The Hunters Series: Volumes 1-3

by Glenn Trust

  “Right.” George and Sharon were thinking fast. George spoke first. “How you fixed for fuel?”

  “Good now,” Rince said. “Full and headed your way.”

  “Okay. Set up on a grid ten miles from the store in all directions.” He shook his head. That was four hundred square miles…too big. There might be nothing wrong or everything might be turning into one giant shit storm with Andy at the center. Either way, they needed to get to him and find out…fast.

  “Did he say which way he was headed when he left the store?” Sharon’s mind was racing along with George, filling in the gaps.

  “He said they were eastbound on the county road,” Jake replied.

  George nodded. “Okay, then. Start your grid on the section due east of the store, ten miles out and ten miles to the north and south.”

  Cutting the grid in half to two hundred square miles would help, but it was still too large to spot the old pickup he was driving, unless they got very lucky, and so far, luck had been in short supply. Andy running into Budroe and Stimes might end up being a stroke of luck, or it might be a death trap for Andy.

  “We’re headed back to the store; see if we can find Mr. Banks.” Sharon spoke as she spun the SUV’s wheel making a tight U-turn on the country road. “Maybe we can narrow the grid some more.”

  “Let us know when you’re over the area. See what you can see, and keep trying to raise Andy on the cell phone.”

  “10-4,” Jake said. Both phones disconnected.

  The tension in the SUV mirrored that in the Cessna. The occupants of both were silent, only the roar of the accelerating engines audible.

  ****

  “Stop. I need to take a leak.”

  Budroe looked over at Boss Stimes. “Here? Now?”

  “Here and now,” Stimes replied.

  Bringing the vehicle to a stop on the sandy road about two hundred yards from the entrance off the asphalt, Budroe watched Stimes step from the Escalade and walk to the rear of the vehicle. As he was peeing in the dirt, his face took on a faraway look. Not the normal look of satisfied relief that accompanied a good piss, it was a look of concentration. For a moment, Budroe thought the big man might need to take a shit too.

  Finished, Stimes zipped up and folded himself into the passenger seat. “About half a mile ahead the road makes a sharp turn to the right.”

  “Yeah, I know. I been here before. Remember?” Budroe rolled the Escalade forward slowly.

  “Make the turn and then stop, about a hundred feet past the turn.”

  Budroe’s Brows furrowed. “What’s up Stimes? Start talkin’.” Budroe’s question did not interrupt his progress along the dirt road as Stimes had instructed.

  Looking at the man who paid him, Stimes explained. “There was an old pickup following us. Saw it in the side mirror. Sometimes it closed up a little, other times it dropped back.” He looked into the right side mirror now. “Might be nothing. Probably some old farmer just goin’ the same way. When we stopped, I listened for him to pass on the road. I didn’t hear anything.”

  Budroe turned towards the big man who handled his dirty work. One of his duties was security, removing threats. When Stimes talked, Budroe listened, sometimes. This was one of those times.

  “You think he stopped when we stopped? That it?”

  “Don’t know. Might have just turned off on another dirt road. There’s plenty around here, crisscrossing through the swamp.” Stimes shrugged. “Could be nothing at all, or it could be something we need to take care of.” He pointed ahead to the turn. “Now, you just do like I said. Pull around the turn, and we’ll see what we can see.”

  60. Black Water

  The slamming door turned Cleet’s head toward the camper trailer. The one called Guzman stood on the bottom step saying something to Paco in Spanish. He kept his voice low enough that the words were unintelligible even if he had understood the language.

  Obviously annoyed, Guzman pointed his finger at the shed and then waved it in front of Paco’s nose. Paco nodded and plodded like a scolded child towards Cleet.

  Paco. Mike was right about that. What the fuck kind of name was Paco. Chili shitter name, Cleet thought, taking a long drag from his cigarette and then tossing it on the ground as Paco walked up. Smiling his good ole boy smile, his face did not betray his opinion of the Dominican’s name or the type of waste he might excrete.

  “What’s up?”

  “Señor Rivera is not pleased.” Looking over at Guzman, who continued to watch from the trailer step, Paco shook his head to emphasize the ass chewing he had just received. “Guzman either. They are both unhappy with things.”

  “What the hell they unhappy about?” Cleet stiffened and glared over at Guzman. When Budroe and Stimes returned they’d see who was happy and who was unhappy.

  “They say the girls are dirty. Not up to standards.” Paco shrugged as if trying to soften the sting of the words from his bosses and not upset the Americans. “We are to get them clean and then they will inspect again. Mr. Rivera is my jefe. You know, the boss. I must do what he says.”

  “Bullshit.” Cleet put the butt of the shotgun he was holding down on the ground and leaned against the shed. “Ain’t cleaning no one. We’ll just wait and see what our ‘jefe’ has to say about that. Budroe and Stimes will be back soon.” He pulled another cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket, flicked the lighter and dragged on the smoke until the tip was cherry red. His eyes never left Paco’s face.

  “Please.” Paco looked nervously over his shoulder. “Please, we must do something. If the deal goes bad, we will all be in trouble, me, you, everyone.” He jerked his head at the shed door. “Let’s just open up. Run some water. Have the girls clean up. Then they can come back in and inspect and find everything to their satisfaction.” He leaned forward as if sharing a confidence with Cleet. “It’s a Latin thing. For them, it is a sort of machismo. You know what that is?”

  “Yeah.” Cleet nodded, blowing smoke into the space between them. “Macho. Macho man. I’ve heard of it.”

  “Yes,” Paco said smiling. “Macho. It is their way of machismo, being macho. You and me, we would fight, meet with fists or knives or guns.” Again, he shrugged. “For them, they give orders. It is the same thing.”

  Smoking, listening to the Dominican, Cleet thought it through. His half-closed eyes followed the cigarette smoke drifting up. After several seconds, he nodded.

  “Okay. Won’t hurt to keep the peace I reckon.” Turning, he pulled the keys from his pocket and unlocked the shed door.

  Leading the way in as Cleet pushed the door open, Paco walked towards the cots where the girls sat or lay, awaiting their fate. Cleet followed, shaking his head. Bullshit. Fucking chili shitter bullshit.

  His head stopped shaking at the touch of the heavy blade to his neck. Emilio, who had been watching the back of the shed, now stood behind him with his knife pressed firmly against Cleet’s trachea. The pressure from the blade was enough to break the skin and start a trickle of blood down Cleet’s neck.

  He was surprised. The common image was cold steel. Someone used a knife on you, and it was called cold steel. There was nothing cold about it. The blade felt white hot against his skin, heated in a forge.

  “What the fuck is going on?” His voice shaking, Cleet fought to gain some control over his mouth and especially over his bladder. More than anything, he was afraid he was about to piss himself here in the shed with the girls watching.

  “Say nothing,” Emilio whispered in his ear. “Not until I tell you to speak.” The voice coming from behind, the breath in his ear made the temperature of the blade climb about a thousand degrees. Fiery hot, it singed him with its heat.

  “Son of a bitch. They said you didn’t speak English.” That son of a bitch, he repeated silently to himself as the knife’s pressure against his throat increased. They said he didn’t speak English, the lying sons of bitches. Just the same, he nodded his understanding.

  “He speaks enough. Do wha
t he says, and all will be well.” Reaching out, Paco took the shotgun from his hand, and the nine-millimeter pistol from his waistband.

  “Move to the door,” Emilio said, the knife pressed firmly against his throat, the blood trickling more heavily as the pressure increased.”

  “Stop here.” Emilio held Cleet firmly from behind, the knife never leaving his throat. They stopped just short of going outside. “Say come here, to your friend. Say here to the shed.”

  Taking a breath to call out, Cleet was stopped by the knife digging deeper into his flesh. “Say only that. No more. ¿Comprendes?”

  Nodding, Cleet took a tremulous breath and called out. “Mike! Mike, come here!”

  Several seconds passed. “Again,” Emilio whispered in his ear. “Get him here.”

  “Say you need help with one of the girls,” Paco added. “Say it and all will be well.”

  Again, he inhaled and called out, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. “Mike! Get your ass out here. Need help with one of these girls.”

  Opening the door to the big trailer, Mike looked out.

  Paco ambled casually outside, leaning against the shed, the shotgun resting in the crook of his arm. “Your friend,” he called to Mike. “He has some trouble with one of the girls.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Coming down the steps, he walked quickly, annoyed, across the clearing to the shed.

  Looking into the shed, Paco shook his head as if it was all very amusing. Turning to Mike as he walked up, he laughed. “You are not going to believe this.” Still laughing, he shook his head side to side, at what was happening inside the shed.

  “That son of a bitch, better not have his hands or anything else on one of them girls. Be hell to pay when Budroe gets here.”

  Walking into the dimly lighted shed, Mike stood for a moment as his eyes adjusted. He turned his head at the sound of breathing to his right. Something was wrong.

  Eyes wide, Cleet stood pulled back on his toes looking at him, his head tilted slightly back, as if trying to escape the pressure of the knife held against his throat. Sunlight coming through the open door glinted on the blade. Dark eyes peered at him over Cleet’s shoulder. Emilio smiled.

  “What the fuck.”

  It was not a question. It was an exclamation, a statement of surprise and understanding all at once. The words indicated that Mike’s brain had quickly processed and recognized what was happening. They were his last words.

  Smiling, Emilio drew the blade slowly and powerfully across Cleet’s neck. The flesh and throat opened up into an obscene gaping wound that seemed to smile at Mike as Cleet sank to his knees, his hands momentarily at his throat before he fell face first to the dirt floor of the shed. Air hissed and whined rapidly in and out of the slashed trachea. Blood pumped from the severed carotid artery in time with the few remaining heartbeats.

  Reaching for the pistol tucked in his belt, Mike was unaware of Paco standing behind him, or of the muzzle of the nine-millimeter three inches from his head. The copper-jacketed bullet crashed through his brain a second before his hand reached his gun. It might as well have been an eternity.

  Michael James Anson and Cletus Parker lay on the dirt floor of the shed, their blood spreading in a circle around them, soaking quickly into the ground.

  The only sound was the sobbing and whimpering of two of the girls, holding each other and rocking on one of the cots. The rest stared, shocked and afraid to move, afraid of what might come next.

  Turning his head to the sound of the girls, Paco smiled. “All is well. We will take care of you.” He put his fingers to his lips. “Quiet now.”

  Hearing the sound of the single gunshot and no others, Ramon Guzman opened the camper trailer door and peered out. Coming out of the shed, Paco looked across the clearing and raised his hand signaling that all was well.

  Guzman and Rivera walked across the clearing. Dragging the body of the one called Mike out into the sunshine, Paco dropped his legs and went back to help Emilio with Cleet.

  Inside, Emilio smiled at his handiwork and grinned at Rivera as he came out of the shed dragging Cleet by a leg. Paco, holding the other leg, thought the man’s head, held only by some tendon and the vertebra in his neck, might separate from his shoulders. Dealing with the bodies was one thing. He did not want to have to pick up the head separated from the body. Picking up severed heads was a bad omen, not good.

  Laid side by side in the sun, the two bodies were already attracting flies. Soon other creatures would smell the blood and come for their share of the bounty.

  “You know what to do?” Rivera spoke to Paco.

  “Yes.”

  “Do it now. The others may be back soon.”

  Nodding, the two men resigned themselves to their next assignment. Killing the men was one thing, the easy thing. Disposing of the bodies was something else. It was always the worst part of the job, but it had to be done.

  Gingerly, hoping the man had not pissed himself as he died, Paco took the keys from Mike’s pants pocket and pulled the dead man’s big, heavy duty Chevy pickup as close to the bodies as possible. Then climbing into the bed of the truck, he pulled as Emilio lifted and pushed each body until they lay beside each other on the steel bed, still bleeding, but not so much.

  Taking one of the trails that led into the backcountry, Paco drove the Chevy while Emilio followed in their vehicle, the small Jeep. A mile from the clearing, they came to a spot where the trail passed close to one of the streams that crisscrossed the area. Stopping the truck, Paco walked around to the tailgate. Emilio stopped the Jeep behind and joined him.

  They worked in silence, dragging the bodies from the bed of the truck, a much easier process than loading them in. One by one, they pulled them to the bank of the stream and shoved them into the water.

  Surprised, Paco looked into the water, watching Cleet sink, the wound to his neck suddenly pinkish white, drained of blood. “Strange,” he said, looking at the bodies, both now in the water.

  “What?” Emilio knelt and rinsed the blood from his hands in the stream, a foot from where Cleet continued to float just under the surface of the water.

  “The water, it looks black, but it’s not.” He leaned over and peered through the water into Cleet’s open but sightless eyes. “It’s clear. You can see to the bottom.”

  “Hmm.” Emilio nodded at the observation and stood up, looking into the water. “It looks black because of the dead things on the bottom. See.” He pointed into the water. Leaves, sticks, trees, vegetation of all types lay along the bed of the stream. Decaying and turning black, they gave the clear water above its dark appearance. “Interesting.” He turned to the Jeep.

  Standing for a moment on the bank, Paco lifted his head at the sound of something breaking through to the surface of the water. Fifty feet downstream, two reptilian eyes peered at him, rising out of the water. Small ripples moved away from the long snout. He nodded at the animal. The alligators were awake, smelling the blood. Your turn. Come do your work.

  Leaving the big pickup by the stream, they drove back to the clearing. There was more cleaning to be done before the others returned. Both men knew that the Patron and his new partner, Guzman, would not be doing it.

  “What just happened?” Lying on her cot in the gloom of the shed, Juanita whispered across the space to Monica.

  “Something.” Monica shook her head, thinking. “I don’t know.”

  “Good or bad?”

  “I don’t know.” She paused, trying to put the pieces together. “Maybe not good or bad. Just different, but I don’t think anything changes for us.”

  Juanita nodded. “We have to be ready. If the chance comes, we take it. I don’t think we will have more than one.”

  Lying quietly on their cots, they could hear the two girls still sobbing and holding each other across from them. Through the shed’s locked door, they heard a car drive into the clearing, followed by men speaking in Spanish.

  “Do you understand what they are
saying?” Monica asked softly.

  “A little, not much.” Juanita was quiet for a moment, listening. “They are not happy about having to clean up the blood. They are in a hurry. Others are coming.”

  “Others? Who?”

  “I don’t know.” She listened some more. “I don’t think it’s good though. When the others come things will happen, they say.”

  The voices moved away. There was the sound of something being dragged across the dirt, mixing the blood into the sand. The men outside were making things look normal, as if nothing had happened.

  The girls listened without speaking. Things will happen.

  61. His Favorite Word

  Shit. It was the word that kept recurring in Andy’s mind. Accelerating around a curve, he picked up the black Escalade just as it seemed to be fading in the distance. It was matching his speed. When he sped up, the Escalade sped up. Unclear whether they had made him following or not, he was committed now. He would stick with them, had to stick with them, until he found the turnoff to their camp. Backing off would accomplish nothing and if the presence of Budroe and Stimes together in the same vehicle meant what he feared, Juanita Lopez and the other women would not be held much longer in the backcountry of Meacham County. Soon they would be bound for parts unknown. Finding them then would be infinitely more difficult, if not impossible.

  Gaining on a mile long straight away, Andy lost them again as they rounded a bend. The route they had taken was circuitous. He had no way of knowing if that was because of caution on their part or if they were leading him to their base of operations in the swamp. It didn’t matter. There was only one way to find out. He followed the Escalade. He would find the turnoff one way, or another.

  Picking up the cell phone, he punched the speed dial for Rince and Jake. Jake answered, but the call broke up, and he lost the signal. Calling George and Sharon was even less productive. Their phone went directly to voice mail, a sign that they had no signal. Shit. Bad timing and bad luck.

  Pressing harder on the accelerator, he rounded a curve in time to see the Escalade’s brake lights burn bright red in the tree shrouded twilight. Slowing, he saw them make a right turn, the vehicle bouncing onto what must be a dirt road.