by Frank Perry
hold. No one paid attention to him as Hunter passed in the shadows behind the crane next to the steel shed built along the entire length of the wharf. The crate lifted as he passed by. Anyone noticing him would think he was walking to one of the boats berthed farther down the dock. No one on board Wanderer paid any attention as he continued, nearly out of site. He reached the end of the dock five minutes later and lingered, overlooking the channel leading back to the open ocean. The crates being offloaded from Wanderer held fish, not drugs.
After a short period, Hunter began walking slowly back down the dock toward Wanderer. The ships near the end of the dock were all dark and quiet. The dock was covered by crates stacked fifteen feet high and he walked behind in a lightless narrow passage about three feet wide formed by the shed side and the last row. He stopped at the end of the passage, near Wanderer’s stern to observe. All the crew was in the hold and only one man in waste-high rubber boots was on deck. There could be people on the bridge level, but the lights were all off and he couldn’t see anything inside. He stayed in the shadows about fifty feet away from the ship.
The fish crates sat on the dock momentarily until a forklift lifted them inside a refrigeration truck that now filled the width of the dock, leaving about six feet on either side to walk. There were no other people moving along the dock at this time of the night. There were no indications of any inspectors or law enforcement in the area. Hunter just remained motionless in the shadows – watching.
The offloading process continued for half an hour. He leaned against the shed watching the entire process. He only saw fish being moved. Half an hour later, the hold was locked closed and the gangplank removed. The driver of the truck had taken a clipboard up to the bridge then departed a few minutes before the ship was ready to depart. He continued watching.
It was after midnight when the ship turned on bow and stern lights. Thick diesel fumes spewed from the stack. Several deck hands jumped to the dock to release tie-down lines, then jumped back aboard as the ship used its side thrusters to push away from the dock. Hunter felt defeated. He hadn’t witnessed any drugs moved from the ship. At least nothing was obvious to him. The dock was empty with everything closed down and dark. Only the yard crane remained in place with its diesel engine idling.
Wanderer was in mid-canal and backing toward the main channel when he saw it. A small orange ball floated where the center of the keel had been. Hunter moved farther into the shadows as a huge dump truck backed down the dock, stopping just short of the crane. The driver extinguished all lights and the scene was completely silent as Wanderer disappeared into the harbor. For several minutes, it appeared that all equipment on the dock was parked for the evening then the crane roared back to life. It lowered the giant hook into the oil-slick water below the marker buoy. It made two missed attempts to hook something unseen then hoisted a large sealed crate from the water, lowering it fast into the truck bed in one sweeping arc motion. Someone from the truck had climbed into the bed while the crane fished for the package. He released the crane and was back inside the truck cab in seconds, as it began moving cautiously down the dock toward the street. There was no way for Hunter to follow it without his car, but he had witnessed the drug transfer.
The truck turned right leaving the dock, out of sight. Hunter waited a moment until the crane shut down its motor. The operator platform was about thirty feet above the dock, spanning the length and width of the supporting legs, rolling on parallel railroad tracks almost twenty feet apart. He left the shadowy passage between crates and began walking under the crane, toward the street. He looked like most of the crewmen he’d seen aboard Wanderer and could be from any of the ships farther down the dock. Above him, the crane operator was preparing to climb down when he saw Hunter below through the platform floor grating. He went back into the crane control station and made a radiophone call.
Hunter began walking faster toward the street but a door to the shed ahead of him opened and three dock workers emerged, all looking at him. They didn’t look friendly. They spread out in front of him, and he kept walking toward them. About ten feet away he said, “Is there a problem, boys?”
He stopped without getting any closer. The two flanking men moved farther away and opposite him as he faced the man in the middle who said, “What are you doing on the dock at night?”
“I’m on the boat down there.” He gestured with his thumb toward the end of the dock behind him.
“What boat would that be?”
Hunter had no idea. “Ah, you got me there.”
The obese man had greasy shoulder-length black hair and unshaven face. His jeans sagged from weeks without washing. His big hairy arms hung ape-like from a cutoff dark shirt. Hunter glanced left then right. All three men were positioned about five feet from him. It was impossible to run past them, and he had the sensation of the crane operator coming from behind. At least one of the men had a large wrench in his hand, but the darkness could hide more weapons.
Hunter held up his hand. “Look, fellows. I don’t want any trouble. I just want to get into my car and drive away.”
None of the men moved, and the man on the right said, “You a Fed? You a nark or one o’ them DEA guys?”
“I’m none of that. I just wanna leave in peace.”
The middle man spoke again, moving a foot closer. “I said, what’cha doin’ here, boy?”
Hunter knew the dialogue had ended. “Would you believe I just wanted to take a walk?” He added...“Didn’t think so.”
He jumped at the man to his right with the wrench, catching him off guard, as the other’s charged. He threw the man over his right hip, followed with a SNAP KICK to the groin of the center man. Sensing motion to his rear, he did a REAR LIFT KICK to the groin of the man behind followed by an ELBOW SMASH to his face, knocking him backward into the shed. The fourth man, charging from the left missed with his ax, as Hunter ducked, followed by a crushing blow to the man’s knee with a side stomp, breaking the joint. He finished the first man with a STOMP to the face. The crane operator charged again, and Hunter went with his momentum, accelerating to the edge of the dock then thrusting him into the murky water ten feet below. He charged back into the center of the group where all were struggling to get up or regain balance. The first to rise got a shuto chop to the throat, crushing his windpipe. Hunter snapped into a front face kick of another man then back kicked to the groin of a man grasping him from behind. As the man released, Hunter finished him with a hard punch to the midsection followed by a knee to the face and a stomp to his neck on the ground. Two men were down with fatal windpipe damage, and one was slipping below surface of the harbor trying to grasp mossy pilings sinking in sodden work clothes. The final man was crouching near the shed as Hunter side kicked him to the head, then stomped his temple. He walked away unhurt, and now he knew how the drugs were delivered.
The next morning, Mojo’s big limousine pulled onto the dock. He was led inside the shed where one man remained unconscious and two were leaned up against the side. One had a broken leg and both had severe throat damage and couldn’t talk. The crane operator was missing.
He looked at the guard who phoned the alert to him earlier. “Wha’ happened here?”
“I don’ know, boss. I found ‘em dis mornin’ lyin’ ou’side and brung ‘em in here. They’s all beat up.”
Mojo walked up to where the unconscious man was lying. “Give me a gun. This turd’s dyin’ slow, and we don’ got no medical plan.” He shot him in the heart and face. Then he walked up to the man with the broken leg and crushed throat. “This’n ain’ gonna be useful for nothin’.” He backed up to avoid staining his clothes then shot him twice in the chest. The third man’s eyes bulged with fear as Mojo stood inches from his face. “You talk, boy?” The man gurgled something and held his throat. Mojo turned his back and walked away. All he said was, “Damn.” He turned and shot the man twice then threw the gun back to his guard.
“Reload that thing cas’in we get mugged or somethin’. If’n any o’ these is movin’ in a hour, shoot ‘em again. They can be bait.
Hunter was arriving back in San Jose by morning rush hour. If this had been a military operation, he would have avoided unsecure communications. But he was fighting drug people who didn’t bother with covert listening devices. He called Kasey McDougal and said that he witnessed the drug delivery. He didn’t disclose exactly where he’d seen it, but he described the whole process.
She said, “Hunter, I don’t know how you do it. This is excellent intelligence. I think we’re getting close to making the case for seizure. I checked with my DEA friends, and I think your undercover work can be classified as government authorized. I just need to find out how to authorize after the fact. It should all work out.”
“Thanks, Kasey. I hate to think that it’s all wasted effort, I’ve had enough of that in Washington this year.”
She asked, “So, you ever think about joining the bureau?”
He smiled. “Yeah, actually I have. I need to find another line of work and the FBI or ATF seem like good choices. Of course, I’d like to see what the state could offer. California’s my
