Stone Cold Series Boxset 3 Read online

  The Stone Cold Thriller Series: Books 7-9

  A Stone Cold Thriller Boxset.

  J. D. Weston

  Contents

  Free Starter Library

  Stone Game

  1. Noah’s Ark

  2. No Escape

  3. Small Sacrifice

  4. Strange Days

  5. A Light in the Dark

  6. Beast Dreams

  7. Dark Days

  8. Release the Monster

  9. Demon

  10. Wood for the Trees

  11. Days of the Beast

  12. Catching a Demon

  13. Abduction

  14. Choices

  15. Old Times

  16. Dark Reality

  17. The Eyes of the Beast

  18. A Kiss from the Beast

  19. A Game of Pain

  20. Sacrifice

  21. Fire

  22. The End of an Era

  23. Fly Beast Fly

  Stone Raid

  1. Hello Sweetheart

  2. Demonios Gemelos

  3. Creep

  4. Mad Bob Says

  5. War Beast

  6. Waking the Beast

  7. Twin Demons

  8. Cursed

  9. Gone Girl

  10. Diamond Love

  11. Waiting Arms

  12. Old Dogs

  13. Chapel of Love

  14. Burn Baby Burn

  15. The Worm Turns

  16. Fall From Grace

  17. Smokey

  18. A New Beginning

  Stone Deep

  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

  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

  Acknowledgments

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  Stone Game

  The

  Stone Cold Thriller Series

  Book 7

  1

  Noah’s Ark

  When the doors of Pentonville Prison closed behind Noah Finn and he smelled the fresh air, he knew that life on the outside would be harder than on the inside. At least while he was serving his time, guards could lock him in, and other inmates who preyed upon men like him could be kept away, as long as Noah played the game and reciprocated the good deed when the time came.

  It had only been three years since he walked as a free man and nothing much had changed, except the sky was blue and cars were newer and more modern looking. On the inside, Noah had developed eyes in the back of his head. An almost sixth sense of situational awareness was the result of an extremely difficult first three months. He'd been beaten, raped and forced to do shocking things to other men with the point of a sharpened tool in his ear as motivation.

  On the train to his old home in Dunmow, Essex, he found a seat at the far end of the carriage where he could see the other passengers and anyone who came in from the next carriage. He would be ready. Something else he'd learned; it wasn't good enough just to know where everybody was, he needed to be ready to defend himself whatever way he could.

  He watched London slip by and give way to the green fields of the Essex countryside. It was the middle of the day and a few other passengers shared the journey with him. All of them were oblivious to the man who was sitting at the end of the carriage, and the terrible things he'd done.

  Eventually, the train stopped in Chelmsford, where Noah disembarked and made his way to the bus station outside. It seemed an age since he'd been there, and he remembered it well, despite the local council's vain attempts to keep it looking fresh.

  Standing waiting for the bus that would pass through his village of Dunmow, he felt vulnerable. He was aware of his appearance; his dirty old running shoes, tracksuit bottoms and an old leather jacket were all the clothes he had. His smarter jeans had been ruined on his first day inside when he'd been accidentally left alone with two other inmates. Maybe it had been a genuine mistake, but Noah thought otherwise. He knew it had been a chance for the guards to size him up, to see if he would be trouble, to see if he would fight back, cry or just take his punishment. Noah Finn had curled into a ball on the floor and taken the beating. He hadn't cried, it had all happened too fast; the tears had come when he was taken to his cell and left alone for the first time.

  The bus arrived and Noah stepped on, glad to be somewhere relatively safe. He noted the cameras on the bus; they hadn't been there before he'd been away. It gave him a sense of security. He kept telling himself that he'd paid his penance, and he was now a free man. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that society hadn't forgotten, and they never would.

  The ride took thirty minutes, and Noah allowed himself a smile at the familiar sights. He made a plan. He'd pick up a few things from the store and then go home, where he'd stay for a few days. It would take that long to get his things together and his money sorted. Then he could leave, and go find somewhere he wouldn't be recognised. A new life was what he needed. A fresh start.

  The bus stopped at the north end of the village, and Noah stepped onto the pavement. He habitually looked left and right and then behind him before he began walking at a brisk pace towards the big store halfway down the high street. He glanced over his shoulder and avoided eye contact with the few people he passed by looking into the shop windows. Thankfully, nobody recognised him.

  He began to feel safer when he turned into his quiet street. His house was the third from the end, a semi-detached three-bedroom house that his parents had left him. A part of Noah was thankful that his parents were dead. They'd be destroyed by the shame. But part of him wished his mum was alive; he always felt safe with her. She had died a few years after his father, and as he walked along his street, he remembered how they'd sit together in the evenings. Noah had often been taunted by the local children for his appearance. He knew he had the look of a dummy, he knew his jaw hung open, and that his eyes were too close together. He knew his clothes weren't fashionable.

  The kids had thrown stones at him and called him names. Some of it was because his parents were strict churchgoers and seemed to be stuck in the fifties or sixties. But he knew that he didn't help matters by the way he looked. One time, some boys had found him in the woods at the end of his street. It was the only place he could go to relieve himself when he got the urge. His parents wouldn't allow their son to molest himself in the house, and though he had his own room, their strong belief in
God made him feel as if He was there, even though he secretly didn't believe himself. A stone had hit him on the back of his head, and he'd fallen over with his tracksuit bottoms around his ankles. That was when the taunting got really bad.

  Noah's father woke up one morning to find the word 'wanker' sprayed across his old Ford Cortina, and people began to cross the street when Noah was walking towards them. Word had apparently spread around the small village.

  Those boys would be adults now, thought Noah, as he pushed the gate of his house open and closed it behind him. He wondered if they would remember him, or if it would all be put down to childhood shenanigans. He wondered if they'd still call him 'Nobby Noah' if they saw him. He didn't know why he cared what they thought or if they'd remember him. None of it would matter in a few days.

  But he knew three girls who would never forget. He also knew that three girls meant three families, brothers, fathers and mothers who would all know sooner or later that Noah had been released. If he could keep his head down for a few days until his money came through from the transfer, he would be okay.

  He stepped through the overgrown garden to the familiar brown front door, which now had flaky paintwork and abusive insults sprayed across the small glass window at the top. He shut the door behind him and leaned back onto it. Closing his eyes, Noah took deep breaths. He was safe.

  He pulled the small security chain across to its locked position and let his eyes wash across the large hallway. The parquet flooring was just as he remembered it, dirty and dusty, but exactly as it had been. The flowery wallpaper his father had hung was peeling in some of the corners, and a simple wooden statue of Jesus on a cross was fixed to the centre of the wall between the front door and the entrance to the living room.

  The house was large with huge bay windows at the front and a great chimney breast in the living room. The journey and his emotions had got the better of him and, seeing the couches in the front room, he realised how exhausted he was. He tested the lights; the electricity was still on. The bills had been paid automatically from his account while he had been away.

  He took a seat on the green couch and gently bounced twice, relishing the comfort. His mother's crocheted blanket hung over the back, just as Noah had left it. The TV wasn't a flash flat screen. It was big and boxy, and he had to stand to turn it on. He'd had a nicer TV in his cell, but not his mum's comfy green couch.

  While he was up, he took his small bag of groceries to the kitchen. The huge butler sink was empty, and his mum's pans and cooking implements hung on the walls all around it. The old gas stove seemed to have an angry face due to the position of the knobs and handles. The pantry door was closed. Noah knew it would be a mess inside. He knew the perishable food would either be stale or already eaten by whatever rodents had got in, but there would be tinned food. With the addition of the few items he had in his bag, he would get by for a few days.

  "Just a few days," he told himself, smelling the musty, stale scent of his old home. Beyond the kitchen was the small glass conservatory his father had built when Noah was a boy. He recalled how he wasn't allowed to help in case a piece of glass fell and cut him in half. He also remembered that the conservatory could be looked into from the forest at the end of the garden. He wouldn't go out there.

  It was a light summer evening, and he'd had a long day, so Noah ventured upstairs. He was looking forward to changing out of the clothes from the prison. Most inmates had clothes brought in for them. But those who either didn't have anybody or couldn't afford it wore the clothes they came in with or whatever was left behind by previous inmates. Noah had been given a pair of old tracksuit bottoms, which he'd taken to the shower room with him to wash.

  The old bath taps gave some resistance, but eventually, after coughing and spluttering, and an initial brown offering, they had produced clean water, and it was hot. He let the water run and walked to his old bedroom. The bed was unmade but everything was as he had left it three years earlier. It was a mess. The police had turned the place upside down. It was as if they had known where to look. They'd found the girls' underwear beneath his drawer inside the cabinet, but had turned the place upside down anyway.

  He stepped over the mess and pulled out some clean clothes and a towel from his cupboard. Then he stripped, wrapped the towel around himself and headed back to the bathroom. The bath was halfway full when he stepped in, relishing the clean feel of the water and the hot steam cleansing his body. Showers inside had been sparse and brief or had been long and painful if he timed it wrong. He was pleased to sit in the water, and a small guilty smile crept onto his face as he laid his head back and put his arms on the bath edge.

  That was Noah's mistake.

  It was fifteen minutes later when he tried to turn the water off that he realised he couldn't move his arms. They were stuck to the bathtub. He panicked and tried to rip them off, but whatever held him there began to tear his skin. He kicked the tap off with his foot as his heart rate climbed and confusion set in. His skin was stuck by some kind of adhesive. But it was impossible.

  Then he heard the voice outside the door.

  2

  No Escape

  "Isn't it wonderful?" said Melody, staring out of the window of their rented campervan as Harvey coaxed it around the tight country lanes. "Don't you miss England?"

  Harvey didn't reply at first. He finished taking the bend then straightened the van and selected fourth gear before he glanced across at Melody, who was sitting doe-eyed at the rolling fields and green trees.

  "It's nice, yeah," replied Harvey eventually.

  "Just nice?" asked Melody with a smile. "I love England at this time of year, the countryside and the rolling hills, the birds. It makes me wonder what life was like when things were simpler."

  Harvey didn't reply.

  "I love the colours in the grasses and the trees and the blue sky," said Melody. "I love the way the fields seem to join like a patchwork quilt that stretches on forever."

  "Have you spoken to Reg?" asked Harvey. "You said you were going to call him to arrange meeting up."

  Melody knew the romance of the scenery was beyond Harvey, and she let the change in conversation go as easily as it had come.

  "Yeah, I spoke to him yesterday. I told you I did," said Melody. "Don't you remember me saying?"

  Harvey didn't reply.

  "What is wrong with you?" asked Melody.

  Harvey glanced across at her.

  "Harvey, your silent, sultry demeanour won't work with me. Tell me what's wrong."

  "Nothing's wrong, Melody. Tell me about Reg and dinner. Will Jess be there?"

  Melody eyed Harvey, who purposely looked away and out of his own window.

  "Yes, she'll be there. I'm looking forward to seeing them. It seems weird Reg having a girlfriend, doesn't it?"

  "Are you going to give me directions?" asked Harvey.

  Melody understood Harvey's tone. She knew not to push for an answer; it would come eventually, maybe when he was ready to talk.

  "Just stay on this road and turn right at the end," replied Melody.

  They drove on in silence. The glorious countryside around them overshadowed the fractious mood.

  By the time they had reached the end of the long and winding lane, some thirty minutes later, the signs for Dunmow began to appear more frequently, and Harvey began to provoke conversation with Melody.

  "So, this is where you grew up then, is it?" he said, seemingly impressed.

  "Not far from here. We lived in the village, the campsite is close to our old house," said Melody. "I wouldn't mind taking a walk around there at some point to see the place."

  Harvey didn't reply.

  Instead, he turned a corner near an old cottage with a huge thatched roof. The high street stretched out before them.

  "So?" said Melody. "What do you think?"

  "It's nice," said Harvey. "I like it."

  "It used to be a lot smaller when mum and dad were younger, but it's such a pretty place. I th
ink it still has most of its charm."

  "Where are they buried?" asked Harvey.

  "Not far, in the next village, we'll go there now."

  "The next village?"

  "Yeah, it's a stunning little place called Little Easton. They got married there too."

  Harvey didn't reply.

  "That's where I'd like to get married, Harvey, so mum and dad can be there. It's a beautiful church."

  Melody watched for a reaction from the corner of her eye. Harvey slowed for a pedestrian crossing and turned to look at her, catching her sly stare.

  "If that's what you want," he replied.

  "You wouldn't mind?" she asked, surprised at how easy it had been to convince him.

  "Why would I mind?"

  "I don't know, maybe you had ideas of your own."

  "I did," replied Harvey. "My idea was to get out of crime, move to France, ride my motorbike and sit on the beach for the rest of my life. And now look, I'm getting married to an MI6 operative, and we've got a dog and a bloody camper van."