Hunter's Games

by James P. Sumner

  “On it,” he says, standing and leaving the room, breaking into a run as he crosses the office floor outside.

  “Wallis, I want you to work on this list of weapons. Where could Turner have gotten his hands on all this to sell it in the first place? This is all military-grade, so start there. We want to know of any missing shipments, serial numbers—the works. If we can find out where it came from, we might be able to get some help from the real owners in getting it all back.”

  “No problem,” he says, standing and racing out of the room as his colleague had just done.

  She turns to me and gives me another disapproving look.

  “What?” I ask, innocently.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe I’m a little annoyed about the fact you blew up half a tower block and killed God knows how many people? How do you do such things so frivolously?”

  I take a deep breath and sigh. “Grace, it’s not like I do things like this for fun, or take them lightly,” I say, finding myself trying to reassure her in some way that I’m not a psychopath. “I was defending myself, that’s all.”

  She looks away, resigning to the fact that she’ll probably never understand what it’s like to have to deal with that kind of situation.

  “Hey, on the bright side,” I continue. “At least you’ve got one less arms dealer in your city. Look at it as an opportunity.”

  “How can I possibly do that?” she asks.

  “You talk about the repercussions on the street… when the Red Dragon was in charge, they dictated what happened and you guys let them. Be it out of fear or diplomacy or whatever you want to call it. But now, there’s no one in charge. Nobody was big enough to take over before, which means they won’t be big enough to do it now. They’ll fight among themselves first. This is your chance to step in and put them in their place, let them know there’s nothing to take over—that the law is back in charge.”

  I smile, and after a moment, she smiles back, albeit shaking her head.

  “Maybe you’re right… You never cease to amaze me,” she says. “Finding a silver lining in every cloud seems to be one of your many talents.”

  I shrug with light-hearted humility. “Years of practice creating the clouds,” I reply.

  Chambers takes a deep breath and leans back again, rubbing her neck. I can imagine how she feels. My instinct is to rush over there and put a bullet in Pellaggio’s head, but there’s no way it would be that simple. For one, I doubt very much he’s still there. And two, it was probably more important to find out what he’s done, or intends to do, with the stuff on that list.

  I look at her. Even though she’s tired, she still looks great. She wears very little make-up, but doesn’t really need any. She stretches her arms up and arches her back. I feel bad for so many reasons, but I can’t help but steal a quick look at her. The way her white blouse falls and rests on her body, clinging to the right places, and showing off all the work she puts in at the gym.

  I look away quickly, which I think she spotted, but to her credit she says nothing.

  “When was the last time you got any sleep?” I ask, feeling I should say something to steer any attention away from myself.

  “I don’t remember,” she replies wearily.

  “Grace, you’re no good to anyone if you’re running on empty. Go and get your head down for a couple of hours. Wallis and Johnson can manage here, I’m sure.”

  She smiles, which I think is out of appreciation for the gesture, but I know what she’ll say. She’ll say she won’t rest until the thing is over, or something along those lines.

  “Thanks, Adrian. But we have no idea what’s coming next from Pellaggio, and I will not stop until this thing is over.”

  Told you.

  I nod, understanding completely, and stand up to stretch. My back is aching from my fall.

  Talk about getting the shaft...

  I smile to myself and walk over to the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she asks, half seriously and, I think, half flirtatiously.

  “I thought I might catch up with Johnson, see if he’s got a fix on that address yet. I wouldn’t mind having a look at the place myself. If that’s alright?”

  She thinks about it for a moment.

  “Fine, but play nice,” she says.

  She smiles and looks back at the screen, re-reading Pellaggio’s shopping list. I turn and walk out of the conference room, across the open plan area and then right into the corridor. I follow it along as it doglegs to the right, and head left into the larger open plan area, which is full of activity.

  I stand in the entrance, scanning the busy office, looking for Johnson. I see him on the right hand side, about halfway down. He’s at a bank of desks with four computer monitors on it. He’s standing behind a chair, leaning over and discussing something with the person sitting in it.

  I make my way over to them, nodding politely to the people who stop and stare as I walk past. Johnson turns to look at me as I approach. I expect he’ll greet me with some sort of confrontational or sarcastic retort…

  “Hey,” he says. “Check this out.”

  Hmmm, a pleasant surprise.

  He points to the screen, which is showing a slightly grainy, black and white, top-down image of a warehouse.

  “What am I looking at?” I ask.

  “This is a real-time satellite feed on the address you got from Turner. It’s a warehouse on a disused pier near the Alcatraz ferry way.”

  The feed shows a man standing alone, looking out over the water from the pier. In front of him, tied up, is a small speedboat. It looks like he was pacing back and forth, smoking a cigarette.

  “Is that him?” I ask, struggling to hide the excitement in my voice.

  “We don’t know,” says Johnson. “We can’t get a good enough look at him to allow the facial recognition software to complete a scan.”

  “Can we not view it from a different angle?”

  The agent sitting in the seat working the computer turns to look at me and launches into a very technical and detailed explanation about why that isn’t possible.

  I won’t lie, I zoned out shortly after the guy said, “Well, to put it simply...”—whatever he’s saying didn’t even sound English to me. God, I wish Josh was here.

  I picture him lying unconscious and oblivious to everything that’s happening. Chambers quickly interrupts my train of thought. I look over and see her standing across the office. She’s holding her cell phone and looks worried.

  “Adrian, it’s him. And he’s asking for you.”

  I rush over with Johnson close behind. I take the phone off her and put it on speaker.

  “I’m here,” I say.

  “Good,” replies Pellaggio.

  His voice is different this time. He’s not distorting in any way and there’s a hint of old Italy present in his surprisingly deep voice. He sounds just like his old man.

  “Are you taking me seriously now?” he asks.

  “No,” I reply with a shrug. “You’re still a worthless bastard, Danny, and you’re still gonna die.”

  He laughs. “I’m so glad you finally figured out who I am. I left you enough hints. So, tell me, how’s your little friend?”

  I clench my jaw muscles and take a breath to compose myself.

  “He’s fine,” I say. “Unlike you, he’s not a little pussy who cries off from a bullet wound or two. He’s sitting in bed watching Downton Abbey, or whatever it is British folks watch. You shoot like an old woman, you know that?”

  Again, he laughs—a little longer this time.

  “Adrian... Adrian, Adrian, Adrian... ever the macho asshole. I know full well he’s in a coma and not likely to survive. Your false bravado won’t do you any good now. You think my last attack was bad? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

  I exchange glances with Chambers and Johnson, who are looking increasingly more concerned as the conversation goes on. Before I can speak, Wallis comes running down the
corridor toward us. He immediately senses the mood and holds back, gesturing he’ll remain quiet.

  “So, what, you just rang to brag about it?” I ask. “Is this all part of your twisted little game? If you’ve got a problem with me, why don’t you come and get me and we’ll settle it like men?”

  “Typical Adrian, thinking this is all about you.” His voice seems to darken. “Have you not figured it out yet? I fucking hate you and I intend watching you die, but if you think I went to all this trouble just for little ol’ you, then you’re much more stupid than you look.”

  “So what’s your endgame, Danny?”

  “You know where I am, don’t you? Why don’t you come and find out?”

  The line clicks dead.

  Christ.

  I look at Chambers. “We have a serious problem,” I say.

  “Yes, we do,” interrupts Wallis.

  “What have you got?” asks Chambers.

  “Two things,” he replies. “The first is a report detailing a missing shipment of weapons coming in from Afghanistan, which was originally scheduled for delivery to Hawthorne Army Depot in Nevada, where they were to be decommissioned. They never made it there. The full inventory is quite extensive, but it includes everything on Pellaggio’s shopping list.”

  “Okay, so we know where Turner got the weapons,” she says, nodding. “I normally wouldn’t want to ask the military for help, but under the circumstances...”

  I briefly consider pointing out the hypocrisy of being criticized for my male pride, then having to listen to them worry about saving face with other agencies, but I decide against it.

  “Already taken care of,” says Wallis. “I’ve contacted Hawthorne and explained that we have reason to believe those weapons are in play with an ongoing investigation we have. I said I was letting them know as a courtesy, if they wanted to help clean up their own mess.”

  “Nice,” says Johnson.

  “What did they say?” asks Chambers.

  “They’re going to send a liaison over, who should be here in the morning,” replies Wallis.

  “Well, that’s something,” she says. “What else have you got?”

  “I’ve got two dead naval officers,” he continues. “A Petty Officer Higgins, and an Ensign Lyman. Both found dead within the last week.”

  “How’s that related?” asks Johnson.

  “Both bodies were found within seven blocks of Pellaggio’s warehouse. Both were on active duty in the area at the time. Both were shot at close range with a silenced Beretta 92A1.”

  I frown with concern as I feel all eyes turn to me.

  “Hey, it wasn’t me,” I say. “You all know that—you’ve got my guns here. Wallis, was that weapon on Turner’s list?”

  He checks his notes.

  “Yeah,” he confirms.

  “Right, so this is another sick little message for me. Question is, why kill two active navy personnel?”

  “Could they just be random, like the shootings at the Transamerica building?” asks Johnson, thinking out loud.

  “Possibly,” says Chambers. “But they weren’t really random the first time, and this doesn’t feel random either. A Petty Officer and an Ensign, shot at close range…”

  She looks at me. Her face is a mixture of confusion, resignation and despair.

  I nod back.

  “They were executed,” I say, confirming her suspicions. “We just need to figure out why.”

  “We do,” she agrees. “But right now we have to focus on the things we can actively work with.” She turns to Wallis. “That’s great work,” she says. “When the liaison from Hawthorne gets here, I want you to work with them on that lead. They might be able to offer some extra insight.”

  “Got it,” he replies.

  “Johnson,” she says, turning to him. “You’re with me and Adrian.”

  “What are we doing?” I ask.

  “We’re going to follow up on the only solid lead we have,” she says.

  “We’re going to the warehouse?” asks Johnson, somewhat apprehensively.

  “Even if he’s not there anymore, we might find some clue about where he’s gone.”

  “Well, you know it’s gonna be a trap, right?” I say. “He wouldn’t invite us down there if there was any real chance of us actually finding him.”

  “I know,” she says with a smile. “It’s almost certainly a trap of some kind. That’s why you’re going in first.”

  I smile back. She’s starting to think like me, the poor woman. But she’s also starting to see what it takes to win these types of games...

  I nod. “Works for me.”

  14.

  14:16

  IT WAS FUNNY noting the contrast between them all. Chambers armed herself with her Glock and Kevlar vest quickly and professionally. Johnson had done the same, but in the way a child would do their chores—like it was necessary, but he can think of a billion things he’d rather be doing instead. Wallis, on the other hand, had been visibly unhappy not to be included, as if sitting behind a desk was his idea of hell.

  I was surprised at how little convincing Chambers had taken to get her to give me my guns back. All I had to do was ask.

  We’re huddled together around a table in the smaller office area by the conference room. The whole team of agents is here, game faces on. I look around the crowd as Chambers prepares to explain what’s about to happen. I notice at the back is Agent Green. I’ve not seen him since he arrested me a couple of days ago outside City Hall. I stare at him for a moment, but he doesn’t acknowledge me.

  “Myself, Special Agent Johnson and Adrian are going to go and check out the warehouse,” announces Chambers to the room. “We want to keep this discreet, just in case Pellaggio is still there. The last thing we want to do is give him more notice to run. We’ll carry out a preliminary search of the property, then call it in. We’ll have a second team on stand-by to come in and carry out a full analysis. We’ll want Forensics in there too. Hopefully we can find something that will give us an indication as to what Pellaggio’s next move will be.”

  There are a few murmurs from the crowd—a mixture of agreement and concern.

  “Okay, let’s get to it,” says Chambers, before looking at Johnson and me in turn and gesturing us to follow her.

  The crowd disperses with practiced efficiency. They all return to their own workstations as I follow Chambers and Johnson out of the office area and through the small network of corridors to the elevator. We take it down to the lobby and walk out to the street. There’s a sedan parked out front and we climb into it before setting off for Pellaggio’s warehouse. Johnson’s driving and Chambers is riding shotgun. I’ve climbed into the back.

  Chambers turns slightly in her seat to face me.

  “Are you ready for this?” she asks.

  “For once, we’re doing something I wouldn’t do any differently on my own,” I replied. “Just get me to that warehouse.”

  The traffic is flowing steadily, despite being mid-afternoon and approaching rush hour. Johnson navigates the increasingly busy streets with ease as we make our way over to The Embarcadero, which runs the full length of the coast where all the piers are, and where the ferry ways converge.

  “I’m glad you approve of the operation,” says Chambers, sarcastically. “But just remember—this is still our show. We work as a team. You don’t go off on your own and start blowing things up or anything, okay?”

  I can’t tell how serious she’s being, so I simply raise an eyebrow in silent acknowledgement.

  After ten minutes or so, we turn left at Embarcadero and Broadway. Johnson points to our right.

  “It should be just along here,” he says. “I think it’s the third pier up from where we are.”

  I look behind us, seeing Pier 7 just on the other side of the junction.

  “Yeah, that’ll be about right,” I say. “He was right down at the far end, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah, Pier 17,” confirms Johnson. “We can drive
straight down.”

  “I suggest we park halfway down and approach on foot,” says Chambers. “It’ll make our presence less obvious, if anybody is there.”

  “Agreed,” I say.

  There’s only one way in or out of the warehouse, which I don’t like. If I’m infiltrating somewhere, I look at all entrances and pick the hardest one to get in. That’s always the one least protected. But in this instance, we have no choice, and I hate being so exposed.

  “We’re here,” says Johnson, as he pulls over to the parking lot and eases the sedan to a stop just by the entrance to the pier.

  I look around. Along the side of the street are a few parked cars. The sidewalk isn’t busy, but there are a few people walking back and forth. The parking lot is half-full, and the entrance to the pier is open. There are a couple of businesses that occupy the warehouses nearest to us, and there’s some hustle and bustle as they go about their day.

  “Okay,” says Chambers. “Let’s make a slow approach.”

  Johnson set offs again, turning cautiously onto the pier. The sun glares through the windshield, reflecting off the Bay and partly blinding us. Both Johnson and Chambers pull down the visors and squint as we make our way along.

  We pass an open loading bay on the right, with a couple of guys in dark blue coveralls unloading something from a truck. I lean forward to get a clear view of what lies ahead. The sun glistens on the Bay, making for a picturesque scene that I wish I had more time to appreciate.

  “This will do,” says Chambers, as we drive slowly past what’s probably the halfway point of the pier. “Pull up here and we’ll cover the rest on foot.”

  Johnson slows to a stop and we all get out. I stretch and look around, seeing nothing that jumps out at me as strange.

  “On me,” says Chambers, as she draws her weapon and walks on toward the last warehouse of the pier.

  I look up, knowing the FBI is watching in real-time through the miracle of technology. I draw one of my Berettas and follow her.

  “You got a permit for that?” Johnson asks.

  I’m not sure if he’s joking or not—it’s never easy to tell with him.