The Hunters Read online

  Not this Li’l, however. What he was going to do tonight would most certainly get his Li’l card revoked.

  “It’s time,” the woman said. The blond man began walking. No time wasted with a nod or salute or even a word. If it was time, every second mattered. And then she spoke, as if she’d read his mind. “I want him to be anxious,” she said. “He doesn’t know what he’s getting into. He doesn’t know what he thinks he’s buying. I want him flustered and on edge.”

  “Why?” the blond man asked. He felt that was a fair question. He wasn’t imposing, just asking her to elaborate.

  “Because once he tries the product and thinks back to this meeting, he’ll know that we came late for a reason. We’re doing him a favor by even being here. So the next time we come he’ll be sweating like a junkie. He’ll eat out of our hands if we want him to.”

  The blond man nodded. Despite his shortcomings—and the man knew he had many—he had remarkable self-awareness. He did not have the calculating mind that she did, but he had enough confidence to admit it. He had the utmost respect for the woman, and if she was sure about what she was doing, so was he. So while this rationale did not completely make sense to him, he knew it did to her. And that mattered more.

  His mind may not be as sharp as the edge of a knife, but it was as powerful as a sledgehammer. He may not have been subtle, but he got the job done.

  The woman said, “Let’s go.”

  They approached the building, located in uptown Manhattan on 135th Street off Adam Clayton Boulevard—right near the neighborhood YMCA. The building was completely devoid of tenants. Well, that was the technical truth, as there were no tenants who lived there on a permanent basis. The owner of the complex was named Leroy Culvert. Leroy Culvert was worth well over thirty million dollars.

  While there were no permanent tenants, the building was not kept in a state of disrepair. It was not an eyesore like so many other unoccupied projects in uptown New York, but rather, Culvert kept it in good enough shape that it was never approached by squatters, never frequented by junkies and never attracted the homeless population who assumed that a building in total disrepair was one where not too many people asked questions.

  Culvert kept it in just good enough shape that it went unnoticed in the neighborhood. It wasn’t nice enough that it would stick in peoples’ minds, but not dilapidated enough that it would pique their interest for other reasons.

  In fact, the dark-haired woman was moderately impressed by the security system. A reinforced steel door and roving camera setup that was partially obscured by tree branches. Just enough to keep the bad guys out without alerting pedestrians as to what—or who—was being guarded.

  The blond man punched out a number on his cell phone. After two rings, a man with a deep, baritone voice answered.

  “Whozis?”

  “Mr. Malloy and a guest. We’re here to see Mr. Culvert.”

  “We ain’t hear nobody buzz upstairs.”

  “We don’t ‘buzz.’ And we both know that your buzzer system also records fingerprints. I’m mildly impressed with your security, but Mr. Culvert knows how we do business.”

  “Hang on a sec.”

  Malloy smiled. He could hear mumbling on the other end. The man with the deep voice clearly said “Whatchoo want me to do?” several times. He didn’t bother to put the phone on hold, just covered it with his palm.

  Amateur hour.

  Finally the man got back on the line.

  “A’right. You can come through. Eighth floor. And you better not be packin’.”

  “Don’t worry,” Malloy said. “We’re simply here to do business.”

  The buzzer sounded, and the blond man pushed open the door with his elbow. He held it as the dark-haired woman entered. She gave him a quick pat on the shoulder to let him know he’d done well. The blond man nodded his acceptance.

  The corridors were well lit, but the apartment doors looked like they hadn’t been opened in years. Culvert clearly had his command center and had no use for the other apartments in the building. Yet there were cameras everywhere. The blond man made a note of them. Cameras meant a security log. A security log meant there was a recording station somewhere inside the building. He would have to find it before they came back.

  “Cameras,” the woman said.

  “I’m on it.”

  “We’re not leaving without the tapes.”

  “Today?” the blond man said. If that was the case, their whole plan would change.

  “Don’t worry about today. But be ready for next time.”

  The blond man said he would be.

  The elevator took them to the eighth floor. A white guard a shade under six-five and 280 pounds greeted them. He had a layer of peach fuzz for hair, and a semiautomatic strapped over his shoulder. His mouth nearly sank into his several layers of chins, but despite the man’s loutish appearance, he didn’t need much dexterity to aim and pull the trigger. The rifle’s safety was still on, but the muzzle was pointed at the two visitors. It wavered between them as though playing eeny, meeny, miny, moe.

  “M4, .22 caliber semiautomatic,” the woman said, gesturing at the gun. “A fine rifle.”

  “Glad you like it,” the guard said. He had a massive chest but a doughy face, and was already breathing hard. So far neither guest was impressed with Culvert’s choice in security. “Just follow me, keep your mouths shut and your hands where I can see them, or this baby here will do all the talking,”

  “Fair enough,” the woman said with a smile.

  “What did I tell you?” Doughy said, his eyes wide. “You told us to shut up,” the blond man said, playing along.

  “Okay, that’s the last thing I’d better hear out of you. Come on, you freaking wiseasses. Mr. Culvert wants to see you.”

  They followed Doughy down the corridor. When he approached the end, he banged loudly on a metal door. Then he looked up at a camera stationed above it.

  With a click the door unlocked and someone inside opened it for them. Doughy waited until the door was wide open, and then led them into the command center.

  Sitting on a large, plush sofa was a black man, late thirties, thin but with the muscle tone of someone who spent their whole life jittery, on edge. His bald head shone under the soft lighting, and his goatee was trimmed to a fine layer of stubble. He was wearing a pair of dark blue track pants and a white, wife-beater undershirt. Thick gold chains that must have weighed in the neighborhood of five pounds were draped over the undershirt. He had a drink in one hand and a gun in the other.

  The blond man wondered whether he thought the gun was really necessary, considering the half-dozen other men in the room, all armed with rifles and bulletproof vests. They all watched the two guests like they were gazelles wandering into a lion’s den. Easy meals on the surface, but they had to have something up their sleeves to enter such a dangerous place with such little regard for their own safety.

  The gun in Li’l Leroy’s hand, the blond man thought, laughing to himself, was overkill.

  Two large guards came over. Doughy said, “Spread ’em, hands behind your heads” with a little too much zeal.

  Both spread their legs shoulder-width apart. They placed their hands behind their heads. The guards then spent several minutes patting the guests down, looking for weapons, large and small. The blond man noticed one guard was taking his time searching the dark-haired woman.

  “Neither of us has any weapons,” the blond man said.

  Doughy laughed and said, “Maybe, maybe not. But we also want to be sure this bitch’s snatch isn’t going to cut my boy’s fingers off. You ready to get a cavity search, honey?”

  The woman did not move. The bodyguard searching her knelt down and put his hand on her inner thigh.

  “That’s enough, Fatty!” Culvert shouted. The three guards whipped around. “These folks are our guests. Now move out the way before I stick my boot up your crevice.”

  “Yes, sir,” Doughy said. He motioned for the other gu
ards to move away.

  “Sit down there,” Culvert said. He was pointing to another section of the couch. In front of the section was a small coffee table. On the table was a pitcher of water, several glasses, a liter of Grey Goose vodka, several carafes of mixers, a bowl of pretzels and a dish with what looked like several grams of cocaine. “I’m sorry for my idiot brigade there. At least I know how to entertain my guests properly,” Culvert said, smiling through gold-plated teeth.

  The woman and the blond man sat down. The blond man took a pretzel and ate it. The woman poured herself a glass of water and sipped from it. Then they sat back.

  The blond man was reasonably sure Culvert had told the guards to make a move on the woman. That way he could stop them himself before they got physical. Come off like he was the good guy, protecting them. The blond man was not fooled.

  “That’s it?” Culvert said, holding up his gun hand, surprised. “Man, most people dive right for the nose candy, or at least wet their whistle with some of the Goose.”

  “We’re here for business, Leroy,” the woman said. “Playtime happens when our deal is done.”

  “I can respect that,” Culvert said. “See, I’m like you. I got me a drink here, but it’s a weak-ass one. Maybe one part gin, two parts tonic. Most nights I go half and half, but I want to keep my mind sharp.”

  “We have something in common then,” the woman said.

  Culvert sipped his drink. Then he held it out. One of the bodyguards came over and took the drink from him. It disappeared into the guard’s massive hand like a quarter.

  “You’re here for business,” Culvert said. “So let’s talk business.”

  “Absolutely,” the dark-haired woman said. She reached into her jacket and pulled out a small plastic bag. She looked at it briefly, then tossed it to Culvert. It landed on his lap, where he looked at it. He did not seem impressed.

  “What the hell is this? Gravel? Shit you pave your driveway with?”

  “That, Mr. Culvert, is our product,” the woman said. “And I think once you try it you’ll be absolutely certain that you will not want to line your driveway with it.”

  Culvert picked up the plastic bag. It was filled with small black rocks. Culvert jiggled the bag, holding his ear to it.

  “It does not play music, Mr. Culvert.”

  “What do you call this shit again?”

  “It’s called the Darkness, Mr. Culvert.”

  “Why you call it that?”

  The woman grinned. “Because when the world tries to beat you down, everyone could use the peace of Darkness.”

  Culvert’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward,

  “Yeah,” he said, nodding vigorously. “I can dig that. I can see consumers going for that. See, when it comes to the consumer, you need a tag line. Something to remember. Everyone got shit going on in their lives, and you’re right—everyone needs the peace of Darkness to make it all go away.”

  “I think your consumers will agree that our product does just that.”

  Culvert said nothing. Then he stood up, placed his gun on the table. The small bag filled with black rocks fell onto the floor.

  He walked over to where the two guests sat. He knelt in front of them, placed one hand on each of their knees. Neither of them budged.

  “The reason you’re here,” Culvert explained, his eyes wide and soft, “is because you’ve promised me a product that will increase my earnings. Your words. Increase my earnings. I don’t take shit like that lightly. I’m a businessman. You might have heard me on the radio, seen one of them kids playing my music on their iPods. That’s just part of what I do. The other part is moving product. People buy my product because they trust me, and ergo they trust my products. Like that word? Ergo?”

  “Yes,” the woman said.

  “So when somebody tells me they have a product that will increase my earnings, I think two things: first, this person is who they say they are. The second is that this person might be full of bull. And you know what happens when someone asks me to trust them and they turn out to be full of bull?”

  Culvert stopped talking. It was clear he was waiting for one of them to reply. Finally the blond man said, “What happens?”

  Barely waiting for him to finish the second word, Culvert blurted, “They get smoked. And not a quick two to the back of the head. I mean, I smoke them and they family. Do you have family?” Culvert asked the woman.

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  The blond man knew for a fact this was a lie. She was leading him on.

  “Well, if your product is not what you say it is, they is getting smoked just like you.”

  “Please, don’t hurt my son,” the woman said. The blond man did everything he could to keep from smiling.

  “Your son is safe…depending on how you act. You act respectfully, your son lives and you make enough money to keep him in Armani the rest of his life. You act disrespectfully, I’m gonna bury you both in an ugly grave in the middle of nowhere.”

  The woman looked down at her knees. Keeping up the game.

  “What about you, cottontail? You got family?”

  The blond man shook his head. He didn’t have family. Not anymore. And he wasn’t as good at playing this game as she was. If he tried to lie, he could give it away. Better to play it straight.

  “Well, I’ll do doubly savage on her ass then.”

  They both looked down. Fresh off their “scolding.”

  “I’m gonna take your product, those freaky little black rocks, and I’m gonna test them out. Myself. And if I think it’s the kind of product that can boost my revenue, I’ll distribute it for you. What do you say to that?” Culvert asked.

  “That sounds good,” the woman said. “We’ll give you thirty percent.”

  Culvert launched himself back up and unleashed a belly laugh so loud it inspired Doughy and his brute companions to laugh, as well.

  “Bitch, you think I’m gonna distribute for some thirty percent? I don’t do a dime lower than eighty-five. ”

  “Fifty,” the woman said.

  Culvert chuckled. “Bitch thinks she can negotiate with me. Tell you what, I like your moxie, girl. Seventy-five.”

  “Sixty,” she replied.

  “Seventy. You negotiate more I’ll throw your ass right out this door and you can get distributed by those assholes down by the Brooklyn Bridge, give you ten cents on the dollar because they empty the product themselves. Seventy/thirty.”

  “Deal,” the woman said.

  “Deal. If,” Culvert added, “you are who you say you are.”

  “You’ll be the judge of that.”

  The woman stood up. The blond man followed suit. They shook hands with Culvert, who had a look in his eye like he’d just pulled one over on them.

  “Be back later this week. If I like it, we’ll discuss specifics. Shipments. You down with that?”

  “We’re down with that. Let’s go.”

  She turned around to leave. Doughy accompanied them to the front door and opened it. Just as they stepped through the doorway, Culvert yelled at them, “Y’all call yourselves businessmen, but y’all got a lot to learn about how to be a real businessman.”

  Doughy slammed the door shut behind them. The woman and the blond man were alone in the hallway. They did not say a word or even look at each other until they left the building and were across the street. When they were out of view of Culvert’s building, the dark-haired woman reached behind her head and undid her braid. The long, shiny hair cascaded down her back. She removed her jacket, revealing a dark tank top that showed muscle tone that belied her age.

  She shook her hair out and handed the jacket to the blond man. He took it and slung it over his shoulder.

  “What a small man,” she said. “The more somebody talks, the weaker they are. By Thursday, he’ll be begging us to let him have thirty percent.”

  She checked her watch.

  “The chemist?” the blond man said.

  She nodded. “Th
anks, Malloy. Let me know when it’s done and we’ll get the Asian.”

  “Will do.”

  As the blond man walked away, the woman said, “When we go back there, bring the cop.”

  The blond man raised his eyebrows.

  “Those fat guys take a few more bullets to bring down. We’ll need the firepower.”

  “I’ll get him,” the blond man said. “The chemist. Do you want me to leave a message?”

  “No,” she said. “This one needs to stay as quiet as possible. The Asian is different. Culvert is different. The chemist just needs to disappear.”

  “When we get the Asian,” the blond man said, “do you want me to bring a gun for you?”

  The woman smiled and turned away.

  “No,” she said. “We’re going to have a little fun with this one. We’re going to carve him like a turkey and make sure everybody sees what’s inside.”

  Chapter 3

  Jack O’Donnell walked into his apartment, dropped his bags on the floor and stifled a sob. It had been months since he’d set foot in this place, and the last time he did that was one of the worst moments of his life. Crying, humiliated, left as a joke for the city’s vultures to feast on.

  Jack had spent his whole life chronicling New York. He knew every nook and cranny, every in and out, could recite from memory the history of the city from Robert Moses to Phil Spitzer. He truly felt this city was a part of him, and he would die leaving a part of himself in it.

  But not like this. Not like this.

  Not a broken mess, a broken man, shamed into a rehabilitation center by a vengeful competitor who wanted nothing more than to embarrass him for profit. Paulina Cole, a woman who was a parasite with a good wardrobe. Vermin who could apply eyeliner. A woman he’d worked with for years, only to fall victim to her savage muckraking.

  It was Paulina who’d uncovered the full extent of Jack’s alcoholism and splayed it all over the pages of her newspaper. There was no reason for it. Jack was not a celebrity. His demons would not sell newspapers like he was some nasty debutante caught with her pants down or some singer caught on film smoking a crack pipe. He was a newspaperman. That’s all. Which made what Paulina did that much more hurtful. She did it for no other reason than to humiliate him, to try to ruin his career.