Stone Fury Read online

  Stone Fury

  A Stone Cold Thriller

  J. D. Weston

  Contents

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  1. Curtains

  2. The Light that Shines

  3. Absent Without Leave

  4. The One That Got Away

  5. Even Monsters Cry

  6. The Farm

  7. Sneaky Peeky

  8. Old Faces

  9. Time

  10. Beware of the Beast

  11. Tail

  12. Man Down

  13. Denver’s Dream

  14. Traffic

  15. Inside Man

  16. Pigs May Fly

  17. The Harder They Fall

  18. Strung Up

  19. Feeding Time

  20. Collateral

  21. Deal with the Devil

  End of Book Stuff

  Appreciation

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  A Note from the Author

  Also By J.D.Weston.

  Stone Cold

  Stone Fury

  Stone Fall

  Stone Rage

  Acknowledgments

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  1

  Curtains

  Harvey Stone found the stage door unlocked and slipped inside the old building; he closed the heavy wooden door softly behind him and let his eyes adjust to the soft light. Years of damp poisoned the air and a hundred years of debauchery had left a chill in the very core of the old theatre.

  He heard the slap of bare feet running on the hard linoleum covered floor; the noise came from one of the corridors that led off from the main one where he stood.

  Giggling girls were loud and shrill, and slamming doors boomed then hushed as another door slammed. He crept up the three steps in front of him and ducked into another side corridor to his right; this one was much shorter with fewer doors.

  The wardrobe rooms were larger on this wing. It was meant for the big stars or celebrities, not the unknown extras, or dancers that filled the rest of the backstage rooms and probably shared one room between two or three. He heard the faint sound of applause somewhere far off behind many more heavy wooden doors. The show would be over soon.

  He found the room that had been allocated to his target, wardrobe six. He slipped inside. The lights were on, and possessions lay sprawled across a makeup bench, with two lines of cocaine and a rolled up twenty-pound note in front of a large mirror that was lined with lights.

  The room itself was divided into two by a temporary screen, the type that Marilyn Monroe or Rita Hayworth might have changed behind, way back when lines of coke and rolled up bank notes were only available to the wealthy and more successful performers.

  Behind the screen was a small couch, cheap and stained from years of parties, makeup, alcohol, bodily fluids and general disregard. Next to it was a small table, on which sat what Harvey was looking for.

  Harvey opened the laptop and was presented with a Windows login screen. He pulled a small transmitter from his pocket and inserted it into the USB port, then pushed the button on the ear-piece in his right ear, "It's in."

  There was a crackle of static and then, “I see it.”

  Harvey watched as the laptop was remotely controlled. The password was found on the third attempt, and the controller was soon navigating through the laptop’s hard drive. The controller found a maze of disorganised files, and ran an automatic search for MP4 files. Several showed up, and the thumbnails began to render and show.

  "Bingo," said the controller over the comms. Harvey put a thumb drive into the laptop’s second USB port. The navigator saw the external drive pop up window and copied the videos to it. Harvey removed the device and pocketed it.

  “Switching to visual, the screen will go dark, but don't close the lid.”

  “Copy,” said Harvey. The screen went blank; just the little LED next to the inbuilt webcam was lit.

  Harvey had a look around. There was a large walk-in wardrobe; pitch dark inside and empty of clothes. A small wash basin stood in the corner of the room, underneath which was a cupboard where Harvey found a few old rags presumably for cleaning, some disinfectant, ant killer and a toilet brush that looked like it was twenty years old.

  He found a waste paper bin full of tissues, an empty wine bottle, and cigarette ash. Then he used a fresh tissue from the makeup table and wiped the two lines of coke into the bin. He tipped out some of the ant killer and racked up two identical lines of the white powder, chopping it finely to imitate the drug it replaced.

  "What's going on, Stone? I can’t see what you're doing," said the voice over the ear-piece.

  Harvey didn't reply. He stepped back and studied his work, then slipped into the shadows of the wardrobe.

  Harvey judged the wardrobe where he stood to be around eight-feet deep and five-feet wide. It smelled like years of musty disinfectant. He considered time. Applause, encore, then the maze of corridors. He estimated eight minutes from the applause he'd heard around six minutes ago. Harvey could wait. He'd waited in far worse places.

  Screams and cheers came from the corridors as actors and actresses ran from the stage in celebrations of success, maybe even adrenaline. Who knows what emotions these people feel once they have finished a performance? More doors slammed, and more female voices approached, along with a male whose voice resonated through the old walls.

  The door opened, and two people fell into the room. The girl came first and walked directly to the makeup table. She unfastened her costume jacket, it was brightly coloured, shiny and barely reached her hips. She slid out of her slender armaments and tossed it to the floor, revealing long gloves and a tight, bright red dress. The man closed the door with a flourish and danced to join her at the makeup table. He slid in behind her and ran his hands up her torso, then spun like only a professional dancer knows how, and began to unbutton his shirt.

  "Did you see Julie in the final scene?" the girl asked him. "Here, help me."

  The target stopped unbuttoning his own frilly shirt and helped the girl with the zipper on the back of her dress.

  “I did, wasn’t she wonderful?”

  Harvey rolled his eyes.

  “I thought the whole audience was going to simply burst into tears; she was so very convincing.”

  "That's what happens when daddy sends you off for private tuition, darling," the girl said in a mock aristocrat voice. She pulled her long gloves off her long arms and let the dress fall to the floor, then dumped the gloves on top, turned and admired herself in the mirror.

  "Maybe this daddy could give you a little private tuition?" said the man as he stood behind her and joined her in the admiration. He ran his hands from her waist to her chest and cupped her breasts. He kissed her neck, softly at first, then harder; he began to grind himself into her.

  "Maybe this little girl needs punishing? She didn't do any of her homework." She gave a naughty schoolgirl look, with one finger in her mouth, "Not. One. Bit." She accentuated each of the last three words by moving her hands inside to her hips. She finished by sliding her panties down to her ankles, pushing herself into the man as she bent over.

  “Oh dear, Miss Norman. You have been a very, very bad girl indeed.”

  Harvey stood motionless in the dark while the charade played out before him.

  "Wait," she said, as th
e man was pulling his costume trousers off. He tossed them onto the pile of clothes she had created.

  She stood up and stepped over to the makeup table, picked up the rolled up bank note and expertly tightened the roll. Harvey had never been into drugs, but he'd been around them all his life. Drugs and crime went hand in hand for the most part.

  She bent to snort one of Harvey's lines. Her pert chest bounced then hung as she leaned towards the table. She sniffed the line clean off the old wooden surface and passed the rolled up note to the man, who was now naked and keeping his less-than-impressive erection occupied while she was bent over. He took the note, and she dropped to her knees. He rolled the note tighter, and she took him in her mouth greedily. The man watched her for a moment, his eyes darted to the line, but he clearly didn't want to disturb her. Tough choice.

  She coughed once then twice. The third time, she dry heaved and coughed again. A trickle of blood ran from her nose. Harvey had a clear view of it running, but she didn't, and he didn't.

  She moaned as she took him all the way into her mouth then coughed and gagged once more. She pulled him away and saw the blood on him; a look of horror spread across her face. Then she fell to one side, supported herself with one arm and wiped away the blood from her nose. Her eyes widened in fear, and the dry heaving turned wet; a flood of blood fell from her mouth to her chest.

  "Angie? What's wrong?" the man asked in a whiny, panicked tone. She looked up at him in shock. Struggling to breathe, she couldn't take in the air, but still dry heaved. She fell to the floor and rolled to her side. Her eyes remained open, and blood pooled from her mouth. It was quick but not painless.

  The man bent down and grabbed her head; he slapped her face, "Angie, no, no, don't do this, come on, Angie." He looked around the room, "Shit, shit, shit." Then the realisation of the situation hit him. He stood and began to distance himself from her naked body. He stepped backward, he was panicking, and was about to make a fatal error.

  He was three feet from Harvey, with his back to the dark wardrobe where Harvey waited.

  Harvey held up the blade, ready to slice his throat if he came too close.

  “Oscar? Are you coming?” a female voice from the other side of the door called.

  "Come on, Oscar. We’re heading to the bar for the after-party," said another girl.

  "I'll, um, I'll be right there, I'll meet you there, at the bar."

  "Well, don't be long."

  "Apparently he won't be, not according to Angie anyway," the other girl sniggered, and the sounds of the two girls trailed off.

  He stepped over to the makeup table and picked up the waste paper bin. He pulled a fresh tissue from the box on the side and was about to wipe the last line into the bin. He stopped, and dropped the basket to the floor; its contents scattered onto the old, dirty carpet. He picked up the rolled note from the floor and tightened it, bent down and snorted the line. He wiped the residual powder with his finger and rubbed it on his gums, then immediately spat it out.

  “That a boy,” said Harvey quietly, from the dark shadows of the wardrobe.

  “Who’s there?” said Oscar, as he dry-heaved and spat into the bin.

  Harvey stepped from the shadows into the light.

  “What the…Who the hell are you?”

  The blood began to trickle.

  “Who sets them up?”

  “Who sets what up?” Oscar began to cover his modesty.

  “I don’t think you need to worry about covering yourself after what I just witnessed, Mr Shaw.”

  “I didn’t do that, you saw? You saw what happened?” He coughed once, “She overdosed.”

  “You didn’t do that, but you did this.” Harvey held a flash drive up.

  “What’s that?” He coughed again; there was liquid in his throat.

  “It’s a video.”

  "Of what?" He wiped his nose, and a smear of blood ran across his wrist. He saw it and began to panic even more.

  “It’s a video of you and two hookers.”

  "So what," he coughed, "how do you know they're hookers anyway?"

  “There’s something special about these particular hookers though isn't there, Mr Shaw?”

  Realisation spread across his panicked eyes.

  “Oh god, I’m sorry, please help me. Call an ambulance.”

  “Tell me who set them up for you and I’ll see what I can do.”

  He fell to his knees and coughed up a large amount of blood onto the floor.

  “You want help, Mr Shaw? I can make the pain go away.”

  “Make it stop, make it stop,” he cried, he was clutching his chest with one hand and holding his bleeding nose with the other.

  “Tell me where I can find them, and I’ll make it all go away.”

  “You bastard, help me.”

  “I can make the pain stop, or I can make it worse. You choose.”

  “There’s a number,” he coughed, and blood sprayed onto the floor in front of him.

  “Where?”

  "My phone, pass me my phone."

  "What’s his name?"

  "I didn't save the number, but there’s an SMS," he reached forwards and supported himself with one arm while clutching his chest. Blood hung from his face in a long string.

  “I’m in his phone now,” Harvey heard over the ear-piece, “I’m copying all the messages.”

  “How much did it cost you?” Harvey asked, casually.

  “How much did what cost?”

  The man looked up at Harvey; he was a mess. Harvey didn’t reply.

  “Fifty. Help me, god damn it.”

  Harvey didn’t reply. The man looked up at him; shame etched all over his crooked face.

  “Okay, each, it was fifty thousand each.” His lungs failed, and he fought to take in air.

  Harvey watched with wonder as Oscar Shaw; the infamous stage actor searched for breath; his final act. His eyes were wide and terrified. He fell forward onto the girl. Blood leaked from his mouth onto her stomach and ran, dark and sticky, across her skin.

  Harvey placed the flash drive on the makeup table. He pushed the button on the receiver in his ear three times and left the room. He checked both ways but knew the supporting cast were nowhere to be seen; they were all in the bar less than ten minutes from curtains. He stepped out and walked casually along the corridor, jumped down the three steps and quietly opened the stage door. Checking both ways again, he dropped down into the alley below.

  Pools of rain reflected the dirty back streets of London's West End, and the sounds of the busy streets in the distance brought a constant hum to the dark and otherwise quiet alley. He stepped around the puddles and clung to the shadows. As he reached the end of the alley, where street lights lit the ground, a black Audi pulled up. It stopped abruptly in front of Harvey. The passenger door swung open. Harvey barely broke stride, he climbed into the car and pulled the door closed. The car pulled away without any exchange of words.

  2

  The Light that Shines

  The Audi sped through London as fast as the speed limit allowed. They crossed the River Thames over Waterloo Bridge, neither Harvey or the driver, Denver, looked out at the Southbank which was lit up, its reflections spilling into the water.

  Denver turned left off the bridge and followed the river downstream, crossing back to the north side through the Blackwall tunnel. Within ten minutes of being out the tunnel, they pulled up outside the headquarters of an unofficial, organised crime investigation unit. It was housed in a brick building adjacent to the Thames Barrier, and was a dark arm of SO10, the Met's covert operations unit.

  The Thames Barrier itself was built in the eighties, and was designed to act as a flood protection system for the Greater London area; a series of mechanical barriers that open and close to control the flow of water in and out of London.

  The unit was led by Frank Carver, who had led his team to success by capturing a crate of missing Heckler and Koch MP-5 sub-machine guns, taking out one of the leading org
anised crime families, killing a wanted murderer who had been on the run for more than thirty years and capturing a known sex offender who had missed his court appearance and been on the run. He had confessed to offences going back more than five years and eventually took the rap for seven victims.

  The team was unofficial because the public simply couldn't know the team existed, let alone know about it being a dark ops unit. Many operatives of SO10 were not even aware of the team. While the unit was in its infancy, it would remain unofficial until such a time when its success gave the chief grounds for wider knowledge.

  The HQ was situated perfectly next to the Thames for easy river access into London. The unit itself was shared with the team of engineers that managed the Thames Barrier. The building was far bigger than their needs required, and had been split into two separate departments specifically for the team. The barrier engineers were housed on one side of the building and Frank's team on the other; the two groups of people rarely met. The building was perfectly sized; there was a helipad on the roof, it was ten minutes from the Blackwall tunnel and fifteen minutes from the A406 and M11. Plus it was less than five minutes from London City Airport, where a small, used passenger jet had been seconded.

  The large warehouse doors were slid open for Denver to pull inside without stopping. They were closed behind him by Reg, the tech guru. He'd been watching them on one of the twelve twenty-four inch screens that were mounted on the wall in front of his desk in, what he liked to call, his command station. His central screen had a game session open and paused, while the surrounding screens, which all connected to various servers and computers, showed maps, audio taps, video feeds, network health monitors and Reg's favourite medieval TV show. All of the devices that powered the screens were connected to a single KVM switch that allowed Reg to use just one keyboard and mouse to control the entire set up. It was the set up he had always dreamed of, and he had finished it off with a large, comfy, leather office chair.