The Hunters Series Box Set

by Glenn Trust

  99. Whimper Or A Roar

  “There.” One hand on the Cessna’s yoke, Rince pointed across the nose of the plane to the water below.

  The Coast Guard Patrol boat was just approaching the dock at the house. George could see several men on the deck of the fishing charter scurrying about, casting off lines and throwing them on the dock. There was a sudden churning of the water at the boat’s rear as the throttle was pushed forward.

  At an altitude of two thousand feet, they could plainly hear the rounds fired by the Coast Guardsman stationed at the front of the patrol boat holding the M-16. A series of impact splashes kicked high into the air from the water at the fishing boat’s bow. The engines throttled back, the boat rocking softly in the bay’s tidal current. Running now would be foolish and suicidal. As the patrol boat approached, the charter’s crew gathered on deck. The muzzle of the Coastguardsman’s M-16 motioned upwards and they raised their hands as high in the air as they could.

  Rince banked the plane over the house. The minivan and Escalade were fishtailing out of the driveway as they passed overhead. The black Escalade was proof enough for George that Roy Budroe was not on the fishing boat. He was down there, just a couple of thousand feet away in the car accelerating rapidly away from the house.

  Rince looked over. “Don’t worry. He can’t outrun us. We’re good on fuel and I doubt he even knows we’re up here yet.”

  George nodded, eyes focused on the vehicles below. “Shit!”

  The firefight with the deputies erupted. They saw one deputy go down, the other diving below the hood of his car before returning fire. Then it was over and the two vehicles sped through the residential streets of Heron Run.

  Expertly, Rince banked the Cessna in a series of figure eight turns, keeping the Escalade and van at the center of the turns. George began to feel more at ease that Roy Budroe was not going to escape this time.

  “All hell’s about to break loose.” Rince banked over the intersection of the residential street with a state highway that ran north and south along the coast. The junction of the roads was lined with the cars of deputies and the Florida Highway Patrol.

  The first shots were fired by the men in the minivan. Initially outgunned by the automatic weapons, the law enforcement officers took cover. As the minivan came within range of handgun and shotgun fire, the discharge of rounds grew to a deafening roar. Every officer below sought a target and let loose with as many rounds as they could as the vehicle approached.

  One of the armed men in the van fell from the door on the right side, hitting the pavement hard, his head smacking into the asphalt. George nodded in satisfaction and turned searching for the Escalade that had fallen back.

  “Stay with Budroe.” He pointed at Budroe’s car. “There.”

  Rince nodded. “I’ve got him. We won’t lose him.”

  Peña had allowed the Escalade to slow so that his men could deal with the roadblock ahead. He knew that he had to find a way out of the area. The more time that elapsed, the greater the number of law enforcement personnel they would have to face.

  As the gunfire exploded in front of him and another of his men went down, he jerked the wheel to the right spinning the car onto a residential cross street. Completely involved with the firefight and rear guard action Peña’s men were providing, the deputies and highway patrol officers were unable to follow the Escalade. They were focused on surviving the fusillade of automatic rifle bullets being sprayed in their direction from the men in the minivan.

  Banking the Cessna into a wide sweeping turn, Rince kept the plane in a position to maintain visual contact with Budroe’s car. For the moment, it was the only vehicle racing through the sparsely traveled streets below. He pulled the throttle back slightly to slow the Cessna’s forward movement, staying just above stall speed.

  “He’s pulling onto the highway.” George’s voice was calm, professional, in his element. This was a police pursuit, even if they were a couple thousand feet above the suspects. The principle was the same. Maintain your calm and contact with the suspect vehicle. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t get the public hurt. Wait until you have backup before you attempt to apprehend.

  He picked up the radio mike and rotated the dial to the tactical channel that the deputies and highway patrol were using.

  “Georgia OSI Unit to Clarion County Sheriff.” George waited fifteen seconds and repeated his call. “OSI to Clarion County Sheriff.”

  The sound of scratchy static indicated that the sheriff heard the call and had keyed his mike, breaking squelch. Gunfire could be heard in the background. The sheriff did not speak.

  Rince turned his head to George. “They sound pretty busy down there.”

  “Yeah.” George craned his neck to the side to look down at the Escalade. “Don’t lose him.”

  “I’m not going to lose him…not as long as we have fuel. George…” Rince waited for George to look at him. “What’s the plan?”

  “Keep him in sight. Notify the Florida Highway Patrol. They’ll have other units somewhere to respond. May have to come from a long way.” He shrugged. “Best plan that I have, anyway.”

  “Good plan, George. We’ll get him.” Rince reached for the radio to contact the highway patrol.

  “Find me an airport.”

  Peña looked briefly at Budroe, who had been quiet since leaving the firefight behind. “An airport?”

  “Yeah. An airport.” Budroe looked at him. “Problem with that?”

  “No. No problem, but perhaps it would be best to stay anonymous. Put distance between us and the authorities, change vehicles. Then we can make our escape, get out of the country.”

  “Perhaps it would be best for you to just do what I fucking say.” Budroe took the big Colt model 1911 forty-five from his waistband and placed it in his lap. It was pointed in Peña’s general direction. “Think I’ve taken about enough of your goddamned advice.” He lifted the pistol, put his finger on the trigger and pushed it into Peña’s side. “Find me a goddamned airport.”

  Marques Peña looked his employer in the eye and nodded. “As you wish.” He turned his head back to the road. The contract was cancelled as effectively as if Budroe had torn it into pieces. Peña’s biggest regret was the sacrifice of his men for this man without honor, driven by his ego and lust for blood.

  Twenty miles further into the interior of the Florida peninsula, they entered the small community of Griffen. A sign at the city limit pointed to an airport and Peña turned the Escalade onto a gravel road. Half a mile up the road they came to a low, concrete block building sitting at the edge of a dusty parking lot made from crushed shells. It was the operations building of the local airport.

  A Quonset hut and several smaller metal buildings were lined out to each side of the block building. These served as hangars and maintenance shops. As they pulled into the lot, a small Piper Cub taxied out to the single runway and lifted into the air after a short run down the asphalt.

  “This is where we say goodbye, Peña.” Budroe pushed the Escalade’s door open, the pistol in his hand still pointing at Peña.

  There were no fond words of farewell. The two men stared into each other’s eyes as the door closed. Budroe backed away several paces and Peña put the Escalade in gear driving slowly away through the white, dusty lot. When he had disappeared into the trees up the gravel road, Budroe walked towards the big, steel Quonset building. It seemed as good a place as any to find a plane with an open seat and a willing pilot.

  “Son of a bitch.” George stared down at the big man who had just stepped from the Escalade. “It’s Budroe.” He looked at Rince. “What’s he doing?”

  “Don’t know.” Rince circled the airport, while George used the binoculars to track Budroe’s movements. “Only thing down there is planes. That must be what he wants.”

  “We have to keep him there.” George watched through the binoculars as Budroe walked around the Quonset hut to the open bay door facing the airport’s runway. “Can we land
?”

  “Yep, setting up for an approach now.”

  “Anyone we can contact down there? Tell them not to let him leave.”

  “We can try.” Rince turned the frequency dial and spoke into the radio. “Griffen airport come in.”

  “You got Turner’s Air Service at Griffen Field, This is Merle Turner, over.”

  “This is Georgia Department of Public Safety, a Cessna 182, tail number, November X-Ray 771, circling your field.”

  “Roger 771, I hear you. You need to land?”

  “Roger setting up for approach now, but need your assistance.”

  “Roger, 771. What can we do for you.”

  “There’s a man that may be coming to your location, heavyset, white male in his fifties. He’ll want to hire a plane. His name is Roy Budroe. We need you to keep him on the ground. Repeat. Keep him on the ground. Do not let him hire a plane. This is a public safety matter. We’ll be on the ground shortly to handle.”

  “Roger, 771.” Tension had crept into Merle Turner’s voice. “We’ll be waiting for you.”

  “Roger, Turner.” Rince made a final turn. “One more thing. Consider Budroe armed and extremely dangerous.” Rince took a good look at the windsock at the end of the airstrip and began a sloping approach to the runway. “We’ll be on the ground soon. November X-Ray 771 out.”

  “Roger, 771.” There was more tension in Turner’s voice now. “Come on down, and be quick about it.”

  George sat quietly, letting Rince do what he was best at. What came next would be George’s concern. It seemed dreamlike. It was coming to an end here in the middle of nowhere, Florida. Roy Budroe was going down. The only question was would he go out with a whimper or a roar. He let himself relax as the plane neared the runway. How it ended would be Budroe’s choice. George didn’t much care one way or the other, as long as it ended.

  100. A Simple Matter of Physics

  “We’re goin’ for a ride, Merle.”

  The owner of Turner Aviation Services turned to see the big man standing behind him in the door of his small office. Actually, what he saw was the muzzle of the forty-five, a dark circle of enormous proportions at the business end of the pistol.

  “You’re…”

  “Yep.” Budroe nodded. “It’s me…all armed and dangerous like the man said.” He motioned Turner up from his chair with the pistol. “Let’s go. We’re taking a ride.”

  “But you heard what he said. I can’t take you up. I’m supposed to…”

  “Merle, you wanna argue with an armed and extremely dangerous man?” Budroe’s face widened into a beefy grin. He was enjoying the moment and Turner’s obvious terror. “Or you want to live to talk about this…maybe make a little money along the way.”

  Turner nodded and rose from the old wooden office chair that squeaked and swiveled as he stood. He led the way into the large hangar portion of the Quonset hut, receiving a jab in the ribs from the forty-five. Budroe laughed, thinking the timid pilot might pass out.

  They walked across the open hangar area towards a door that took up one entire end of the building. It was mounted on heavy steel rollers and was partially open. Looking outside from the dim interior, the Florida sun burned eye-achingly bright and hot. There was no airplane in sight.

  “Where is it?” Budroe looked around the interior of the hangar.

  “What?”

  “Your plane. You know, ‘Turner Air Service’. You got an air service; you must have a plane somewhere.”

  “Not a plane.”

  “What?” The pistol was in the small of Turner’s back. “You fucking with me?”

  “No, no…” The bore of the Colt against his spine felt like molten steel. Turner was afraid he would collapse and the man with the gun would have no reason not to shoot him full of big forty-five caliber holes. “Ch-chopper,” he managed to stutter out. “Helicopter…there on the apron.”

  They walked out into the sun where Budroe stopped in his tracks. “That’s your goddamned helicopter?”

  Turner looked at him, swallowed and stuttered, “Y-yes. Damned good helicopter.”

  “It flies?”

  “Hell yes, it flies.” Turner was becoming more animated at Budroe’s lack of respect for the machinery that had provided his livelihood for almost two decades.

  “Looks like some piece of shit junk out of an old movie.”

  Turner walked forward and put his hand on the plexiglass bubble that formed the cockpit and cabin of the chopper. “Hiller UH-12. It’s a classic…an old whirlybird.” He nodded affectionately at the helicopter and looked at Budroe. “Like the ones they used to use for medevac in Korea. I use it for crop dusting.”

  Still not convinced, Budroe repeated the question he had asked a few seconds earlier. “It flies?”

  “Been flying me around for nearly twenty years.”

  The sound of an aircraft approaching the end of the runway, throttled back and gliding smoothly down, turned Budroe’s head. “That them?”

  Turner cast a glance at the descending plane. “It’s a Cessna 182. I reckon it is.” More assured now, Turner’s voice held a note of confidence that had not been there earlier. “What you want to do?”

  “Get us in the air.” Pistol still pointed at Turner, Budroe walked to the helicopter.

  “I need to do a pre-flight.”

  “Fuck the pre-flight. Get us off the ground, now.”

  A minute later, Merle Turner had the engine whining. As the RPMs increased, the main rotor began to turn. To Roy Budroe, uneasy in the cramped cockpit and looking through the glass bubble that surrounded him, the blades seemed to pass dangerously close overhead.

  He strained around trying to see the approach of the Cessna. Without warning, the little chopper lurched upwards, tilted forward, and began to rise slowly as it gained speed. Budroe shifted the pistol to his left hand, keeping it pointed in the general direction of Merle Turner. His right hand gripped the frame of the open door in the plexiglass bubble. He checked his seatbelt.

  “There! I see him.” George pointed off to the side towards the Quonset hut hangar. “That helicopter, just lifting off. Budroe’s in it.”

  “You sure?” Rince kept his eyes on the runway rising to meet them.

  “Pretty sure.” George turned to Rince. “Hell, I think so. There’s someone big in there with the pilot. I can make him out through the glass bubble. You told them not to hire out to anyone, but…”

  George paused, not sure what to do. If Budroe was not in the chopper and they went in pursuit of it, he would be left to get away on the ground. On the other hand if he was in that little helicopter and they landed he could disappear anywhere the chopper could take him. Shit.

  Rince pushed the throttle forward and pulled the yoke back as the Cessna’s tires touched the runway. The plane leaped skyward.

  “What are you doing?” George looked over at Rince.

  “I’m the pilot. My plane, my decision.” He grinned at George as he pulled into a tight turn to acquire a visual on the UH-12. “We are in pursuit.”

  George nodded. Fine the decision was made. “Can we talk to them?”

  Rince nodded and rotated the frequency dial again. “Turner Aviation UH-12 from November X-Ray 771. Come in.”

  Startled, Merle Turner keyed his mike and responded, speaking into the headset he wore. “Go ahead 771.”

  Budroe turned and looked hard into Turner’s frightened eyes. “What?”

  “They’re calling us. The Georgia people in the Cessna. You can hear, put the headset on.” Turner motioned to the earphones draped over the helicopter’s dual controls.

  “We want to speak to your passenger, Turner Aviation.”

  “Roger. Standby one.”

  Turner waited until Budroe had the headset positioned over his ears. “Just speak normally into the microphone on the front.”

  Budroe nodded.

  “All right, 771. My passenger is listening.”

  “Roy Budroe. This is George Mackey.”


  “Fuck off, Mackey. You ain’t no deputy anymore. You ain’t nothing.”

  “Budroe, I am advising you that you are under arrest. Have your pilot land and you’ll be taken into custody.”

  “Not that easy, Georgie boy.” He laughed. “You should know me better than that. It won’t never be that easy to take me down.”

  “Even so, you’re going down…one way or another.”

  “Maybe, but it won’t be alone Mackey.”

  “Last chance, Budroe. You are under arrest. Have your pilot land.”

  “Not happening, Mackey. You just keep following my ass.”

  The aerial pursuit pushed through the muggy skies over central Florida. The UH-12 leading the way and the Cessna banking and turning continually so as not to overshoot the helicopter.

  Rince shook his head. Budroe was crazy. “He can’t get away. What the hell is he doing?”

  For Johnny Rincefield, there was no doubt that the chase would end. Budroe would be caught. What he was doing was irrational. It was a simple matter of physics and fuel consumption.

  101. It Will Work

  “What did you say?” Governor Jesse Bell’s voice boomed over the phone causing Andy Barnes to pull the receiver away from his ear.

  “I said, George Mackey and the OSI pilot, Johnny Rincefield, are in pursuit of Roy Budroe…in an airplane.”

  “An airplane! A goddamned airplane! Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  Andy smiled to himself. He had known how the call would go as soon as the Florida Highway Patrol had advised him of the aerial pursuit currently in progress across central Florida. At this point, it did not matter; they would all be heroes or fired. The outcome was in the hands of George and Rince. Andy liked the odds.

  “No sir, not out of my mind.” Andy’s voice was calm, philosophically resigned to the situation and to being the one to break the news to the governor.