A MIKE GREYSTONE BOOK #1
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http://www.MikeGreystone.com
Author’s blog:
http://www.MikeGreystone.com/blog
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First published in 2014
Copyright © 2014 Michael Sigurdsson
THE HUNT
The moral rights of Michael Sigurdsson to be identified as the author of this work have been asserted.
ISBN (eBook): 9781631020438
Mike Greystone Series
by Michael Sigurdsson:
1. The Hunt
2. The Doctor
3. The Exchange (Novella)
To my beloved wife,
who has been supporting me on my journey.
THE HUNT
1.
IT WAS AS if all hell had broken loose. People were running all over the place. There was thick black smoke hovering over the St. Brigid School building in the affluent suburbs of Pittsburgh. Children and parents were cowering for shelter in the school parking lot. The rhythmic sound of an automatic gun could be heard. Rounds of ammunition were punching into bodywork of cars in the car park, smashing windscreens, lacerating passengers, children, and adults alike. You could hear brief pauses every now and then while the gunman changed ammunition, and then another series of gunshots. Suddenly the shots died down and only the hysterical cries of people in the parking lot were audible. This was still not the end. The gunman was just loading his RPG. He aimed at the already burning building and fired another rocket propelled grenade towards it. There was a huge explosion sending pieces of shattered shards and splinters of glass in all directions.
Carter Wimbledon was a successful businessman. He was reasonably happy in his marriage, but, as with every marriage, there were ups and downs. Nothing major though, he was quite sure about that. He was sitting in his car in the parking lot of St. Brigid School when some freak started emptying one magazine of bullets after another. Carter had just noticed the shooter moving in the direction of his car. In a last moment of sanity, Carter asked his children, who were sitting in the back, to unbuckle and dive to the floor.
Carter would normally be at work at this time of day and it would be his wife Lauren Wimbledon, stay-at-home mom, who would do the school run. However, today she had a medical appointment and the daily routine had to be done by Carter. Carter was scared, with lots of thoughts flashing through his head. One of them was important. He thought, however bad the situation was, it was actually good that he was picking up kids from school today, as his wife Lauren would certainly panic. He loved his wife dearly. He still thought they could escape. After a short stupor caused by this surprise shooting, Carter seemed to recover from the shock of the assault and shouted to his children again: "Get down on the floor, I'll get you out of here!"
That was not to be. At least not the way Carter thought. It so happened it was his wife's car, and he wasn't fully familiar with the controls. The assailant was slowly approaching their car. Carter started to feel warm, drops of sweat appeared on his forehead. He started fumbling with his right hand for a key to start the engine. He thought to himself: "How funny, people in the movies see their lives flash before their eyes at moments like this." This was true, only Carter hadn’t progressed far enough to realize and experience it for himself. He was fumbling to start the car, but somehow he couldn't do it. The assailant was even closer now. Carter started sweating even more and thought about his wife. He loved her more than anything, and wanted to return home safely and hug his wife.
"Where's the fucking key?" Carter thought aloud.
John, his son, cowering on the floor next to the rear seat asked anxiously: "Dad, why are we not driving?!"
"Where's the key?!?" shouted Carter. The shooter was now just a few meters from their car. This takes a long time to describe, but in fact it was all happening very quickly. Carter was now panicking, but still realized he needed to ensure the safety of his children, as much as he could in this situation. He shouted at them again and again: "Lie flat on the floor, don't get up, and don’t lift your heads!"
He bent his head to the right of the steering wheel searching for the key. The key was there, but it wouldn't move. How surprised Carter was. He was trying to turn the key but it was just there and wouldn't turn. As it was his wife's car, he wasn't familiar with it and didn't recollect there was a "Start" button on the dash board. How funny, these new cars have all kinds of new toys and gadgets to make life easier, but somehow they weren’t making Carter's life any easier.
Carter now lost his head and thought to himself: "Am I dreaming? There's the key, but it won't turn!"
Of course, he must have known there was a starter button, as he had used it only an hour before to start the car, but somehow at this highly emotional moment he simply lost his head.
The shooter was just five meters from the car and raised his arm to aim at Carter. The car was quite nice, and had a few additional extras, a slightly shaded "climate control" windscreen, for instance. Car manufacturers like using grand names to describe simple things, like "climate control." Anyway, the windscreen being slightly shaded, the interior of the car wasn't immediately visible from a distance.
The shooter aimed and fired. Carter was bending forward slightly, struggling with the key when the shot came, which hit his right shoulder blade. The pain was excruciating, but for moments exactly like this, our adrenal glands start producing cortisol in a second, a potent stress hormone which also acts as a pain relief to ensure that the pain does not cripple the mobility needed to escape. It sobered Carter, and he turned back to see if his children were safe. They were crouching on the floor as he had told them.
There came another shot, which this time hit his arm above the elbow. The window was cracked like a spider web and visibility was reduced, so he didn't see the shooter. He knew the end was coming and felt helpless. "Don't lift your heads whatever happens, it will be all right!"
The third shot pierced his left lung. At that moment he recollected there was a starter button on the dash beside the steering wheel column. He lifted his right hand, and nearly felt he was pressing the button. To his surprise, when he looked down, his arm hadn’t moved, it was just hanging beside his torso. The shots must have damaged some crucial nerves. He was getting weak, and out of breath due to a hole in his lung. He thought about his wife Lauren. He loved her so much, and although they had their share of problems in their marriage, he would give anything to be with her now.
In a last heroic attempt to protect his children, he once more shouted: "Don't get up, don't lift your heads, don't..."
This sentence was interrupted by a fourth shot, which entered his stomach. Carter thought about his children, Karrie and John. They were nearly teenagers but it seemed as if they’d been born yesterday. He remembered those precious moments, twice, when his wife Lauren had delivered John and Karrie. He thought of Lauren very fondly. They were in fact a very happy couple. He recollected their wedding, their engagement, and how they met.
"So this is how it happens, the flashback of your life," Carter pondered. "God, please save my children," he cried.
A fifth shot ruptured his lung again. With a last effort, Carter shouted "Don't lift your heads!" bu
t only a nearly silent hiss left his mouth. He recalled an image of his wife Lauren and a faint smile appeared on his face. He now clearly remembered all the beautiful moments they had spent together.
The assailant approached the car and stopped just in front of the bonnet. A sixth shot hit Carter’s head. Carter's brain splashed all over the interior, hitting the seats, windows, pillars, and optional alcantara leather roof lining. Carter wanted his wife to drive a nice car and he himself had ticked the alcantara head lining on the options list.
"Don't you ever fuck with me!" shouted the gunman. "Don't you ever fuck with me again!" he repeated, looking at the dead body, in a car in front of him, who he thought was a woman.
2.
"I LOVE OUR quiet precious moments together," I said, kissing Carmela on her neck.
"Sex with you is far from quiet, mind you," Carmela teased me. "I also love our quiet precious moments together," she added. "I haven’t even mentioned the fifteen hundred you pay me for our quiet precious moments together."
"Oh, don't spoil the atmosphere," I interjected.
"Just teasing," Carmela responded. "You know I really enjoy being with you," she clarified.
"I know," I reassured her.
"You are like a bird, you never stop. I know I'm a hooker and you're a restless rover. But I don't mind, I love being with you, even though we’re probably never going to be together," Carmela said.
Carmela Molinari was a hooker for the upper crust. There's probably a professional term for that and I think it is “courtesan.” A courtesan is charming, educated, brilliant, intelligent, emotionally supportive, emphatic, stunningly beautiful, physically fit, well-mannered and at ease in every social situation. In brief, a courtesan is a perfect woman and always at your disposal, assuming you can afford fifteen hundred or more per night. But this is small change compared to what you get for your money. Prime service.
"What are we going to do tonight?" asked Carmela. "Do you have any special wishes?"
"I am going to take you to the moon tonight."
"I don't have a single doubt about that. I'd love to offer you a special night too." She kissed me.
"Every night with you is special, don't you know that by now?"
"I know, and I want to make sure it stays that way."
"I can feel tension mounting down there," I said. "This tension needs to be released urgently to avoid disaster."
"This tension needs to be released urgently to avoid waste," Carmela corrected me playfully.
I liked being with Carmela. She didn't judge me, she was there just for me. She didn't evaluate what I had done right and what I had done wrong.
Sad to say, but I just recalled my wife. Well, my ex-wife. Don't get me wrong, I loved Gudrun, I really loved her. Don't ask me about her name though, I can't say I loved it. Besides, the name was her parent's fault, they must have been on a nice high when deciding it, but let's not be judgmental. Gudrun was very judgmental about me. Anything I did could have been done better. Anything I did was wrong. The failure of our relationship was of course more than just her being judgmental, but this feature stuck in my mind. I suppose my lifestyle didn't help either, but she knew vaguely what I did for a living long before our marriage, and I didn't hide from her that my job required traveling. After a few years, things started to deteriorate, and we parted peaceful. Well, nearly peacefully, I wouldn't make a fuss about being chased with a golf club around our house; fortunately, being quite fit I managed to escape unscathed.
"Mike, do you like me?" Carmela asked.
"Of course I like you, you’re one of the best women in my life," I said. "I know our relationship falls under the 'money for service' category, but I still think you are exceptional and I enjoy every single moment with you." I was honest.
Carmela had a beautiful body. She had long slim legs, a well-proportioned middle part of the body which housed her rear quarters and hips, a strong core promising great action in bed, nice and shapely breasts, a slim neck, and an amazing face with slightly protruding cheek bones, which made women truly attractive. Long, dark, straight hair enhanced her face and deep blue eyes completed the picture.
I stroked her hair and she purred like a pussy. I led my finger around her back and neckline till she experienced nice shivers of pleasure. My finger had passed her neck and continued its progress towards the two undulations on her chest. I gently caressed both the lovely protrusions, and she was already making long audible breaths. I helped her out of her top and bra. I was normally quite proficient and efficient at these things, but I could never gracefully undo the bra. Those little hooks were beyond me. Was it that I had too large fingers? Admittedly, they were a bit muscular. Or was it that I was simply clumsy? Unlikely. Carmela had got used to it by now, I mean to my pulling and tugging at her bra to undo it. Forward, backward, forward, backward, ... . It actually takes much longer to say it than for me to do it, but regardless of that it wasn’t elegant at all.
"Mike, I think these clothes are seriously constricting your movements," Carmela said. "And I want to do something about it," she added, moving her hand slowly towards the button of my trousers.
"I'm at your disposal," I answered.
"Wow, your gear is hard as steel," Carmela remarked with a smile. "I really want to take care of it."
I was wearing a new pair of jeans with buttons in the fly, not a zip. I wished I wasn't. The holes were very tight as it was a new pair of jeans, and Carmela was struggling to unbutton my pants gracefully. She looked quite mortified, and I felt sorry for her, but I wasn't interrupting her since it looked funny.
"Let me help you," I finally said after a while. "I’m more experienced at handling the buttons in my fly," I added in a jest. "Although in your line of business you must have seen a lot of them, I suppose?"
"You're spoiling the mood, Mike," Carmela teased me.
"It's just so funny, you not being able to handle a few buttons."
"Most of my clients wear an elegant suit, not jeans, to be honest."
"Do they pay as much as I pay?"
"Some pay more, but I never have as much fun with them as I have with you. You’re my best in terms of fun factor!"
"So let's have some fun," I steered the conversation back onto its proper track.
Carmela gave me the tenderest kiss I’d had for a long time, and then slowly moved her hand along my chin, neck, chest and torso, all the way down to my pants, giving me a very pleasant sensation.
At that very moment, my cell phone rang. I looked at the caller ID and said:
"I have to take it."
3.
"MIKE, TURN ON the TV," Dermot said.
"Hi Dermot, I'm sort of busy now," I growled.
"Mike, turn the fucking TV on, I'm not joking," Dermot insisted.
"I'm with a lady, Dermot."
"You're probably banging a whore, not a lady, get the TV on," Dermot barked.
"That'll do for friendly banter. I have the TV on now. What's the story?"
I had the news on and saw a parking lot in a school. Cars with bullet holes and smashed windows, police officers escorting shocked kids and moms to police cars or ambulances. In the background, the school building was burning in places and smoke was billowing out. The faces of the kids showed shock and terror. Their mothers were hugging them to calm them down, but this didn't work great as they were nearly as shocked as their kids. Mayhem. The newsreader said at least 18 people had been killed and many more injured. This included both children and mothers. TV was all about either brutal, emotional or heart breaking stories, and they had found a goldmine. On this very day, exceptionally, siblings called Karrie and John were dropped off at school by their dad, not their mom. Their father, Carter Wimbledon, was one of the people killed according to witnesses.
The news anchor said they wanted to respect the tragedy and the privacy of victims, and therefore they would show the survivors only very briefly.
"If I was to respect their tragedy, I just wouldn't show it
," I thought to myself. "Obviously, if you get shot, the TV is more than happy to show a close-up of the hole made by the bullet. What's more, I'm sure some of the victims are thinking clearly enough to have spotted a brilliant opportunity to make themselves well-known on TV, perhaps to be invited to Oprah Winfrey's show. Well, there are probably not enough dead victims to catch Oprah's attention. I'm also certain that some of them captured the events on their mobile phones and have already posted the pictures and videos on YouTube and Facebook.
"Quite a sad story," I said.
"It's fucking tragic, not sad," Dermot retorted.
"Let's cut to the chase. Why should I be interested in this story?"
"You are going to find, interrogate and kill this motherfucker," he said in his usual vulgar-business-like manner.
"Why?" I asked, but immediately corrected myself. "How much is it worth?"
"We pay the usual fee, quarter of a million plus all extraordinary expenses," he responded. He added, "Needless to say we don't provide insurance."
"The usual fee is three hundred thousand, I hadn't noticed any significant deflation happening in the economy."
"We are on the edge of this fucking fiscal cliff. I was asked to cut my fucking budget across the board," Dermot complained.
"I understand your plight, Dermot," I tried to sound emphatic, "but I also have a considerable expense base, I have to pay my team and other bills."
"Stop bullshitting me, you were wealthy before you got into this business, and by now you shit with hundred dollar bills."
"Dermot, I like to occasionally splash my cash, that's my personal choice," I said. "And that's none of your fucking business. I'm sure when you need some cash, you can ask Ben Printer Bernake, and he'll easily print a billion or two, if not a trillion."
The Hunt (Mike Greystone, Book 1) Page 1
