The Hunters Series Box Set

by Glenn Trust

  Bell nodded and closed the file making his decision. “All right. Do it.”

  “Thank you, Governor.” Gathering up his briefing papers, Andy stood.

  “Just one thing.” Bell smiled his pleasant, southern genteel smile. “I want a memorandum from you, signed by you recommending this operation.”

  “You’ll have it within the hour, Governor.”

  Back in his office, Andy picked up the phone and dialed the number he knew from memory. It rang twice.

  “Atlanta Homicide, Captain Boyd speaking.”

  “Perry, it’s Andy.”

  “Well, my long lost stepson. How the hell are you and what brings the director of the elite Office of Special Investigations to call a lowly homicide detective?”

  “Lowly my ass, Captain.” Andy leaned back, comfortable in the familiar camaraderie with his former boss. “How’d you like to team up with the elite OSI?”

  “Talk to me.” Boyd was immediately all business.

  Andy explained what he had in mind while Captain Boyd, Atlanta Homicide, took notes. When he hung up, he turned towards his computer and typed up the memorandum recommending the undercover operation, the memorandum that would provide the governor with finger pointing room if something went wrong, and there were a great many things that could go wrong. There was no point arguing about it.

  It was a symbiotic relationship, professional and politician. Andy had learned that from Bob Shaklee. The politician used the professional’s skills for his own purpose, while protecting himself. If he was smart, the professional found a way to use the politician’s power to further the work to which he was committed. It had always been and probably always would be.

  He signed the paper, sealed it in an envelope and then tucked it in the breast pocket of his suit coat. He would deliver it himself, while Perry Boyd made the arrangements he had requested. The wheels had started rolling.

  46. Moments

  “What you thinking about?”

  “Trying not to think.” George pulled Sharon close under the sheet until she threw a bare leg over his waist. “Just enjoying the moment.”

  It was what they had left…moments. In the months, years maybe, ahead, he knew he would remember these, the moments.

  “I was thinking.” Her face rested on his bare chest, her breath warm and soft against his skin.

  “What?”

  “We could go away.”

  Soon, he would be gone. The trial might go on for months. After that, the months might stretch into years. Whatever it was that they had, they only had it now. There was no certainty about anything else.

  He looked down at her head lying against him, the dark, soft hair cascading over his chest. She did not look up, afraid to hear what he would say.

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “I know.” He felt her head move against him, nodding, her hair tickling sensuously with the motion.

  They lay quietly in the dark. The whirring, chirping hum of the nighttime life outside filled the room.

  She kissed his chest softly, parting her lips and letting her tongue touch his nipple. The familiar ache began to build in him. She raised her head and their mouths found each other in the dark. They touched, stroking, feeling the other’s passion rise.

  It was not like the slow lovemaking the night of his return. They joined frantically, powerfully, afraid to lose each other, to lose the moment. Her legs wrapped around his hips holding him, bringing him in. He was lost in her. The warmth of her skin, the fragrance of her hair, the feel of her became his world. Everything else was gone.

  After, they lay holding each other tightly, not wanting to break contact, not wanting the moment to end. It was what they had. For this one moment, it was enough.

  47. Business Was Good

  Armando Soto’s men came up the long gravel drive from the country road in two vehicles. The first, a small four-wheel drive Chevrolet with a driver and passenger inside, did not stop but circled the old farmhouse and then headed across the fields to the tree line.

  The second vehicle, a larger SUV with three men inside, stopped fifty feet from Ramón Guzman. The men exited the vehicle and stood by the open doors waiting for the smaller car to return. They looked like affluent and extremely neat tourists, wearing khaki slacks, or designer jeans and tailored short-sleeved shirts that hung loosely just below the waistline.

  The morning sun beat down hot through a sky hazy with the humidity rising from the fields and swamps. One of Peña’s men standing nearby, took a handkerchief from his rear pocket to wipe the sweat from his brow. The movement caused a moment of intense scrutiny from Soto’s men. The two from the front seat moved their hands towards their waistbands, letting them hover there.

  “Relax. Hotter than hell. That’s all.” Peña’s man grinned and waved the handkerchief at them before replacing it in his pocket.

  Annoyed, Guzman turned his head slightly to speak to the man. “No more of that.”

  The man, Reynaldo Vargas, one of Peña’s senior men who had been one of the guards watching over him these past months, shrugged and grinned again. “Okay, boss.”

  Guzman and the guard stood in the front yard. Three more of Peña’s men were posted around the other sides of the house. The sixth security man allowed at the meeting would be Peña himself, driving Budroe in when all was clear.

  A crow circled overhead, cawed and glided across the fields to a tall tree at the edge of the woods. Cicadas buzzed loudly from the live oaks in the yard, their hum soaring in pitch, then fading, and then rising again. There was no sound from the humans present.

  Guzman stood patiently, waiting. He knew that Soto’s men were checking in the trees for a shooter or any other sign of subterfuge. Peña’s had done the same immediately after arriving at the house.

  A portable radio squawked and the man standing by the rear door of the vehicle lifted his hand spoke and nodded. As he stepped forward, the men by the front of the SUV parted to take up position on either side of him. Guzman heard the smaller car roaring across the fields to rejoin the others. Flanked by his security team, the man with the radio crossed the grass to stand in front of Guzman.

  “I am Isaiah…Isaiah Kobona. I work for Armando Soto.” He was tall, deep-voiced and well-muscled. The shiny black features of his face showed his west African descent. His English held just the hint of an island lilt giving the impression that he was a native Trinidadian.

  “Ramón Guzman.” There were no handshakes, just brief nods, eyes never leaving the other’s face.. “Shall we go inside? The air conditioning works very well and the day is hot.”

  Inside, Guzman led Kobona and one of his men to a large den. Reynaldo brought up the rear.

  The house was old and had the musty odor of having been closed up too long in the humid Florida climate. But the air conditioner had removed most of the dampness from the air as it cooled the room.

  “We should make the calls, yes?” Guzman smiled at Kobona as he reached for his cell phone.

  “Yes.”

  As agreed, they simultaneously called their principles. Budroe and Soto were hovering somewhere nearby in their vehicles, not approaching the scene until their trusted men gave the all clear. Guzman looked over his shoulder at Vargas, knowing that he was there partially to keep an eye on Guzman and ensure that he was, in fact, trustworthy.

  The phone rang once and Peña answered. Guzman spoke one word. “Clear.

  Two minutes later, the black Cadillac Escalade that had been rented for Budroe turned off the road onto the drive and moved deliberately, not too fast and not too slow. Marques Peña observed everything, alert to any threat as he pulled into the front yard. Reynaldo met him at the car. Guzman watched from the front porch.

  Exiting the passenger side of the Escalade, Budroe, stretched and looked around noting the security men on each side of the house. “Let’s get inside where it’s cool.” He tramped across the yard to the porch. “I sure as hell hope the air conditioning is working.�
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  “It is.” Guzman nodded and stood aside.

  “Who’s this?” Budroe eyed Kobona standing at a respectful and non-threatening distance.

  “Soto’s security. He has already called for him to come to the house.”

  “Humph.” Budroe brushed past and made his way to the den.

  Another five minutes passed before Soto’s SUV came down the drive from the road. He was met by Kobona and escorted into the house where he found Budroe seated in a large overstuffed chair sipping a cold beer.

  “Come in. Have a seat.” He motioned to a similar chair across from him. “Something to drink?”

  Armando Soto, tall, reserved, elegant and formal by nature was the antithesis of Roy Budroe. He nodded and took a seat in the offered chair. “No thank you. Nothing to drink.”

  “All right then…get right down to business?” Budroe smiled and sipped the beer, his eyes never leaving Soto’s face, sizing him up.

  “Yes, please. We should discuss our business.”

  “Fine.” Budroe nodded. “Let’s get to it. I believe you are still in the market for the product we offered last year.”

  “We are.”

  “Good then we are ready to start up deliveries again.”

  “How soon? Are there not arrangements to be made?”

  “Damn right there are, and we’ve been making them for months now. It’s time to stop talking and start doing business.”

  “This business you speak of.” Soto crossed his legs and leaned back, doing his own assessment of the big man before him. “Is it to be like the business you had with Eduardo Rivera?”

  The smile broadened slightly across Budroe’s heavy face. “Similar…but not the same. It’s time we put that behind us.”

  “Eduardo was my friend.”

  “I understand.” Budroe leaned forward speaking in a hard even tone. “Nothing happened to Rivera that he wasn’t planning for me.” His eyes moved around the room taking in the security men, his and Soto’s. “If we can put what happened behind us, we can do business. If not…” He shrugged.

  Soto was quiet for several seconds before he nodded. “It is behind us. We will do business, but not as before. There will be protections…for both of us…for the sake of the business.”

  They spent an hour discussing the terms of their arrangement. As before, Budroe would supply the inventory, young American women. Soto would pay for them and receive them on Trinidad where he would export them through his network, Rivera’s old network, to the several markets for such merchandise around the globe. The price would float with the market supply and demand.

  When they had come to terms, they stood. There were no staged godfather-like hugs, kisses on the cheek or other theatrics. Both men nodded their final agreement staying at arm’s length and then Soto left the room. It was done. It was business. Nothing more was required.

  Watching from the window as Soto’s SUV moved back along the drive followed by his security men in their vehicles, Budroe spoke to Guzman. “You will be in charge of this deal.” He turned his head to look Guzman in the eyes. “Understand?”

  “I believe so.” Guzman was stunned. “You mean everything?”

  “I mean stay on top of things, make arrangements for the inventory, get with Lonna MacIntyre back in Roydon and get the housing setup, get the deliveries to Soto started.”

  “Forgive me, but I…I’m surprised.”

  “Yeah, I imagine you are.” Budroe grinned. “But don’t get too big-headed.” He nodded at Marques Peña, who stood to one side, listening, his perpetually frozen face a blank wall as always. “We’ll be keeping an eye on things. But you take charge and get it rolling.”

  “I will.” Guzman was pleased but cautious. Had he truly earned trust or was Budroe toying with him? He looked at the man’s wide smiling face. “And you?”

  “Me?” Budroe clipped the end cap on a fresh cigar and began lighting up. “I’ll be around. But first I have some other business to take care of.”

  He blew a cloud of smoke and looked out the window. Business was good. Settling the accounts would make it better.

  48. He’s Perfect

  Space was at a premium in the area assigned to the Criminal Investigations Division, and Captain Perry Boyd’s office in the Atlanta Homicide Unit was crowded. Andy Barnes sat in one of the thinly padded chairs to one side of the desk. Johnny Rincefield, OSI pilot, was in a like chair to his right. Gary Poncinelli, an APD homicide investigator, working for Perry, sat on the left. Ponce, as everyone in the unit called him, was no stranger. He had collaborated with Andy and Bob Shaklee on the ‘Term Limits’ case.

  Boyd pushed the speakerphone across his desk to Andy. “Might as well get things going.”

  “Thought we had one more coming.”

  Boyd smiled. “He’ll be along directly.”

  Leaning forward, Andy punched in the number to the OSI secure conference bridge and then entered the passcode.

  “Must be nice.” Ponce said. “Your very own private conference line.”

  “Yep.” Andy sat back as the call rang in. “Working for the governor has its perks. Wanna join up?”

  “No thanks. I’m happy in my little pond.”

  “That a fact?” Andy grinned. “How do you feel about being drafted?”

  “What?”

  The tone on the line announced that others had joined the call.

  “Sharon here Andy. I’ve got Sheriff Davies and Chief Deputy Darlington with me. George is here too, unofficially.”

  As she finished speaking, another beep sounded.

  “Bob Shaklee here.”

  “Hello all.” Andy moved slightly forward and spread his briefing notes on Boyd’s desk. “Waiting for one more to join us here.”

  The door to Boyd’s office was flung open so that it recoiled off the doorstop on the wall.

  “Sorry ‘bout that boys. Guess I don’t know my own strength.”

  Longhaired, with a week-old stubble of beard, the newcomer clomped in wearing torn blue jeans, a black death’s head tee shirt and boots. The odor of motor oil and gasoline wafted into the room with him. He pulled a plastic chair away from the wall, spun it around and sat down straddling it beside Gary Poncinelli.

  “Running a little late.” He wiped his hands on his jeans. “Was changing the oil in the Harley, lost track of time.” He looked around at the gathering quizzically. “Somber group if I ever saw one.”

  Perry Boyd spoke. “Everyone, let me introduce Marco Santoro from the Metro Atlanta Joint Narcotics Task Force.” Boyd motioned around at the group. “Investigator Santoro, meet the governor’s Office of Special Investigations. This is Acting Director Andrew Barnes.”

  “Son of a bitch. I’ve heard of you guys.” Santoro rested his elbows on the back of the chair he straddled and leaned forward. “What’ve we got?”

  “Undercover, very sensitive.” Andy’s eyes roamed over the scruffy detective, sizing him up.

  “I’m your man.”

  With a nod, Andy made his decision. “I believe you are.”

  Andy introduced the rest of the team to Santoro and began the briefing. “We are going to run an undercover down in Pickham County. Local crime boss, Roy Budroe, is expanding operations and leaving a lot of bodies behind in the process…at least we are pretty sure Budroe is behind it.”

  “Budroe…Budroe…” Santoro looked up at the ceiling in thought. “Where do I know that name from?”

  “Probably last year, down in Meacham County.” Sharon’s voice was loud over the speakerphone. “He headed up the sex slave deal that the OSI worked on. He fled the country. We haven’t been able to track him down…until now.”

  “Right…right. I remember now.” Santoro looked around the group and spoke to the phone. “So what’ve we got?”

  Andy reached into his stack of papers and files and pulled out two, handing them to Ponce and Santoro. “Here. These are for you. Follow along and Sharon can lead you through what we have.”

/>   Sharon’s briefing and review of the case lasted an hour. Ponce took copious notes, while Santoro flipped through the pages as Sharon spoke.

  When she had completed her update, Andy looked at the two who would be the undercover part of the operation. “Questions?”

  “Nope.” Santoro closed the file folder letting it dangle from his fingers.

  Poncinelli was a bit more deliberative. He looked at his notes. “No, I think we have it all. When do we start.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Cool.” Santoro smiled.

  Poncinelli nodded. “Okay. That’ll work. Wanna go over the file again tonight.”

  The briefing ended with everyone knowing their role. Santoro would be deep undercover, an itinerant biker that would fit in with all the other biker types hanging around Pete’s Place in Roydon. Ponce was going in as a contractor between jobs, headed to Savannah and making a stop in Roydon for a little illegal recreation. Sharon was the local contact for communications and liaison to Andy and the rest of the OSI and GBI if needed for backup. Sheriff Davies and Mike Darlington were to provide local cover and support as needed. As always, Rince was air support flying out of the Everett airport in Pickham County.

  The briefing ended, the conference line was closed and the room emptied leaving Andy and Perry Boyd alone.

  “What do you think?”

  “About?”

  “Santoro.”

  Andy had let Boyd bring him in when he said he had a candidate for the deep undercover spot. He nodded with a smile. “He’s perfect.”

  49. Keep The Ideas Coming

  Spinning on the bar top, the glass left little wet circles. Five turns to the right, then five to the left, Richard Klineman’s nervous fingers rotated the glass back and forth. He stared fixated on the damp rings the sweating glass made.

  “Another?”

  He looked up at the smiling bartender. The name badge on her chest read Alex. He nodded. Another, yeah, one more, maybe then he would be ready to make the call. She turned to the bar back and poured bourbon over ice into a fresh glass.