The Island (Rob Stone Book 3)

by A P Bateman

“Networking,” he said. “People in low places. Your precious Secret Service for one. NYPD’s finest for another. They’re always corruptible. Plenty of people have taken money to walk the other way. A lot of money.”

  “You have someone inside the Secret Service?” Stone said incredulously.

  “I have two things, Agent Stone,” he paused. “I have a disgruntled and discredited, once high-ranking agent inside the Secret Service who made a deal with the devil…” The man smiled, he seemed to like the analogy. “And I have a star agent that was ripe for the picking. Someone that people wouldn’t mind sending down the river. You are a respected agent, but you have no friends there. Funny, your brother had exactly the same reputation at the FBI. People always refer to you as a hell of an agent, but they don’t invite you to their Christmas parties.”

  “I like my sleep,” Stone commented flatly. The man checked his watch, rubbed a hand through the thin strip of hair, the ravine that was his head. “That must have knocked a hell of a lot loose in there,” Stone said. “And the leg? That had to hurt.”

  “Pain is merely weakness leaving the body. I am much stronger now.”

  “I still bet I could kick your ass,” Stone said. “If you cut me free, that is. How about it? How about I rip off that peg-leg and beat the rest of your head in with it?”

  “You know I had you beat up on that ridge. You know your silly little knife throwing trick stopped me from killing you. That and your boy scout trap.”

  “You were going to shoot me. I’d say I had you beat. Five inches of height and sixty-pounds of weight over me and I still kicked your ass. So much so, you had to pick up a gun.”

  The man ignored him, checked his watch and smiled as Cheney finished his speech. His wife walked on and hugged him. The two parents, still mourning after half their son’s lifetime, walked out of camera shot hand in hand. He looked up and smiled at Stone before turning his back on him. “Countdown,” he said. “Position one, ready?”

  “Check.”

  “Position two, ready?”

  “Check.”

  “Alternative position, tier three, ready?”

  “Check.”

  He turned to the woman. “Marnie, ready to call the Secret Service desk and warn them?”

  “Yes.”

  “He needs to be at the lectern. He needs to be into the flow of his speech.”

  “I know, trust me.”

  Stone watched the President walk out, clasp the lectern with both hands. He bowed his head, closed his eyes and took a moment of silent reflection. A screen on the displays showed the crowd do the same. He raised his head and started to talk.

  Stone tried to fight against the tape, twisting his arms and legs. He leaned forwards, then to the side.

  The Bull walked over and punched Stone in the face. He slumped and the man hit him again. He bent down, his raw, exposed nostrils wet and flared. “Sit still and watch. Watch your life go down the shitter,” he sneered, then grabbed Stone’s jaw and squeezed, the flesh of his cheeks disappearing into his mouth as the man gripped so tightly, his fingers met, touching Stone’s cheeks together inside his mouth. “Watch!” He released his grip and Stone shook his head, blinked and looked back at the screen. His mouth was numb and he could feel a molar had been loosened.

  The woman turned and smiled. “You’ll like this part Agent Stone, do try to stay awake for it.” She was dialling a number on the telephone, then she pressed a button and replaced the receiver.

  “I am former Secret Service agent Rob Stone. I have been the President’s bodyguard and worked both on his security detail and on special projects for him during his two terms of office,” the recording paused. “On my first tour of Afghanistan I was taken prisoner. During my incarceration I came to sympathise with my captives, my Islamic brothers. I converted to Islam back on home soil. I have been committed to their cause ever since. I will strike at the heart of America, the Great Satan, at the September Eleven Memorial and Museum. And I intend to do it now, in front of the press and the eyes of the world…” The recording cut off.

  “Assets,” the man said, looking at his watch. “In five… four…” Stone fought in vain against his bonds. He could picture the switchboard operator. Another crank call, another of America’s nut-jobs making threats – it happened daily. Would they replay the recording? All calls were recorded, but only upon further investigation would they know the time significance, the validity of the threat. Later they would use voice recognition software to confirm it was one of their own who had made the call. Stone struggled, draining every ounce of strength he could muster. He tried to tip the chair backwards, maybe it would shatter and he could gain leverage. He caught the ginger-haired man smiling at his efforts. “Three…”

  “No!” shouted Stone. He could barely hear his own voice over the thudding of his heart, the pulsating in his ears.

  “Two...” The images on the screens changed. They left the President and centred on the President’s wife and their two children. Each riflescope centred on a separate target. Marianne, the First Lady, her arms around the shoulders of their two sons; Elijah, aged eight and Daniel aged twelve. “One…”

  “No!”

  “Fire…”

  35

  Keeping his emotions in check was like navigating through dense fog. He wanted to scream and shout, wanted to weep at the barbarity of what he had just witnessed. The carnage and chaos, the screaming of the crowd, the President – unable to kneel beside the bodies of his family as the Secret Service agents had scooped him up and rushed him away, the look of pain and anguish and despair on the man’s face. Above all, utter disbelief. The camera stayed with him. This wasn’t CNN or Sky News; this was filming without remit. Voyeuristic, intentionally cruel. People had paid millions to see this and they would not be disappointed. The cameras were fixed on the bodies. Many cameras at many angles.

  Stone had kicked a soccer ball with those two boys. He had shown them how to shadow box and the trick of autorotation to get out of wrist locks and put an attacker into one. He had played hide and seek with them. He had seen their excited faces at Camp David on Christmas morning, had seen them hunt for Easter eggs on The White House lawn. He had talked freely to Marianne, drank coffee with her and escorted her to fundraisers. He had taken her aside and trained her to use her father’s old service Colt .45 she carried in her handbag. He had seen the four of them as a family, because that’s exactly what they had been. He had talked to the President about life after The White House. The man was looking forward to normality, to being a father and husband again, to making memories. He had talked of taking Stone, and some other key security personnel, sailing off Montauk in the boat he had been building before taking office.

  The end had been quick. Stone was sure of that. He had seen what he had seen and it could never be undone. He was aware of Kathy sobbing. He could hear the jubilation of the Australian woman and the three men nearest him. The man at the bank of screens was silent, savouring the moment in isolation. There were whoops and high-fives from the three men, Stone was barely aware of them, a fog enveloping him. It was almost as if it were an out of body experience.

  “You read out that statement under hypnosis,” the man said, turning around. “Voice recognition software will match it one-hundred percent.”

  “They’ll know I was coerced. I’m not even in the country for Christ’s sake!”

  “But you soon will be. And you won’t remember any of this. The same drugs and procedures of mind control that kept me automaton for so many years will be used to nail you to the wall. You’ll be tried and convicted. Fifteen years on death row…”

  “No!” Kathy screamed and pulled away from the ginger-haired man. She threw herself at Stone, hugged him tightly, squeezed his hands. “They won’t get away with this, Rob! There’s no way they’ll make this stick on you…”

  “Get her away from him!” the man shouted.

  The Bull caught hold of her by the hair and dragged her back. She yel
ped and fell, was dragged back to her feet, kicking out and screaming. He raised a hand and brought it down hard on her neck in a classic karate chop, or shuto-uchi meaning knife-hand-strike. She was knocked out cold and slumped at his feet.

  Stone stared at him. “That was big of you. How about untying me and trying that?”

  “You’ll get what’s coming to you soon enough,” the black giant said. “The FBI will be getting you, but they don’t need you with your nose or all of your teeth. I’m going to bite your nose off your face and see how you like it. Then I’ll knock your teeth out and feed them to you so you’ll shit like a slot machine paying out the jackpot.”

  The Australian woman had been bent over a series of tower computers and she stood up having retrieved a USB drive. The man held out his hand and smiled. She gave it to him and then she called her dogs. Both animals lurched over and sat obediently in front of her.

  “Dose him up for transportation,” the man said. “And start the memory wipe. More than last time.”

  “It’s a fine line,” the ginger-haired man protested. “He could be left a cabbage if it goes the wrong way.”

  “So be it. Alive and with the evidence we’ve got pointing to him is all we need. We’ll get his finger prints on one of the weapons, the empty shell case and his DNA all over the scope. But, I would like him coherent enough to suffer in his incarceration.” He turned to the black giant and said, “Do what you’ve got to do, but we need him alive. A corpse isn’t going to cut it.” He looked back at Stone and shook his head. “Goodbye Agent Stone, I’ve enjoyed our encounter even more this time round. I’ll be taking great interest in your case, from afar.” He bent down and picked up Kathy’s unconscious form like she was a bundle of laundry. Stone had seen the prosthesis, the incredibly deep, but almost comical ravine in the man’s head, noticed he had lost a good deal of weight in the past two years, but was reminded of just how big and strong the man was. The man flung Kathy over his shoulder and walked out of the room, followed by Marnie and her two obedient hounds.

  “Fun time!” The Bull grinned at him. “One of you pussies going to hold him still for me?”

  “Fuck, he’s tied up!” Rodriguez said. He walked over to a counter with a table-top refrigerator and helped himself to a can of soda, perched on a workstation and pinged the tab. “But I guess he was tied up last time and still kicked your ass.”

  “Fuck you, spic.” The Bull snapped, then looked back at the ginger-haired man. “How long have I got?”

  “Well the boss wants him dosed up and his memory wiped. A partial lobotomy. I’m going to start pulling the syringes now. So do what you’ve got to do and then we can get off this fucking island.”

  The Bull walked over and bent his huge frame down, his eyes level with Stone’s. “Let me tell you, pussy, when I bite your nose off it is going to hurt so bad…” He opened his eyes wide, his sentence cut off by the jagged piece of glass, half the base of the broken jug Kathy had managed to press into Stone’s hand when she had made a scene of crying and hugging him close. Stone had worked on the bonds of his right hand with it while everyone had pontificated and recounted the cleverness of their plans.

  “Don’t hit him about too much, or he’ll choke on his blood when he’s unconscious,” the ginger-haired man said. He looked at The Bull, on his knees, his head close to Stone and blocking the Secret Service agent from view. “I’ve got the first dose ready, get on and bite the fucker’s nose off!”

  The Bull was close to dying. His legs were weak and his breathing rasped, gargling on the blood in his throat. His carotid was severed from the slash and Stone kept him pulled close to him, while he worked on cutting the bonds of his left hand. It was awkward just using his left hand, but he’d already managed it with his right. When he felt the man had lost enough strength, he let go of him and started to slice through the tape with the glass using his free hand. He noticed the knife on The Bull’s belt and drew it from the sheath, dropping the large piece of glass onto the floor.

  The ginger-haired man stopped pulling the syringe and looked over at Stone, who caught his eye. Startled, he looked to Rodriguez, who was tipping the remnants of the soda down his throat. “Rodriguez! He’s…”

  Stone cut him short with a 9mm bullet to the forehead from the Glock 17 he had drawn from The Bull’s belt holster. He pushed the dying giant away, and he slumped to the floor, both hands clasped to his bloody neck, his legs starting to twitch wildly as he went into shock. Stone aimed at the Hispanic across the room, but the man was quick and had his M4 rifle off his shoulder as he flung himself to the ground. Stone bent down, sliced at the tape on his ankles, chanced a look and saw the man up on his knees and aiming at him. He pushed backwards, taking the chair to the floor as Rodriguez opened fire and computer screens, jugs of water and glasses and telephones were all cut down and turned to shattered plastic and shards of glass as he emptied the thirty round magazine at Stone.

  Stone had one ankle free, but had dropped the knife. The pistol was in his hand, but he could not see his target. He could hear the man changing to another magazine. Stone spun around on the floor and went for the knife. He grabbed the handle and turned back to his tethered ankle. It sliced through easily and Stone rolled away from the chair and took cover behind a workstation. He heard the M4’s receiver spring forwards with a loud click, making the weapon ready. He pressed himself low, looked under the workstation and saw a pair of feet thirty-feet away. He aimed the pistol and fired six rapid shots. The man fell onto the floor screaming and Stone followed up with multiple shots until one cracked open the man’s skull like a watermelon.

  He got up and surveyed the scene. The silence which followed close quarter combat was always unnerving, but nevertheless, exhilarating. The Bull was as good as dead, but Stone fired a round into the man’s head and his quivering legs went still. He took no pleasure in it, but he didn’t linger to pay his respects either.

  Stone looked at the bank of monitors. He scanned them quickly until he found what he was looking for.

  Movement.

  36

  The horseshoe bay was rocky and the sea was rough. Huge swells generated thousands of miles away in the southern Pacific unleashed their load on the northernmost point of the bay, pummelling the rock with a sound akin to distant explosions. The waves peeled across the entire bay eventually crashing to the jagged shoreline in a surging shore break that washed through the rocks and up onto the sand. At the southernmost tip of the headland, another horseshoe cove within the bay provided a perfect natural harbour. There were two boats moored in the cove and they gently rocked on their moorings, the water rolling from the backwash of the waves which had crashed ashore and now surged back to sea and faded away in the deep water.

  A jetty had been built from sturdy, but rustic timber and sealed empty forty-gallon oil drums, each chained in place to keep the structure afloat. The jetty would rise and fall with the tide as well as with the gentle swell. The largest of the boats was a cabin-cruiser of well in excess of a hundred feet. It was a modern and well-appointed vessel with smoked glass, white fibreglass and teak decking. There were a cluster of satellite dishes, a sonar array and a cluster of cell-phone and radio antennae. The smaller of the two boats was a narrow wooden work-boat around thirty-feet in length and powered by twin three-hundred horsepower outboards. It was constructed from wood with sit-up-and-beg wooden bench seats. The boat was extremely basic, but massively powered. Stone had seen such boats used by drug-runners in the Caribbean. They were fast, agile and easily scuppered in the event of capture. Their low profile and wooden construction made detection from both satellite and sonar more difficult than modern fibreglass sports boats. Stone supposed the boat had been used here for similar reasons, only the cargo had been quite different indeed.

  Stone watched, but he still couldn’t see them. He knew that there was no other way off the island and he was sure he had beaten them to the bay, but he was paying for it now. He had run at a sprint for almost twenty-
minutes, and was seriously hot and dehydrated. So much so that he felt light-headed and his vision was starting to blur.

  Stone had acted quickly back in the bunker. He had taken back his watch from the ginger-haired man. He had then helped himself to the man’s loose shirt as well. It turned out The Bull’s feet were closest in size to his own, so he hastily removed them and put them on. Weapons were not a problem and he kept the Glock pistol because he knew it worked, and he took Rodriguez’s spare magazines and tucked them into his pockets. He then picked up the Puerto Rican’s M4 assault rifle, again because he knew it worked, and took the bandolier that the man carried his spare magazines in. He searched the men and found his Spyderco knife in Rodriguez’s pocket. There was a thousand dollars in The Bull’s vest pocket, the same in Rodriguez’s and two-thousand in the ginger sadist’s. Stone took it all and tucked the bundles of fifties and hundreds into his pants pockets. If he could get off the island he would need funds and figured that if he’d just been set-up for the deaths of the President’s family, then walking into a bank and giving his account details to draw some funds wasn’t going to be the best idea he’d ever had.

  The cameras had shown the man carrying Kathy over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift to the back of an old open-topped Land Rover. The woman and her dogs had followed and the dogs had dutifully and obediently hopped into the back of the vehicle and stood over Kathy while their owner opened the driver’s door and got in. Stone studied the cameras and could see the cove. He knew they were going there, where they would be waiting for the three men to arrive with Stone, drugged and incoherent. Most likely comatose. That gave him time, at least. But surprise would serve him better.

  He got onto one of the computers and opened it up. There was a password verification, which he did not bother with, merely went to the next terminal in the row and moved the mouse. After three computers, he stood back and looked around the room. Marnie had retrieved the USB from a machine. He went to it, moved the mouse and sure enough she was still logged in. He opened the email account and could see a long list of accounts and email. He scanned down the names. Many were repeat messages, conversations in snippet format. The names meant nothing to him. Except one. He opened the file and read, opened more and saw the messages, the progression of a conversation. He selected them one by one, entered his email address and forwarded them to his account. Then he changed his mind, selected what amounted to a month’s worth of emails from around the world and forwarded them to his account as well. Something for a rainy day. Or a courtroom no doubt. It was a vast selection, and there was much that could be gleaned from the accounts of the various users, as well as contacts they themselves had emailed in turn.