Hunter's Games

by James P. Sumner

  “And you think this is the way to do that?” he asks, referring to my plan.

  “I think it’s got as good a chance as any of working, yeah.”

  He shakes his head and falls silent.

  “Are you sure about this?” asks Chambers. “We can’t protect you from the Red Dragon if this goes south.”

  “I’m not asking you to,” I say. “And it’ll work. Trust me.”

  There’s a knock on the glass door and another agent enters and hands a piece of paper to Chambers. They leave again without a word and she passes the paper to me.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “That is the phone number of Jak Soo Yung—the head of the Red Dragon. We’ve hit up every contact, undercover agent, and asset we have to get you that.”

  I’m genuinely surprised. Not just at the fact they seem willing to go along with my admittedly stupid plan, but that they were able to get results so quickly.

  “Wow, thank you…” I say.

  “From what we know of their organization—which admittedly isn’t much—your old friend from the hospital is what they call their Vanguard. He’s in charge of the day-to-day running of the less reputable business ventures and reports directly into Jak Soo Yung.”

  “We’ve got a file on them,” says Wallis. “But we haven’t really got a formal investigation underway. The Organized Crime Unit might have, but they operate nationwide. This is a localized problem and there’s an uneasy peace on the streets that we don’t get involved with. We let the SFPD manage that.”

  “Like we’ve already said, if this plan of yours doesn’t work, you run the risk of starting a war that will spill onto the streets,” adds Chambers.

  I nod. “Understood. Can you get me a copy of the file you have on the Red Dragon? On a USB flash drive or something?”

  “I guess…” says Chambers, hesitantly.

  “Good. How far away is Turner’s place?” I ask.

  “He owns an apartment block about fifteen minutes from here,” says Johnson. “He lives on the top floor and runs his business from there.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  I reach across the table and move the black teleconferencing system closer to me. I dial the number and wait. The three agents look very nervous.

  The call connects on the sixth ring, but no one speaks.

  “Hello?” I say. “Who’s this?”

  “Who you ring?” asks an abrupt voice.

  “I’m looking for Jak Soo Yung.”

  “And you are?”

  “I’m the guy who took out three of his men in the hospital last night and sent some old guy back to him with a message to leave me alone.”

  More silence, but I can hear some movement on the line, like the cell phone’s being handed to someone else. The crackling and commotion stops and someone else speaks.

  “Who this?”

  “I’m looking for Jak Soo Yung.”

  “You found him… who this?”

  His voice sounds young, but he speaks slowly and deliberately, like a man who answers to no one.

  “You get my message from last night?” I ask him.

  “Oh… so you dead man? Hello dead man.”

  “Yeah, whatever… listen, I’ve changed my mind—I don’t want any trouble, alright? I’ve just got one last thing I need to do, then I’ll leave town and you’ll never see me again. Can we chalk this one up to experience and call it quits while I finish my business?”

  There’s a lengthy pause.

  “Price on your head...” says Yung. “One million, U.S. dollar.”

  Chambers gasps and the other two look like they really feel for me being in this position.

  “Is that it?” I ask. “I’m almost insulted… tell you what, how about I do you a favor and we call it quits.”

  “No quits.”

  “Fair enough, how about I do you a favor anyway? To show you I’m not a bad guy.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’m in town on business. Got some debts to settle with a man by the name of Joseph Turner. I’m led to believe you’ve had dealings with him?”

  More silence on the line, so I continue.

  “He’s responsible for hurting someone close to me, and I’m aiming to take him down. I’ve already confronted him and I’ve discovered he’s actually undercover FBI… very quick to spill the beans about what business he does with you.”

  “Bullshit,” says Yung.

  “How do you think I got this number?” I ask.

  No reply.

  “I intend to kill him,” I say again. “Originally, I wanted to let you know as a courtesy, because of the business relationship between you. But when I found out he’s ratting on you and everyone else to the Feds, I thought I’d give you a head’s up. Figured maybe we can work something out.”

  “You dead man. If what you say true, then Turner dead man too. No agreement.”

  “Well, I tell you what—I’m going to be at Turner’s apartment block in forty-five minutes. I’ll gather up all the information he’s got on you, ready to hand over to the Feds, then I’ll give you a call back and we’ll see if we can reach an agreement then, yeah?”

  “Who you think you are?” he asks. I can hear the anger in his voice, but he’s doing a good job of keeping calm.

  “I’m Adrian Hell,” I say. “Look me up, asshole.”

  I hang up and look at Chambers. “Okay, so who’s driving?”

  11.

  11:00

  THE FOUR OF us are parked across the street from Turner’s apartment building. Wallis is behind the wheel, with Chambers riding shotgun. I’m behind her and Johnson is next to me in the back.

  The building itself is on the corner of the block and looks pretty similar to what I'd expected. It’s ten stories of old, weathered, rust-colored brick. From where we are, we’ve got a clear view of the south and east sides.

  The south side is basking in the morning sun, all the way to the roof. The sunlight’s reflecting off the glass in some windows and only serving to highlight the wooden curtains that are in the others. The entrance is on the east side, covered in shade. Outside, there’s a line of aluminum garbage cans, most of which are brimming over with trash. Just inside the doorway, I can see one guy standing, leaning against the wall.

  Must be the doorman…

  I lean forward to get a view of the top of the building through the car window. I need to talk my way up to the tenth floor, and engage Turner long enough that he might reveal something of some use about his previous customers.

  “You sure about this?” asks Chambers.

  “As sure as I can be,” I say.

  “And you think Jak Soo Yung will take the bait and show up?”

  “Definitely. He’ll have been skeptical about everything I was saying, but he’d have checked my name out after I’d hung up. He’ll believe me after that.”

  “But what are you hoping to accomplish?” asks Wallis.

  “With some luck and good timing on my part, I’ll be talking to Turner when the Red Dragon Triad arrives. They’ll come in force and, with a gentle push in the right direction from me, my plan is to get Turner and Yung to kill each other.”

  “Jesus, we’re gonna lose our fucking badges for this,” mutters Johnson before leaning forward to look at Chambers. “And you’re alright with this?”

  “No,” she says. “But time isn’t on our side and at least this way we’re not allowing Adrian to kill anyone himself. If an arms dealer and a Triad gang want to shoot it out between themselves where no innocent civilians can get hurt, I’m not going to complain.”

  She turns in her seat to face me. “Wear this,” she says.

  She produces an earpiece and a battery unit with a small microphone attached to it. I take it from her and toss it onto Johnson’s lap next to me.

  “No fucking way am I wearing a wire,” I say. “Are you trying to get me killed?”

  “That’s the deal,” says Chambers, shaking her head in protest. “If you�
�re going in there, you’re going in wired. If Turner does give you anything, I want it on tape, ready to present as evidence to the District Attorney.”

  I massage my temples in frustration. “I’m guessing you’ve never tried to buy black market weapons before?” I ask her, rhetorically.

  “Have you?” asks Johnson, smirking.

  “I exercise my right to remain silent,” I reply to him, before looking back at her. “First thing they’ll do is pat me down to check for weapons. Next, they’ll wand me to check for any electronic equipment. If this guy’s the big player you make him out to be, then show him some more respect. If I put this on, I’ll have a bullet in my head before I can take three paces inside that building, plain and simple.”

  She sighs and turns around, unhappy.

  “What’s the name of the other weapons dealer you dismissed for this?” I ask.

  “His name’s Mickey Cartwright,” says Chambers, without turning round again. “He’s small time. Has a few counts of possession to his name, and he's suspected of supplying small arms to local dealers. Nothing major. Why?”

  “Because I’m going to use him as an excuse for being here.”

  “How will we know if you need back-up?” she asks.

  “Twelve years I’ve been doing this, and I’ve done alright without any so far,” I say. “But if you mean, how will you know if it’s going well or not, then just assume that if you don’t hear gunfire and you don’t see bodies falling from the sky, then I’m doing alright.”

  There’s an uneasy silence in the car for a moment.

  “Oh, by the way, where are my guns?” I ask.

  “They’re in the lock-up back at the office,” replies Wallis.

  “I want them back at some point… Right, now drive past and circle round the block. Pull up across the street round the corner by the south side of the building.”

  I unfasten my belt and get out of the car, quickly looking around before walking down the street and turning left. I walk casually along until I draw level with the entrance. I stand outside, trying to look like I’m trying to be inconspicuous but failing. The act works and it only takes a minute or so for the door to open and the guy to appear. He’s an average-looking man, young—maybe late twenties, with long, styled, jet-black hair.

  “You lost?” he says. His voice is high-pitched and sounds… slimy.

  “I’m looking for Jo-Jo,” I say. “I heard this was his place. You know him?”

  “Never heard of him,” he replies. “Who the fuck’s askin’?”

  “If you’ve never heard of him, why does it matter who I am?”

  He breathes in, trying to bring himself to his full height and width to look more intimidating. Then he brushes the left side of his open jacket aside to reveal a holstered gun.

  “You tryin’a be smart with me, asshole?”

  The urge to flatten the guy right now is overwhelming, but I stop myself. I’ve got a mission here and it’s way too early to write it off just yet.

  I put my hands up, open palms facing him, to signify passiveness.

  “Hey, buddy, I’m not looking for any trouble, alright? Mickey C sent me here and said to ask for Jo-Jo. Said he’d be able to hook me up.”

  He visibly relaxes a little. “Mickey sent you, did he? What you lookin’ for, man?”

  “I’m after some hardware. A couple of serious pieces. I’ve got plenty of cash. I heard Jo-Jo is the man to see.”

  “Alright, wait here.”

  He presses a buzzer and when the door opens, he disappears inside.

  I breathe out and relax. So far, so good. I glance around idly, like I’ve got all the time in the world. I’m sure there’ll be at least one surveillance camera on me, so I have to act the part. I look behind me absently, glimpsing the front end of the sedan with the three FBI musketeers in it around the corner.

  With him having to buzz himself in, I figure that means there’s maybe one guy on the other side of the door. More likely, there’ll be two. Probably armed as well.

  I look up, all the way to the sky. If I do manage to get up there to talk with Turner, and if it does go wrong, that’s a whole lot of building to try to get out of…

  I sigh, steeling myself and clearing my mind. I know the rules: don’t think about it, just do it.

  The door clicks and the doorman pushes it open and holds it for me.

  “Come on,” he says, gesturing me in with his hand.

  I step past him through the door and into a small lobby. At the end, side by side, are two elevators—both out of order.

  Figures.

  On the left wall is a large cabinet of lockers, presumably used as mailboxes. On the right, immediately as I walk in, is a table with a chair at each end—both occupied by badly dressed and grossly overweight men. Further along the wall is a flight of stairs.

  The walls are a sickly, pale yellow color, and are cracked almost everywhere. The fluorescent lights buzz loudly overhead, although there are more broken than not. The floor’s covered in linoleum that was probably laid down in the seventies and never replaced. It’s peeling around the edges, and has large air bubbles all over it. It’s dirty and discolored.

  There’s a faint stench of excrement as well, which stings my nostrils.

  “Nice place,” I say, not hiding my sarcasm or general disdain.

  The two overweight guys at the table stand up. They’re slightly shorter than me, but easily a hundred and fifty pounds heavier. And it isn’t muscle. They could be twins. Both have those bucket hats on that people wear for fishing, with sunglasses and badly designed facial hair. In their podgy hands are large pistols—I don’t want to stare, but I’m pretty sure they’re Desert Eagles, fifty caliber.

  Christ, those things are like fucking cannons...

  The doorman comes up behind me and I hear the unmistakable sound of a gun being drawn and the safety being clicked off. I turn slowly to face him. The Desert Eagle twins both have their guns trained on me and the doorman’s aiming his right between my eyes.

  “Now,” he says. “Let’s try again. Who the fuck are you?”

  11:05

  I need to stay calm and relax. My instinct right now is to fight. I could have all three of them on the floor, in pieces, in a heartbeat. But I need to look like I’m playing it cool. I can’t think about this like I normally would. I’m not Adrian Hell right now, I’m just a guy trying to buy a gun, and this is probably normal. This is an intel-gathering operation and I need them to think I’m something less than what I am.

  They need to believe they’re in control.

  “Whoa! Guys, come on—there’s no need for any hostility. I just wanna do some business…” I say, raising my arms again and trying my best to look slightly afraid.

  “And what business might that be?” asks the doorman.

  “I already told you. Mickey Cartwright sent me here and said that Jo-Jo would be able to help me out, because he couldn’t get me what I was after.”

  “You a cop?” asks one of the large twins.

  “Am I a cop? Fuck you, alright? Fuck... you...! I don’t need this shit. No, I’m not a fucking cop! I got a job to do in this city and I need some hardware to help me do it. I got plenty of cash to spend, and I want the best. Word is, this is the place to get it. If you boys are doing so well that you don’t need my business, I’ll take it elsewhere.”

  Silence falls and I fight to keep my breathing normal and subdue the rush of adrenaline my body’s trying to release. At least I’ve got nothing to worry about; obviously I’m not a cop…

  My mind flashes to Agent Chambers, handing me the earpiece and microphone.

  She would’ve got me killed.

  The doorman turns to the large twin who spoke.

  “Search him,” he says.

  He tucks his gun into the back of his jeans and waddles over to me.

  “Arms out to the sides, asshole,” he says, partially out of breath.

  “My pleasure,” I say.

 
He pats me down, finding nothing. “He’s clean,” he says after a minute.

  “Okay,” says the doorman, turning to the other large guy. “Give him the wand.”

  “Give me the what?” I shout, acting dumb and sounding offended. “Hey, I don’t need these guns that much. Nobody’s sticking anything inside me!”

  “Relax, you idiot,” the doorman says. “We’re just gonna scan you to make sure you’re not wearing a wire.”

  “Oh. Well in that case, wand me to your heart’s content.” I laugh, somewhat nervously, but get no reaction.

  So far, it's going pretty much as I’d expected it to. I hate myself for having to act the part, but I’m getting closer to Pellaggio by doing it. That’s all that matters.

  The other large twin puts his gun away and pulls out a small, black stick, which I know is the wand. It detects the radio frequencies emitted by any electronic device it moves over, and beeps when it finds one.

  This is the part where it gets tricky. Albeit reluctantly, Chambers did give me a copy of the FBI file on the Red Dragon on a USB drive. It’s only small, and it’s currently in the heel of my right boot, which I hollowed out, so it slides back to reveal a hidden compartment. It’s useful for smuggling things like USB drives. I must admit, I’ve never had much call to use it, but Josh was insistent.

  Thankfully, people rarely think to check as low down as the shoes, because typically, they’re only looking for weapons. As a result, they only search your arms, legs and body.

  He quickly waves it around my body, revealing nothing.

  Phew…

  ‘We’re good,’ he says.

  The doorman nods and puts his gun away. “What’s your name?” he asks.

  “James,” I say, lying.

  “Okay, James—follow me.”

  He sets off up the stairs, beckoning me to follow. I walk after him, briefly looking back over my shoulder at the large twins.

  “You boys not coming?” I ask with a smile.

  One of them gives me the middle finger and they both sit back down on their chairs, which creak loudly under the weight.