Action & Adventure
![Stuart Woods - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_stuart_woods.jpg)
Class Act (A Stone Barrington Novel)
Stone Barrington takes down old and new enemies in the latest thriller from perennial fan favorite Stuart Woods.
After a rocky jaunt in Maine, Stone Barrington is settling back in New York City when an old client reaches out for help with a delicate matter. A feud they thought was put to rest long ago has reemerged with a vengeance, and reputations-and money-are now on the line.
As Stone sets out to unravel a tangled web of crime and secrets, his mission becomes even more complicated when he makes an irresistible new acquaintance. In both the underbelly and upper echelons of New York, everyone has something to hide-and if Stone has learned anything, it's that history has a way of repeating itself…
After a rocky jaunt in Maine, Stone Barrington is settling back in New York City when an old client reaches out for help with a delicate matter. A feud they thought was put to rest long ago has reemerged with a vengeance, and reputations-and money-are now on the line.
As Stone sets out to unravel a tangled web of crime and secrets, his mission becomes even more complicated when he makes an irresistible new acquaintance. In both the underbelly and upper echelons of New York, everyone has something to hide-and if Stone has learned anything, it's that history has a way of repeating itself…
Readers Top Reviews
ginger
There are about 30 pages of the book that are missing, and about 30 pages of another book inserted into the book. Hard to follow the plot when you loose 30 pages in the middle of the book. Not very happy
colleen van balkom
As usual Stuart Woods didn’t disappoint! Love his books, especially Stone Barrington novels! I couldn’t put it down! All of his books are great !
Loves to ReadD. Bris
The story, as always very interesting. Hard to write this review without revealing spoilers. As a long time fan of the Stone Barrington,I feel the author changed the character to a lower level. Who sleeps with a known mafia hit person knowing she has him on her hit list.
CallieFrancine WingC
Stone Barrington has been turned into a sex crazed, snobbish bore. The way he talks, the way he treats/uses women and the way he conducts his life is not the Stone of the earlier books. He’s become a predictable character and the stories are repetitively ridiculous. Stuart Woods has a warped idea of what a strong male character should look like and the qualities he should have.
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
Stone Barrington hipped his way out of a cab (the Bentley was being serviced) and found a discreet doorway with a polished brass number. He rang a bell, which was answered by a silken female voice. "How may I help you?" She made it sound more like a bordello than what he was looking for.
"Stone Barrington to see John Coulter."
"Please come in." A buzzer gently sounded.
Stone entered the doorway, which led him to another doorway, that led to a comfortably furnished sitting room-Chesterfield sofa, wing chairs, etcetera-which made the place seem more like an exclusive gentleman's club. A young woman in a Chanel suit sat behind a large, mahogany desk. "Good morning," she said, identifying herself by her voice as the person Stone had heard on the intercom. "Mr. Barrington?"
"Yes."
"Will you follow me?"
That turned out to be an unexpected pleasure, as the suit was snug and its contents shapely. She led him to a door bearing a brass-plate placard: lark was imprinted upon it. She knocked gently, but firmly. There was a muffled response, then she opened the door and stood back for Stone to enter first.
The room was akin to a junior suite in an upscale boutique hotel. Once the door had closed behind him, he found that even the hospital bed was made of mahogany, as was the rack beside it, from which a pair of IV bags were draped. The lighting was pleasant, without the usual glare, a cheerful conflagration burned in a gas fireplace and a silk dressing gown hung from a peg on the wall near the foot of the bed.
"Stone?" a man's voice asked. "Is that you? It hurts to open my eyes." The man was unidentifiable, because of a large bandage across the bridge of his nose.
"It is I, Jack. I hope you feel a good deal better than you look."
"They just gave me some morphine. It will kick in shortly, then I'll feel human again." Jack Coulter's voice was the well-modulated, upper-accented baritone Stone had expected.
"Ahhhh," Jack breathed.
"The morphine kicked in?"
"I'm probably going to become addicted before they let me out of here. Would you like a drink?"
"What, grain alcohol?"
"There's a bar in the cupboard over there." Jack waved a hand.
Stone opened the door and found a full wet bar-sink, ice machine, a row of Baccarat whiskey glasses, and a dozen choices of libation. He found a bottle of Knob Creek bourbon, filled a glass with ice, then filled that with bourbon. "I'm not offering you one, because I don't think you should mix booze and morphine," he said.
"I don't need it," Jack said contentedly. "Have a seat."
Stone pulled up a well-padded, burnished leather armchair and sank into it. Jack seemed to doze for a moment. Stone took the opportunity to reminisce about his first encounter with the man who had walked into his office, in his Turtle Bay townhouse, a few years back. He was maybe six-four, 250, wearing a dated suit that he could barely button. He had had a haircut that had been inflicted entirely with electric shears, and had been carrying a large suitcase and a smaller, non-matching duffel. He was frightening, until he spoke, in a voice much like the one he used now. He was also a good storyteller.
His name was John Fratelli, he said, and he had been a guest at an upstate hostelry called Sing Sing, until early that morning. He had spent the past twenty-three years there and had served all his time, without application for parole.
That explained the haircut, Stone thought, and the twenty-three years explained the suit. Stone inquired as to why he had not accepted parole. Fratelli explained that he had had an obligation to protect a fellow resident, who was smaller and weaker than he, and who had been in increasingly delicate health for the past three years. A few days earlier, he had died in his bed. His name was Eduardo Buono.
Fratelli's name meant nothing to Stone, but Buono's rang a loud bell. He had been the mastermind behind the heist of fifteen million dollars from a currency-handling operation at John F. Kennedy Airport, after which he had distributed half the take among a half dozen abettors, then vanished into the mists with the other seven and a half million, after instructing them not to spend a penny of the money for a year. They had, of course, paid off their bookies, were fitted with new wardrobes, and drove shiny new Cadillacs off dealers' lots-all this in the first two weeks after their score. When arrested and confronted with their misdeeds and the sentences they would probably draw, they had ratted out, as the expression goes, their benefactor, Eduardo Buono, who thereafter never said a word to anybody until he met John Fratelli, on the bus from Rikers I...
Stone Barrington hipped his way out of a cab (the Bentley was being serviced) and found a discreet doorway with a polished brass number. He rang a bell, which was answered by a silken female voice. "How may I help you?" She made it sound more like a bordello than what he was looking for.
"Stone Barrington to see John Coulter."
"Please come in." A buzzer gently sounded.
Stone entered the doorway, which led him to another doorway, that led to a comfortably furnished sitting room-Chesterfield sofa, wing chairs, etcetera-which made the place seem more like an exclusive gentleman's club. A young woman in a Chanel suit sat behind a large, mahogany desk. "Good morning," she said, identifying herself by her voice as the person Stone had heard on the intercom. "Mr. Barrington?"
"Yes."
"Will you follow me?"
That turned out to be an unexpected pleasure, as the suit was snug and its contents shapely. She led him to a door bearing a brass-plate placard: lark was imprinted upon it. She knocked gently, but firmly. There was a muffled response, then she opened the door and stood back for Stone to enter first.
The room was akin to a junior suite in an upscale boutique hotel. Once the door had closed behind him, he found that even the hospital bed was made of mahogany, as was the rack beside it, from which a pair of IV bags were draped. The lighting was pleasant, without the usual glare, a cheerful conflagration burned in a gas fireplace and a silk dressing gown hung from a peg on the wall near the foot of the bed.
"Stone?" a man's voice asked. "Is that you? It hurts to open my eyes." The man was unidentifiable, because of a large bandage across the bridge of his nose.
"It is I, Jack. I hope you feel a good deal better than you look."
"They just gave me some morphine. It will kick in shortly, then I'll feel human again." Jack Coulter's voice was the well-modulated, upper-accented baritone Stone had expected.
"Ahhhh," Jack breathed.
"The morphine kicked in?"
"I'm probably going to become addicted before they let me out of here. Would you like a drink?"
"What, grain alcohol?"
"There's a bar in the cupboard over there." Jack waved a hand.
Stone opened the door and found a full wet bar-sink, ice machine, a row of Baccarat whiskey glasses, and a dozen choices of libation. He found a bottle of Knob Creek bourbon, filled a glass with ice, then filled that with bourbon. "I'm not offering you one, because I don't think you should mix booze and morphine," he said.
"I don't need it," Jack said contentedly. "Have a seat."
Stone pulled up a well-padded, burnished leather armchair and sank into it. Jack seemed to doze for a moment. Stone took the opportunity to reminisce about his first encounter with the man who had walked into his office, in his Turtle Bay townhouse, a few years back. He was maybe six-four, 250, wearing a dated suit that he could barely button. He had had a haircut that had been inflicted entirely with electric shears, and had been carrying a large suitcase and a smaller, non-matching duffel. He was frightening, until he spoke, in a voice much like the one he used now. He was also a good storyteller.
His name was John Fratelli, he said, and he had been a guest at an upstate hostelry called Sing Sing, until early that morning. He had spent the past twenty-three years there and had served all his time, without application for parole.
That explained the haircut, Stone thought, and the twenty-three years explained the suit. Stone inquired as to why he had not accepted parole. Fratelli explained that he had had an obligation to protect a fellow resident, who was smaller and weaker than he, and who had been in increasingly delicate health for the past three years. A few days earlier, he had died in his bed. His name was Eduardo Buono.
Fratelli's name meant nothing to Stone, but Buono's rang a loud bell. He had been the mastermind behind the heist of fifteen million dollars from a currency-handling operation at John F. Kennedy Airport, after which he had distributed half the take among a half dozen abettors, then vanished into the mists with the other seven and a half million, after instructing them not to spend a penny of the money for a year. They had, of course, paid off their bookies, were fitted with new wardrobes, and drove shiny new Cadillacs off dealers' lots-all this in the first two weeks after their score. When arrested and confronted with their misdeeds and the sentences they would probably draw, they had ratted out, as the expression goes, their benefactor, Eduardo Buono, who thereafter never said a word to anybody until he met John Fratelli, on the bus from Rikers I...
