Stone Cold Read online

  Stone could not see any other play, so he dropped his rucksack on one of the chairs opposite the young man, placed the shotgun down on the table. He sat down, moved the weapon, and pressed the muzzle against the man’s stomach. He didn’t look at the other three men, but he sensed they had watched and two of them had turned back to the game, the other to the mystery in the bottom of his glass. The guy managed to swallow his mouthful, put down the rest of the sandwich.

  “Keys,” Stone said.

  “Look, man…”

  “Keys.”

  “Hey, dude, I’m sorry,” the man hesitated. “Anyone would have done the same thing.”

  “I wouldn’t have,” Stone paused. “Where’s your buddy?”

  The man smiled, his demeanor changing. “Right behind you.”

  “I bet,” Stone shrugged, then said, “You going to take a seat?”

  “No, figure I’ll stay standing,” the voice was deep, but it went with the guy. Stone knew him to be around six-three and two-twenty. He was tattooed and his head was shaved too. “Move the gun away from my brother.”

  “Or?”

  “Or I’ll bust open your damned head!”

  “You think you can do it without me pulling the trigger?” Stone shrugged. “Twelve-gauge, three-and-a-half-inch magnum, double-oh buckshot. Good for bears. And no good brothers, too.” Stone felt the man near him, his breath - stale and foul-smelling. Cigarettes, coffee, beer, and a distinct lack of brushing. He could smell the man’s body-odor as well. He looked at the three men at the bar. The game and the bottom of the glass were no longer so interesting now that the other brother had changed the dynamic of the confrontation.

  The man stepped nearer. He wore an open denim waistcoat over a leather jacket. Biker style. The open flaps of material brushed Stone’s right ear. “I might just break your neck before you can fire.”

  Stone shrugged. “You won’t.”

  “Oh, he will,” the man opposite him said with a smile. “He’ll kick your ass, that’s for sure.”

  Stone pushed his chair backwards into the man and flicked the shotgun up like a whip, the ventilated rib running along the top of the barrel cracked into the man’s face and forehead with a sickening crunch. Stone kicked the table in front of him, driving it away with his heavy hiking boot, pushing the table into the other man’s waist as he made to stand. The man was knocked off balance, became entangled in his own chair and stumbled. Stone stood up and took a big step aside from the table and chairs, the flailing legs of the guy whose face was bleeding but looked to have been improved by the broken nose and split lip.

  The man regained balance and turned, but Stone wasn’t where he thought he would be. He looked at his brother, sprawled and groaning, then at Stone, who had the pump-action shotgun leveled at him. “You’re making a mistake…” he growled.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Stone paused. “And it sure as hell won’t be the last.”

  “Oh, it will be.”

  Stone reached into his pocket with his left hand, withdrew a ten-dollar bill and dropped it onto the table. “For the mess,” Stone called out to the barman. “We’ll be going now,” he added. He nodded towards the man on the floor. “Pick your brother up. We’ll take this outside.”

  The young man was attempting a staring contest, but Stone hadn’t even entered. He lifted the shotgun and leveled it, one-handed, at the man’s chest. He got the message and stepped around the table to help his brother to his feet. The bigger man still clutched his nose as he limped towards the exit.

  Stone looked back at the bar and the baseball game was still on, the mystery solved at the bottom of the glass, the man starting on another drink. The three men did not seem bothered. They had all seen a hell of a lot worse.

  Stone hooked the strap of his rucksack and slung it over his left shoulder, keeping the Remington shotgun in his right hand. Both men seemed to hesitate at the door. Stone stopped. Three paces was generally considered to be a safe distance if you had a gun. Any less and he could be drawn into hand-to-hand combat. “Move on,” he said. They did, but as they stood on the deck, at the top of the four wooden steps, they stopped again.

  “Help you?”

  Stone could not see the owner of the voice. He stepped forwards a pace and jabbed the shotgun into the younger man’s back, right on the man’s left kidney, then he stepped back again. The taller guy had his own problems, his face was still bleeding. The younger man dropped down the steps, his back arched and contorted at the stab of pain, but he didn’t drop to his knees. He was tough enough. He straightened up and side-glanced Stone defiantly. Stone looked at the new arrival. He was in his mid-sixties and looked like he’d had a hard life. He was as broad as a barn door and tough looking. He was tall too. Six-four. Four inches taller than Stone, and perhaps thirty-pounds heavier.

  “I said, can I help you?”

  “I heard,” replied Stone. He kept the shotgun steady. It was just as well because the man had one of his own. “I don’t see that it’s any business of yours, but these two men stole my pickup when I stopped to help them out a couple of days ago. Their car was out of fuel.”

  “Where was this?”

  “About three-hundred miles back.”

  “And you walked here, when?”

  “Like I said, not that it’s any business of yours, but this was two days ago, and I got into town just now. Hitched some rides, walked a few miles.”

  “These men have been here a while.” The man paused. “Longer than a couple of days.”

  “No longer than yesterday.”

  “Maybe you have them confused with some other guys?”

  “Not a chance.” Stone paused. “So why are you lying for them?”

  “I’m not lying for them. And like I said, they’ve been here a while.”

  “And that definitely makes you a liar.”

  “Careful, boy…”

  Stone glared at him and said, “There’s no mistake. Besides, I doubt there are two other guys this ugly, or who smell so bad, in the vicinity.” He paused. “Not the whole west of Alaska, for that matter. Present company excluded, obviously.”

  “Smart guy,” the man said.

  “It’s better than the alternative, that’s for sure. How’s that working out for you?”

  The man looked at the two men in turn, then nodded towards the pickup. “Give him the keys, and we’ll end this here.”

  The younger brother looked defiant. “But…”

  “But nothing!” the man snapped. He lowered his shotgun. “Give him the God-damned keys!”

  The bigger, older brother dug into his pocket and retrieved the key bunch. He walked down the steps and tossed them at Stone’s feet. Stone made no attempt to catch them, holding the shotgun as steady as a rock.

  “We’ve got our stuff in the truck,” the younger man protested.

  “I’ll be keeping it,” Stone said. “Call it compensation.”

  “Bullshit!” the older brother snapped, his nose still bleeding. “It ain’t worth that.”

  Stone fired the shotgun at the ground between all three men. The mud splattered them, and gravel flew up into their faces. Stone racked the slide and chambered another round before the big man with the gun had time to move. He had moved two paces to his right as he had pumped the slide and now had one of the eight-by-eight support posts lining the porch deck in front of him. It wasn’t much, but it was more cover than the other men had.

  “I’ll take what’s there,” Stone repeated calmly. “Call it a lesson. You learn that when you cross some people you come off worse. You learn from this and move on. You come my way again looking for trouble, and I will end it. Permanently.”

  The younger man looked like he was about to do something stupid, and the older guy stepped between them. “Get in my truck,” he said. “Now!” Both men walked over to a new silver-colored Chevy truck with an engine so large that it could kick-start a power station. They opened the doors and got inside in the same subdued man
ner two chastised schoolboys might have. The man turned back to Stone and stared at him. “So, are you heading out?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Nothing here but wilderness.”

  “Same all over this state.”

  “Dangerous place, the wilderness. Predators everywhere.”

  “You’d better take good care then,” Stone replied. He still had the shotgun steady in his hand, the buttstock squeezed under his armpit, his elbow resting on his hip. It was a well-practiced method of firing with one hand. In Stone’s former line of work, he always needed his other hand free.

  “I think you know what I mean.”

  “You’re a liar, so forgive me if I ignore what you have to say.”

  “It might pay for you to keep moving.”

  “Are you running me out of town?” Stone smirked, glancing at the shotgun in his hand and the man’s shotgun which still pointed to the ground. “Because I seem to have the advantage here.”

  “For now. But advantages change.”

  “I don’t run. So, I’m feeling inclined to stay and leave when I’m good and ready.”

  “Look, it’s a big state, half the size of the rest of America,” the man sighed. “I need these two guys, and it might save a lot of trouble if they didn’t come back to have another go at you.”

  “It won’t be any trouble. They come back, cause me trouble and I’ll cripple them.”

  “That’s a felony, to threaten like that.”

  “It’s not a threat, it’s a promise.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  Stone smiled. “The difference is that a threat infers the chance of consequence. I made a promise. There will be consequence. And it will be what I say it is.”

  “Hard ass, eh?”

  Stone shrugged. He kept the shotgun aimed at the man, but he noted that the man did not appear overly concerned. Stone curled up the toes of his right foot, lowered the weapon and rested the tip of the muzzle on the last half an inch of his boot’s toe cap, all gap, and no toes. No chance of getting debris in the barrel, and it acted like a launchpad should he need to get the weapon back on target. Push-pull. Push with his foot, pull with his right hand. Both weapons were no longer threatening, but Stone was confident he could win a quick draw. “What do you need those guys for? Are you related or something?”

  “Nope. But I need them to work for me.”

  “Mining?”

  “Why are you interested all of a sudden?”

  “Just getting the lay of the land.”

  “Not a good idea to stick around.”

  “And I suppose that is a threat?”

  “No. Just being practical,” the man said. “Those boys are staying. I need them. They will inevitably come into town. If you’re here… well, you just laid down the gauntlet. There’ll be trouble. You don’t need to be here. You’ve got your truck back, got their belongings as compensation. Just hit the road and nobody has to get hurt.” He paused, held up a hand. “Practical, is all.”

  Stone considered this for a moment, shrugged. “I’m getting a steak, staying the night, and having some breakfast. I think I will have seen enough of this place by then.”

  The man nodded. “Good idea.” He turned around, then hesitated, turned back, and looked at Stone. “I didn’t catch the name.”

  “I didn’t throw it.”

  The man smiled, turned his back on him and walked to his truck.

  Stone watched him leave. Watched as the truck drove down the strip and disappeared. He was hungry and the next town was over a hundred miles to the north. He was too tired to start the drive, needed to rest. He had walked thirty-five miles today, between the truck rides. He gathered up his rucksack and walked over to the pickup truck.

  Despite what he had told Katy McBride, the truck wasn’t a banger and was only four years old and in good condition. It had only covered a hundred-thousand miles. Nothing by Alaskan standards. Barely run in. He had part-exchanged it for a vehicle he had purchased in Seattle. He thought the Alaskan plates would help him to blend in, but short of a flashing beacon he could not have drawn more attention on the drive up. The Alaskan people knew their own and everyone he met had asked him where he was from and where he was heading. The Seattle plates hadn’t helped.

  He opened the rear door and looked around inside. The men had bags and loose clothing scattered on the rear seats. There were grocery bags, and a good deal of garbage, the men having eaten their way through a couple of gas station picnics on the three-hundred-mile drive. A few drive-thru meals as well.

  He found the cellphone. A burner. A drugstore pay-as-you-go. He had seen the two men, both texting and scrolling away on their smartphones. He had seen the basic phone, been curious why they should have needed a third. Their old Pontiac Firebird, beaten and worn-out, had died on them. With no working fuel gauge, they had underestimated pit stops. When Stone had happened upon them, they had been broken down on a quiet stretch of road, ill-prepared for the Alaskan bush and about to face the prospect of a freezing night, and no apparent protection from bears. They had exhausted their mechanical expertise; the car was dead. It looked as if the fuel pump had objected to no fuel supply going through it and cracked like a brittle plastic bottle. The two men were in trouble. Stone, who had kept a classic Mustang on the road for many years to the detriment of his bank balance, had popped the hood and investigated, but he estimated about four major problems that needed a ramp, a welder, and a seriously competent mechanic before they even addressed filling it with gas. He offered to take them to the nearest large town, but there were not many to choose from. Hope Falls was going to be the best bet. Either that, or the four-hundred miles south to Anchorage. The two men had not wanted that at all. They were adamant they needed to head north. They were due to start a well-paying job, and work had been short, and money even shorter. Stone had enquired about their line of work, assuming mining or fishing, but was swiftly shut down. Alaska. Everyone was running from something.

  After a dozen miles the bigger of the two men had needed to take a call of nature. Stone had stopped the truck and the man had taken himself off into the undergrowth. Stone had not talked with the younger guy. The man was not the talkative type. He had gotten out, circled the truck and smoked a cigarette. Stone waited at the wheel. When the man returned, he had pointed at one of the rear tires. He said it was down on air and they should check it before moving off. It looked a little spongy, but there was no sound of air escaping and as Stone was not carrying a pump, they decided it would be better to change to the spare.

  Stone felt foolish now, as he reflected on the events. More annoyed with himself than anything. He had spent almost ten years as a soldier. A life of regimentation and professionalism, but later, as he served in special forces, he had learned to out-think his enemy, to counter them. He had been taught to follow his instincts and be suspicious of most things, and of all people. After the military, his world had changed, but his instincts had only been honed further. The Secret Service had almost given him a sixth sense and he had lived this far, to his mid-thirties, by trusting his instincts and staying ahead of the game. He had not seen the younger brother let out the air. He had not noticed the exchange of looks between them, although he recalled them now.

  Stone had taken out his rucksack and dropped it on the dry, frozen earth. He had then hefted out the jack and the wheel brace and the two brothers had changed the wheel quickly. One received a text, but not on his smartphone. The other had looked at it, but he could not recall whose phone it had been. Stone was putting the tire into the spare wheel rack underneath the pickup bed, when the younger brother bent down to help. The phone had dropped out of his pocket and skidded in front of Stone as he crouched under the tailgate of the vehicle. The message was still open on the screen. It had been enough. The brothers had moved, as had Stone, but they had been quicker. The older man had Stone’s shotgun in his hand, jacking a round into the chamber, but Stone was fast and had thrown the tire iron at
the man’s shin. The shot had gone wide, and Stone had taken off through the undergrowth, zig-zagged his way through alder bushes, which were stunted and wispy from the cold. The brothers had not followed, but they had taken off quickly. Stone returned from a devious route through the alders and saplings and headed a hundred yards back up the road to find his rucksack, the jack and the wheel brace discarded in the dirt. The truck had left deep wheel ruts where the big V8 had spun the wheels. Night had come all too soon, and Stone had camped out. He was no stranger to surviving and had excellent bushcraft skills, and he had a fire going soon enough, cut the alder to make a bed to insulate him from the frozen ground, and he had struck out along the road in the morning. After a couple of hours, an eighteen-wheeler had stopped and given him a lift to the next town and the driver had shared a flask of coffee with him. Stone had enough money for a few more stops yet. He bought an old and well-used Remington pump-action at the general stores and enough shells to load it and carry a few in reserve and he had followed the roads north and west. He had known which direction to walk in, having recalled the body of the text. He had known where to find the two men, but he had also needed to know more. It was in his nature.

  Stone watched the road that led out of town. The truck had long gone. But he figured it would be back soon enough. And he figured he had not seen the last of the two brothers, either. He had seen the text, and that was enough. Whatever they had traveled here to do, the text had potentially incriminated them. It had simply read: Lame Horse. I need it done. No witnesses.

  Chapter Three

  Stone drove the pickup across the road and the dirt parking lot and parked at the rear of the motel. He switched off the engine and got out, then reached in under the driver’s seat. He felt for the package he had taped up a week earlier. It was still in place. He leaned across the foot-well and did the same with the other seat. The two men had not searched the vehicle, and he felt a huge sense of relief to know he still had funds and protection in place. Money and a gun. He didn’t need much more than that. He took out the .45 model 1911 and checked the chamber. The brass cartridge glinted in the late afternoon sun. The pistol was a tried and tested design and originally made by Colt. Many manufacturers now made the weapon after its patent had run out. This one was a Remington and as standard as the original GI model as it was possible to get. Checkered walnut grips and fixed low-profile sights. Stone tucked it under his jacket into his belt and fished out a spare magazine from underneath the seat.