The Hunters Series Box Set

by Glenn Trust

  Six men exited quietly, two from the pickup and four from the van. Doors were not closed but left slightly ajar to avoid making even the slightest noise. The interior light bulbs had been removed earlier. Had someone been watching, they would have seen little and heard less. But then, they were careful men and had done this before. No one was watching..

  They waited in the dark, in silence, while their eyes adjusted. They had planned for this night. There was no moon. The Milky Way cut a broad silvery path in the black sky. Starlight would be sufficient for their mission.

  The leader of the group made no sound, using hand signals to direct them to move into the woods by the trail. One stayed behind to guard the vehicles and give warning if they were discovered. That left five for the assault team.

  It was another quarter mile through the trees to their destination. The men moved quietly over the carpet of pine straw and leaves. The member of the team who had scouted their path two days earlier led the way.

  Coming to an open pasture, the leader put a hand up. The men spread out to either side of him, crouching in the brush at the edge of the tree line.

  A minute passed as he scanned assessing, sensing for danger or anything that might disrupt their plan. There was nothing. Looking to either side, he nodded and motioned the team forward.

  They moved quickly across the open field, their steps muffled by the dewy grass. In the yard of the house, they knelt beside two large oaks where the leader once again paused, assessing. A squirrel in its nest at the top of the tree rustled, disturbed by the gathering below. Other than that, there was no sign that any creature knew of their presence.

  A nod and a hand signal and three of the men, the killing team, broke away and moved forward. Crouching, silently advancing a step at a time, they crossed the open yard and pushed themselves flat against the wall of the old barn. They listened for a minute, their semiautomatic rifles pointed to the front side and rear, protecting each other.

  Assured that all was quiet and they had not been discovered, the man in front approached the exterior stairs to the second story apartment. As they mounted the steps, the leader and the fifth member of the assault team moved quickly across the grass and took up security positions at each end of the barn. The operation proceeded exactly as planned.

  A mayfly drops lightly to the water’s surface from an overhanging willow. It doesn’t even make the tiniest ripple. Below, the bass becomes instantly, almost mystically, aware of the fly. Perhaps it is a change in the surface tension of the water, altered in some indiscernible way. Something has entered its territory. The fish circles below, unseen until it rises in a rush and sucks the mayfly into its gullet, disappearing again into the depths while the water returns to its undisturbed state.

  So it was for Fel Tobin. He had lived in the old farmhouse most of his life. It was his territory. Every blade of grass, every tree and shrub, the foliage, the sounds of the night, all of it was known to him, imprinted in his very being.

  Something changed. There was no real sound, just a slight alteration in the surface tension of the universe, of the farm around him, a minute change in the tonal quality of the night insects’ hum and perhaps a slight diminution in its volume.

  His eyes opened and he stepped quietly from the bed. Peering from the window into the yard, he saw the men crouching by the oaks near the barn. He moved quickly down the stairs, silently in his bare feet.

  The Remington 700, 30 - 06, hung over the front door. He took it down along with the box of shells on the adjacent shelf. Four shells went into the magazine before he pulled the well-oiled bolt back slowly, seating a round in the chamber. He flicked the safety off and stepped softly to the front porch still barefooted.

  By the time he made it around to the side, where he had a view of the trees and the barn, the three-man assault team was just going up the stairs. Two others came across from the oaks and took up security positions, one at the foot of the stairs and one at the end of the barn closest to the house and Fel.

  Fel sighted carefully, but quickly. The men were all armed, their rifles clearly visible. They could have only one purpose there, on his property in the middle of the night, creeping up the barn stairs to the apartment above, to Sharon.

  A gentle squeeze on the trigger was followed by the roar and heavy recoil of the 30-06. Fel kept his eyes on the target through the scope. The man at the end of the barn closest to him fell in his tracks, without making a sound, a hole blown through his chest and the right ventricle of his heart. He died instantly.

  Sharon’s eyes flashed open, completely awake at the thunder of Fel’s rifle. Rolling from the bed, she reached into the nightstand and pulled out the nine-millimeter Glock. The magazine was full, and she pulled the slide back sending a round into the chamber.

  Five quick semiautomatic rounds were fired somewhere below. They were not from Fel’s 30-06. He had warned her with his first shot, now she prayed that he had the presence of mind to take cover and wait out the attack. Having been discovered, she knew the attackers, whoever they were, would not stay around long.

  She moved to the closet, hugging the floor as she crawled. Inside, she lifted the old trap door that had been the access to the hayloft when the barn had been in use for its original purpose. Tonight it was an emergency escape route from the small apartment.

  Reaching up she pulled one of George's shirts off a hanger, dropped it through the trap and then held the sides of the opening hanging down into the barn below. More gunfire erupted, and the door of the apartment crashed open. It was time to get the hell out. She released her grip and dropped through the trap door to the barn’s dirt floor.

  Hearing the report of the 30-06 and the return fire from their leader’s AK-47 at the bottom of the stairs, the first in line of the three-man killing team fired into the apartment door’s lock and kicked it open. The other two rushed inside and through the small apartment to the bedroom spraying 7.62 rounds into the bed and every nook and cranny. It was useless. The apartment was empty.

  “¡Mierda! Ella no está aquí!” Shit! She’s not here!

  “¡Vamos! Ahora!” Let’s go! Now!

  The two would-be killers who had rushed the bedroom ran back through the apartment to where the third still crouched by the door providing rear security. They moved outside to the stairs, descending quickly, the man on rear guard silently following, eyes scanning behind and to the sides.

  They found the leader of the group kneeling by their fallen comrade his heart exploded by Fel’s round from the 30-06. He watched the house as they gathered behind him. Looking around and assured that the others were accounted for, he led the way back across the yard.

  In the barn, George’s shirt hanging loosely off her shoulders, Sharon crept along the dirt floor to the door, she could hear the voices above, speaking Spanish, the rounds from the AK-47s crashing through the bedroom, a few coming through the floor, striking and ricocheting around the barn, causing her to duck behind the old tractor. There were footsteps descending the stairs, the voices just on the other side of the wall now, inches away through the planks.

  She considered sending some rounds from the Glock through the wall in the direction of the voices, had the pistol in her hand pointing, her finger on the trigger, but then thought better of it. She was outgunned and she knew it. She had no idea where her targets were, or how many. Best not to waste ammunition blindly.

  The voices moved away and she heard the sound of them making their way through the grass. Opening the barn door enough to squeeze through, she went to the corner of the building. A man was face-down at her feet. His dark clothing glistened in the soft moonlight damp with his blood where Fel’s bullet had slammed into his chest and exited his back

  Across the open space, she saw four men stop and kneel briefly by the oak trees. Then the leader of the group started for the pasture in a crouching run.

  Her arm raised and the Glock came up reflexively, sighting on the back of the last man in line. She had no way of k
nowing that he had been the one who had sprayed bullets into the apartment’s door lock and kicked it open.

  Her finger squeezed the trigger five times in rapid succession. The man stumbled and fell. The two in front turned and picked him up by the shoulders, spraying rounds from their AK-47s in the direction of the barn. Sharon went to the ground as the bullets slammed into the and through the wood planks.

  Then the men were gone. The night became quiet again. Gradually the living hum of the insects replaced the roar of the gunfire.

  Slowly and cautiously working her way, to the house, Sharon began searching for Fel. It only took a minute. He lay on the worn planks of the porch, blood spreading slowly out around him. Two of the five rounds fired at him by the man by the stairs had found their mark.

  As Fel stood upright on the side porch of the house, searching through the rifle’s scope for his next target, the man crouching by the barn stairs had let loose a burst from the AK-47 towards the place where he had seen the 30-06’s muzzle flash. One round had entered Fel’s left arm shattering the bone. The wound was survivable if the bleeding could be stopped.

  A second round had punched through the center of his abdomen. Sharon examined the seeping hole closely, watching blood pulse out with each heartbeat remaining in the old man’s chest. He clung to life, barely, his chest rising and falling in gasping breaths. Sharon had seen others fight desperately to remain among the living with the same gasping breaths. Fel was dying, would die if he did not receive medical care quickly.

  She pulled George’s shirt off and tied one of the sleeves above the wound in Fel’s left arm. The bleeding slowed. She put pressure on the stomach wound and fought back the urge to cry. There was no time for tears now.

  83. Never To Be Discussed

  “How goes it, my friend?”

  “Not good, Colonel. I am dying.”

  Colonel Enrique Valdes knelt over the prone form of the young soldier who had followed him from Cuba to become a mercenary in the service of Marques Peña. He had seen him transform from a peasant boy, emaciated and starving into a dedicated and trusted member of the team. His loyalty was not to Cuba, or Castro, communism or the common cause of people’s justice. Like the other members of the team, his loyalty was to the man who had taken him away from the terrible poverty and endless, backbreaking fight for survival. His loyalty was to Enrique Valdes.

  Lying now in the leaves near the sandy trail where the other members of the team waited by the vehicles, he knew what would come. That he would die one day was to be expected. That death had come for him in the backcountry of south Georgia was a surprise, but of no particular significance. He smiled weakly at Valdes and nodded. At least he would not go bent over, crippled from years of toiling under tropical suns in the sugarcane fields.

  Valdes leaned forward and kissed the man, boy really, on the forehead. “Goodbye my friend. We will meet again.”

  The knife passed swiftly across the boy’s throat as Valdes’ lips touched his forehead. The razor sharp blade opened the carotid artery. Valdes knelt with his soldier while the blood pulsed weakly onto the ground. When the blood had stopped, and the eyes of Sargento Gilberto Sánchez stared sightless into the night sky, Valdes rose and pushed through the brush to the vehicles.

  Silently, the men loaded themselves into the van and pickup. Back on the county road, they separated, heading in opposite directions. In an hour, the pickup would be on I-95 northbound to Philadelphia and a flight to Puerto Rico. The minivan would be over the Florida line and eastbound on I-10. The two men inside would fly from Baton Rouge to regroup with the others in San Juan. The two who had been left behind would miss their flight, the seats filled by happy standby passengers.

  In Puerto Rico, they would resume their training and preparations for the next mission in the service of Colonel Valdes and General Peña. That they had ever been in Georgia, on the farm of Felton Tobin, losing two of their comrades in the process would never be discussed.

  84. Pain

  “You need to get out to Fel Tobin’s place.”

  Groggy with sleep, Sandy Davies sat up in the bed, cell phone to his ear trying to make sense of Mike Darlington’s words.

  “Huh? What…” He shook his head to clear the cobwebs.

  “Fel Tobin, Sandy. He’s been shot. Barely alive. Out at his farm.”

  “Shot? Fel?” Sandy stepped from the bed reaching for his pants draped over a chair by the wall. “Who would shoot old Fel?”

  “Don’t know, but I’ve got a goddamned good idea who’s behind it.”

  “Budroe.” Davies pulled the belt tight and reached for the shirt hanging on the chair’s back.

  “Yeah. Roy fucking Budroe.” Mike spit the words out.

  “Son of a bitch.” Sandy was fully awake now.

  Meera Davies slid out from under the covers heading for the kitchen calling back over her shoulder. “I’ll make you coffee.”

  There was no answer from the sheriff of Pickham County who was focused on the chief deputy’s report. She didn’t expect any. Surprise calls and nights without sleep were part of the life. She would make the coffee, and spend the rest of the night awake, worrying about her husband. Sometime the next day, he would come home and they would stay up late talking about it. Until then, she would wait…alone.

  “What about…” A terrible thought rushed to the forefront of Sandy Davies’ mind.

  “Sharon…” Mike knew what he was thinking, had already had the same fear. “She’s okay…physically. She put up a fight; put a couple of rounds in one of them. I’ve got some deputies looking for the blood trail where they dragged him off. She’s the one they were after.”

  “You know that?”

  “Yeah, pretty much, at least from the preliminary investigation of the scene. They broke through the apartment door, shot the place up. She heard them coming and dropped through the old hayloft trap door to the barn below.”

  “What about Fel Tobin?” Sandy sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his shoes on.’ They come for him too?”

  “Doesn’t look like it.” Standing in the dark yard near the old farmhouse, Darlington watched the paramedics work on Fel. He was unresponsive. Sharon sat on one of the kitchen chairs that Fel kept on the porch, wrapped in a blanket from the ambulance. Her face was blank, empty, except for the glistening red eyes and wet streaks on her face from the tears that fell soundlessly and unstoppably down her cheeks.

  “Looks like Fel, tried to stop them with his hunting rifle...took out one of them. Blew a hole you can put your fist through in him with that 30-06. One of them returned fire and hit Fel twice.” Mike took a breath watching the paramedics work desperately to save the old man. The professionally stoic but hopeless looks on their faces were not reassuring. “Doesn’t look good, Sandy.”

  “How’s Sharon holding up?”

  “Quiet, almost catatonic. Fel was like a father to her.” He thought about his next words. “She doesn’t want us to tell George. Afraid of what he’ll do.”

  “He has to know. We have to tell him.” Sandy nodded and sighed, seated on the bed thinking. “But Sharon’s right. God help Roy Budroe when George finds out. There won’t be any stopping him, short of cuffing him and locking him in a cell.” He shook his head. “We’ll have to try to calm him down, but I am not about to lock up George Mackey or let the GBI do it if I can stop them.”

  “Glad to hear you say that.” Mike’s voice sounded relieved. “You know I’ll follow your orders, Sheriff, but I don’t think I could stand to do that to George. Not after this…after everything he’s been through.”

  “All right. I’ll be there in thirty minutes. I’ll let Andy Barnes know. He’ll probably want the GBI enroute and will want to let George know himself. If anything will help, a face to face with Andy might keep things under control.” Sandy’s brain went through a mental checklist of things to do and people to contact. “You get hold of Johnny Rincefield at the Colonial Hotel. He’s the only other OSI member present who isn’
t undercover at Pete’s Place. He’ll need to be awake and ready for whatever Andy needs him to do.”

  “Right.”

  “Hear anything from Ponce or Marco?”

  No. They’ve been quiet…silent actually. Budroe must have played this pretty close to the vest for them not to pick up on anything.”

  “I’m sure he did. If anyone knows how George Mackey would respond to something like this, it’s Budroe.”

  Sandy was about to end the call when Mike asked a final question. “Why now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “George is in Macon, meeting with his lawyer, getting ready for the trial. So, why now? Why didn’t Budroe wait until George was back in Pickham County, or hit him before he left for Macon.”

  Sandy Davies didn’t have to think about it for more than a second. “Pain.”

  “Pain?”

  “Yeah, pain. Facing off with George would be too easy. Either he wins, or George does. Then it’s over. The son of a bitch doesn’t want it over. He wants to inflict pain. Hurting the ones George cares about causes more pain than taking his life. Budroe’s a sadistic son of a bitch.”

  “Yeah. So what are we going to do? About George, I mean.”

  Sandy was quiet. It was a good question. The pain, George’s pain, was what they had to control, and he had no idea how to do that…or even if he should.

  85. Bring Him To Me

  “Let him through.” Mike Darlington waved at a deputy who lifted the crime scene tape and allowed Johnny Rincefield to approach the porch.

  Rince received Andy’s call a few minutes after Sandy had briefed the Acting Director of the OSI. He rushed to Fel Tobin’s place, not knowing what to do but knowing that someone had to be with Sharon. She was a member of their team, part sister, part mother, part confessor, and she was hurting.