep by guarding the camp, constantly patrolling the perimeter, sniffing, and still pissing on everything in sight.
Weighing in now at one hundred and ten pounds. He was more than a match for any thief who might drop in and try to help himself to property that didn't belong to him. At the moment, Max was running nervously back and forth to the trees searching for a trail. There was something out there he didn't like the smell of, but couldn't decide what. Human or bear? He ran back to the riverbank, looking across at the dredge, but other than the noisy monster, there was no sign of his friend.
Hearing the low fuel alarm Mike Grainger stopped dredging and headed for the surface, switching the motor off the moment he reached the side of the machine. Late afternoon clouds had started to pile up over the peaks, foretelling rain, a clear indication he should call it a day. It would be a waste of time dredging tonight as the river became unpredictable when rain raised the water level. Mike went through his daily performance of getting the dredge across to his camp on the other side of the river, sitting on the pontoon, playing out the anchor rope, and angling the dredge into the current. He let the river push the machine across on the tether line, helping now and then by pulling it along. Reaching the bank, he spent fifteen minutes hauling the unit up river to a second tether line. This would help him do the same in reverse in the morning. He returned Max's greeting as he stripped off the wet suit, slipping on a warm pair of pants and sweater. Absently scratching the three long scars on his right forearm and out of habit scanning the tree line around the camp. He no longer thought about how he'd come by the scars, or his rite of passage into manhood that caused them. The deserts and burning sun of Arizona were a long way behind him now. Pulling on his waders, he walked out to the dredge to begin tidying up the equipment and the necessary but tedious task of clearing out the riffle trays. Not that he didn't enjoy it, he did. There was nothing quite like the thrill of finding gold behind the riffles as the water slowly drained away. Glittering wet and golden in the sunlight, spinning unreal dreams of fortune in his mind.
Today he'd hit another good pocket. Gold showing behind each riffle in a short fan shape wedge at the upper end of the tray. His rugged face broke into a smile, like sunshine poking through a hole in the dark clouds. Today had been a very good day, netting him almost eight ounces unless he missed his guess. He picked up one or two nuggets and examined them closely. Finding them rough and almost free from rock marks, or flattening by the river. One or two even had chips of white quartz still embedded in them. These hadn't traveled far from the mother lode, he reflected, thinking how he'd like to solve the mystery and find out where the gold came from. In gold country, legends of lost mines abounded, and this area was no different. Supposedly, there was a glory hole up here, found once then lost. The story went that the original discoverer died from a bad case of lead poisoning he'd contracted during a card game. He discovered that contrary to popular belief, a Royal Flush doesn’t beat a Colt forty-five. Mike carefully cleaned out the tray, rolling the matting and washing it out into a five-gallon plastic bucket. Replacing the matting, he locked the riffle back in place and gassed up the motors in readiness for tomorrow. He doubted the rain would raise the river more than a foot or two, but as a precaution added two more safety lines to the dredge. That done, he picked up the bucket and started to walk away before remembering he hadn't checked the nugget trap. The theory behind the nugget trap was simple. Gold being many times heavier than anything else in the river, a chunk too large to be trapped by the riffles, was pushed, or rolled down the tray by the water, It fell squarely off the end tray into the nugget tra
p. Ever the optimist he used it, checking after each day’s work, rarely finding anything of interest except a few rocks or the occasional buckshot, or coin. He almost dumped it anyway, until a large chuck of white quartz caught his eye. The fist size rock was partly covered with other debris, and he fished it out and absently washed it off. He was half-ready to throw it back into the river anyway when he saw what he had and whistled in surprise. The rock, heavily veined with gold glittered wetly in the late afternoon sunlight. ‘Float’ was something prospectors found from time to time up and down this river, but to date, no one had ever been able to find where it came from. White quartz is common in gold country, sometimes with small traces of gold trapped in matrix. He'd even heard of people finding gold nuggets with bits of quartz still embedded in them, as he'd found today. But nothing like this. Wherever this had come from, this was no low-grade deposit. Not by the size of the vein in this rock. In one place, it was almost as thick as his thumb.
"Now where on earth did you come from?" He muttered looking around.
It was a reflex, as if searching for the answer, in reality it was an opportunity to scan the tree line. He had that itchy feeling someone was watching him, and that feeling was seldom wrong. Someone was out there. Who, and why, was the question? Pocketing the rock, he walked back to camp, picking up the bucket as he passed and poured the concentrate into one of five others inside the storage tent. Giving it a good shake to settle the gold near the bottom. The five buckets acted as a simple and effective security system, as all five were identical. Each filled with fifty pounds of sand, gravel, and water. A thief coming into camp looking for gold would find the buckets, but would have no way of knowing if any contained gold, not without panning. It would be difficult to carry a fifty-pound bucket away with him, and no way could he carry all five buckets. The only other way the thief could find out was to ask, and anyone foolish enough to do that would have been better off taking his chances and picking a bucket, at least he would have gone away in one piece. Max sniffed out the trail he'd found into the tree line, now and then coming across another very interesting scent. This one he'd follow as soon as he located the end of the first trail. That one turned out to be two humans crouched down behind a small ridge overlooking the camp. He stood watching them for a while until satisfied they presented no immediate threat. He then took the time to locate the source of the other, more interesting scent. His nose was not wrong. It turned out to be young female and everything a healthy male wolf could ask for. No one had very bothered to tell Max he was only part wolf, the other part being so close, German shepherd, that it didn't matter. Not that he would have cared anyway. Walking up to the young lady, he introduced himself in the usual wolf way, finding his advance not unwelcome. At first, she was suspicious of his intentions, unsure in part due to the human smell on him. Being a young healthy female, just coming into her prime, he soon brought her round to his way of thinking. In fact, he was so successful she tagged along when he decided to go home for dinner.