The Hunters Series Box Set

by Glenn Trust

  This time Brenda laughed outright. “And the other name…your last name?”

  “Sansone. It means Samson.” He cocked his arm, pumping up his bicep for her, grinning.

  “Hmm. Kind of full of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Not at all.” The white teeth flashed again. “But my mama Sansone thought her little boy was the center of the universe and gave him…me…a name to fit.”

  She shook her head laughing again, her sandy hair brushing the tops of her bare shoulders. “Well, Bono Samson, you gonna buy me a drink or not?”

  “Absolutely.” He said it in his best Rocky Balboa voice and raised his hand to get Lonna’s attention.

  “What’ll you have?” Out of habit, not cleanliness, Lonna wiped the bar top with a yellowed rag.

  “Jack on the rocks.” Marco looked at Brenda. “Make it two.”

  Lonna nodded and walked off to get the drinks.

  “You knew what I was drinking after all that?”

  “Of course. Been watching you. Just lookin’ for a way to meet you.”

  Lonna set the two glasses on the bar and wandered off to where Luke and Henry Schulls stood talking.

  “I been seein’ you hangin’ around lately. What you doin’ here, in Roydon, at Pete’s?”

  “Not much.” He sipped the Jack and shrugged. “Nothing. A little of everything.”

  “Nothing…everything…pretty wide choice there.”

  Marco watched the ends of her hair play across her freckled shoulders as she spoke and moved. “Yeah, I try not to plan too far ahead.”

  “Easy rider type, huh.” Brenda smiled looking down at her drink, knowing he was watching her, wondering what the longhaired boy from New York would be like if they hooked up.

  “Rider anyway. Don’t know how easy.” Marco shrugged and sipped his drink. “So if someone wanted to score around here, how’d he do that?”

  “Score?” Brenda cocked her head to one side, looking at him curiously. “Not sure I understand. You mean with me?”

  “You are good, hon.” He chuckled. “You turn that innocent little girl thing on and makes a man think you just stepped off the farm.” Marco looked into her eyes. “But then there’s something behind that pretty face…something deadly. Not sure scoring with you is all that safe.”

  A mirthful glow twinkled in her eyes. “You never know, Mr. Samson...Bono.”

  “Sansone.”

  “I like Samson. Suits you, long hair and all.”

  “Whatever you say.” He sipped the Jack, his eyes never leaving hers, still twinkling at him. It was a disguise. He knew she was sizing him up. “You never answered my question.”

  “You want to score.” She smiled. “But not me…at least not now.”

  “Chang.”

  “Oh, you want some cocaine. Why didn’t you just say so?” She laughed out loud at the surprise on his face. “Don’t worry, no cops around here, and if they was they’d be ours.”

  “Yours? You own the law around here?”

  “Used to. Some of them anyway. Not so much now. New sheriff in the county, said he was gonna clean things up. I guess he did.” Brenda shrugged. “Not me anyway. Man that owns the place.”

  “Who’d that be, the man that owns the place?

  Her eyes narrowed. “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “Me?” Marco gave his best 'innocent' grin. “Not me. I’m just trying to score some cha…cocaine.”

  “So you say.” She turned on the stool to face him. “Maybe you’re the law.”

  “Me?”

  “You.”

  Drink in hand, Marco turned away to face the bar with a shrug. “Forget it. You think that, you don’t know Bono Sansone, very well.”

  “I don’t know you at all.” She turned to the bar letting her arm rest lightly against his. “But I might be able to help you out.” She sipped her drink, waiting for the next step in their little dance. She would see if he knew the steps before she committed.

  “What the fuck you doin’, shitbag?”

  Marco turned to face the three bikers. They were part of the crowd that hung around Big Luke and the other man, waiting for instructions.

  “Talkin’ to the lady. Why?” Standing straight, Marco let his posture go into fight mode. He’d been trying to draw attention and get into the group. This wasn’t exactly the way he had planned it.

  The biker in the center snorted out a laugh. “Lady…shit that’s our bitch. You best stay away from her.”

  Now Brenda turned. “I ain’t nobody’s bitch. You boys back off. We’re just talkin’.”

  “Yeah, talkin’ pretty close, touchin’ arms and all. That’s bullshit. He comes waltzin’ in here from up north somewhere, thinks he can muscle in.”

  Marco shook his head. “It’s not like that.”

  Brenda laughed. “Fuck off boys. We’re talkin’ and if there’s anything more, it’s none of your business.”

  Across the room, Gary Poncinelli tensed, watching the action, wondering how the hell he was going to stop what might happen. He looked at one of the redneck farmers at the table.

  “What’d you say?”

  “Huh?” The farmer looked up from his beer, bleary eyed and puzzled.

  Ponce shouted. “What’d you say?”

  “Didn’t say nothin’. What you talkin’ about?”

  “Goddamnit! You don’t talk about my sister like that!” Ponce pushed the chair back from the table and stood up.

  The heads at the bar swiveled to check the commotion. A good fight was always a draw at Pete’s, a source of entertainment, taking the place of big screen televisions and surround sound. They made Pete’s Place a sort of low-rent sports bar.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Big Luke stepped between the three bikers in front of Marco and looked at Brenda.

  “Nothin’ Luke. These assholes are buttin’ in where they ain’t wanted.”

  The biker who had done the talking spoke up. “He ain’t from around here. We been watchin’. He’s tryin' to make it with Brenda. She ain’t his, she’s ours.”

  Luke turned his big frame facing the three. “Back off. Brenda ain’t nobody’s. She goes her own way. You know that.” He nodded at the table across the bar where Ponce stood waiting for the drunk farmer to stand and face him. The farmer apparently wanted no part of the fight and didn’t seem to have any idea what had pissed off the man they had been drinking with for the last several days. “Go settle that down. Too early for a fight.”

  Sullen, the three turned away and Marco relaxed. “Thanks. Don’t know what pissed them off.”

  “Shut up.” Luke looked around at him, a dark look in his eyes. “We don’t need no trouble right now.”

  “He’s cool.” Brenda jerked her head in Marco’s direction. “Name’s Bono Samson or some shit.”

  “Bono? Like the rock star?” He looked at Marco. “You don’t look like no fuckin’ rock star.”

  “He ain’t. Just a rider from up north. New York.”

  “Yeah, I know. We met.”

  “He wants to score…coke.”

  “That a fact.” Luke looked at Brenda. “You vouch for him?”

  “Yeah.”

  Luke nodded, satisfied. “Good enough. All right Bono from New York, you wanna score, you gotta pay. No credit here.”

  Marco patted the roll of bills that made a lump in the pocket of his jeans.

  “Good enough. Let’s get you set up.”

  Marco followed Luke into the back office, turning his head in time to see one of the bikers push Poncinelli back into his chair. The drunk farmer muttered an apology, saying he didn’t mean any offense, whatever it was that he said. Show over, for now, the bikers turned away.

  Big Luke ducked slightly as he stepped through the door to the back leading the way to wherever the stash was kept. It was a start. Not exactly the way he planned it, Marco thought, but a start. Now if they could just keep from getting killed in the next few days, the plan might come together.


  62. Shitty Tipper

  “He’s here.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. He’s here.” Richard Klineman looked around wondering if anyone at the bar could see his hand tremble, holding the cell phone to his ear.

  “You saw him?” Budroe’s rumbling voice almost seemed to taunt him, keeping him on the line longer than necessary just to fuck with him. Klineman would have been even more intimidated if he had seen the wolf-like grin spread across Budroe’s face.

  “No. But I know that he is meeting with his lawyer.” Klineman took a deep breath to try to control his voice. “He will be here until and through the trial. Jury selection starts soon. He’ll have to be in court every day.”

  “Good.”

  “You need me to do anything?”

  As usual, the call disconnected abruptly, his question unanswered. Klineman sat on a stool, the dead phone to his ear, for a full minute and then put it down on the bar top. Alex the bartender stood before him, watching, a barely concealed smirk on her face.

  “Get you another?”

  “Yeah, another.” He slid the empty tumbler across the bar, the ice cubes rattling against the glass as it moved.

  Alex turned away to get the drink, a silent laugh on her face. He had become a regular. Always on the phone and always nervous, looking like he was about to shit his pants. She didn’t really care about the state of his underwear, but his constant state of nervousness gave him a surly attitude, or maybe he was just always rude. Either way, she didn’t have to put up with it. On top of everything else, he was a shitty tipper.

  She turned the bottle up and then pulled it back quickly, giving him a shot and a half instead of the double he had ordered. Fuck him.

  “Here you go.” She set the drink on the bar and walked away, knowing from experience over the last couple of weeks that there would be no thank you and no pleasant conversation.

  Richard Klineman stared into the amber liquid feeling himself shrink until it seemed that he was balancing unsteadily on the rim of the glass tipping one way and then the other until, all at once, he fell into the icy liquid. He bounced against the floating ice cubes, the alcohol burning his eyes and nose. Opening his mouth, he tried to suck all of the liquid in to keep from drowning.

  At the other end of the bar, Alex watched her morose customer lift the glass and hold it up until the bourbon was gone. He fumbled with his wallet, pulling out some bills and dropping them on the bar, and then walked unsteadily into the hotel lobby.

  When he had gone, she gathered up the bills. It figured. Jerk-off ran up a sixty-dollar tab and left a two-dollar tip. Asshole.

  63. Good Intelligence

  It was after midnight when the big man walked into the bar from the back office, preceded by Luke McCrory and the older man who gave orders. Regulars now at Pete’s Place, the two OSI undercover officers recognized him immediately. The speculation was over. Roy Budroe was back.

  They had not seen him enter the building and assumed that he had come in through the back for security reasons. Flanked on his right by a quiet man whose piercing eyes never stopped moving taking in everything and everyone, Budroe stood at the end of the bar, his head turning and scanning the patrons scattered around the room.

  His eyes moved briefly over each of the customers seated at the bar and tables, assessing, identifying and moving on. They rested on Ponce and Marco a bit longer than most of the others. The undercover officers ignored him and talked with the boozy friends they had made and who served as their pretext for hanging out at the bar.

  “Some new faces.” Budroe pulled a cigar out of his shirt pocket and lit up.

  Henry Schulls, the man who gave orders, nodded. “A few. Lot of action right now with everything going on. Luke’s called in backup too. Freelancers.”

  “Trust them?”

  Schulls laughed. “Hell no, I don’t trust none of ‘em. But they have their uses and we watch them close.” He smiled. “And we pay them. Make sure they got what they need. Booze, drugs, women. They’re about as trustworthy as those types are ever gonna be. But we watch ‘em. Any doubts and we take care of them.” He looked at Big Luke whose stony face indicated that he was more than ready, and willing, to take care of them.

  “Uh huh.” Budroe nodded, the thick cigar leaving a plume of smoke as his head moved.

  His eyes focused on a group of men at a table in the far corner. He nodded and they stood up and walked to the end of the bar. With brief, formal bows of theirs heads, they greeted the tall lean man with piercing eyes standing beside Budroe. Marco had the impression they wanted to salute him.

  Ponce and Marco had seen them come and go for several days, occasionally meeting with Schulls or Big Luke. Marco had noticed them outside a couple of times when he checked on his bike. The leader had been on the phone speaking Spanish. One of the other, younger members of the group, obviously providing security, always accompanied him. They had talked about it and decided that the strange men had some sort of military background, clean cut and squared away. They had not yet figured out why they were hanging out at Pete’s. From their reaction to Budroe, it seemed they might know soon enough.

  Budroe spoke to the man at his left side and then to Lonna, at the end of the bar. The man was younger, early forties, dressed in pressed linen khakis, an expensive tailored shirt and leather moccasins. While he seemed comfortable in the presence of the others, his dress and appearance were incongruous in the smoky, dark bar. He and Lonna moved to a table in the far corner of the room. At a look from Big Luke, the men at the nearby tables stood and wandered to the bar to continue their drinks and their raucous conversations that had become somewhat more subdued at Budroe’s entry.

  Budroe led the others into the back office. Schulls and Luke stood guard outside the door, talking quietly and watching the faces in the room.

  “I’m outta here.” Ponce laid the beer bottle on its side and stood up. “Dead soldier…me too. I gotta get some sleep.”

  From his seat at the bar, Marco saw the signal and watched his partner leave. The neon lights outside cast a red glow across the room as the heavy door opened and closed and Poncinelli disappeared into the night. They had to report. Budroe was back. It was confirmed. The others would want to know regardless of the hour. That left Marco alone for a while to keep an eye on things.

  Minutes passed. Behind the closed office door, something was happening. Whatever it was, it was important and Marco was pretty sure it wasn’t good.

  He turned the beer bottle up, draining the last of it and banged it down on the bar. “That’s a good warm up.” The biker to his side shrugged and sipped from his own bottle. “Think I’ll see what else is on the menu.”

  Shuffling unsteadily like a drunk trying very hard to appear sober, he made his way to where Luke and the man who gave the orders were standing, keeping watch on the door to the back.

  “What the fuck do you want?” The order-giver eyed him closely. Luke turned to face him.

  “Thought maybe I could get a…uh, refill.” Marco smiled and leaned unsteadily against the end of the bar.

  “Get the fuck outta here.”

  “Yeah, but you got what I need…” Marco jerked his head to the door. “Back there. I got money, I just need a little hit.”

  Schulls’ hand went ominously to his pocket and for a second Marco wondered if he had overplayed his hand.

  “S’all right Henry. Just a cokehead.” Big Luke turned to Marco. “You heard the man. Get the fuck outta here.”

  “Okay man, okay. Don’t mean nothin’ by it.” Marco turned and shuffled back to his seat, a look of deep disappointment on his face. At least he had half a name for the order giver now…Henry. With a little luck, he might get the other half before the night was through.

  The backup bartender placed a beer in front of him without waiting for him to order. She was a big woman, bigger than Lonna. Marco wondered what the hell was the attraction between large ladies and spandex. Didn’t they have a mirror
in the house? He put his head in his hands playing the part of a drunk doper craving a fix.

  An hour and two beers later, the door to the back office opened. Budroe put his head out. “Schulls, get in here.”

  Bingo. The man who gave the orders around Pete’s Place nodded and went into the room, leaving Big Luke to stand guard. Henry Schulls. Marco wondered what old Henry ‘Get-the-Fuck-Outta-Here’ Schulls’ past might hold. No doubt, Sharon would have a field day discovering that bit of information.

  He sipped his beer satisfied that the day had been productive. The UC operation was coming together nicely, but there was a bit of information that would be the icing on the cake. He looked around the bar, wondering if he could slip out and be ready to follow Budroe when he left, find out where the big man was holed up. He drained the last of the beer, threw some bills on the bar and stumbled out.

  Ponce’s old pickup was gone. It would be better if he had backup. He walked to the Harley, straddled the seat and turned over the engine. It rumbled to life and he backed it away from the building pushing with his legs.

  As he turned the bike in the lot, two men came from each side of the building. Shit. How much security did Budroe have with him? Enough, Marco figured that it would not be in his best interests to try to follow Budroe to his lair with so many eyes on him. Everyone knew what had happened to Andy Barnes the year before, held by Budroe for a few hours. It had nearly cost him his life. Marco was under strict orders to take no chances. There would be no good outcome for him, or the UC team if he were picked up and tortured, or just made to disappear.

  Roaring across the road, he slid the bike to a stop in front of his room at the StarLite. Marco continued the drunk act, fumbling with the key in the lock. Inside, in the dark, sitting well back from the window peering through the slightly parted blinds, Bono Sansone, New Yorker, Harley-riding, biker flipped the switch in his brain and became Marco Santoro, undercover cop.

  Most deep-undercover officers had the ability to immerse themselves completely in their UC persona. It was a matter of survival. Some also could flip an invisible switch in their brain and return to reality quickly. What made Marco unique was the speed at which he could make the transition, slipping in and out of his true and assumed identities so rapidly that members of the Metro Atlanta Joint Narcotics Task Force sometimes wondered who they were speaking to, Marco or Bono. To his more straight-laced colleagues, it was highly disconcerting.