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  Stone Deep

  A Stone Cold Thriller

  J. D. Weston

  Contents

  1. Defeat

  2. Long Weight

  3. Hook, Line and Stinker

  4. The Art of Love

  5. Darkness Darkness

  6. Countdown

  7. Escape

  8. Betrayal

  9. Fallen Angel

  10. Hopes and Dreams

  11. The Beast Awakens

  12. Cracked

  13. The Beast From Above

  14. Into the Night

  15. Legacy

  16. The Dark Side

  17. Casa Negro

  18. Life

  19. Servant's Quarters

  20. Adagio

  End of Book Stuff

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  A Note from the Author

  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

  Acknowledgments

  1

  Defeat

  The Defeat of the Floating Batteries at Gibraltar commanded the opulent gallery; even Cordero Diaz thought so, whose knowledge of the fine arts could be written long-hand on the rear of a cigarette packet.

  The painting was more than just a scene painted on a canvas. The brush strokes, visible in the texture of the oils, had purpose. They were not the simple result of applying colour to creation using a brush as a medium. Instead, the strokes conveyed tones, shadows and direction, and complimented neighbouring colours, tones and shadows. The depth of the foreground, with its hues of greens and deep shadow, was not there to fill a gap between the background and the content. The foreground had lines that drew the viewer's eye to the life of the art, its heart and soul. Soldiers on horseback were described in so much detail that a modern photograph could not portray the scene with more clarity. A washed blend of pastel colours, used to invoke a terrifying scene of battle, anguish and carnage, invoked the smell of gunpowder to the viewer, along with fire, smoke, and death.

  The painting was a masterpiece.

  At close to seven metres by five metres, removing the frame from its position of glory five metres high on the wall of the gallery would require planning. But it was not impossible. If it was possible for one man to create such a masterpiece, it would be possible for a team of men to steal it.

  Falling in with a guide and a host of tourists, Cordero played the part of an inquisitive visitor well; this wasn't his first rodeo. He knew the rules of engagement. Invisibility was key.

  The remainder of the tour, although interesting, was spent examining security, adding more research to what the team had already discovered through their planted security guard. Lasers did not protect the Guildhall Gallery in the City of London. A web of infra-red beams was not switched on when the doors were locked, ready to sound the alarms should an inexperienced intruder fall foul of their purpose. But behind the walls and beneath the raised floors was a mesh of sensors. They all connected to the control room in the basement, where a team of guards monitored them around the clock.

  Cordero noted the camera positions, and with a series of timely nods from one of the planted guards standing nearby, he managed to photograph the security challenges they might face under the guise of artistic interest.

  "Erm, excuse me," said the guide, as Cordero leaned over the barrier to photograph a Monet in the corner of the room beneath a security camera. "There is no photography allowed. Did you see the signs?"

  Cordero stepped back from the painting.

  "No entiendo. Lo siento," he replied.

  "No está permitido," said the guide.

  "Ah," said Cordero, feigning a sudden understanding. "Sí, lo siento."

  He finished with an embarrassed smile as the eyes of the tourists all returned to the guide, who continued to explain how German bombers destroyed the gallery during the blitz of World War Two. He described how many of the paintings that were displayed had been temporarily removed and sent for safe keeping just three weeks before a lucky hit from a Nazi pilot destroyed the gallery. Cordero ignored the speech, aware of the gallery's history. Instead, he memorised the brand of the security camera. It was a detail that his photo would have captured, and would allow his tech guys to plan the security breach.

  The tour took another forty minutes to complete, during which Cordero noted several paintings that would be far easier to remove and steal, and were likely worth a great deal more, black market or not. But Dante had specified The Defeat of the Floating Batteries at Gibraltar, claiming it to be a lifetime ambition to own the masterpiece, and because of his ambitious nature, the logistics of the operation were minor details. If Cordero knew Dante as well as he thought he did, it would not be long before the painting would be installed in Dante's house, although he couldn't think where it would go. A painting of such magnitude would require a room with walls far greater and grander than Dante possessed.

  As the guide completed the tour and answered the final question from an Asian tourist, Cordero loitered for the opportunity to thank the guide in his best broken English, and to apologise for his lack of thought, stating that he became overwhelmed with admiration for the painting.

  "It happens every day," said the smiling guide. "I hope you enjoyed the tour?"

  "Ah, sí," said Cordero, in an attempt to sound enthused. "Perfecto."

  The guide opened the door to the staff-only room, and offered Cordero a "Ciao," as he stepped away.

  Cordero took a final glance up the sweeping staircase into the gallery, catching a final glimpse of the target, then turned to leave.

  The walk from the gallery to Liverpool Street Station took just five minutes, and the train to the leafy London suburb of Brentwood was waiting at platform eight. Cordero chose an empty carriage. But three schoolgirls, who appeared to be skipping school, joined him and took a booth a few seats away, laughing at nothing while playing music through the loudspeaker on one of their phones. The girls disembarked at Stratford Station where a man entered and selected a seat at the far end of the carriage.

  Cordero searched through the images he'd taken before the guide had caught him snapping photos. He sent them to Diego as instructed. Diego would ensure the team received the images. By the time Cordero arrived back at the garage, plans would already be in motion.

  As the train approached Brentwood, Cordero waited by the doors. The man at the far end of the carriage, who was of slight build and engrossed in his phone, ignored him. A lady at the other end of the carriage, who Cordero had not noticed, collected her bag and was standing beside the doors closest to her seat. She checked her watch and peered out of the window. Perhaps she was checking for her husband who would collect her. Or maybe it was a lover? Cordero could smell her perfume; it was rich, not floral, but light with a hint of sandalwood and fruit. She unfastened the top button of her blouse. Cordero smiled to himself and pictured her steamy clandestine meeting with her infatuate. Perhaps she would allow her hands to wander as he drove them to his house. Perhaps she would offer a glimpse of whatever lay beneath the small skirt she wore; a tease before the delights of their taboo relationship unfolded.

  Cordero followed the woman from the train, down the concrete steps and through the barriers, which had been left open during the day until rush hour, in a move to reduce the manpower needed to manage the station. He slowed his walk and admired the view of her behind, hoping to glimpse whatever the lucky man would be enjoying over the next few hours with her.

  The station was e
mpty. The street outside appeared quiet. The woman turned left.

  Cordero followed.

  She walked thirty metres from the station entrance then, with a practised casual manner, she glanced back once and slipped into the passenger side of a waiting SUV. Cordero slowed then stopped and made to cross the road. He turned his head to check for traffic as the first blow connected with his throat, crushing his windpipe. With wide panicked eyes, he turned to face the attacker but found nobody.

  Cordero gasped for air. He leaned on a post to support himself. Then, from nowhere, his chest felt like it had been hit with a hammer and the static sound of a taser sang like a warning bell as fifty thousand volts raced through his body, stunning his senses. The taser stopped. Cordero reeled from the blast of energy as someone pulled a thick bag over his head. He fought to remove it and lashed out at the attacker, but a hard blow to his gut sucked the wind from him. A second blow, which slammed into his temple, rocked his vision and turned his world from a dizzied array of spinning lights to the peaceful, pitch dark of unconsciousness.

  2

  Long Weight

  "Do you remember I asked for your help, Lola dear?" asked Smokey.

  "I do," Lola replied, "and can I presume that you have some kind of masterplan and the garage has something to do with it?"

  "You'll see," her father replied, and squeezed her hand.

  Samuel, Smokey's driver, pulled the sleek Mercedes minivan up to the doors of Smokey's brand new garage, which had been built in a thicket of trees on the far side of the lake at the south end of his vast property. Lola slid the side door open, stepped out, and waited for Samuel to slide the two stainless steel ramps into place, so she could then wheel her father down into his workshop.

  "I could walk if you'd help me, Lola," said Smokey from inside the van.

  "You heard what Doctor Fenn said, Dad," she replied. "You need to keep the leg elevated and rested to heal."

  "Yes, well, he that can't endure the bad won't live to see the good, Lola."

  Samuel gave her the nod, and helped her guide the wheelchair to the ramp. She stepped up, tilted it back, and lowered her father to the ground.

  "I hate all this," her father complained in his thick London accent.

  Lola pushed the chair past Samuel, leaving him to remove the ramps and park the minivan. She pushed the chair into the garage, which was a brick-built rectangle with a forty-foot-high ceiling and electric rolling shutter doors. The garage was a new addition to the property and contained Smokey's collection of beloved vintage cars.

  "Well," said Lola, "are you going to tell me what this is about?"

  "Lola, sweetheart, before we go inside, I have to tell you something."

  Lola recognised her father's tone.

  "What have you done?"

  "Not me. Well not directly."

  "Just tell me," she said.

  "I had to get some outside help."

  "So? What type of help?"

  "I needed..." He hesitated. "There's no easy way to say it, so I shall just say it. I needed somebody kidnapped."

  "Kidnapped?" said Lola, then checked her voice. "What on earth?" She craned her neck to see through the door.

  "He is exactly who we have been looking for," her father replied. "Now we have him, we will extract the information. It's important, dear. Please, you must understand."

  Once inside the garage and on the smooth, painted screed floor, her father wheeled himself, preferring to maintain his independence as much as possible. Lola walked beside the chair as they approached the far end of the large room.

  A man lay on his back on the floor. Tied to each of his limbs were thick lengths of manila rope. Each hung in long, sweeping curves over four separate roof beams and collated near a pulley in the ceiling space, which ran through a series of other pulleys. A single length of manila rope hung on the far side of the room, and the manner in which the man was tied meant that a tug on the single rope would lift him from the floor and stretch him apart.

  Lola's father stopped his chair at a safe distance from the man, but close enough to see his panicked face. Lola took her place beside him.

  "So, you're awake now. You must be Cordero?" said Smokey.

  Cordero remained silent but continued to search around him, as if some beast lurked out of sight.

  "Do you know who I am, Cordero?"

  The man let his head fall back, overcome by his struggles.

  "Do I look like I care who you are?" he replied. His Spanish accent was thick.

  "Now, now, pleasantries will get you everywhere, my boy. We'll have no more of that."

  "What is it you want?" Cordero asked. "I know nothing. I don't know where I am. I don't know who you are. And I don't know what you want. You want to kill me? Just kill me. You want to let me go? Just let me go. But do not sit there and ask me these idiot questions."

  "My name, my ill-mannered friend, is Smokey the Jew. But you can call me Smokey. Perhaps you've heard of me?"

  "Smokey the what?"

  "Smokey the Jew. It's quite simple."

  "No, I have never heard the name. I don't care who you are, just tell me what you want. All these stupid games..." His voice trailed off into a rant of heavy Spanish.

  "You're in an unfortunate position, and for that, you have your boss to thank. Sadly I don't think you'll get the chance."

  Cordero pulled on his restraints, more out of frustration than a genuine effort to escape.

  "Dad, are you sure-"

  Her father turned to her, his brow furrowed. Lola stopped mid-sentence.

  "Lola, can you leave us please?" he asked.

  "But, Dad-"

  "No buts, ifs or maybes, Lola. Leave the room. Prepare for a small operation. Just as soon as Cordero talks."

  "How will you get-"

  "I'll call Samuel. I'll be okay. Now leave."

  Lola stepped away from her father and took a slow walk back to the door where she stopped, turned, and watched as Smokey wheeled himself closer to Cordero. He spoke softly with genuine compassion.

  "I feel I should take the opportunity to warn you, Cordero," he began, "of the lengths I will go to stop your boss' plans."

  "You think he will care that you have me?" replied Cordero. "You think that somehow you have now the upper hand?" His laughter seemed to hang in the open space, then died as abruptly as it was spat.

  "No, I don't. In fact, I don't think there is one person alive that will miss you. Am I right, Cordero?"

  Cordero remained silent.

  "I presume by your silence that I am right?" said Smokey.

  Lola slunk down out of sight of her father, but with a clear view of Cordero.

  Cordero responded once more with silence.

  "But you will suffer. Brutality is not in my nature, you know? Oh no. It never has been, and I didn't get where I am by dishing out penance to others. I'm not a violent man, but sometimes, Cordero, sometimes the greed and evil that overcomes others just needs to be stopped. And do you know what I think to myself, Cordero?"

  "I don't care what you think. You are insane."

  "I think, what is all this wealth? What are all these possessions? And what is this power if I can't use it to bring a little good back into the world? Because, and this is something I truly believe, the world is a good place, Cordero, full of good people. But sometimes they're led astray, as was Judas Iscariot. He wasn't a bad man. He simply fell foul to human nature. So with all this power and wealth, Cordero, I'm able to steer a select few of the misguided onto the right path. The path of righteousness, as it's so often called."

  Cordero groaned as his own weight took its toll on his arms and legs.

  "What is it you want?" asked Cordero.

  "Your boss has veered from the path of righteousness, Cordero. He has taken a path lined with gold and wealth, but sadly, that path leads to nowhere but hell." Lola's father spoke slowly and articulately. "And with your help, I intend to steer him back onto the path of righteousness."


  Smokey looked up to the end of the room. His eyes conveyed a silent command.

  Lola glimpsed movement from the shadows of a small room at the far end of the garage.

  An upright beam blocked her view, but she was sitting on her haunches, waiting for whoever it was to step into sight. A black jacket, dark jeans and heavy black boots were all Lola could see.

  "This is your last chance, Cordero," said Smokey. "Your last chance at dying a quick and easy death."

  Once more, Cordero's snappy bark of a laugh reverberated around the room.

  "Then I'm afraid you have chosen a path that even I can no longer help," replied Smokey. "You will now suffer. How much, I do not know. But my friend here is highly skilled. He will keep you alive when you hang on the brink of death, and he will reel you back for more. You will tell me what Dante is planning, Cordero, one way or another. How much pain you endure before you do so, well, that's your choice."

  Smokey turned to the figure in black, and even from the distance that Lola was spying on them, she caught the slight nod of her father's head.

  Lola gasped when the figure stepped from the shadows. Framed in the light of the rear window with an almost childish look of intrigue etched on his face may as well have been death himself.

  "Harvey Stone," she whispered.

  Harvey stepped up to Cordero, took a deep breath, and then began.

  Her father no longer acknowledged Harvey, as if by doing so, he removed himself from the imminent atrocities. Harvey required no acknowledgement. His presence filled the room. Lola kneeled, transfixed, at the door and watched as the man who had saved her life only a few months before, so brutal and yet so righteous, took hold of the rope and worked the pulley system. Cordero hung from his limbs rising six inches at a time, powerless to defend himself. He protested; loud, harsh Spanish insults flew from his mouth in rapid bursts until he hung six feet in the air. Then he silenced.