Jack Hunter: CIA Assassin Origin Story

by Rawlin Cash

  “Any sign of your family?”

  At the mention of them, she was flooded with shame for what she’d tried to do.

  “My daughter’s,” Hunter paused, and his voice struggled. “I found a bracelet that belonged to my daughter. A plain silver chain, but I’m sure it’s hers.”

  “You left it there?”

  “Yes, I left everything undisturbed. It’s a good crime scene. You’ll find something there.”

  She nodded. She would need to get a warrant, which reminded her.

  “I can look up the ownership,” she said.

  Hunter nodded. He waited in the reception while she went back to her computer and logged into the municipal database. She could hear him pouring more coffee. The door opened and she heard the chief’s voice. She’d have to get him up to speed. She knew he had her back. He was the one who’d sent her out to the brothel and she knew he’d been the one who’d given Hunter the address in the first place. He’d agree to keeping things quiet to give Hunter time to make his meet.

  “Dana,” the chief’s voice called.

  “Yeah, boss.”

  “These doughnuts up for grabs?”

  “Just don’t touch the Boston cream,” she said.

  She typed in the address for the mansion and hit print. Then she grabbed the sheet from the printer and brought it out front.

  “Here it is,” she said, putting the sheet of paper on the counter.

  All three of them leaned over to look. The owner of the property was listed as a numbered corporation. Dana went back into her office and opened another database.

  “It’s a Delaware corporation,” she called out.

  “What names come up?” Hunter said.

  “That’s weird,” she said.

  Hunter and the chief were at the door to her office, watching her.

  “What is it?”

  “It says that corporation was registered and is wholly owned by the House Armed Services Committee.”

  “What does that mean?” the chief said.

  Dana looked back at them and shrugged.

  Twelve

  Hunter finished his coffee and doughnut on the road. Dana and the chief were good cops and he knew he wouldn’t have gotten this far without them. He was grateful for their help. He hadn’t managed to tell them in so many words but he hoped they knew.

  He thought about everything that had happened up to this point. His head was spinning and he needed some clarity before the meet.

  As it stood, he was certain he’d killed the men who’d taken his family from the side of the highway. That felt good. A lot of women had disappeared from that stretch of road over the years. These men couldn’t have been responsible for all of them, they weren’t old enough, but they seemed to be the latest who’d taken up the task. They were henchmen doing someone else’s bidding. They kidnapped women and delivered them to the white mansion.

  That was where the real evil lived, festering like a sore beneath the skin, poisoning everything it touched.

  Hunter had spent hours at the mansion during the night. Like Dana said, the place was empty. It had a high-tech security system, cameras and sensors, the works, but there were no dogs and no guards on site. It didn’t take much for Hunter to disable the system. In a past life, when he worked for the government, he’d disabled the systems of entire military installations. This was child’s play in comparison. But he did notice some of the components weren’t civilian. You couldn’t walk into your local Home Depot and pick up that kind of hardware. And the communications lines weren’t wired up to the local phone company. It wasn’t some guy in a call center who’d have sent out the police to investigate an alarm. The wiring led to a military-grade satellite uplink. If he tripped it, it would have triggered a military response, probably private mercenaries like Blackwater.

  That’s why it made sense when Dana said the building was connected to the government in some way. Someone, somewhere in DC, someone with a security clearance and a title and a chauffeur driven limo paid for by the taxpayer, was involved in all this.

  Hunter thought back to the last time he was in DC. He’d been brought straight in from Kabul in a military transport. He’d sat the entire flight in the hold, just him with eight coffins. When a member of the ground crew at Andrews said the flight was late, Hunter decked him.

  A regular DC metro cab took him from Andrews to Arlington. He had to change into his dress uniform at a gas station on the way.

  At Arlington it was raining. Black Cadillacs blocked the way so the driver let him out at the gate. The somber crowd huddled around the graves under black umbrellas. The coffins were lined up, a soaked flag draped over each. A pastor hurried through the ceremony but the rain grew heavier and heavier and the crowd dispersed even as the salute was still firing.

  Hunter stood there alone a good while longer. He felt like throwing up. It was all so two-faced. As the rain soaked him to the skin, he remembered each of the men, the politicians, the bureaucrats, the cake-eaters from the Hill and Langley who’d sent his men to death so that the President might have something to brag about during an upcoming election debate. None of them had shown up for the ceremony even though their offices were just minutes away. They didn’t care. They didn’t even personally sign the letters of condolence sent to the wives and families.

  His men deserved better. They’d given their lives for their country.

  The men who’d called on them to do so played with their soldiers like they were pawns on a chess board. And they risked nothing.

  He let out a hollow laugh. He’d sworn that day never to go back. Now, he thought wryly, if he was going back to DC to kill someone, some crooked politician, he’d gladly make the exception.

  If the security system hadn’t told him there was a DC connection, the mansion itself would have. The second he entered it, the smell of the wood polish on the mahogany paneling brought him back to the capital. Too many times he’d waited obediently in the corridors of power, admiring the fine woodwork, the fancy books on the shelves, the crystal whiskey snifters, waiting while fat, wealthy senators and congressmen sipped their drinks and planned their next moves.

  They always found it so awkward, so distasteful, to come face to face with the men they sent out to do their killing.

  The mansion had been like some sort of nineteenth century, Bavarian hunting lodge. There were old rifles and hunting trophies mounted on the stone walls. A coat of arms, two minotaurs holding a shield, hung over a crystal display case full of medals. On the shield was an inverted crucifix. A banner beneath it read, “The Society of True Blood.”

  In the main hall was a bar and a massive stone fireplace, still full of ash. Hunter examined the ash. It looked recent. He tried the beer taps. They worked. Leather chairs were spread around the fireplace and he could see the place hadn’t been cleaned since it was used. There were glasses by the chairs, some still had dregs of scotch or bourbon in them. Cohiba cigar butts were in the ashtrays.

  He wondered if the place had a staff. Who served these men when they were here, sitting around in their private clubhouse, sipping cognac? Who cleaned?

  Who knew that after the party, after the drinks and cigars, after they were done playing with each other’s dicks, they liked to torture and mutilate native women?

  It took him a while, but eventually, after examining every room twice, he noticed that one of the bookshelves in the library was a false door. It squeaked when he tried to move it, and when he pushed a certain book, it gave way completely, sliding back to reveal a narrow passageway that led down a set of stone steps. As he walked down the steps, the place gave him the feel of a medieval church.

  There were no light switches, but on sconces on the walls there were torches, and each torch had a pack of matches conveniently sitting on a little ledge next to it. He lit one of the torches and saw that he was in a cavernous stone chamber.

  The chamber was round. The only entrance was the stairs he’d just come down.

 
A high, domed roof opened up above him. In the center was a raised altar.

  He resisted the temptation to go straight to the altar, and instead examined the huge oil paintings that hung from the walls. Each painting was a portrait of a different Indian chief. On a brass plate built into the ornate frame, the name of the chief was engraved, the name of his tribe, and the date he was defeated by the federal government.

  The stone altar in the center was on a raised dais. It was about the size and height of a professional snooker table. Iron rings were fixed into the stone and chains hung from them.

  And there were feathers everywhere.

  The image of his naked wife, the feathers pressed into the raw flesh where her breasts and genitals had been, flashed before his eyes. There was blood on the stone.

  This was where his family died.

  The forest where the police had found them was about five miles away, back in the direction of the town.

  They’d been taken from here. This is where it had happened. The men who’d been here were the men who did it.

  Hunter sighed as he pulled onto the Interstate, weaving between the cars as he gained speed. His mind wasn’t on the driving, but was going over the final events that led to the murders.

  They left Chianne’s sister’s place for the grocery store. The pimps from the brothel picked them up on the highway. There might have been a struggle. They might have been offered a ride. The pimps didn’t know them. They didn’t know they were visiting from out of state. An Indian was an Indian as far as they were concerned.

  From there, they were taken to the basement of the brothel and put in cages. Were they kept in the dark? Were they molested while they were there? Hunter shook his head. He’d killed every man involved in that place. Whatever happened there was done. No sense thinking about it.

  From there, the pimp with the BMW made the offer. A simple email. Obviously there were details that had been sorted out between them before. The men knew each other. They were used to doing business together. There had been no haggling, no bargaining. Presumably, the pimp had been paid, had delivered his captives, and that ended his involvement.

  This mansion was where the worst happened. That was where it had been happening for decades. Hunter wondered if the men who carried out the rituals now were the sons and grandsons of the men who’d started it. Was it a hereditary thing, like a disease in the blood that flows from generation to generation?

  Who was behind that place? Cabinet officials? National security advisers? Men with flags pinned to their lapels?

  Hunter gritted his teeth at the thought of them. The same men who’d sent him all over the world to do their bidding.

  He slammed his fist on the steering wheel. They would pay.

  He drove past Olympia. The meeting place wasn’t far and he’d be there early. He wanted to get there first. Whoever arrived first would have the advantage.

  He had the rifle and scope, the hunting knife, and two handguns he’d taken from the brothel.

  He’d be meeting a handler. Some sort of gopher who ran errands, moved money around, made deliveries. Someone who got his hands dirty. Whoever he was meeting wouldn’t have been at the mansion. He might not even know what the pimp was supposed to look like.

  Hunter couldn’t kill him outright.

  He needed to talk to him.

  He needed to find out who’d sent him.

  The Nisqually Cut Off led straight into a wildlife refuge and Hunter could see why it had been chosen as the meeting place. There must have been a public entrance to the park somewhere, but this wasn’t it. This road was unused. Weeds grew through the asphalt. He followed it a half mile into the forest and saw the flattened grass where a vehicle had gone off the road.

  So he wasn’t first.

  Someone was laying a trap. Someone who didn’t know jack shit about hiding his tracks.

  His email hadn’t been the masterpiece of deception he’d hoped.

  It didn’t matter. A trap was still a lead. He’d walk into it and see who showed their face.

  Another half-mile and the road ended at a small lot, barely big enough to allow a vehicle to turn around and go back the way it had come. There was a trail with a barrier to stop cars entering.

  There were no street lights. At night, the place would have been pitch black.

  Hunter looked at his watch. It was just before eleven.

  He shut off the engine and took the handgun that was in his waistband and shoved it into his boot. An ankle holster would have been nice. The other handgun and the knife were in the rifle bag. He’d pull them out when he was outside, and put them in his waist so whoever was watching him would see.

  He got out of the truck and walked around to the back, pulled the rifle case out of the back and slung it over his shoulder. He took the second handgun and the hunting knife from the bag and slid them conspicuously into his waist band. He made like he was going to hike up the trail when a gunshot rang out in the stillness and hit the ground by his feet.

  Hunter swung wildly in the direction of the sound, putting on a show.

  “Next shot’s in your chest, tough guy,” a voice called out. “Drop the rifle.”

  “Shit,” Hunter said.

  He let the rifle case fall from his shoulder.

  “And the gun in your pants, fucko. Drop it slowly or its lights out.”

  Hunter let the handgun fall too.

  “And the knife. Come on. You know the drill.”

  Hunter hesitated a moment, like it was the last weapon between himself and certain death. Another bullet hit the dirt by his feet.

  “Okay, okay,” he said.

  He pulled out the knife and threw it onto the rifle case, next to the handgun.

  “Now,” the man said, coming out of the brush and onto the road. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Hunter. Jack Hunter.”

  “And you think you’re coming up here to get justice for your squaw wife and your half-breed kid?”

  Hunter nodded. The man was coming closer.

  “But instead, you’re going to die here in this forest and get eaten by ants.”

  Hunter looked at the man. He was tall. Athletic. Dark hair. He looked like the kind of guy you’d want to hire for this kind of work. Competent enough.

  “I just had to know,” Hunter said.

  “Had to know what?”

  “What happened to my family.”

  “And do you feel good now? Now that you know? Did it put your curiosity to rest?”

  Hunter didn’t say anything. He might be able to get information from this guy while he thought he had the upper hand.

  “You know what all your digging around’s done? It’s just gone and created a bigger mess.”

  “If you call a bunch of dead pimps a mess,” Hunter said. “Some would call that cleaning up.”

  The man grinned. “Cleaning up? Is that what it is? Well, we’ve been doing a little cleaning up of our own. Thanks to you.”

  He was still coming closer. He was coming too close. The barrel of his military issue M4 carbine was almost within Hunter’s reach. He doubted this guy was stupid enough to get any closer but he was open to the possibility.

  “What cleaning up?” Hunter said.

  “Just a few loose ends back in Forks.”

  “What loose ends?”

  The man wasn’t stupid enough to come any closer. He was six feet away. From that distance the gun would tear Hunter to shreds. The strap was slung on the man’s shoulder and the nose was pointing downward, unguided. The man had a hand on the stock and the other was holding a pack of cigarettes.

  He shook a cigarette from the pack and plucked it out with his mouth. Hunter made his move.

  He dove left and had the handgun from his boot aimed and fired before he hit the ground. He hit the guy somewhere around the shoulders. He landed and rolled, then leapt toward the man who was still standing, spraying bullets in an arc that followed Hunter’s path just a fraction of a second too
slow.

  Hunter grabbed the guy around the legs and pulled him to the ground. The man had drawn a blade but Hunter grabbed his wrist and forced it to the ground. He still had his handgun in his hand and he put two more bullets in the man’s left thigh.

  He stayed on the man. His gun still jamming into the thigh where the two bullets had just gone.

  “Tell me who told you to be here or I’ll scrawl your eyes out with my nails, I swear to God.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Hunter jammed the gun into the bullet wounds but let the man speak.

  “I don’t have a name.”

  “Just tell me what you’ve got,” Hunter said. He put a hand on the man’s face, his thumb beneath one eye and his index finger beneath the other. “Tell me or I’ll pluck them clean out and you’ll still have to tell me.”

  The man knew he was beat. He had a choice between agony and death, or just plain death. God only knew how long it would take for the bullet wounds to finish him off. He could have hours.

  “The guy texts me. The messages are in my phone. They come from a special number. Short. Like the numbers you get from marketers.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t know who he is but he told me to park my car on the roof of the long-stay parking lot at the airport.”

  “Seattle?”

  “Yeah. The long-stay lot. Roof. Leave the car there with you in the trunk. That’s all I had to do. I wouldn’t meet him.”

  “Okay, and what was all that shit about cleaning house earlier? What were you talking about?”

  The man looked away and then looked back. Hunter knew the next words from his mouth would be lies.

  Then Hunter felt a pain in his ribs. Somehow, the man had slipped a knife from somewhere and stuck it in him.

  Hunter pulled the trigger three times and put three more bullets into the man’s groin. He was dead.

  Hunter stood up and kicked the guy, as if to make sure he wasn’t going to pull anything else. Then he opened his shirt and checked the cut. It was deep, a lot of blood, but he’d live. He searched the man and found his keys. He put the handguns, his knife, the dead guy’s knife and the dead guy’s M4 in the rifle case. He left his parka in the pickup where it had been the whole time, and put on the dead guy’s coat. It was a peacoat, like what a sailor would wear. He also swapped boots with the dead guy. He needed to look vaguely like him in case someone was watching the roof of the long-stay parking lot. Then he walked back down the road to where he’d seen the flattened grass.