The Island (Rob Stone Book 3) by A P Bateman

Author:A P Bateman [Bateman, A P]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Expendable
Published: 2016-11-12T00:00:00+00:00

27

Stone thought of the things Kathy Newman – or the woman he’d initially thought was Kathy Newman – had said on that first night. She had known that he was the President’s man. His go-to agent in the Secret Service. At the time he had been surprised that his former girlfriend had divulged as much to her. Now, he was sure that she hadn’t. Isobel would not have betrayed his trust gossiping about what he did in the Secret Service. She would have told her friend that he might be able to help, and she would have helped set up a meeting, which she had, calling Stone to ask him to consider meeting with her friend.

It made sense now. Stone had been the victim of a counter intelligence operation by agents’ unknown. They had tapped and monitored his phone, diverted his calls, done the same with Isobel’s phone in New York, listened to conversations and drawn a plan based on the data they had recovered. They would have watched him, followed him, learned from him. They had probably got into his emails via Isobel’s. He knew they had taken control of his cell phone and listened to and deleted his voicemails. When Kathy Newman had contacted Isobel with her dark web story and her missing computer and web expert, they had inserted an agent to impersonate Kathy Newman. They had the upper hand then, and they’d had it ever since.

He shifted in the grass, but kept his movements slow. The pistol was comforting in his hand. It was close to bring to aim.

The first gunshot rang out, the bullet piercing his crisp white shirt just left of dead centre. The bullet travelled through the back and into the jungle beyond. A second shot sounded and found its mark next to the second. Stone did not move. He was laying deathly still on the ground.

Minutes passed and the gunman emerged on the fringe of the jungle. He held the rifle relaxed in his hands, his finger off the trigger, the muzzle towards the ground. Good weapon drills, experienced. It was all but dark, a hunter’s moon low in the sky. The gunman stood over his target. He rested the rifle against the same tree that had blocked his target’s head from view, bent lower to inspect his kill.

Stone was up and behind him, the grass he had covered himself with falling off him as he stood, the pistol aimed at the centre of the gunman’s back.

“Don’t move,” he said quietly.

The gunman flinched, then regained a little composure. He shook his head disbelievingly, smiled. He went to stand up but Stone jabbed him so hard in the spine with the muzzle of the pistol that he let out a howl and fell forwards onto his stomach. It was a substantial blow, would have moved the vertebrae a little, pinched the spinal cord. It would take a chiropractor some work to straighten the man up again. Nevertheless, he knelt up slowly, wincing at the pain and tugged at the white shirt which Stone had stuffed with pampas grass.

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