The Hunters Read online

“Excited, a little nervous. He’s never seen me in action.”

  “You’ll be great,” she said.

  “Yeah, I think there’s still a great story out there. Hopefully the old man can help me find it.” He gave her one squeeze, and she gripped his arms. “Good night baby,” he said.

  “Henry?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t need you to tell me to be careful, do I?” Amanda said.

  “Come on, Amanda,” Henry said. “What would I need to be careful of?”

  Chapter 6

  The first swing of the crowbar shattered Kenneth Tsang’s kneecap. The second nearly dislodged it completely, ripping it away from the tendons that held it in place, rendering the entire leg practically useless.

  Kenneth Tsang was lying in the basement of the nightclub where he’d spent so much time over the past few months. Tsang had made himself well into six figures working for Malloy, and had begun to trust the man completely. Which was why when Malloy asked him to be there at four in the morning, dressed to the nines, Tsang did not even ask why. He simply showed up, was ushered inside and subsequently had his right leg shattered beyond recognition.

  Tsang lay on the floor, writhing in pain. At first he screamed as loud as anyone Malloy had ever heard, and Malloy worried for just a brief moment that the soundproof walls might just not hold up for a guy this sissified. After the second blow, however, the screams turned into a pathetic whimpering, and now Tsang lay there on the floor, still wearing his three-thousand-dollar suit, with one pant leg torn to shreds.

  A small puddle of drool began to accumulate under Tsang’s head. He’d thrown up on himself. Not surprising. Pain and fear would do that to you. He was trying to crawl away, crawl anywhere. Sad, really. The door was locked. A blind man with no legs could get around faster than Tsang with that busted wheel. But he still crawled and blubbered and begged for mercy.

  “P-p-please,” Tsang blurted, thick spittle flying out with every syllable. “D-d-don’t…”

  Malloy just stood there holding the crowbar. Then the door opened and the dark-haired woman strode in. Tsang looked at her, confused, then he looked back at Malloy. For a moment, his eyes relaxed. Malloy knew exactly what he was thinking.

  She’s a girl. She’s here to save me. The brutality is over.

  If only he knew who this woman was.

  “Hello, Kenneth,” the woman said. She knelt down by his crippled form. He tried to raise his head, but was too weak. Without hesitating, she grabbed him by his hair and jerked his head backward until his eyes met hers.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “P-p-please,” Tsang repeated. “Let me go. I…I swear…I won’t tell anyone.”

  The woman looked over her shoulder at Malloy.

  “What do you think?” she said. “Should we let him go?”

  Malloy said nothing. Just shrugged.

  The woman released Tsang’s hair. His face splatted against the floor, leaving another drool mark.

  “Do you know why you’re here?” the woman asked Tsang.

  “N-n-no,” he gasped. “I…I need to go…”

  “I know this isn’t exactly fair to you,” the woman said. “In the past, we’ve only made examples out of employees who’ve stolen from us. Lied to us. Betrayed us like Stephen Gaines.”

  “I n-n-never betrayed you,” Tsang said.

  “I know you haven’t, Ken, I know you haven’t. But Gaines is dead, shot to death. A little too professional for my tastes. Being shot in the head sucks, but it doesn’t convey the same fear as, say, well…”

  She pointed at Tsang’s mutilated leg.

  “That leg, that sends a message.”

  Tsang spat out, “Then…then let me go.”

  The woman clicked her tongue against the side of her mouth and shook her head.

  “It’s not just the leg, Ken. It’s what they see when they find you. Or find your body. I’m not a big fan of talking to people before I kill them, but you’ve been a pretty loyal guy and I think you deserve an explanation.”

  Malloy could see fear beyond rational explanation in Tsang’s eyes, the kind of fear that came not from knowing your fate, but from having no idea just how much pain you could possibly be in.

  “Tomorrow we begin the most important phase in our company’s history,” she continued. “You’re a finance guy, Ken. You understand when companies begin new phases, how important it is to make sure everyone’s in line. Make sure everyone has the same goals. And do you know what the single biggest motivational tool is in any company? Do you, Ken?”

  Ken shook his head. At least he tried to.

  “It’s fear,” the woman said. “Fear of being fired. Fear of being downsized. Fear of losing an income that you worked so hard for. Fear of losing the lifestyle you’ve become accustomed to. And, really, isn’t that exactly why you came to work for us in the first place?”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” Ken blubbered. “I won’t tell…”

  He tried to crawl again, slapping his arms against the concrete floor like a seal.

  “I’m growing tired of this,” the woman said. She walked over to where Ken was lying, raised her hand above her head and brought the crowbar down on Kenneth Tsang’s left arm with a sickening crunch.

  Tsang howled in pure agony and tried to roll over, but his maimed knee wouldn’t allow it.

  “Now you’re triple-jointed,” the woman said. “Anyone…I suppose what I’m trying to say, Ken, is that there are no hard feelings here. But right now your body is worth more dead than alive to us. Tomorrow morning, when they find you, you will matter more than you ever have in your life. Your body will create that fear we need. Two bullets in the back of the skull is a quick, painless exit. This,” she said, nodding toward him, “this is something you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy, let alone yourself.”

  “My mother…,” Ken blurted.

  “Will miss you very, very much.” The woman raised the crowbar above her head, looking Kenenth Tsang directly in his watery eyes.

  “Who…who are you?” he said, his lip trembling.

  “I was given a name a long time ago,” the woman said. “Beware the fury of a patient man.”

  Then she brought the crowbar down again.

  The boat approached the dock, and the driver pulled up alongside and tied a rope to a cleat. Once it was fastened tight, he went to help Malloy with the body.

  “Hey, Len,” Malloy said. “Got you out of bed, it seems.”

  “First time I’ve been awake past midnight in a year,” Leonard said.

  “If I had a pad as slick as yours I don’t think I’d ever leave. How’s the new flat screen?”

  “Sixty-inch plasma,” Leonard said. “Just hooked up the surround sound. I could watch movies all day on that thing. Just screened Saving Private Ryan. I swear I thought the Germans were actually shooting at me.”

  Malloy laughed. “You’re a good man, Len,” he said. “Now come on, help me out.”

  The two men went over to the nondescript white van, opened the back door and hauled out a green burlap sack.

  “Jesus Christ,” Leonard said. “What the hell you got in here?”

  “Mutilated boy,” Malloy replied.

  Leonard looked at him. “That’s not funny.”

  Malloy said, “I ain’t laughing.”

  “You’re serious,” Leonard said. He looked at the bag, felt it. “This feels like a bunch of mush.”

  “Then that means we did it right.”

  Leonard sighed. “You gotta do what you gotta do. Can I ask who this is?” he said as the men carried the bag over to where the boat was idling.

  “Ken Tsang,” Malloy answered, his eyes staying on the bag.

  “Fuck, man, are you serious?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Tsang was one of our best earners. Why the hell did it have to be him?”

  “Because then everyone else will know how vulnerable they are. If Tsang can go down, so can anybody.”
r />   “You don’t think you could have pulverized, I don’t know, Ben Purvis and gotten the same reaction?”

  “Ben Purvis is an idiot who can barely tie his shoes. He’s going to end up dead sooner or later. He croaks, people just assume he got what was coming to him. With Tsang, people will tighten up like they’re about to get a hot poker up their ass. We need everyone alert, everyone game.”

  Leonard Reeves shook his head as they gingerly stepped aboard the boat. Reeves gently placed his side of the bag onto the floor. Malloy dropped his like a sack of potatoes.

  “You don’t need to be gentle with this thing,” Malloy said. “He’s deader than oatmeal. In fact, he might actually be the same consistency as oatmeal right now.”

  “You’re a sick fuck, Malloy,” Reeves said.

  “And you’re a rich prick, Len,” Malloy replied.

  “Fair enough. Where we headed?”

  “There’s a buoy out by the Marine Transfer station in the East River.”

  “Ninety-first Street I think,” Reeves said.

  “We’re going to tie our friend up, and then…” Malloy reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Balloons?”

  “We want Mr. Tsang here to be found right quick.”

  “Did you have to make them pink?”

  Malloy laughed. “I’m a romantic.”

  “All right, let’s go. I want to be back in bed by six o’clock.”

  “No problem. You will be.”

  “Good. And hey, Malloy, did you guys take care of the girl? You know, the reporter?”

  “Paulina Cole?”

  “Yeah, her,” Reeves said. “Didn’t you guys have something planned for her?”

  “It’s taken care of,” Malloy said.

  “She’s kind of hot for an older broad,” Reeves said. “Hey, wouldn’t it be kind of funny if I screwed her?”

  “After what I did to her this afternoon,” Malloy said, “I don’t think she’s going to let any strangers come near her for a long, long time. Or her daughter.”

  Other novels by Jason Pinter in the Henry Parker series:

  The Mark

  The Guilty

  The Stolen

  The Fury

  The Darkness

  For more information about Jason Pinter and his books, visit him at:

  His website—www.jasonpinter.com

  His blog—www.jasonpinter.com/blog

  Facebook—www.facebook.com/jason.pinter

  Twitter—http://twitter.com/jasonpinter

  MySpace—www.myspace.com/jasonpinter

  Flickr—www.flickr.com/photos/jasonpinter

  Goodreads—http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/281516.Jason_Pinter

  AUTHOR BIO

  Jason Pinter was born in New York City in 1979, read his first book at the age of three and progressed quickly from the life lessons of Little Toot to the otherworldly epics of Brian Jacques, Terry Brooks and Stephen King. He soon began writing short stories that were, unsurprisingly, D-grade knockoffs of Brian Jacques, Terry Brooks and Stephen King. At least he aimed high.

  Throughout high school, Jason dreamed of becoming a screenwriter, and took jobs at various production companies to learn more about the film and television industry, including one (unpaid) stint at Jon Stewart’s Busboy Productions. Jason is proud to say he was the inspiration for The Daily Show with Jon Stewart (at least in his own mind).

  During his junior year in college, Jason decided he wanted to make the leap and become a writer. Heeding words of advice from his physician who’d written a book (“The first thing any writer needs is an agent”), he began querying literary agents. The physician neglected to mention that in order to get an agent, you needed to have an actual book. Needless to say, agents were not chomping at the bit to sign up Jason’s non-book.

  After a half-hearted attempt to find an agent for his, um, nothing, Jason decided it could be interesting to learn more about the publishing industry from the inside. Over the summer, he took an internship at a boutique literary agency in New York, where his first day on the job consisted of lunch at Mickey Mantle’s restaurant with a renowned sportswriter. Ah, the glamorous world of publishing (cough).

  Jason interned at the agency through the fall, racking up $726,374 in E-Z Pass fees while commuting from Connecticut to New York for work and to visit his girlfriend (who later became his wife).

  After graduating, Jason took a job as an editorial assistant at a publishing house. It was during that time that he began writing his debut thriller, The Mark. Shockingly, it was easier to land an agent with an actual manuscript, and that agent eventually sold The Mark to MIRA Books in a three-book deal.

  When not writing his acclaimed Henry Parker/Amanda Davies series, Jason still works as a book editor. He lives in New York City with his college-sweetheart-turned-wife, Susan, and their dog, Wilson.

  He is a member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America, and a co-founder of Killer Year.

  Ready for more action with Henry Parker? See how the story began in THE FURY, available now in print and eBook format wherever books are sold, and continues in THE DARKNESS, on sale December 2009.

  THE FURY

  Henry parker must uncover the most devastating secret of all…His own

  Am I my brother’s keeper?

  If I’d known I had a brother, I might have been. But he’s dead—shot point-blank in a rat-hole apartment, wasted by hunger and heroin. Stephen Gaines, a man with whom I shared nothing…except a father.

  For some reason this stranger who shared my blood came to me for help…and I blew him off thinking he was just some junkie. Now I’m forced to question everything I ever knew…and figure out why this man was murdered in cold blood.

  All I can do for Stephen Gaines now is find his killer—and with the help of Amanda Davies uncover the whole, hard truth. If it means tracking down a vicious drug kingpin—who may or may not exist—then so be it….

  THE DARKNESS

  A young man is found murdered, his bones crushed nearly to dust before his body was dumped into New York’s East River.

  In New York there are hundreds of murders a year, but this one is different. Somebody is sending a message. And shockingly, the victim has ties to my brother, Stephen Gaines, recently murdered by an elusive drug lord known only as the Fury.

  For years this kingpin has been shrouded in darkness. Stephen was executed just as he was about to shed some light. Working alongside my mentor, Jack O’Donnell, I’m going to find the truth behind this blood-soaked curtain. But the more we reveal, the more we realize just how dark the Fury’s plans are. And that no matter how brutal the violence has been, we haven’t seen anything yet….

  Turn the page to read a special excerpt from THE DARKNESS…

  THE DARKNESS

  By Jason Pinter

  Chapter One

  Paulina Cole left the office at 4:59 p.m. Her sudden departure nearly caused a panic in the newsroom of the New York Dispatch, where she’d worked as a featured columnist and reporter for several years. Paulina was prone to late nights, though many argued whether the nights were due to a work ethic that was second to none, or simply because she was more comfortable spending her time among competitive, ambitious and bloodthirsty professionals than sitting on the couch with a glass of wine and takeout.

  She had left that day after a particularly frustrating conference call with the paper’s editor in chief, Ted Allen. Paulina had spent the better part of two years becoming the city’s most notorious scribe in no small part due to her ambivalence concerning personal attacks, heated vendettas, and a complete refusal to allow anyone to get the best of her. When her instincts faltered, she called in favors. When she got scooped, she would trump the scoop by digging deeper. And she held grudges like ordinary folks held on to family heirlooms.

  Which is why, after reading a copy of that morning’s New York Gazette, the paper Paulina used to work for and
now wished buried under a paper landfill, she demanded to speak with Ted. She knew the man had a two o’clock tee time, but she’d seen him golf before and cell phone interruption might even improve his thirty-seven handicap.

  That day’s Gazette featured a story about the murder of a young man named Stephen Gaines. Gaines’s head had met the business end of a revolver recently, and in a twist of fate that Paulina could only have wished for on the most glorious of days, the prime suspect was none other than Gaines’s father, James Parker. James Parker also happened to be the father of Henry Parker, the Gazette’s rising young star reporter, whom Paulina had as much fondness for as her monthly cycle.

  Paulina had cut her teeth at the Gazette, and had briefly worked side by side with Henry Parker. But after seeing what the Gazette had become—an old, tired rag, refusing to adapt to new technologies or understand that hard news was essentially dead—she’d made it her business to put the paper out of its misery.

  Nobody cared to read about the government or the economy—at least not on a grand scale. They only cared about what they saw right in front of them, day in and day out. Their mortgage payments. Their bank accounts. It was all visceral. You bought the celebrity magazine so you could make fun of the stars’ cellulite with your friends. You shook your head at the news program that exposed the foreman whose building was overrun with rats because he refused to pony up for an exterminator. You scorned the politician’s wife who stood silent at the press conference by her cheating louse of a husband. Paulina gave those with no life something to live for, something to chat about at the nail salon.

  The New York Gazette was dead. It just didn’t know it yet.

  So when Ted Allen suggested that Paulina write an article about vampires, she was taken aback to say the least.

  “Vampires are huge,” Allen had said. “There are those books that have sold like a gajillion copies. Now there are movies, television shows, soundtrack albums. Hell, newspapers are the only medium that isn’t getting a piece of it. Teenage girls love them, and teenage boys want to get into the pants of teenage girls. And this all scares the living hell—no pun intended—out of their parents, so you write a piece on vampires I bet it’s one of our bestselling editions of the year.”