The Hunters Series Box Set

by Glenn Trust

  “I’m listening, Bob.”

  “Good.” He breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t told him to go pound sand. That was a step in the right direction. “Like I said, I met with the governor. He is forming an Office of Special Investigations. He wants me to head it and to recruit a team. I want you…and George.”

  Ten minutes later, Bob Shaklee, the newly appointed Director of the Office of Special Investigations had completed his review of his conversation with the governor. Sharon listened quietly asking only a few questions.

  “You realize,” she said, “that this is political. The task force breaking up the conspiracy helped get him re-elected, or he would be out of office with a lot of other career politicians.”

  “Yep, completely political.”

  “You’re okay with that?” It was not an accusation. It was pure Sharon Price. Her way of staying grounded and getting all of the facts on the table.

  “I see that we can do some real good. I’m okay with that. The politics will always be there. Nothing we can do to change that.” He paused. “But let’s do some good, Sharon.”

  There was another pause. Finally, she nodded to herself in the small office in the basement of the courthouse. “I’m in.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ll speak to George,” Sharon continued. “He’s tied up today. He and the sheriff are going to be stirring shit up out at Pete’s Place in Roydon.”

  “Good place for it.” He had had some experience with Pete’s Place during the ‘Predator’ investigation.

  “He’s pretty committed to Sheriff Davies, at least for a while until they clean up Pete’s and some other things around the county. That’s why Sandy made him chief deputy.”

  “I think we can work around that for a while. Use George in ways that won’t interfere with his duties. I’ll call you both tonight at home.”

  The phones disconnected. Sharon sat quietly contemplating where this new Office of Special Investigations, OSI, would go. She trusted Bob, but there was the uneasy feeling that they were wading out into a pond full of alligators, lying just unseen below the surface. Politics always made her uneasy, but that’s what Bob was there for. He could handle the governor and protect his team, if anyone could. He had always done so before.

  Leaning back in his chair in the spacious new office Pamela Towers had organized for him, Bob was amazed at the speed with which it had been furnished and made ready. That the transfer of all of his possessions from the GBI was already in progress, indicated that the Organizer-in-Chief had been busy long before Shaklee’s acceptance of the position.

  Closing his eyes for a moment, he reviewed his conversation with Sharon, preparing himself for the others he was going to have throughout the day. At least, he thought, he could add the first name from his list to the team. It was a good first step.

  12. Our Shit Hole

  Moving north on I-75, the twenty-six foot box truck plodded along just under the speed limit. The two men in front spoke little, one leaning forward occasionally to adjust the radio to pick up a local country station in some passing town.

  The two behind in the crew cab also had little to say. When they spoke among themselves, it was in whispered tones in Spanish. One looked up and caught the driver’s eye in the rear view mirror, which was of no use in driving because of the body of the truck box behind.

  “How long?” His accent was thick but understandable, even for the country boys up front.

  “’Bout two hours. Not too long. We’ll be there in plenty of time to open up shop.”

  The man in back nodded and said something to his companion.

  “You boys ever been to the states before?” The passenger in front looked over his shoulder at the two in the rear.

  “No, never.” The Hispanic man spoke softly with an easy smile. “The country is beautiful.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” The redneck in front hand cranked the window down, leaned his head out and shot a brown stream of tobacco juice that spattered against the sides of the truck. “Always wanted to see me one of them tropical islands. I can just picture me sitting on some beach somewhere sippin’ some fancy drink.” He looked over his shoulder at the men in back. “That what it’s like where you’re from? Dominican Republic? That’s an island, right?”

  “Si…yes, but the island is Hispaniola. Dominican Republic on one side and Haiti on the other side of the island.”

  “Haiti, huh. I hear that’s a real shit hole.”

  The Dominican nodded with a somewhat sad expression. “Yes, Haiti is very poor. They have many problems. My country, Dominican Republic, is very beautiful, green and clean. Much like here.”

  “Humph. Like here, huh.” The man in front turned back to look out the side window. “I doubt it.”

  Speaking softly in Spanish, the Dominican translated the exchange for his companion from Haiti.

  “What was that all about?” the Haitian asked, voice low.

  “He wanted to know about home. Republica Dominicana.”

  “I heard him mention Haiti. What did he say?”

  The Dominican looked at his companion, considering the consequences of telling him the words spoken by the American. Shrugging he thought, what the hell. Plans for the Americans had already been made.

  “He said it is a toilet…a shit hole. So he has heard.”

  Nodding, his eyes focused on the back of the American’s head. “Perhaps,” he said, turning his head to smile at the Dominican, “but it is our shit hole.”

  Out of the side windows, they watched peanut fields pass by. The American president, Carter, had come from this place, somewhere near. The Dominican had read that he was a peanut farmer in a place called Plains, Georgia. They had seen the sign for Plains pass on the interstate. He wondered if it was the same Plains and if it was a shit hole. He shrugged and put his head back on the seat rest. They would learn what they had come to learn. There would be time to talk about shit holes with the Americans later.

  13. You Can Count On It

  “Pickham Units 1, 2, 101 and 102 out at Pete’s Place, State Highway 8 at I-95, Roydon.” George Mackey spoke into the radio’s microphone as the four units took the exit ramp from I-95 into Roydon. There had been no advance warning. The two day-watch Pickham County units had been told that morning to stay close, but had not been given the exact nature of the business they would be engaged in with the sheriff and chief deputy.

  “10-4, Pickham Units 1, 2, 101 and 102 out in Roydon.” The normal chatter in the background at central dispatch and the dispatcher’s voice were subdued.

  Everyone had been expecting this moment. It was inevitable. Sheriff Sandy Davies was young and untried, but no one doubted his word. Having promised the people of Pickham County that he would clean up Roydon, he would clean it up or by God die trying. Add George Mackey to the equation, and the confrontation was foreordained. Like a hound on a scent, he would not back down or turn back. Those hiding their criminal activity in the crevices and cracks of Roydon and Pete’s Place would be sniffed out.

  Roaring from the interstate exit across the bridge and to the intersection where Pete’s Place stood, the four county F-150s slid into the gravel lot, kicking up dust and fanning out blocking the vehicles lined up along the front of Pete’s Place. The heavy steel door to the building banged open, and five men in torn denim and leathers rushed out squinting in the bright morning light. Too late, George thought smiling.

  Big ‘Boss’ Stimes put his F-150 directly behind the five Harleys and met the men in denim and leather with a smile. Deputy Boswell Stimes loved the nickname that shortened his first name. Locals had started calling him Boss. They did not use the nickname as flattery. He was an aggressive, some thought borderline abusive, deputy. Boss Stimes had a reputation for being heavy handed with the public, and had been called on the carpet for it more than once. Eventually becoming aware of the sobriquet, he didn’t care why people used it. He relished it and loved living up to it. A fifteen-year veteran of the sheriff
’s department, everyone in the county, including some of the younger deputies called him Boss.

  Mackey and Stimes had not always seen eye to eye, and their confrontations had nearly led them to blows a few times. But today the chief deputy was glad to have Stimes on the scene, heavy handed or not. His aggressiveness was just what was called for in Roydon and George wanted someone there who would not back down. Walking through the clearing dust, George came up beside Stimes.

  “Show some ID, assholes.” Boss smiled. As usual, he got right to the point, and did it as confrontationally as possible.

  The biker closest pulled his shoulders back, flipped his hair out of his face and spoke. “We ain’t did shit man, and we ain’t’ gotta show you shit. What the fuck you county boys think…”

  Boss’ meaty arm and hand moved with surprising speed, clamping around the biker’s throat choking off his words. Stimes pulled him close so that their faces were only inches apart.

  “I said show some fucking ID, asshole. You need me to shake the shit out of your ears?” Boss smiled, releasing his grip and allowing the biker to stumble backwards. Reflexively, the other bikers started to surge forward.

  “Back off boys.” Mike Darlington, quiet, solid and reliable stepped forward. He was Pickham 102 that day. Not as aggressive as Stimes, Darlington was the type of deputy who avoided confrontation when possible, but resolved it quickly when it was unavoidable. He was the perfect counter to Stimes. George wanted to send a message that they were going to clean up Roydon and not take any shit. Boss Stimes would see that that message was delivered. Mike Darlington would prevent World War III from starting in the parking lot of Pete’s Place.

  George had arranged to have Stimes and Darlington working day watch and available for the small raid on Pete’s Place. Both had traits that would be useful today, and both had been staunch supporters of Sandy Davies in his run for sheriff.

  “You heard the deputy. Pull out some ID.” Darlington’s eyes moved from one face to the next. Yep, they were going to show their ID. Surly eyes fixed on the deputies, the bikers grudgingly pulled out their wallets silver chains fastening the large leather pouches to their belts.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Darlington said, taking the driver’s license from each. “Now line up over their by Deputy Stimes’ pickup. Turning to the cab of his own truck, Darlington picked up the microphone. “Dispatch, Pickham 102, 10-27, 10-29, driver’s license check and wants on five subjects, advise when you are ready to copy.”

  The dispatcher had been expecting the call and responded immediately. “Go ahead Pickham 102.”

  While Darlington called in the names and information of the bikers, Stimes walked up and down the line of men looking for some reason to confront them. Eyes focused on the gravel between the toes of their boots, the men in leather and denim gave him none.

  Satisfied that things were under control, Chief Deputy Mackey jerked the door to Pete’s Place open, leading Sheriff Davies into the gloom. Inside, they moved quickly out of the light framing their silhouettes in the doorway. No reason to provide an easy target for some liquored up wannabe bad boy trying to make a name for himself by taking out the new sheriff and his chief deputy.

  “Jesus H. Christ! Look what stumbled in. You boys look a little out of place in here.” The large, gray-haired woman in spandex and a tank top grinned a semi-toothless grin and wiped the bar in circles with a rag as she spoke.

  “Lonna,” George said in greeting as they walked to the bar. “Nice to see you keeping the place clean.”

  Lonna MacIntyre was Roy Budroe’s right hand ‘man’, running Pete’s Place when Budroe was away and keeping his various criminal enterprises on track. She had done county time in Atlanta for prostitution in her younger days and then some state time for nearly beating one of her clients to death with a lamp when he failed to pay the required rate for her services. Word was that Budroe had pimped her when she first came to Roydon. That was a long time and fifty pounds ago. Eventually, she worked herself into his confidence and became one of his lieutenants.

  “Well look at that pretty uniform, all them stars and a gold badge and all.” The small eyes in her fat face focused on Sandy Davies.

  “Came with the job, Lonna,” the sheriff replied, giving one of his easy smiles. Like most deputies in Pickham County, Sandy had responded to many calls in Roydon and at Pete’s Place during his years as Deputy Davies.

  “Humph.” Her fat hand continued tracing a circle with the rag on the same spot on the bar. “So if you don’t mind me asking, what the fuck do you want?”

  George stepped forward quickly. “Just a simple business license and liquor permit check, Lonna. Routine you might say.” George had convinced Sandy to allow him and the deputies outside to handle the dirty work. The sheriff should not become embroiled in the bullshit, George told him. He should make his presence known but let them take care of any confrontations and the normal nastiness emanating from Pete’s Place. Recognizing it as good advice, Sandy had reluctantly agreed. But Lonna’s tone and attitude made it difficult to remember that he was now the sheriff and not the one who should be kicking ass and taking names so to speak.

  “Are you shittin’ me? Business license? Liquor permit?”

  “Yep.” George smiled. “Just routine.”

  “Routine my ass. No one ever done it before.”

  “Well, it’s gonna be routine from now on, let’s say.” George leaned his side against the bar, keeping an eye on the customers scattered around the room while he spoke to the big woman. Sheriff Davies had turned, watching those seated at the tables. All eyes were focused on Lonna and the chief deputy. “Business license and liquor permit, Lonna. Now.”

  “Bullshit. How’m I s’pposed to know where they at? You know Pete’s has been here for fifty years or more. You know we got a license.”

  “Yep, I do know that, and Pete’s has been here serving up beer, moonshine and bad food for seventy-five years actually. County code says any law enforcement officer can check a business establishment’s license and other required permits at any time.” The smile was back on his face, but his voice was firm. “This is ‘any time’ Lonna. We’re checking business licenses and liquor permits today here in Roydon. Pete’s Place is first.”

  “You sonsabitches can kiss my fat ass. I don’t have no license and no permit, and I’ll be fucked if I know where Roy keeps ‘em.” Muffled laughter broke out from the customers seated at the bar and tables.

  “Mr. Budroe around?” George asked politely.

  “You know he ain’t fucking around.” Lonna’s voice was rising noticeably. “Now you can just get the fuck out ‘till he gets back.”

  In fact, they did know that Budroe was gone. The black Escalade had been missing when the sheriff’s units roared into the parking lot. That was unfortunate; they had hoped to have this conversation with the man himself.

  “Doesn’t work that way, Lonna,” George said, shaking his head. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to shut you down until you can produce the license and permit for us.” He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “It’s the law.”

  The big woman started to sputter, but before she could say another word, George and the sheriff stepped away from the bar.

  “Line ‘em up boys,” Sandy said, looking around the room. Heads turned, seeking some guidance from Lonna. Sheriff Davies spoke louder. “Everyone up against the bar, now. You are frequenting an unlicensed establishment that is dispensing alcoholic beverages. That is a violation of county ordinance.”

  “What!” Lonna was finally able to speak and for once, it did not include profanity. “You can’t do that!”

  “Yep, we can, Lonna. We are.” George said and turned to the customers, who were slowly dragging themselves off stools and away from the tables to shuffle grudgingly to the bar like schoolboys caught throwing spit wads in class.

  Light from outside flashed and Boss Stimes walked through the door. “George, Sheriff, need a hand?”

 
“Yep,” George said turning to the deputy. “Need to run 10-27s and 10-29s on all of these fine people. They seem to be frequenting an unlicensed business establishment.”

  Stimes smiled. “Glad to.” He walked to the ragged line of customers at the bar and started collecting IDs.

  “How’d it go outside?” Sheriff Davies asked, watching Stimes work.

  “Good,” Boss said smiling again. “One in custody. Had wants out of North Carolina. Cut the others loose. They won’t be back today.”

  As the deputies worked, checking everyone in Pete’s Place, including Lonna MacIntyre, she spoke into a cell phone she had picked up from a shelf under the bar.

  “Goddamnit. How the hell do I know? They just say we got to show them the business license and liquor permit or they shut us down. We got them licenses, right.”

  Roy Budroe’s thick, angry voice was audible even where George and Sandy Davies stood. “God damn right we got them! They’re fucking with us!”

  Another patron of Pete’s Place was taken into custody for failing to pay his child support. Not a very sexy charge, but it would do for today.

  Outside, the second prisoner was placed in Mike Darlington’s unit as they waited for a prisoner transport van from the jail. Lonna MacIntyre followed the deputies into the parking lot as customers scattered to their vehicles and left, careful not to spin their tires, but leaving as quickly as possible.

  “You assholes just stirred up a hornet’s nest!” She shouted. “A hornet’s nest! Roy is pissed and when he gets back there’s gonna be hell to pay.”