The Hunters Series Box Set

by Glenn Trust

“How in the hell did this happen, Barnes?”

  “Mackey received a tip from an anonymous informant that Budroe was in Florida, at a house in a small town on the Gulf…Heron Run.”

  “An anonymous informant? And Mackey bought into it?” Bell shook his head and looked over at the ever-present Pamela Towers. She was silent, listening intently to the report.

  “He had information about the operation last year that only someone close to Budroe would have. George believed the informant. Good thing he did. Budroe was, in fact, at the house. Men that were there protecting him engaged the local sheriff’s department and the Florida Highway Patrol in a firefight. Three deputies and a trooper were injured, two critically. The perps would not surrender All were shot. Two died at the scene.”

  “So where’s Budroe?”

  “He was in a second vehicle and escaped.”

  “That’s just great.”

  “George and Rincefield were overhead, enroute to meet and assist the Florida authorities. They followed the vehicle. It ended up at a small airport in Griffen, Florida where Budroe took a pilot, probably at gunpoint, and fled in a small helicopter.”

  “So now what?”

  “Now we wait for a chance to force the chopper down and take Budroe into custody.”

  “Hell, just shoot it down.” Bell looked over at Towers who could not suppress the look of shocked surprise on her face. “What? Why not? Just shoot the damned thing out of the sky.”

  “For a number of reasons, Governor.” Andy was almost as incredulous as Towers at the governor’s proposal. He toyed with the idea of telling the governor of the Great State of Georgia what a bone-headed idiot he was. Instead, he took a deep breath and explained. “For one thing, there’s an innocent person, the pilot, on board. Even if that were not the case, we can’t just shoot a helicopter down and hope it doesn’t land or crash into other innocent civilians.”

  “Oh.”

  Yeah, ‘oh’, you moron, Andy thought. What he said was, “We’ll follow until it lands and then apprehend Budroe. That is, Mackey and Rincefield will follow. They have the helicopter in sight.”

  “Hold on a minute, Barnes.” Bell muted the phone and looked at Towers. “What do you think?”

  “I think this could work out well for us, if they manage to arrest Budroe. It will shift the spotlight from the Mackey trial. He’ll be a hero again, and you…” She smiled. “You will be the governor who stood by the hero, through thick and thin. It will win votes.”

  “You may be right.” Bell nodded. “Yes, we’ll do it. If they fail, then we cut ties and our losses with Mackey if need be. He’s a rogue cop who broke under the strain of the job, heroic but tragic. But if he succeeds we put him in the spotlight. The hero of the OSI and Colton Swain is just using him to try and discredit the governor’s office for his own political gain.” He punched the phone with a finger, taking it off mute. “It will work.”

  “Pardon me? What will work?” Andy wondered what they had been planning.

  “Nothing, Barnes. Proceed with the pursuit.”

  Andy nodded, thinking it was a good thing the governor had given the go ahead. It was not very likely that he would have been able to recall George, or Rince for that matter. “Yes sir. I’ll keep you informed of the progress.”

  102. This Wasn’t Hollywood

  Aerial units from law enforcement agencies across Florida and southern Georgia were taking to the skies. They stayed in their areas of operations, over their respective cities or counties, waiting to see which way Merle Turner’s helicopter would go, hopeful that it would be in their direction.

  Committing to a course too soon might take them away from the chopper’s route or final destination if it changed course suddenly or the pilot set it down in a remote area. Four officers were down in the shootout with Peña’s men. Every one of the aerial units wanted to be there for the confrontation with Roy Budroe when the chopper came down. They were pilots, but they were cops too.

  “What do we do now?” George watched the small whirlybird through the window.

  “We follow. Not much else to do.”

  “How far can he go?”

  “Depends on how much fuel he had when he took off, and how fast he revs the engine.” Rince glanced at the airspeed indicator. “I reckon he’s doing about eighty-five or ninety knots. So figure he can get about two hundred miles under him before he has to set down somewhere...if he had a full tank.”

  “So we just follow.” George watched the chopper as Rince pulled the Cessna into a turn to backtrack and put some distance between them. The helicopter maintained a dead straight, generally northeasterly course. The pilot wasn’t wasting any fuel on evasive maneuvers.

  “Right. We follow.” Rince kept turning the plane in a wide arc to allow the UH-12 to get ahead again and then pulled in behind, a mile and a half back. “We’re a lot faster and can go further than he can. But he’s more maneuverable and can set down almost anywhere he wants. If he’s got someone on the ground waiting, that could be a problem. We can’t just land anywhere.”

  As the Cessna gained on the chopper again, George pulled out the binoculars for the hundredth time. They had visually confirmed not long after it left Griffen that Roy Budroe was in the helicopter. Now George watched him as the Cessna drew closer. A big arm raised out of the open door, the middle finger of his big fist lifted for George’s inspection.

  “What the hell’s he doing? Trying to piss you off?” Rince was honestly puzzled, George not so much.

  “He’s being Budroe.”

  “But he can’t get away. He must know that.”

  “He does.” George put the binoculars in his lap. “I think old Roy wants some private time. Just me and him. He’s looking for a place…the right place.”

  “You think so? Really?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” George lowered the binoculars.

  “I got to set this thing down somewhere pretty soon.” Merle Turned glanced nervously at Budroe. “We don’t want to just run out of gas. Not much aerodynamic lift to these things once the rotor stops turning. I might be able to auto-rotate down, but it wouldn’t be pretty.”

  “Northeast.” Budroe took his eyes away from the Cessna that was gaining on them again. “Over Saint Mary’s, Georgia…on the coast.”

  “Right, but…” Turner closed his mouth. The forty-five was in Budroe’s hand, pointed at his face.

  As the UH-12 and the Cessna crossed the Georgia - Florida line, the Jacksonville Police Department’s aerial unit went into action, followed by the Savannah Police and the Georgia Department of Natural Resources. It remained uncertain where the chopper was headed, but its options were decreasing with its fuel. Units that had aerial assets were going to start edging closer, knowing that the UH-12 had to come back to earth soon and hoping it would be in their area.

  The chopper’s engine buzzed on for ten more minutes before Merle could not contain himself any longer and had to speak, Budroe’s forty-five be damned.

  “There’s a navy base.”

  “What?” Budroe looked at him. Turner breathed a sigh of relief that he had not pulled the pistol’s trigger out of aggravation.

  “A navy base, Kings Bay, just north of Saint Mary’s.”

  “So?”

  “So, you ever hear of terrorists? We go flying through that airspace without clearance and they’re likely to shoot us down.”

  “Then you best keep us out of their airspace.”

  “But…”

  “Uh uh…no buts. Just keep flying, straight over Saint Mary’s.”

  Exasperated, and more than a little concerned at the possibility of an F-16 spraying twenty-millimeter cannon rounds through the Hiller’s little glass bubble cockpit, Turner swallowed hard and managed to ask a question. “What the hell’s in Saint Mary’s?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why do you want to go there? Soon as we land they’re gonna have cops all over us. You won’t stand a chance at getting away.”

&
nbsp; “Not much chance of getting away now anyhow. Besides, we’re not landing in Saint Mary’s.”

  “Then what?”

  Budroe turned awkwardly in the small seat so that he could see the Cessna, a couple of hundred yards back and a half mile off the starboard side. “I got business.”

  “Business! What the hell does that mean? That deputy’s going to arrest you.”

  “Maybe.” Budroe turned back and looked at Turner. “But first we settle our business.”

  “That’s all this is? Some kind of score to settle?”

  “That’s all everything is.” Budroe turned again to watch the Cessna, making sure it and George Mackey were still there, following.

  Fifteen minutes later, Merle Turner, resigned to his fate, spoke again. He figured it might be the last time. “Okay. That’s Saint Mary’s below. Next stop the Atlantic Ocean. Hope you can swim.”

  “Not gonna have to swim.” Budroe pointed across Turner, ahead to the left. See that long island there?”

  “Yeah.” There was just a touch of hope in Merle’s voice.

  “Cumberland Island. Go low and fly over the beach on the Atlantic side.”

  The little whirlybird dove towards the island, crossing over the Saint Mary’s Sound to the Atlantic in a minute. Merle turned hard to port and began flying up the shoreline a hundred feet off the sand. Maybe there was a God, and maybe he was going to let Merle Turner live another day. He brushed a bead of sweat from his eyes muttering, “Thank you sweet Jesus.”

  “What the hell’s he doing? Trying to evade?” Rince banked the Cessna and followed, staying a thousand feet up and cutting his airspeed as low as he dared.

  Cumberland Island is a National Seashore. One of the barrier islands along the Georgia coast, it protects the mainland from the tidal and storm surges of the Atlantic. The only way onto it is by a single daily ferry from Saint Mary’s. The National Park Service requires reservations for hikers and campers and strictly controls the number of people on the island. It was about as pristine and deserted a spot as you could find along the busy Atlantic coastal waterways.

  “Not evade.” George shook his head. “Invite.”

  “Say again, George.”

  “Invite.” He looked at Rince. “He wants to invite us down.” He nodded at the white sand below. “There.”

  At that moment, the helicopter slowed, its nose flared up and then it settled on its skids into the sand.

  “You mean he thinks we’re going to land there? On the beach?” Rince was beginning to become concerned.

  George looked into his eyes. “You can do it, Rince. Hell, they used to run the Daytona 500 along a beach like that down in Florida. If it can stand up to those old stock cars busting along at a hundred and seventy miles an hour, it can take this plane setting down soft and sweet by the best pilot in Georgia.” He grinned at Rince.

  “Bite me, George.” Rince ignored the grin and dropped lower, passing over the helicopter, now resting on the hard packed tidal sand, rotor still spinning. The Cessna sailed by, a hundred feet above the chopper. Eyeing the beach below, Rince made his assessment. “I think we can do it.”

  George nodded. “Good.”

  Merle Turner’s hand reached for the switches to cut the engine. He looked around the shoreline. It was deserted, not a hotel, restaurant or tourist anywhere along the island’s twenty miles of beach. He figured he could make the tree line and disappear into the dunes and woods fifty yards away before the crazy man in the seat beside him got unstrapped and drilled a hole in his back with the forty-five...maybe. He was sure as hell gonna give it a try. There didn’t seem to be much future in hanging around to see the business the big man had with the deputy in the Cessna.

  “Don’t.” The forty-five in Budroe’s hand was pointing at Turner again.

  “Huh?” Turner’s hand froze over the control panel. “Why? You said land. I landed. Nothing else we can do. We can’t get away.”

  “I know it.” Budroe turned his head towards the sound of the Cessna banking out over the ocean turning back to the shore. “Don’t wanna get away…not now anyway.” He looked at Turner. “I got one more thing for you to do. Then you can jack rabbit outta here.” He shrugged. “Won’t matter anyhow.”

  Budroe’s eyes moved back to the Cessna. It was just a dot in the sky, several miles to the north, turning back to the south along the beach. Just a dot, but inside that dot lowering to the ground was George Mackey, and whatever else happened today, he was taking George Mackey out of the world. It was past due, by his reckoning.

  “Wh-what you want me to do?”

  “Shut up. Just be ready to lift this thing and move when I say.”

  “Told you…we don’t have enough fuel to fly anywhere.” Turner’s voice was pleading. “Jesus Mister. I ain’t lying. We couldn’t get ten miles on what’s left in the tank.”

  “Don’t need to get ten miles. Now shut up.”

  Turner shut up. The helicopter’s rotor spun overhead. Maybe it would run out of fuel before the big man had him take off again. That would end things.

  Budroe concentrated on the approaching dot. It was close, discernibly a plane now, descending smoothly to the tidal beach.

  “What are they doing, George?” Rince lifted his eyes from the strip of sand for a second to check the helicopter still sitting on the sand, rotor still turning. The rotating blades sent an uncomfortable sensation up his spine.

  “Not sure, Rince. Land as close to them as you can. Don’t want Budroe to have too much time to do whatever he’s got planned. Taking him down is going to be dicey. We don’t have much surprise going for us.”

  “Shit, George. We don’t have any surprise going for us.”

  As an afterthought, George added, “You be ready to take evasive action.”

  “You think he’s going to ram us? Play chicken with a helicopter and an airplane?”

  “No.” George turned his head to Rince and smiled. “Suicide’s not Budroe’s style.” He was watching the helicopter again. “But fucking with us to gain an advantage…that’s his style.”

  “That’s great news.”

  Rince concentrated on the approach. A gusty fifteen-mile an hour breeze was coming in off the water. He corrected his angle. The wheels had to hit the sand just right to avoid furrowing and bogging down, tipping the plane over. He stayed well away from the soft dunes on the inland side and kept the Cessna lowering over the firm tidal sand, packed flat and semi-hard by the water twice a day.

  They touched down and then bounced up a foot. Rince feathered the landing trying to take a little speed off by barely coming in contact with the sand and not overcommitting to the landing. The plane floated three feet above the beach for fifty yards and came down again touching the sand, half flying and half rolling.

  Ahead the UH-12 sat motionless, except for the spinning rotor. They could see Budroe and the pilot seated side by side in the glass bubble cockpit watching the Cessna approach. Budroe, was calm intent and focused. The smaller man cringed, wide-eyed as the Cessna rolled towards them.

  “Gun the engine!”

  “What?” Merle Turner was incredulous.

  “Gun the goddamned engine and move this thing in front of them!” Budroe shoved the forty-five hard into the side of Turner’s head. “Do it now, or die now.”

  “But…” Another punch from the forty-five’s heavy muzzle, broke the skin and raised a lump on his head. Turner pulled the collective pitch control. The engine revved and lifted a foot off the ground.

  “I swear to God I’ll blow a fucking hole through you! Move this thing!”

  The pistol was burrowing into Turner’s right ear. Eyes closed, the pilot moved the cyclic control stick between his legs and the little chopper hovered and moved into the Cessna’s path.

  “Yeah! That’s what I’m talkin’ about! Put some speed on!”

  Budroe’s triumphant roar was lost on Turner. He sat hunched over, hands frozen on the controls, eyes clamped shut, waiting for the c
runching, deadly impact with the Cessna.

  “Shit!” Expecting some maneuver from the chopper but still surprised, Rince hit the rudder pedals to steer away from the UH-12 that was hovering directly in their path. His brain processed his response in milliseconds. The sand to the right was too soft and uneven. To the left the tidal beach sloped gently into the ocean. He chose the ocean.

  George pulled the Glock from the holster Rince had mounted between the seats and hung on. There was nothing else for him to do. This was Rince’s show.

  The helicopter was drifting their way over the sand now. George could see the pistol in Budroe’s hand planted in the ear of the pilot. The movement of the chopper towards them forced Rince to turn more sharply to avoid it.

  “Not gonna be good, George!” It was all Rince had time to say.

  The Cessna swerved more sharply towards the waves rolling in off the Atlantic. Then the nose gear was in the surf, hit the soft muddy sand and the world turned over. The plane cartwheeled once and came to rest upside down, its nose buried in three feet of water.

  Rince’s last thought as the plane rotated over and his head smashed into the windscreen was, Goddamnit! This was the second time Roy Budroe had caused him to crash a plane.

  Merle Turner unstrapped, killed the helicopter’s engine, hopped out of the plexiglass bubble, crouched low to avoid the still spinning rotor blades and ran like hell for the nearest dunes. More calmly, Roy Budroe pulled himself out of the cramped cockpit ducked until he was out of range of the rotor and surveyed his handiwork.

  The Cessna lay on its back. The landing gear extended twisted and bent into the sky from the plane’s belly. Steam rose from the hot engine where the seawater came in contact with it. A small oil slick spread around the front of the plane.

  Budroe approached the side of the plane nearest him. Through the shattered window, he saw the pilot, still strapped in upside down, bleeding profusely from the head. Blood dripped from the cockpit into the surf staining it red. Knee deep in the water, Budroe raised the forty-five and pointed it at the pilot’s mangled head.