The Hunters Series: Volumes 1-3

by Glenn Trust

  Stimes climbed into the old pickup and cranked the engine. Spinning the tires, he took a side road out of the clearing, a shortcut to Nicks Cove that ran along one of the streams. He’d find the sonsabitches, all right. And whatever Budroe did with them, or to them, they had it coming.

  Emilio sat across from Paco at the small table in the trailer.

  “So what is happening now?”

  “I don’t know. Something to do with the black.” Paco shrugged. “They did not want me there. No witnesses I think.”

  “No witnesses? With all of this going on, they want no witnesses.” Emilio shook his head. “This makes no sense.”

  “I know. The Americans are crazy. Just remember what we are to do, what our job is.”

  “Yes, I know what to do. The big one has left the clearing. Budroe is alone.”

  “Better to wait a little longer, make sure the big one is far enough away not to interfere.” He looked seriously at Emilio. “Budroe will not be easy. He is a dangerous man.”

  “I am a dangerous man, Paco. Do not forget that.”

  “I know it well, but with Stimes gone, he will be suspicious. He will be in his big trailer; we will have to take him there. I do not think he will come out.”

  Emilio nodded. The plan was simple, not as complicated as Paco made it sound. He liked it when the plan was simple. Too much thinking confused things. Simple things became complicated with too much thinking. This was simple. Kill Budroe. Don’t kill Stimes. He would have preferred to kill Stimes also, but they would tie him up and wait for Rivera and Guzman to return in the morning.

  “And the black?” He looked at Paco.

  “The black is nothing. Unexpected, but he means nothing. He dies with Budroe.”

  Emilio nodded. “It is best that way.”

  “What are you doing?” One of the girls across from Juanita, one of the ones who had been crying earlier, looked on in terror.

  “I’m going to help him.” Juanita walked crouching to where Andy lay.

  “You can’t! You heard what that man said.” The girl’s voice trembled, on the verge of breaking down into sobs.

  “Just stay there and shut up!” Monica knelt beside Juanita, bringing her a clean towel. She looked at the two girls, holding each other, terrified, incapable of speaking or thinking. “He is here to help us. We will help him. You sit there and stay quiet.” She handed another towel to Juanita and then looked back at the two girls. “You better worry about dealing with me, not that big guy. You’re valuable to him. He’s not going to hurt you. You’re nothing to me. I’ll hurt you plenty, you don’t shut up.”

  One of the other girls came from the trough at the back of the shed with a fresh basin. Cool water slopped over the side as she knelt beside the others. The drops landed on Andy’s face. He was oblivious, unconscious.

  Soon all of the girls, except the two sobbing on the cot, knelt around the man who had taken the beating.

  “He’s hurt bad.”

  Juanita looked at the girl who spoke. “Yes.”

  “I’m an LPN, a nurse. Studying to be a registered nurse. I mean he is hurt really bad.” She looked at Juanita and Monica and then the others.

  “Okay, we know that. What can we do for him?” Monica asked.

  “Not much.” The girl who was a nurse lifted his shirt.

  One of the girls kneeling by Andy, gave out a sharp cry and put her hand to her mouth to stifle the sound. Deep bruising covered his abdomen and the sides of his back over his kidneys. There were places where the ribs seemed broken in the middle, sharp edges trying to protrude through the skin.

  “There is internal bleeding, probably his kidneys ruptured, broken ribs. One may have punctured a lung. He needs a hospital.” She looked at Juanita. “All we can really do is try to keep him comfortable and hope that we can get him to a hospital soon.” Her hands moved over the swelling in his abdomen and around his kidneys. Andy moaned softly, too weak to make much noise. “One more blow to a kidney or rib could kill him anyway. Truth is, he may not live through the night.”

  “They can’t hurt him anymore.” Juanita looked at the others.

  “What do you mean? They’ve been hurting him,” Monica said, resting her hand on Andy’s, not knowing what else to do. “I think that big one is going to come back and hurt him again…worse.”

  “No.” Juanita shook her head. “No more hurting. We can’t let them.”

  One of the girls, kneeling beside the nurse began praying. It helped to drown out the two girls sobbing on the cot.

  Kneeling quietly around Andy, the others looked at Juanita, understanding. It was time for them to fight back. They could do something.

  Laying a wet towel over his face, Juanita sat in the dirt, leaning protectively over the battered man. The other girls joined her, taking up positions around the man they did not know. He was beaten, battered, maybe dying…for them. They would not leave him again.

  66. A Buzzing Hornet

  Shimmering faintly at first in the darkening sky, stars began to shine brilliantly as the sun sank below the horizon. To the west, a narrow streak of orange separated the sky from the earth. Above and below the streak the world was black.

  “I have something.” Jake leaned over as far as he could. “Two o’clock. Lights…I think.”

  Dipping the Cessna’s right wing slightly, Rince lifted in his seat, craning his neck to spot what Jake had seen. “Those are lights all right.”

  Pulling back on the yoke, he lifted the plane’s nose pushing them back in their seats, gaining another thousand feet in altitude and a better view of the overall terrain below. He put the plane into a long banking three hundred sixty degree turn, keeping the lit area in the center.

  The light they saw was really more of a greenish yellow iridescence. Coming from under the canopy of leaves and foliage, the source of the light was unseen, but the ambient glow was unmistakable in the midst of the black world below.

  “There. See it. That’s headlights.” Jake had his nose pressed against the window.

  Keeping the plane steady in its turn, Rince followed Jake’s pointing arm. “Uh huh. Those are headlights, but reflected, like off water.”

  Jake lifted the portable radio. “Ground unit from air unit, come in.”

  “Go ahead.” George’s response was immediate.

  “We have lights on the ground, near one of the target areas.”

  Fighting the adrenalin that urged her to increase speed, Sharon slowed the SUV while George spoke calmly into the radio.

  “Give us the location.”

  “10-4. Wait one while I try to identify it on the map.”

  Pulling to the shoulder of the road, Sharon wanted to scream, ‘Give us the damned location!’ but didn’t. Sitting quietly, she worked at controlling her breathing and the pounding of her heart. Sensing her anxiety, but dealing with his own urgent need to do something, George stared straight ahead into the dark, hands on his knees over the map, waiting.

  In the Cessna, holding the radio in one hand, Jake moved the map across his knees until he had the section that represented the terrain below centered in the overhead map light. His finger traced a line from the section Jerome Banks had indicated for them as a probable target location.

  “This look about right?” He moved so that Rince could see where his finger pointed.

  “Yeah. That stream looks right. Distance about right.” He looked up at Jake. “Give it to them. It’s the best we have.”

  Nodding Jake spoke into the radio. Less than a minute had passed. It had seemed like hours to the two on the shoulder of the road waiting.

  “Air to ground,” Jake did not wait for acknowledgment from the SUV. He knew they were there, waiting impatiently. “Location is approximately a mile west of the easternmost target area on your map, along a stream that runs near the target.”

  George had his finger on their map, tracing along a thin, curving line that represented the stream. When his finger pointed to a spot that he t
hought was about a mile west of the yellow-circled area Jerome Banks had marked, he made his own circle in red.

  “Got it,” He said into the radio. “Can you give us any description of the lights or its source?”

  “10-4. Lights appear to be headlights reflected in the stream and the ambient light diffused through the surrounding trees.”

  “Are you able to keep them in sight?”

  Jake glanced at Rince. The pilot’s fierce look said it all. There was no way in hell they were going to lose sight of the lights below. Whoever the fucker was in the vehicle lighting up the swamp, he did not know that he had a buzzing hornet hovering over his head.

  “We have the vehicle lights in sight and will follow its movements. Vehicle is stationary now. We will advise if there is a change.”

  “Good work, boys. We are enroute.”

  Jerking the SUV from the shoulder, Sharon had the speedometer rising rapidly. They did not speak. Each dealt with the tension in their own way; each focused on what might lay ahead.

  High above the swamp, the little plane circled the greenish glow in the trees below. Rince was focused and intent. The thought occurred to Jake that they were like a moth circling a flame, but then he pushed that thought away. Moths tended to fly into the flame. Not good. Not a good thought at all.

  67. The Next Play

  Rolling slowly along the narrow dirt road, the lights of the old pickup reflected brightly off the white sandy road base. Preferring to stay off the main roads in the black man’s truck, Boss Stimes had taken one of the unmarked trails out of the clearing. Familiar with the area, setting up operations for Budroe, he knew that he could cut back to the main highway near Nicks Cove. He didn’t know what he was going to say to the two dumb rednecks who had decided that today was the day to go knock off a piece of ass with the whores, but he figured he wouldn’t have to say much. Just let them know Budroe was looking for them. Their fear and Budroe would take care of the rest.

  Holding the cell phone he had found in the pickup, he checked for a signal periodically. Once he thought he saw a couple of bars pop up on the screen, but they disappeared quickly. Reversing, he tried to find the place where there was some signal, but he could not locate it. He moved on.

  Rounding a bend, he let the pickup roll to a stop. The mystery before him brought to mind the only words he could think of as he peered through the windshield. “What the fuck?”

  The Colt in his hand, he stepped from the pickup. Mike Anson’s rig sat partially off the right side of the road, the tailgate open. There was no one around.

  “Where you boys at?” Stimes called out, not expecting an answer. There was none.

  Lighting the open bed of the big truck, the headlights from the old pickup made the still wet stains stand out in sharp contrast to the truck’s white paint job. Blood, lots of it, covered the inside of the truck’s bed.

  Following the blood trail, Stimes saw that whatever had been in the bed had been dragged roughly out and allowed to fall to the ground. Absorbed by the sandy soil, the blood had stained the dirt a rusty red.

  Stimes followed the trail from there. It was an easy matter, the way clearly marked by the fresh crimson spatters and drops on the foliage.

  The trail led from the road through the brush to the stream that flowed slowly twenty feet from the roadbed. Reaching into his pocket, Stimes pulled out a key ring with a small flashlight attached. Piercing through the water, the bright LED light reflected off Mike Anson’s eyes staring up at Stimes from several feet below the surface. His right arm was missing along with a large section of the torso. A gator, moving away from the circle of light, brushed the body causing it to bob in the water. The movement in the water seemed to give the body artificial life. Stimes stared at the curiosity with interest.

  Water rippled and churned nearby. Moving the light, Stimes saw another body floating just under the surface, jerking and shaking erratically. Another gator was working on an arm. The body became suddenly still as the animal scurried away along the bottom of the stream, the arm dangling from its mouth stirring up the black peat on the bottom of the stream. The head was missing, but Stimes recognized the clothes as Cleet’s.

  Both of Budroe’s men were dead. It was certain they had not committed suicide. Seating his big frame inside the old pickup, Stimes reversed across the narrow road, pulled forward, reversed again turning the wheel sharply, pulled forward again and made the turn heading back to the clearing.

  Increasing speed as much as he dared, he cut the headlights about a quarter mile from the clearing and let the pickup slow quietly without touching the brakes. The tires rolled almost silently in the soft sand of the road.

  Opening the pickup’s door slowly, he got out, letting it close partially to turn off the dome light, but not latch, avoiding any noise. Stimes moved quietly along the sand at the side of the road. When he saw the opening to the clearing ahead, he moved into the woods and approached the space carefully.

  There was no one standing guard at the shed. There was no one anywhere. The clearing was empty of any living person. Stimes waited.

  Several minutes passed before he saw the movement. In the shadows behind the big trailer, someone moved, crouching, low to the ground. Stimes waited, motionless.

  Walking from the smaller camper into the open, one of Rivera’s men approached the door to Budroe’s trailer. He reached up, knocked, and then stepped back. The man crouching in the shadows behind the trailer began moving around to the front.

  Budroe’s large shadow moved in front of the dim light shining yellow from the window. The door opened.

  Stimes moved slowly along the edge of the clearing just inside the woods. Walking on the damp leaves and pine straw, he made almost no noise. It would hardly have mattered. The two men outside the trailer, waiting for Budroe, were focused and intent on their target. Some rustling in the woods was of no concern.

  “What the hell do you want?” Budroe stood barefoot in a tee shirt and boxer shorts.

  “Pardon me for bothering you, Mr. Budroe. We have a problem with one of the girls.”

  “What the hell kind of problem?”

  “One of them is sick…I think very sick.”

  “Shit.” Budroe looked across the clearing. The old pickup was not back yet, neither were the two assholes who figured they could just run off and fuck whores when there was business to do. “Stimes will be back soon. He can take care of it.”

  “I think maybe, she might die. She is very sick, sir.”

  Descending the two steps to the ground, Budroe stood looking at the man called Paco. His eyes narrowed, suspicious. “Where’s the other, your partner?”

  “He is…”

  A crashing roar filled the clearing startling both men. Budroe suddenly felt very naked. Paco reached for the pistol in his waistband.

  “Don’t.” Stepping from behind the trailer, Boss Stimes gave the warning as he knelt down and removed the pistol from Emilio’s hand. “Get his weapon,” Stimes said to Budroe.

  Emilio, lay writhing in the dirt, his hands clutching at the hole in his belly where the forty-five’s round had entered his gut. He could not reach the gaping exit wound in his back.

  Pulling the pistol from Paco’s waist, Budroe backhanded him with it, sending the man to his knees, bleeding from the mouth and nose. Walking over to Paco, Stimes put one cuff on one of his wrists. “Watch him. If he moves shoot him.”

  Budroe smiled, pulling the slide back on the nine-millimeter pistol, making sure there was a round in the chamber. He lifted it casually but firmly, pointing it at the center of Paco’s chest.

  Taking Emilio by an arm, Stimes dragged him roughly across the ground to the front of the trailer. “Bring the other here.”

  Budroe motioned with the pistol and Paco moved to where his partner lay in the dirt.

  “Put your arm through there, the one with the handcuff.” Stimes pointed to the angle where two heavy pieces of the trailer’s steel frame came together forming an A
at the hitch end.

  When Paco had done as instructed, Stimes lifted Emilio’s arm and ratcheted the other cuff around the wrist. The two were now cuffed together around the frame of the trailer. They weren’t going anywhere.

  Stepping back, he examined his work. There was no sound except Emilio’s labored breathing. He made no plea for mercy or assistance. He just lay in the dirt bleeding, dying. Have to give him credit for that, Stimes thought. He was one tough little son of a bitch.

  He turned to Budroe, watching the process curiously, holding the pistol on Paco. “We have a problem.”

  “No shit.” Budroe looked at Paco, obviously tempted to pull the trigger on the pistol.

  “Not now,” Stimes said. “They may have some value for us. We should talk.”

  Turning his head, Budroe nodded. “Yeah, maybe.” He walked to the front of the big trailer and opened the door. “Okay, we’ll talk.”

  Inside, Stimes told him about Cleet and Mike, gator bait now, soon to be gator shit. The whole thing had obviously been a set up. The two chained outside had been left to learn the operation and then kill the Americans so that Rivera and Guzman could take over.

  Thinking about paying a visit to their hotel out by the interstate, Budroe considered ending the partnership tonight. Stimes suggested another plan.

  “Roy, we can take them out tonight if you want, but if we do, it’s over.” He watched Budroe’s face as those words sank in. “No export market, and that’s where the real money is. You said so yourself.”

  Budroe nodded. “You may be right.” He reached for a bottle on the counter in the trailer’s small kitchen area. “Let’s have a drink. I should calm down. Think straight.” He poured two full tumblers of bourbon. “There’s money to be made. This is business.” He took a sip and shrugged. “They made their play. The next play is ours.”