The Hunters Series: Volumes 1-3

by Glenn Trust

  “Human trafficking…that’s slavery…nowadays. I didn’t know that even existed anymore.”

  “Most people don’t.” Andy paused, thinking. “I didn’t know.” Reaching into the back, he dragged a folder out of his duffle. “Did some checking yesterday and found out a few things.” He flipped through the file scanning the sheets he had printed. “Worldwide, about eight hundred thousand people are trafficked across international borders each year. Eighty percent are women or girls, mostly sold for sexual purposes or forced to work in the commercial sex trade. That doesn’t count the million more that are forced into sexual relationships for religious or ritual purposes. At any rate, about twenty thousand women are trafficked into the United States each year. The number going out is uncertain.”

  “Why uncertain?” Incredulous, Rince’s face showed that he was having a hard time wrapping his brain around the scenario that Andy painted.

  Shrugging, Andy said, “Girl turns up missing. Is she a runaway? Victim of a killer? Abducted and sold into slavery? Or did she just disappear because she wanted to? Doesn’t get reported as a human trafficking case.” Shaking his head, he closed the folder. “Hard to tell and there aren’t really any studies about the number of American victims.”

  “So that’s our case. Get inside a human trafficking operation and break it up.”

  Andy nodded. “Pretty much.”

  “And you’re going undercover to do it.” Rince looked into the blue sky ahead.

  Andy made no response. The irony of an African American police officer, descendant of slaves, going undercover to break up what amounted to a modern-day slave trade was not lost on either of the men.

  Neither was the understanding of the risks. Andy had no illusions. People brutal enough to sell other human beings would suffer from no pains of conscience. They would not hesitate to eliminate anyone interfering in their business. They would do what was necessary. They would leave no witnesses.

  39. She Would Do What She Had To Do

  His hand lifted off the wheel in a short goodbye to Fel Tobin sitting on his mower by the road. George turned onto the pavement followed by Sharon in her SUV.

  “You be good now, Fel,” she said leaning out the window towards the old man.

  Wiping out the inside of his hat with his handkerchief, he grinned. “If I am, it’ll be the first time. You surely do ask a lot of and old man.” Settling the hat squarely and firmly back on his head so that the brim squashed down on his ears and made them poke out, he added, “I ain’t been good since I left grade school. Come to think of it, it was doubtful then too.”

  Sharon smiled. Fel always made her smile. He wasn’t her father. She had loved her father. But she loved old Fel too, and in some ways he had taken her father’s place as someone to love and care about and fuss over, even if Fel wasn’t much for being fussed over.

  “We’ll be back in a few days.”

  Fel nodded. Sharon pulled onto the pavement following George, who was disappearing around the bend, half a mile down the road.

  George watched their goodbye in the mirror as he drove slowly away, waiting for Sharon to catch up. The kindness she showed to old Fel was a thing of tenderness, not contrived or worn on her sleeve to impress. She loved the old man. George loved him too and Sharon’s affection for Fel, deepened George’s feelings for the woman who had become so much a part of his life…of their lives.

  Saving her life a year and a half earlier, George had saved his own…and Fel’s. Saving Sharon saved them all. It was that simple. He had no illusions about the life he and Fel had been living. Two men trying to make sense out of things that didn’t make sense, they had sat together each day on the porch searching for the missing pieces of the puzzle. Then Sharon came. She was the missing piece. George would do anything, everything, to protect her.

  Frowning, he thought about that. Protect her. Sharon was headstrong and not one to be denied something she wanted. It was a quality that worried him.

  Her involvement in Bob Shaklee’s OSI was something she needed. George knew that. Her going in with him as backup and support for Andy Barnes was something else. This was a serious and dangerous business. If Budroe was involved, as they suspected, it could turn deadly.

  His concerns for her were like lead in his gut. He had almost lost her once, and in almost losing her, had discovered how much he needed her. Any threat to Sharon now would be eliminated. He would see to it.

  Sharon watched George, watching her and smiled. She could see his eyes move frequently to the mirror checking that she was following behind without problem. They had wanted to drive together to Moultrie to meet Andy and Rince, but in talking over plans, they decided that it would be useful to have two vehicles available for any contingencies that might arise.

  Knowing that George was concerned for her, she had assured him that she would stay in the background, drive the car, take care of communications, coordinate with Rince and arrange any other support that might be necessary. Protective as he was, George knew that it made sense.

  Andy was the one going into serious jeopardy. If the undercover went as planned, he would be in a position to gather the information for them to make a case. Once the information was gathered, and the warrants issued, they would swoop in, make the arrests and break up the operation.

  But there was one small problem with that plan. Juanita Lopez. According to Andy’s interrogation of Darren and Dale Tuxton, Juanita and the other girls had been abducted and sold. Sold. It was a nasty word when used in the context of human beings as commodities. The people who were willing to commit such an atrocity, selling other human beings, would be willing to do much more to protect themselves and their merchandise. And they would move quickly, distributing their inventory elsewhere. Andy would have to work quickly to gather what information there was.

  An only child, Sharon had never had a brother. Andy had become her brother. Alone most of her life, she was not alone anymore. For the first time in years, she felt whole, complete.

  Fel, father, grandfather and favorite uncle rolled into one. George, the man who had become her reason for living, maybe the only man she had ever actually loved. She was still trying to figure that out. Andy, who had risked all to hunt down those who had almost taken her life. Yes, he was her brother, part of their little family. She would do what she had to do to protect her family.

  40. Seeing About Trouble

  “He up yet?” Leaning against the front door of the shed, the guard reached out gratefully for the coffee mug his partner held out.

  “Naw. Sleepin’ like a baby. Haven’t heard him move once.”

  “How’s that thing sleep?”

  “Not too bad. Kinda like deer camp. Wouldn’t want to spend too much time there, but it’ll do.” He sipped his own coffee, scanning the clearing. “They’re gonna have to get us something better though, if we’re gonna be out here as much as they say.”

  “Yeah.” Cleet Parker yawned and stretched. The four-hour shift watching over the girls in the shed had worn him out. Starting at two in the morning, the passing hours were a tortuous, agonizing effort to remain awake. “If we’re gonna be doing this permanent, we need more people.”

  Mike Anson nodded, quietly sipping his coffee. No argument there. “Don’t think that’s likely to happen anytime soon.”

  “Yeah.” Cleet didn’t feel like pursuing the topic. Anson was right. Budroe was playing this very close to the vest and involving only his most trusted people. Mike and Cleet were counted among the trusted, along with the man sleeping in the big trailer. He was the most trusted. They knew that. That was why he was Budroe’s second in command. They just called him the ‘Big Man’. Other people called him something else. Either way, Big Man did not like hearing his real name spoken.

  Cleet changed the subject. “So, where’d Roy stay last night?”

  “Nowhere around here, that’s for fucking sure.” Gulping the last of his coffee, Mike added, “Drove that big Escalade out to some hotel on the
interstate. Probably seventy-five miles away. No way he’s sleeping his ass in a trailer, don’t matter how nice it is.”

  “Yeah.” It was Cleet’s favorite response to every situation. There was not much else to say. The big trailer had been set up as accommodations for Budroe’s boys from Roydon along with the Big Man when he was around. The smaller camper was for Rivera’s men.

  “Where’s Pancho or Punchy or whatever the hell his name is?” Mike looked around, not seeing the guard Eduardo Rivera had provided to the team.

  Cleet shrugged and sipped his coffee. “Around the side or back somewhere. Keepin’ an eye on things. Been real quiet inside all night.”

  “He’s probably taking a siesta back there, leaving you to stand guard.”

  “He’s the one speaks English. You best keep your voice down.” Cleet figured he wouldn’t mention that he had taken his own little siesta, sitting on the ground and leaning back against the shed door during the night.

  “Yes, I do.”

  Both heads turned as Rivera’s man came around the side of the shed. It was clear that he had heard their conversation. Cleet looked at the ground shaking his head, an ‘I told you so’ look on his face. Mike just stared at the man not caring what he heard. Neither of them was all that thrilled at being teamed up with these south of the border, island types. But Budroe had told them that they were part of the expansion of his operation, and they had better get along.

  “The name is Francisco. Paco is short for that.” He smiled. “It is what my mother called me.” He spoke the last words softly looking into Mike’s eyes as a warning not to go too far.

  “Francisco!” Mike persisted, ignoring the implied warning while Cleet sighed, shaking his head and wishing his partner would shut the fuck up before there was trouble. “What the hell kind of nickname is Paco for Francisco. They don’t even sound the same.”

  “To you, maybe no. To me and my mother, si.” Paco regarded the American for a moment as if trying to make up his mind about something. Then the smile crossed his face again. “I think maybe it is as good a nickname as Dick is for Richard or Jack for John.”

  Mike’s eyes had not turned away from Paco’s machismo stare. He considered the situation as Paco had a few moments before and decided it was time to lighten things up. He was much more concerned about what Budroe and the Big Man would do if trouble flared up between the guards. “You know, you’re right.” He smiled and reached out, giving Paco a small pat on the shoulder to show that he had spoken in good fun, no offense intended. “Names are fucked up wherever you come from.”

  Paco nodded, allowing the American to touch his shoulder, although he found the gesture offensive. “I will go get Emilio. Time to change shifts.” Walking towards the smaller trailer he spoke over his shoulder. “I would be careful what you say around my friend, Emilio. He doesn’t speak English, but he does understand some.” He stopped and turned towards the two Americans. “And he has a very bad temper.”

  “Fuck Emilio and his bad temper,” Mike said under his breath, only Cleet hearing.

  Throwing the last of his coffee into the sand, Cleet looked at Mike and said, “You need to tone it down. There’ll be hell to pay, if there’s any trouble.”

  Taking a deep breath, Mike nodded his understanding. He was much more afraid of Budroe than of their counterparts from the islands.

  “I heard speaking. What is happening outside?” Emilio sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on his socks and shoes.

  Letting the trailer door close behind him, Paco said, “Nothing, nothing. The Americans are out there strutting like peacocks. They are not smart men.”

  Emilio nodded, standing. “Trouble?”

  “No.” Paco shook his head, and added looking the thin brown-faced man in the eye, “And there can be no trouble. Remember that.”

  “I know.” Pouring cups of coffee from the pot in the small stove, he handed one to Paco. “Rivera and Guzman will be here in a couple of days, so no trouble. I promise. After that…” He shrugged, sipping the hot coffee. “After that we will see about trouble.”

  41. It Was Personal

  The Cessna drifted down slowly towards the runway, seeming to float on the heavy humid air. Wings tilting slightly one-way then the other as Rince lined up for the approach and landing, it seemed to hang motionless in the air. Then it was no longer motionless, the wheels contacting the asphalt smoothly and the plane rolling out, seeming to pick up speed on the ground.

  Standing by the small field operations building, George and Sharon watched the plane make a sharp left turn onto the taxiway and roll briskly onto to the concrete apron. A single ground crewman signaled Rince where to park. A minute later the propeller swung to a stop and chocks were place under the wheels.

  Climbing from the airplane with their bags, Andy and Rince walked across the hot asphalt to the building’s covered entrance where the others waited. Smiles spread over faces; hands were shaken; backs slapped and Sharon embraced them both warmly. The team was reunited.

  Lifting his duffle, Andy was set to go. “Where we headed?”

  “Rest area out on I-75,” George replied.

  “Let’s do it.” He was tense, primed and ready. Of all of them, he would be in the lion’s mouth during the undercover phase. Like an athlete approaching the big game, he wanted to get it underway, to do something. Inaction right now was worse than fear and made him nervous.

  Understanding, George led the way to the parking lot. Andy climbed into George’s pickup, and Rince rode with Sharon.

  Passing through the small city of Moultrie, it was a thirty-minute ride to the meeting with Sheriff Beery. The rest area they had selected on I-75 was busy enough that no one would notice three more cars pulling in and far enough away from Meacham County that no one would recognize Beery or any of the undercover team. All were in their personal vehicles and wearing plain clothes.

  Sitting at a picnic table with a sack of fast food burgers, Beery looked up as the pickup and SUV pulled off the interstate, driving slowly through the lot at the rest area. They matched the description Bob Shaklee had given him. He gave the signal, taking the ball cap off and scratching his head, and then laying the cap on the table.

  It was them. The two vehicles pulled into spaces near the picnic table and the three men and single woman got out and walked casually over to him.

  Sitting down across from Beery, George opened one of the sacks of burgers with a grin. “These for us?”

  Beery smiled and nodded. “Yep, if you want them. If not, they’re just props I guess. I figured they would make a decent cover for our little meeting at a picnic table.”

  “Good thinking,” George said, unwrapping a burger and shoving half in his mouth. “Jake Beery, I’m George Mackey,” he said between bites.

  Beery sat quietly, watching the four who had seated themselves nonchalantly around the table. He was more than a bit in awe. This was a new experience, dealing with the governor’s Office of Special Investigations. The Nicks’ deaths had thrown him into the middle of an undercover investigation for which he felt ill prepared. These were law enforcement professionals. He was just a one-man sheriff’s department with few resources, little equipment and even less training.

  “Relax, Jake,” Andy said, seeing Beery’s unease. “We’re all on the same team. I’m Andy Barnes, formerly of Atlanta Homicide now with the OSI.” He put his own hand out and reached into the bag. “Thanks for these,” he said lifting the burger. “I’m starved. Didn’t have time for breakfast today.”

  “I guess you can see where their hearts are,” Sharon said, smiling. “You’ll have to excuse them. They’re just playing the role, friends getting together for lunch at the rest area. No reason for handshakes and formalities that might draw attention.” She let her gaze wander over the parked cars and trucks. People strode in and out of the restrooms, sat at picnic tables, walked dogs. All appeared normal. She looked back at Beery and said seriously, giving him his first lesson in undercover work,
“Probably, no one here who would see or know what was going on, but from this point on, take no chances.”

  Beery nodded. “I understand.”

  “Good,” Sharon continued, “Because lives will be at stake.” She motioned across the table at Andy, who munched his burger thoughtfully, listening to the lesson she was giving. “Especially his. Andy will be the undercover person closest to whatever is happening in your county.”

  Beery’s face winced at the expression, ‘what was happening in his county’. He had no idea what was happening, and he knew they knew it.

  Softening the look on her face somewhat, Sharon’s voice remained serious. “We don’t do anything that endangers Andy. That’s rule number one.”

  Beery nodded, saying nothing, his eyes riveted on Sharon’s.

  “The group we can trust is right here at this table. Understood?”

  Again, Beery nodded.

  “We do nothing that could blow Andy’s cover. No casual remarks, conversations, telephone calls, nothing that…”

  “Geez, Sharon…” Andy broke in. “He gets it already. Give him a break.” He looked her solemnly in the eyes as if making a promise. “I’ll be fine.” Turning back to Beery, he added, “Jake, we’ll figure this out. My job is to gather all the intelligence I can about what is going on out at Nicks Cove. Once that is done we secure the warrants, assemble the arrest teams, swoop in and break up their operation.”

  Beery nodded, finding his voice again. “I understand.”

  “Sorry, if I came across a little strong, Jake,” Sharon said. “We’ve been through a lot. I guess I get a little protective of these jerkoffs.”

  Beery’s tense face broke into a smile for the first time. “I know.” He nodded. “Saw it in the newspapers. First the hunt for the killer and then that election conspiracy thing.” He looked around the table. They were like him, but not. They were tested, proven. He was not. “I’ll do my best, whatever that is. I know I don’t have much experience, but I’m pretty good at following orders.”