The Hunters Series: Volumes 1-3

by Glenn Trust

  Marswell jerked in his seat as the jack released and the car slammed to the pavement minus its tires. One of the men, the one from the back seat, leaned through the driver’s window and spoke.

  “Your wallet. Gimme your wallet, man.”

  Marswell reached into his back pocket and handed over the leather wallet. It took only seconds for the young man to remove all of the cash, two hundred and thirty dollars, and the credit cards, two MasterCards, two Visas, an American Express, and an old Sears card that had not been used for years. He then threw the empty wallet into the floor of the car.

  “What else you got?” The man scanned Marswell quickly then said, “Your watch. Gimme your watch.”

  Marswell began to remove the watch.

  “And the ring, man. Hand over the ring.”

  “You mean my wedding band?” Marswell asked, trying to think of a way to delay or prevent the inevitable theft of something so precious to him and his wife.

  “Yeah. The ring. Gimme the ring.”

  The loss of the gold and diamond studded wedding band that May had given him on the renewal of their vows on their fortieth anniversary would dampen the humor and effect of the story he would have to tell. Still, there was nothing to be done but to comply with the demand. Marswell took comfort in the fact that throughout the thefts of his wallet, watch, and ring, there had been no weapon present. The young man had leaned through the window and made his demands. Marswell had complied. No weapon was necessary.

  Sensing that the ordeal was drawing to a close, Judge Marswell began to relax slightly. The men would leave soon in the truck that had followed them and that now held the tires and other vehicle components removed from the BMW. He would find a way to call the police. The report would be made, the investigation begun, and he would be given a ride home.

  The carjacker turned with both hands full of the items he had taken from Marswell and handed them to the man who had been the driver and initial carjacker. Turning, he leaned back through the window to address Marswell.

  “The console. What you got in the console?”

  “You mean the glove box?” Marswell asked. “Nothing there.”

  “Yeah. What you got? Open it up.”

  The Judge complied and after a brief examination, the carjacker grunted his agreement that there was nothing of value in the glove box.

  He turned and spoke to the other carjacker who had remained standing behind. Hands full of Marswell’s cash and possessions, he walked to the passenger side of the truck.

  It was almost over. A few more minutes and they would be gone. Marswell’s level of anxiety eased a bit more.

  “That’s it? You ain’t got nothing else?” The man leaned through the window again apparently eyeing Marswell closely for any sign that he was concealing some valuable item.

  “Nothing. There is nothing else that is worth anything at all.”

  “All right then.” The young man turned to move away and towards the truck. The judge began to let out a long, low sigh of relief. Almost as an afterthought, the man turned and leaned back through the driver’s window again. A large handgun filled his hand, pointing directly at Marswell’s face.

  Marswell was no expert in firearms and did not recognize the gun as a .357 magnum stainless steel Smith and Wesson revolver. To him, it was just the biggest gun barrel he had ever seen.

  Electric impulses between the neurons and synapses in the Judge’s brain began to fire, sending the realization into his consciousness that Clayton Marswell, devoted husband and father, hero of the civil rights movement and ‘uppity niggra’ who had fought tirelessly for the rights of the disadvantaged, would not see his grandchildren that evening at Sunday supper. Moving at the speed of light, the electric impulses delivered their message to his conscious brain as the hammer fell on the revolver. The blinding white light that followed extinguished all that was Clayton Marswell.

  The smoke from the fired round filled the car with its pungent odor as the carjacker brought the weapon down after its recoil and back to bear on Marswell’s lifeless body. Roaring echoes of the magnum’s discharge reverberated loudly between the concrete block buildings. The young man regarded Marswell’s mutilated head with interest. The impact had caused him to slump against the passenger door and then forward so that his head leaned against the door handle. A hole in the blood spattered passenger window indicated that the powerful magnum round had penetrated the Judge’s head and exited the car through the window, ricocheting off the block walls of the building.

  Assured that Marswell had not survived, the young man walked to the truck and climbed in beside his companion and the truck driver. Quiet returned to the deserted warehouse district as the gun’s echoes died. It would be hours before the Judge’s body was discovered. There was no hurry. The truck pulled slowly and deliberately from behind the building onto the empty street. A few turns and several minutes later, it merged into traffic on I-75 and headed north out of Atlanta.

  2. The Project Begins

  Ice rattled softly in the tumblers held by the men in the room. The silence hanging over them, filling the room, made the clinks on the glass overly loud and out of place. The man behind the desk raised his glass to his lips, took a small sip, and then lowered his arm again, all the while staring expectantly at the amber liquid as if it would bring the news the three were awaiting. The other two simply held their drinks, ignoring the expensive twelve-year-old scotch, waiting.

  The room was an office located prestigiously in a historic building in a small town that was the seat of a county a little over an hour from Atlanta. It had been considered rural, not too many years earlier. Now, with the expansion of Atlanta, it was almost suburban.

  Located on the second floor of the fashionable old building that dated back to the eighteen nineties, the office provided the three men privacy and a view of the old courthouse across the square. Sunday afternoon activity on the square was minimal. Offices were closed and shoppers would be at the mall located beside the interstate several miles distant. By mutual agreement, the men had each parked their cars on different streets leading into the square and had walked to the office separately. When the business of the day was concluded, they would each leave separately at half hour intervals.

  Although they all expected the call, the high-pitched electronic tone of the office phone startled them, shattering the quiet. The man seated behind the desk picked the receiver up after one ring.

  “Yes?” He sat quietly listening for no more than a few seconds and then said simply, “Right.”

  Replacing the phone in the cradle, he looked across the desk at his companions and nodded. Words were not spoken. Words were not needed. All three seemed to share an instinctive feeling that the fewer the words, the better.

  Knowing that there was another call, this time one to place, the man behind the desk picked up the phone again and pressed two digits and the asterisk button, speed dialing the number. He pressed the speaker button so that the others could hear.

  A deep baritone of a southern voice answered after three rings. The level of expectation was more controlled in that room in a different city. The two men waiting for the report would not appear overly anxious, no matter how anxious they might actually have been. Their stature in the group required them to maintain a certain dignity and aloofness. In addition, the business and nature of the call motivated them to maintain their distance and an air of separation from those phoning from the Georgia office. In another era, it would have been called plausible deniability.

  The aloofness and distance were an illusion, almost a delusion. It was maintained as a way of asserting their control, and even their superiority, over the men on the courthouse square in Georgia.

  “Yes.” The deep voice resonated across the room, even through the telephone’s tinny speaker.

  “Hello, uh, Mr. …”

  “What?”

  “Sorry…uh, sir.” The man behind the desk smiled across the room at the two men holding their glasses
of scotch. They, in fact, had discussed recording this conversation, as a precaution should things not work out as planned. They were careful men. One of them nodded and shrugged. It had been a long shot and they knew it.

  The men on the other end of the call were not novices. Some might have even called them powerful and dangerous. And they, also, were careful men.

  The phone went dead. The smile on the face of the man behind the desk faded as the phone disconnected. Deep voice had hung up on them. Two of the faces in the room turned several shades paler. The third remained unchanged, partly because he was African American, and partly because he was the most composed and at ease of the group.

  “Shit! I told you it was a bad idea.” The speaker was seated on a sofa in the office. He placed his untouched glass on the coffee table in front of his legs.

  “We had to try. We discussed this. We didn’t know what he would do if we broke protocol, but we agreed that it was in our best interests to try to get him on tape and on the record. This is a dangerous game we’ve begun.”

  “Yes, it is.” The third speaker was seated in a leather armchair positioned at ninety degrees to the desk and sofa. He gazed pensively through the window at the courthouse. “And now that we’ve tried our little stunt, what do you propose?” The glass of scotch came briefly to his lips for the first time, his gaze not turning from the window.

  Ten minutes passed as the men quietly considered their error. The man at the desk tried the number again, but the phone on the other end simply rang without being answered.

  The cell phone in the pocket of the man on the sofa vibrated. Annoyed, he pulled it out and looked at the number.

  “It’s them,” he said to the others, relief mixed with anxious anticipation. This was, indeed, a dangerous game to be playing, he thought. There was no telling what the men on the other end of the line would have to say after their clumsy attempt to compromise them. He was sure it would not be good. He punched the answer button.

  “Hello.” The slight tremble in his voice was indicative of the tension and anxiety felt by them all.

  “Put me on speaker.” The voice giving the command was not the deep voice, but the speaker was equally in command and clearly accustomed to obedience when he spoke.

  The phone was laid on the coffee table, the speaker turned on, and the volume turned up.

  Without any preliminaries, the man on the other end spoke.

  “That was a foolish thing to do.”

  “We know. We apologize.” The man on the sofa was now the spokesman for the group. “Is he there with you?”

  The voice ignored the question. “Should there be any further attempts to compromise us, or anyone else involved in this project, the consequences for all of you will be…serious.” There was a slight pause and the speaker added, “I assure you, they will be catastrophic.”

  The three sat quietly, considering the implications of the word ‘catastrophic’ and what it would mean to them personally. Public humiliation, financial ruin, criminal prosecution or worse? There was no doubt that the men they were dealing with were capable of more severe actions. The project they were collaborating on was proof of that.

  “Report.” The voice on the cell phone spoke.

  The man behind the desk spoke up loudly, his voice carrying across the room to the phone on the table. “Phase one of the project has been completed successfully. Phase two is underway.”

  “Thank you. And may we ask how your family is? Well, we assume.”

  A look of deep concern replaced the perpetual smirk on the face of the man behind the desk. He struggled to control the involuntary shudder that worked its way up his spine at the reference to his family, recognizing it correctly as a personal warning. It was clear that while the others in the room may have been complicit, the men in the distant city considered him primarily responsible for the clumsy attempt at compromising and recording them.

  “Report back when phase two is complete.”

  “Yes, sir. We will.”

  The phone disconnected and there was a slight but perceptible easing of the tension in the room, as if the general had departed and the troops were now at ease. The man in the chair, whose gaze had never left the courthouse across the square, spoke first.

  “Well, that went well.” He made no attempt to conceal his sarcasm. Of the three, his attitude was the most relaxed. His presence in the room would have been an anomaly, even unheard of, just a few decades earlier. Offices around the courthouse were reserved for white professionals, and black men did not frequent the high priced and fashionable offices on the square. Attorneys for minorities generally located on the side streets, several blocks off the square, or in neighborhoods near their clients.

  Nevertheless, this was a different age. Progress had been made, and the middle-aged, African American sat calmly looking across the room through the window in an office that could as easily have been his, except that his would have been more lavish. He was a very wealthy man. The expensive gray suit he wore was neatly pressed, the white shirt starched and open at the collar, without a tie. He had probably been to church that morning and, in fact, looked as if he might be sitting through a Sunday sermon at this moment. Calm and composed, he was the picture of innocent contemplation. His eyes moved to the others who were clearly in a high state of agitation. Since the end of the call, they had been sipping their scotch in earnest, contemplating the import and the meaning of the threat.

  After allowing the others a few minutes of contemplative silence, he continued. “I assume that phase two is under way at this moment?”

  The man at the desk looked up from his drink. “Yes, yes, of course.” His tone was impatient. “Do you honestly think we would not see it through?”

  The other smiled and took a sip from his glass, his eyes never leaving the man behind the desk. “It would not be the first time a black man was sacrificed for some white cause or suffered from white duplicity.”

  “This is not a white cause or a black cause. We are addressing a situation that could change everything,” he replied looking directly into the calm brown eyes. “An unacceptable change.”

  “True, very true. The way things are ordered, how the system works, and the way we benefit from it. All important concerns, so let’s not be hypocrites. Call it what it is.” He regarded the man behind the desk, the look on his face sending a stern warning. “Still, plans sometimes change. I just want to make sure that now that the project has begun, and a black man has paid the price, that the remainder of the project will be carried through as planned. No variations.”

  The others realized that his presence in the room, at the insistence of the voice on the phone, was partly to ensure that the next part of the project would proceed as planned. In some ways, it was the hardest part of the project, and the one most likely to be set aside, if possible.

  The group had realized that, for phase one to be accepted by all, there would need to be a very dramatic phase two. Dramatic and pragmatic. All parties involved were making sacrifices. The first had been made. The second must follow or the consequences would be unpleasant.

  Taking a deep breath, he returned the black man’s gaze squarely. “No variations. Phase two is proceeding and will be carried out this afternoon.” He glanced at the man on the sofa who bobbed his head nervously.

  The black man nodded and sipped from his glass, returning his eyes to the window.

  “Jesus Christ!” The man on the sofa who had been silent during this exchange, except for the constant nervous shifting of his body and clinking of ice in his glass, could contain himself no longer. “That’s it? No variations? Phase two proceeding?” He took a long sip from the glass. The weak link of the group, he was having the most trouble adjusting now that the project was out of the planning and discussion stages and fully underway. Standing, he walked to the desk, took the bottle, and poured another tall drink. “Jesus,” he said more softly this time.

  “Finish it.” The man behind the desk said. �
�I have to leave now.” He looked sharply at the black man, who smiled in return. “Leave at thirty minute intervals after I am gone. The door will lock behind you." He turned to the man who was again on the sofa. “On second thought, maybe you should lay off the booze for now. A DUI arrest would not be in anyone’s best interest, especially yours.”

  The man on the sofa opened his mouth as if to reply, but nodded and placed the glass on the coffee table, annoyed by the condescending tone, but agreeing that it was probably wise. There was no further conversation. The office door clicked shut and thirty minutes later, the second member of the group arose and exited the office quietly without speaking any word of acknowledgement or goodbye.

  The remaining occupant of the office stared at the glass on the coffee table for thirty more minutes. As his time to depart arrived, he reached out, took the glass, and downed the scotch in one swallow, placing it down loudly in defiance of the instructions that had been given. Looking at the desk where the office’s owner had sat, he muttered, “Fuck you, you arrogant prick.” They were words he would never have spoken to the man’s face.

  Five minutes later, walking the two blocks to his vehicle, he began to regret the impetuous defiance that had caused him to down the shot. It was a twenty-mile drive home and he was feeling the mellowing effect of the alcohol. Scanning carefully for any patrolling police cruiser, he fumbled with the lock, got the car started and pulled slowly away from the curb, chewing gum aggressively and focused intently on his driving.

  *****

  The hotel room had been rented for the day. A secretary had arranged for the room with the understanding that a daughter was coming to spend the weekend with her father.

  The two sat quietly after the conversation with their collaborators in Georgia. They had suspected that they would attempt some method of obtaining incriminating information or compromising the two senior members of the group as a way to protect themselves. It was only natural. In the world they inhabited, suspicion and self-interest were a way of life. It was a cloak and dagger world, even if the cloaks and daggers were metaphorical. Those who did not possess those traits did not long survive. For them, it was second nature, and truthfully, they did not blame the younger men in Georgia for making the attempt. They understood and respected the need for self-preservation. The only pause that it gave them was the clumsy nature of the effort.