The Hunt (Mike Greystone, Book 1)

by Michael Sigurdsson

  I had a few girlfriends around that time. I was good-looking, fit, I was on the rowing team – we did have good results, we beat Oxford a few times. I also did some boxing and swimming. I didn't really have to look for girls, they were looking for me.

  Still at university, I met Gudrun. I fell in love. Gudrun was studying at Cambridge, as I was. She was from the aristocratic German family von Falkenstein, impoverished since their prime, but still well off enough to send her to a good boarding school and university. Although she didn't tell me what the problem was, her family must have been somehow troubled, something between her parents. I had no idea what, but they wanted her away from home and sent her to the UK. Lucky for me, back then at least, because it was possible for both of us to meet. We fell in love, all went fine between us, and we loved each other immensely. These days, people in their late twenties, or even older, needed a lot of time and effort to have a child, a few months if they were lucky and tried hard. Back then, in our teens, even when we were very careful (well, most of the time), you got pregnant at a snap of the fingers. This was how Sophia was born. Technically, it still required physical intercourse, not just a snap of the fingers, but it was easy enough without trying, or despite trying not to.

  Back in Germany, I also tied up some loose ends. One day, I was sipping coffee on the veranda of my mansion and reading the newspaper. The headline was quite shocking for the rural area that I was living in. In the most unlucky fashion, the town policeman, Inspector Grass, and the town doctor, Mr. Mengelhaus, had had a car accident. Sometime between 1am and 2am they were involved in a car crash on the outskirts of the town. Their cars collided and burst into flames. It was a surprising coincidence that the town inspector and town doctor died in the same accident. Needless to say, no one survived. Needless to say, there were no witnesses. Needless to say, it wasn’t an accident. Needless to say, this was sweet revenge. Don't ask me how I did it. The logistics were quite complex, but it was a special assignment for me. Avenging my parents' death. Revenge was complete.

  I wasn't satisfied though. I didn’t know what to do with my life. I couldn’t find a place for myself. The business was going well, I was in my early twenties. I had a beautiful, loving wife and a lovely child. But I wasn’t enjoying life. I was restless. Killing my parents' murderers didn't bring peace. It made things worse.

  At that time I was contacted by CIA agents. I was a good prospect. Born of an American citizen who was senior military officer, wealthy, with extensive contacts in business, and brilliant prospects in both business and politics. I was still hesitation which direction to take. I didn't know what to do with my life, but the prospect of becoming a CIA operative was certainly appealing. It was a long process. I underwent some training and took on various assessments. They couldn't pigeonhole me completely, but it seemed I was very good in the field, i.e. suitable for action. Still, I wasn't sure what to do and my past was still haunting me somehow. I wasn't the same person I was when my parents were alive, I knew that.

  I hired a professional manager to look after the vineyards and my business, made a few trips to Switzerland, Luxembourg and other jurisdictions to create a few secret accounts and funded them well, just in case. I left my home and settled in London. I bought some property there, did some business in wine trading, made some more money, siphoned a lot of it to secret accounts in Jersey and Guernsey. I kept in touch with the CIA, and my training continued. I was by then undertaking smaller assignments with great success. My CIA supervisors were more than happy. I liked the thrill. Still, I couldn't find peace. Gudrun followed me with some complaints. We were still very much in love, the daily routine hadn’t set in yet, and besides I was still the safest bet for a comfortable living (albeit with a troubled mind and irregular work pattern). We divorced many years later, if you ask, long after we settled in the US.

  After a year or so I hired another manager to run my UK business and departed for the US. I tried out various things in my new home, but it turned out I was good at looking for trouble. I wasn't really fit for anything else. I needed adrenalin to forget my parents' death and the many years of physical and mental torture and abuse at the hands of my stepfather. It wasn't easy at first. I was in a new country, a new environment. But I did have a few friends with connections who helped me to settle in. You would be surprised how many dirty contacts you can get from respectable businessmen and the elite society educated at one of the oldest universities in the UK, and the world in fact. Initially, apart from stints for CIA, I was a fixer for hire for the posh elite. Well-paid, low risk (as the victims were not professionals, and many of them had to be found rather than disposed of). Having plenty of money I could be very picky, so I usually chose jobs killing cruel husbands brutalizing their wives, disposing of vicious rapists who had escaped justice. Not that I was so righteous, I just felt more commitment to my job that way, I simply enjoyed it more when killing scum, although I wasn't always a saint. I also did some investigative work useful for my core job, and laid the foundations for my team of intelligence analysts. And above all I continued working for the CIA on an ad-hoc basis.

  I became quite proficient at what I was doing but wanted to reach a notch higher. I knew the real power, money, technology and the real thrill would be to work for the government. So I intensified my relationship with the CIA. Not as an agent, but as a very valuable asset, kind of contractor. I had undergone quite a rigorous and intensive 1-year training program, everything from the use of various weapons, marksmanship, and strength and endurance training. This wasn't the usual training, but a one-off pilot program, which was eventually discontinued. Needless to say quite a few heads would roll if these words ever came to light. But I proved to be a very valuable asset and the relationship continued and actually grew to include work for other government agencies. I was very useful for fixing problems that couldn't be fixed through, let's say, official channels. Or when the agencies didn’t have enough skills or manpower. Or for whatever other reasons known to them.

  This was how it all started.

  6.

  I WAS SITTING in a waiting room in Children's Hospital of Pittsburgh, waiting for an appointment with Dr. Jane Lockerby. Dr. Lockerby was the lead doctor for John and Karrie Wimbledon. John and Karrie were the children of Carter Wimbledon, the male murdered in the school parking lot shooting. I wasn't allowed to see the children as they had sustained severe injuries and the presence of the lead doctor was required.

  The wait was long, so I dialed Carmela Molinari's number.

  "Hi Mike, you left so early yesterday evening," Carmela greeted me.

  "Had to attend to my client's business," I responded.

  "We have some unfinished business," she said.

  "We do," I smiled in my mind.

  "When are you going to pay me a visit again?"

  "As soon as I can, you know you’re my favorite."

  "When would that be precisely?"

  "How about next week? I have an important project to finish right now."

  "What kind of project?"

  "You know what I do more or less. It’s not really a conversation for the phone."

  "Yeah. I know."

  "I'll buy you something nice next time I visit. What would you like? Any suggestions?"

  "Mike, don't ask such questions. I would love to get a pressie from you, but show some imagination. Figure out something yourself," Carmela laughed.

  "Okay, I'll do better next time," I said, trying to save face.

  "Where are you now? You don't seem too busy," Carmela changed subject.

  "I’m in a hospital, waiting for the doctor who is looking after the witnesses I need to interview."

  "Is it a he or a she?"

  "It's a female, Dr. Lockerby," I responded.

  "Wow, sounds interesting. Are you going to ask her out for a date?"

  Carmela cared about me a lot, but she knew she was high-class hooker and not a high-ranking contender. I was looking for a possible partner, but wasn't desper
ate and still wasn't settled in any permanent relationship. Read that: still looking for a near-perfect partner in vain. Me and Carmela, it was just about sex and having a good time. It suited both of us well. I paid well so Carmela was happy. Carmela performed well so I was happy too. I performed well as well, no doubt about it. So hopefully she was doubly happy. After the physical performance, I liked to chat with her on all sorts of topics. Anyway, she wished me well and wanted me to settle down, as much as settling down was possible in my line of business.

  "Of course not. This is just a professional meeting," I protested.

  "There’s no harm in mixing business with pleasure."

  "Well, I suppose there isn't."

  "Don't be shy, Mike!"

  "Stop it!"

  "Okay, I won't tease you anymore."

  "Good," I smiled.

  "So I’m waiting for a special gift from you. Buy me something nice."

  "I will."

  "Talk to you soon."

  "Talk soon," I finished the conversation.

  Not long after I ended the call, Dr. Lockerby entered the waiting room. To be honest, I was irritated with Carmela's talk a few minutes ago, but when I saw Dr. Jane Lockerby, I said to myself: “Wow, I can now see why people are attracted to women wearing scrubs.”

  "Hello, Mr. Greystone?" Dr. Lockerby addressed me.

  "Hello Ms. Lockerby, nice to meet you," I answered.

  "Please, follow me to my office."

  The Children's Hospital of Pittsburgh was quite large, which was good for the patients, I suppose. All the rooms, facilities, corridors, and all the other things you had in a hospital for comfort. I wouldn't envy patients with reduced mobility though - I mean walking those long corridors.

  As I said, the corridor was very long, and I was following Dr. Lockerby, so I had plenty of time to notice she was well-endowed in the right places by Mother Nature. I wasn’t a professional in these matters, but she seemed to have perfect proportions. A reasonably wide ass, but not too wide, complemented by a slim waist and a pleasantly proportioned chest. I made a passing glance over her bust and it looked very appealing I must admit, but her buttocks and hips were worthy contenders for the crown. She was walking along this long corridor swaying her hips gracefully, a splendid view. I thought the long corridors were a nightmare for reduced mobility patients but, who cared. I was just listening on the radio earlier today a song by “The Wanted” – “She walks like Rihanna.” I had no idea how Rihanna walked, but I was sure it was meant to be very sexy. Dr. Lockerby swayed her ass in a very sexy way. I liked long corridors, no doubt about it.

  We nearly reached the end of the passage, and Dr. Lockerby asked, "How do you like our hospital?"

  "I'm not a frequent visitor to hospitals, but I rather fancy this long corridor."

  "Strange, people normally praise our facilities, the cleanliness or the friendly staff. Nobody ever said anything positive about the corridor?"

  "It's just that it makes me feel nice, this corridor," I explained, visualizing Dr. Lockerby walking like Rihanna, swaying her hips in an enticing way, if that was what the songwriter had in mind. I wasn't particularly keen on poetry in school. I liked the rhymes, but had no idea what the author, the songwriter in this case, wanted to say. I thought I'd get some illumination if I googled their video clip. This was actually what I did after meeting with Dr. Lockerby, to see how Rihanna walked, but nearly got caught by Carmela. It wasn’t my age group, you know, I was probably much too old to listen to that music.

  To my regret, we reached the end of the corridor. Dr. Lockerby ushered me into her tiny office. She was only a doctor, so she didn’t have an executive corner office. Her office was so tiny that she had to do some acrobatics to get behind her desk. There was a fancy standing coat rack beside her desk, extending sideways at chest level. Dr. Lockerby had to stick her bum out, bend gently forward, and then stick her boobs out to pass the coat rack. I tried to look indifferent but watched every move attentively. Dr. Lockerby wasn’t super slim, but I could see a nice tight belly when she passed her desk. “Nice body,” I thought to myself.

  "Right,” Dr. Lockerby started, "Mr. Greystone, what is it that I can help you with?"

  "I'm investigating the recent school shooting," I responded.

  "Are you working for the police?"

  "Not exactly, I supply the relevant authorities with information to solve problems. I occasionally may get involved more directly."

  "The relevant authorities?"

  "Yes, the relevant authorities, I can’t provide too much detail."

  "I suppose you need to show me some papers to confirm your mandate?"

  "Here you go," I showed her my credentials. "This is however quite generic in nature, you understand."

  I would normally get authorization papers from various agencies, the CIA, NSA, Homeland Security and occasionally the FBI, whichever was handier or suitable for the job. To be honest, it only mattered for cops or feds, it didn’t matter for civilians, most of whom would accept a letter from Santa. I had a few generic papers from the agencies I effectively worked for (through Research & Execution), and I got a dedicated one for specific jobs. Dermot “Leprechaun” Clenaghan organized that for me.

  "Thank you, that should be sufficient," Dr. Lockerby said, studying the document, while I was studying the prominent breasts tucked in nicely under her bra, under her scrubs.

  "Can you tell me how the kids are doing?" I asked. "They’ve been through quite a lot in the last few hours."

  "They were in shock for sure, but are getting better now. John got one bullet in his arm and is recovering well. Karrie was injured by a ricocheting bullet in her thigh, a lot of blood, but nothing serious it turned out. They will have to remain in hospital for some time. Primarily to remain under the supervision of a psychologist. This was a really big shock for them to see their father killed brutally. His brain rally was all over the car, I was told by the police. It wouldn't be an understatement to say it could be a life-changing experience for them in a very bad way."

  "Will they ever recover emotionally?" I asked.

  "I hope so, but it’s very premature to say that at this stage," Dr. Lockerby continued. "As far as anyone is concerned, we have good professionals looking after them. They are not seriously harmed physically, but the mental wounds may take ages to heal. I just hope their father's or their mother's insurance is enough to pay for the continued support of a psychologist. We only deal with victims for a few weeks, after that they really are on their own, you know the system."

  "Do you know any details of what happened yesterday?"

  "I just know there was a crazy guy with an automatic gun and bazooka shooting in every possible direction, and these two kids got shot and their father was killed. I’m not sure I can add anything else, I wasn't there."

  "I need to talk to both kids to get some details for my investigation."

  "That's not possible today, they were in shock and have had surgery. I can’t let you talk to them today. Also, due to the shock they were subjected to and post surgery medication, they’ll be of little or no use to you, really," Dr. Lockerby stated firmly.

  "Dr. Lockerby, I need to talk to them."

  "If you come over tomorrow around lunchtime, they’ll have had a good, long night’s sleep, and may be more responsive," Dr. Lockerby suggested. "Don't get me wrong, I want you to catch the bastard who killed their father and injured them as much as you do. But their physical and mental health was entrusted to my care and this is my primary responsibility. Please come back tomorrow."

  "Thank you, I'll drop by tomorrow lunchtime."

  "Great, I have a morning shift tomorrow," Dr. Lockerby said finishing our conversation and getting up from her chair. While doing so, she had to pass the coat rack, again with some acrobatics. Chest forward, ass backward. Nice view I thought to myself again.

  "Will you find your way back, Mr. Greystone?"

  "Call me Mike, Dr. Lockerby."

  "Call me Jan
e, Mr. Greystone, that is, Mike."

  "I think I should find my way back all right, although I admit this corridor is quite long and I might get lost," I said hoping so see her walking like Rihanna again.

  "It's very straightforward, but I'll show you the way. I was always sure men get lost in complex urbanized settings. Women are skilled at orienteering as they train in shopping centers, where they instinctively know where to park to be closest to the target shop. They just know," she responded and entered the corridor swaying her hips in a mesmerizing way. I was looking forward to tomorrow's visit, I must admit.

  7.

  AFTER MY VISIT to the hospital, I wanted to do some shopping. I wanted to buy something nice for Carmela. Our last “date” was interrupted, and I’d promised to make up for it next time.

  I dialed Carmela's number.

  "Hi Mike, nice to hear from you," Carmela greeted me.

  I often used disposable phones with a locked caller ID. I also had a secure, untraceable phone, courtesy of Dermot Clenaghan from Research & Execution. However, for people I knew, it was easier to use my regular phone without a caller ID lock. Well, there was some trade-off. On balancing up the pros and cons, it was better to have your number displayed at the other end, so that the person you were calling would pick up your call (and they were more likely to do so when they knew who was calling). Phone calls could decide your fate. I usually picked up all calls, but, needless to say, I preferred to know who was calling. Only a selected few had this number, so I didn't get time-wasting calls. I used other phones to pay bills and do daily life stuff.