The Hunters Series Box Set

by Glenn Trust

  Lonna laughed. “A ticket! You?”

  “Yeah. Fuckin’ no proof of insurance or some bullshit like that. He was just fuckin’ with me.”

  “You didn’t do nothin’ did you. Nothin’ that might come back on us.”

  “Naw. Wanted to, but I didn’t. Just took the ticket and rode off.” He did not add that he wasn’t so sure he had wanted to take on Mike Darlington, anyway.

  “Good.” Lonna nodded. “Good. Them fuckin’ with you means everything is cool. They don’t know nothin’. Just fishin’ for somethin’. It’s when they stop fuckin’ with you that we gotta worry.”

  41. Goddamn Right

  The desk phone chattered its electronic chirp. Sharon’s hand shot out reflexively, jerking the receiver to her ear. “This is Price.”

  “Agent Price, Dan Jameson here, Florida State Investigations.”

  “Thanks for getting back to me, Chief.”

  “No problem. Think I have something that might be of interest for you.”

  Sharon made notes for ten minutes while Jameson spoke. The briefing was concise and to the point. As Sharon had suspected, the link was there. It was circumstantial to be sure, but it was undeniable.

  “Thanks, Chief for your help. Pretty sure we’ll be in touch.”

  For the next hour, she gathered her notes and organized her files in preparation for the briefing. At five minutes to ten, Sandy Davies and Mike Darlington walked in, taking seats across from her desk. At ten o’clock, the phone chirped again. Sharon punched the speaker button.

  “Hey, boss.”

  “Uh…yes, hello everyone.” Clearly uncomfortable, Andy spoke softly.

  Sharon pushed forward, figuring it was best to move on with the business of the day to put Andy at ease. “Sheriff Davies and Chief Deputy Darlington are here with me.”

  There was silence. Everyone waited for Acting Director, Andrew Barnes, to start things off.

  “Okay…so...is everyone else on the line?” The sound of papers being rustled nervously could be heard in the background.

  “We’re here.” Bob Shaklee and George spoke simultaneously. On leave of absence from the OSI, Andy had invited them to sit in on the call, unofficially, Governor Bell and political considerations be damned.

  “Good, good.” There was another short silence. The unspoken support from those on the phone gave him confidence. “Okay then let’s get things going. Rince is here with me, Sharon you have the floor. Fill us in on what you have.”

  “We’ve identified an interesting pattern that we think merits OSI attention. We are proposing an undercover operation.” She nodded at Mike Darlington. “There have been a string of murders throughout south Georgia. They seem to be related.”

  Andy spoke for the others. “How so?”

  “In each case, investigation revealed that the victims were involved in the business of illegal narcotics, selling, transporting, buying, sometimes all of the above.”

  “Okay, so drug dealers are being murdered. They’re at war all the time. That’s nothing new.” Bob spoke for the first time.

  Shaklee knew how to push Sharon’s buttons, and enjoyed doing it. One of her briefings would not be complete without a jab or two between them.

  “You want to handle this, Bob. I’ll just shut the fuck up and let you fill everyone in.” Sharon’s brown eyes flashed at the speakerphone as if she could look into Bob’s face and stare him down.

  The mood lightened immediately. Sharon was pissed at Bob, things were normal. Andy and Rince grinned, at each other. Silent, sitting with the phone to his ear on Fel Tobin’s front porch, George shook his head and smiled. In Sharon’s office, Davies and Darlington sank as far back into their chairs as they could.

  “No, no. You’re doing just fine Agent Price. Just trying to wake everyone up.”

  Muffled laughter was audible over the various phone lines. “Continue, Sharon. Bob’s just yanking your chain.”

  A smirk on her face, Sharon nodded. “Should have known.” Back on track, she launched into her explanation.

  “Here it is. In each case, the cause of death was a single, small caliber bullet through the head. One shot, all the same, from close range.” She paused while they considered that unlikely coincidence and then added, “And in each case there was at least one survivor.”

  “Who?” Andy asked.

  “Don’t know. The survivors are gone, but they were there. Forensics at the scene, footprints, tire tracks position of the bodies, all of it indicated that someone else was standing in line with the victims, but was not killed.”

  “Maybe they were in on it, a setup, working with the killers.” Bob spoke slowly, thinking out loud.

  “Maybe, but I don’t think so. There would be no reason to carry the charade out to the last second, right up to when the trigger was pulled.” Sharon pulled the pictures of the crime scene in the pinewoods in Pickham County and the drug house in Valdosta. “No, it looks like they were all lined up, and then the killer put a .32 caliber bullet through the brain of everyone except the one survivor. It was as if he auditioned them, evaluated them in some way before deciding who would die and who would live.”

  “So someone is eliminating the competition…or...” Andy leaned back in his chair eyes closed, considering the scenario Sharon had laid out. “Or expanding their operations.” He sat forward, making up his mind. “Probably both. There would be no reason to keep a survivor around unless you wanted to bring them into your network and at the same time you eliminate the unnecessary baggage.”

  “Right. That’s our assessment as well.” She looked at Mike Darlington, sitting quietly across from her. “The chief deputy has done some digging and come up with some interesting background on the murder in Pickham County.”

  Mike leaned forward towards the phone and opened the file that had rested on his knee while Sharon began the briefing. “Traced the ID on the victim in the woods here to a little town in south central Florida, Campo. Found the victim’s grandmother at the address. She’s pretty elderly but with the help of the local PD we established that her grandson, a Carl Stevens, worked for a plumbing supply company. She said he drove a van, making deliveries up and down I-95.”

  “Drug courier.” Andy’s voice came over the line quiet and interested.

  “Yes, no doubt, running drugs along the interstate. The plumbing van was his cover.” There was some shuffling of papers as Mike went through the notes in his file. “So, I did a little digging. I pulled security video from rest areas along I-95…”

  “He had a hunch.” Sandy Davies interrupted, grinning at Darlington.

  Mike winced and continued. “Whatever…so I pulled the video and found tape showing a van…a plumbing van.”

  “You pulled the video and found a plumbing van. Probably a lot of those around. How sure are you that it was the one Stevens drove?”

  “Pretty sure, Andy. Stevens’ grandmother said it had a picture of a large wrench on the side. Phone number under the picture had an area code that includes the Campo, Florida dialing area.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Andy nodded appreciatively at the phone. “Still, how does this get the OSI involved in an undercover operation? Lot of drug cases… and murders for that matter. Not sure this is going to rise to the level of OSI involvement.”

  “There’s more.” Sharon pulled the notes from her conversation with Deputy Chief Jameson. “I spoke to the Florida Bureau of Investigations.”

  It took her another five minutes to review the locations of a string of Florida murders, all drug dealers, all from a single small caliber bullet to the head. When she had finished her summary of Jameson’s report, she rose walked to the laminated wall map of Georgia and surrounding states. Hands on her hips she looked at the series of neat circles in red marker indicating the crimes in Florida and Georgia. With a nod, she smiled and turned back towards the speakerphone.

  Silent, the others waited patiently. They were accustomed to her methods. Sharon in her element, complete
ly in charge of the facts, putting it all together, linking disparate bits of information in a way that others missed. She saw it all and now was the time for her to reach out to the mere mortals there with her and share her vision.

  “If you plot the locations of the drug murders in Georgia and Florida you find an interesting fact.” She looked at Davies and Darlington in the room with her. Their eyes were riveted on the map, seeing clearly, what she had been putting together for them all.

  “Spit it out, Sharon. You’re killing us with anticipation.” Andy’s voice was good-naturedly exasperated.

  “The little marks on the map make a nice neat series of concentric rings.” She paused, not able to help her moment of exhilaration. “Dead center in that circle is Pickham County. Specifically, Roydon in Pickham County.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Andy’s voice was somber. “Roy Budroe is back.”

  “Damn right he’s back,” Mike Darlington added with evident feeling. “Goddamn right.”

  42. The Trembling Man

  The state highway leading into Roydon from the west was quiet this time of day. Farmers, laborers, truckers and any of the usual hangers-on who happened to be gainfully employed, even if temporarily were away at their jobs. They’d be back in the evening to throw the dollars they had picked up at beer, cards and women.

  The minivan slowed as it entered the town limits, making its way to the interstate. Vernon Taft allowed it to idle without touching the brakes as it passed Pete’s Place. A ball cap pulled low so that the brim jutted out from his eyebrows, he ventured a quick, nervous glance at the shabby block building that served as the headquarters for Roy Budroe’s criminal enterprises.

  Even terrified that someone might see and recognize him, he could not resist seeing the place. Once he had been free to come and go, one of Budroe’s minions. He had even shared an occasional drink with the big man himself.

  Something was happening. There were always bikers hanging out at the bar, but the dozen or more choppers lined up in the gravel on a weekday was out of the ordinary. Budroe had called in the troops.

  Two men stood outside. Dressed casually, but neatly, they had a look about them that reminded Vernon of the military. Both wore khaki slacks and light colored short-sleeved shirts in the island style, buttoned up the front and hanging loosely below their waists.

  One, with gray hair, but trim and fit, was pacing, looking up into the sky and speaking on a cell phone. The other, younger, Hispanic looking with dark, close-cropped hair, stood nearby. His head moved, watching the older man pace and scanning their surroundings at the same time.

  Vernon became aware of the younger man’s eyes focused on the minivan as it barely slowed on the road in front of Pete’s Place. There was the slightest tensing in the man’s ramrod straight posture. His hands hovered near his waistband. Vernon had no doubt that a weapon was concealed there. The intensity of the man’s stare was unnerving.

  Heart pounding in his throat, Vernon increased speed, steering the minivan past the bar, towards the interstate. It was all he could do to keep from slamming the accelerator to the floor and shitting his pants.

  He managed, without fainting behind the wheel, to pass the StarLite Motel where he had once been in Budroe’s employ as the night clerk. That had been a good gig. Lonna would come across the street from Pete’s Place after work and crawl in the lumpy bed with him.

  Things could have gone on like that forever and he would have been satisfied. The manager of a fleabag motel shacking up with his former prostitute, smoking an occasional joint thrown to him by Budroe as a gratuity for services offered, Vernon Taft would have lived out his shabby life in perfect contentment.

  But then it all got blown to hell. Mackey tagged him as a material witness to the girl’s murder and all bets were off. He had talked to the law. In his mind, he was a marked man. He fled from the big man’s presence to stay with his sister in Valdosta.

  Making the turn onto the interstate, Vernon pulled out a cheap, flip open cell phone that he got from a big discount store. The store’s calling plan gave him a limited number of minutes each month, but he didn’t speak much on the phone, just a message to Lonna now and then. He wasn’t planning to do much talking on it today. Driving with one hand, he punched in the numbers he had written on a slip of paper before leaving Valdosta.

  The phone rang three times before the desk deputy picked up the line. “Pickham County Sheriff’s Office.”

  “I need to speak to George Mackey…uh, Chief Deputy Mackey.”

  There was a pause. “Deputy Mackey isn’t here right now. Can I take a message?”

  Shit. Of course he ain’t there. He’s out on bail. Pull yourself together and think, Vernon. “Get him a message.”

  “What’s the message?”

  “Tell him…” Shit, now what? Vernon’s fear-strangled brain spun. “Tell him his friend from Valdosta needs to talk to him. You got the number there?”

  “Yeah, I see the number.”

  The phone disconnected. Deputy Bill Terrant looked at the note he had scribbled and opened the employee directory.

  George was reviewing copies of case files and reports scattered across the small apartment floor in preparation for an upcoming meeting with his attorney. Trenton Peele had instructed him to have everything, all the details, committed to memory, as if George could ever forget what had happened in the north Georgia mountains.

  The phone at his side began playing ‘Beer for My Horses’. Relieved to have a reason to put the files down, he saw that the call was from the sheriff’s office.

  “Mackey.”

  “George, Bill Terrant here.”

  “Hey, Bill, what’s up?”

  “Got a message for you. Strange one.”

  “From who?”

  “He wouldn’t say. The message is...your friend from Valdosta needs to talk to you. That make any sense to you?”

  “Yeah, it does, Bill. Got a number?”

  Tifton read off the number, he had copied down from Vernon’s call and George thanked him. He shoved the cell phone in his shirt pocket and pushed his Glock in its clip-on holster into his waistband.

  Pulling from the drive onto the county road in front of Fel Tobin’s place, he punched Vernon’s number into his phone.

  “Who is it?” Never a brave man, Vernon’s voice waivered and broke like a boy going into puberty. He was petrified.

  “It’s me, Vernon.”

  “George, thank God it’s you. I want to…uh I need to talk to you.”

  “So talk Vernon. Where are you?”

  “Driving.”

  “Where?”

  “Around. Can’t take chances being seen. If Budroe knows I’m near, I’m a dead man. I’ll meet you.”

  Vernon was right about that. Budroe would not waste time wondering about Taft if one of his underlings spotted the former drug runner. Vernon would just disappear. Some gator would have a skinny, redneck doper for supper. “Where you want to meet, Vernon?”

  “You know the old Tully Farm Road?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Take it about a mile off the county road. You’ll see a trail that heads out through an old field, overgrown now, grass as high as your fenders, but you can make out the trail. Follow it to the trees on the other side of the field. I’ll wait for you there.”

  “On my way.”

  “Just you George. No one else.”

  “Just me Vernon.”

  Bumping over the field twenty minutes later, George made his way to the tree line on the far side. As the pickup emerged from the high grass brushing its sides, Vernon came out from behind a large oak and waved. George headed for the tree.

  When he stepped from his pickup, Vernon rushed forward. George thought for a second that the skinny doper was going to kiss him. Pale and trembling, Vernon was terrified to the point of becoming insensible.

  He was losing it. Looking around at the woods, across the overgrown field towards the old dirt road, eyes darting frantically
from one point to another, Vernon seemed to expect Budroe’s army of bikers and thugs to come storming out of the tall grass.

  “Vernon!” George looked into his eyes, hoping to calm him down. “What’s going on, why are you here if you’re so terrified of big, bad Roy Budroe?”

  His head swiveled on his pencil-thin neck. His eyes struggled to focus on the former chief deputy of Pickham County. The words spit out rapid fire. “It’s bad, George. Lonna wants out!” He looked over his shoulder into the woods towards the sound of a squirrel foraging on the leaves for an acorn, then turned his head back to George. “She wants out now, George. I wanna get her out, want us to get away from here.”

  “Vernon, take a breath and tell me what is going on.”

  “Budroe, he’s expanding, drugs, whores, everything, he’s coming back.”

  “You know this for a fact?” George’s eyes narrowed, staring into the man’s gaunt face.

  “Yes, yes. Lonna told me. He’s pulling all his men together, they’re gonna make a big play, not just here in Pickham…everywhere.”

  “Everywhere? What the hell’s that mean.”

  “Means he’s gonna get as big as he can get. He wants to be the biggest operator in the south…in the country…have everyone else workin’ for him.”

  “Okay.” George nodded his acceptance of Vernon’s report of Budroe’s intentions. “So why me? Why are you telling me?”

  “‘Cause you said once you would look out for Lonna, help us get clear if we needed to.”

  “That was last year Vernon. Things have changed.”

  “George…no…” His voice was a pleading whimper. “You gotta help us. Lonna needs to get out, get away from it. Only way is if someone…you…bring Budroe down. It’s the only way she can get out. Bring him down, George.”

  “I need more than you telling me about this in the woods on the old Tully farm, Vernon. We all know Budroe wants to expand. That’s no secret.”

  “He’s got a lot of new people around. Lot of bikers I ain’t never seen before, and…” Vernon paused remembering the men he had seen outside Pete’s Place. “There’s others, some sort of Mexicans or from the islands or somewheres south of the border.”