I, Hunter

By Jack Polo

A hunting we will go...

Nick Hunter never wanted to become a hitman. But when his best friend was assassinated, Nick wanted revenge.

After the first kill, the second became a little easier. And it wasn’t long before word got around that Nick Hunter was an incredible hunter. But a hunter with his own code. The target had to be worthy of being eliminated. If Nick thought he wasn’t or if there were extenuating circumstances, he wouldn’t take the job.

It was a job that he refused that put the target on his back.

And now he finds himself being hunted.

Nick’s only hope of survival is to hunt down a man so powerful and secret, he’s known only as the Boss. And the only way to find him is to work up through the Boss’s organization. An organization filled with traps and men and women fiercely loyal who’d rather give up their own lives than give up their leader.

As Nick risks everything – racing across the country – from name to name, city to city – each one more dangerous than the other, avoiding ambushes, crooked cops, and double-crosses to find his target and become, finally, the last Hunter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TouchPoint Press
• Release date: Jul 27, 2021
• ISBN: 195281653X

Book preview

1

THE STREET WAS BLACK AND EMPTY.

Just like my heart.

Nick slipped through the fire exit door of the building without a sound.

Just like I’d planned.

He had disarmed the door three days earlier, so no alarms would shriek, no bells would ding. It might make things a little more dangerous for the eighty-seven residents of the apartment building, but Nick hadn’t worried about that.

If there was a fire, the most important thing about a door was that it opened. Quiet or loud it didn’t matter, just that it allowed you to escape.

The door opened into a small alcove that was always in shadows, even at high noon. So, if there was anyone on the street looking for him, even if they were watching all the exits, they wouldn’t spot him. He was a silent shadow in blackness. A wraith of revenge.

Nothing like my first time.

When my heart felt like it was going to blow out of my chest. When I couldn’t breathe.

And then I’d pulled the trigger.

And that little prick George Mayer’s bald head had exploded like a pink-white balloon—brains and bone and blood spraying the wall behind him.

And from then on, Nick was a new man.

Not better, not worse.

Just new.

He scanned the street. All clear. If someone was hiding, they were a pro and hunkered down. But if you were hunkered down at some point you had to come up. Come up to see, come up to chase, come up to shoot. Come up into Nick’s sights.

He listened, his senses almost vibrating he was so tuned and alert.

Good to go.

He stepped out of the alcove and moved right, his shoulder brushing against the weathered stone blocks of the building. Big rectangular blocks set tight to each other with concrete and mortar so many years ago, back in the 1940s. The rough texture of the blocks caught the soft cotton sleeve of his turtleneck as he moved fast down the south side toward the corner. It was the only sound he heard. His shoes were hand-made in London. Not by bespoke handcrafters like Foster & Son or Crockett & Jones, but by a small shop off Trafalgar Square that bore no sign or even a telephone number. Caleb Markland’s shoes weren’t designed for the street or board rooms. They were military-grade special ops shoes—with steel toes and pristine leather somehow married to a soft composition sole that was rugged as steel, silent as a whisper.

The shoes saved Nick’s life, because the two men creeping around the corner for him never heard him coming. But Nick heard them. A tiny click of a heel followed by a soft scratch of a sole. Nick’s right hand went across his chest to the expanding baton nestled under his left armpit. He grabbed the handle and simultaneously flicked his wrist. The baton telescoped to triple its length as Nick cleared the corner. He slammed the two-inch steel rod just below the first assassin’s pulled-down balaclava, into his throat, destroying his larynx. It was a deadly blow, one that would put the assassin through the most agonizing final sixty seconds of his life as he gasped for air and suffocated.

Nick used the momentum of the baton to carry him past the dying assassin and lashed out a vicious kick to the other man’s right knee which tore his patella so he would have to look halfway around the man’s leg to find it.

As the second man collapsed, he tried to pull his weapon and shoot Nick. A move that Nick admired, the true professional overcoming his unbelievable pain to complete his assignment, so let him live. Nick hammered the baton into the man’s temple, knocking him unconscious, never stopping his momentum forward.

Nick checked the sidewalk and the street. All clear. He glanced back as the first man flopped and rolled, his hands at his neck, fighting for the breath that would never come again, while the second man lay still unmoving. Nick thought of pulling up his balaclava to see his face but vetoed that idea.

Who cares what you look like? You’ll never see me again.

Nick patted the killer’s pockets, found his cell, and slipped it into his vest.

Link number one.

Nick was on a mission to find The Boss. The man who chose the targets and then passed the orders down his chain of command until men like Nick, trained assassins, executed the order, and, of course, the victim.

Nick was on a mission of his own: Go back up the chain, follow the long snake’s body of handlers and commanders, until he got to the venomous head—and then kill the monster.

The snake he’s six miles long….

Jesus! Jim Morrison?

Okay, enough with the metaphors, professor. Get your ass in gear.

Nick checked all around him again and started walking fast. He passed a triple black Cadillac, their car, thought for a moment about taking it, but also vetoed that idea and accelerated his pace.

He increased his speed again so that when he flew past the next corner, he ran flat out, a black blur in the night moving at Olympian speed that he could maintain for another mile.

If they were going to catch him it wouldn’t be on foot.

2

NICK POUNDED HARD FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES; the run more difficult than he’d thought.

Shouldn’t have worn the vest.

He had worn a lightweight, soft armor vest. Being able to stop a .44 Magnum, even the lightest one made, came with a price.

The more distance, the better your chances improve of taking him out.

Assuming I can finally figure out who he is.

Five minutes later, Nick eased back. He pulled the tight-fitting black turtleneck away and let the cool night air bathe his neck. Two minutes later he slowed more, saw an outcropping of trees and disappeared into their darkness. He watched the road behind him—not that he expected to see anyone, but out of habit, out of instinct—and pulled his .45 automatic, M1911 model from his shoulder holster.

He waited another five minutes and then slipped out of his cover.

So, what’s next professor?

Make the call, report in, move up the chain. And while you’re waiting, go back to school.

Professor Hunter was a genuine title, associate professor of American literature.

Want to know the homoerotic underpinnings of Batman and Robin? Butch and Sundance? Associate Professor Hunter was your man. Ever wonder why Faulkner’s fiction reveals a tragic sense of man’s failure to attain his ideals or his failure to cherish any real ideal? AP Hunter can expound on Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury by showing you the decaying values of Southern society as exemplified in the desperation and hopelessness of the three Compson brothers and their sexually charged younger sister Caddy.

Only Nick had never actually attended a university, never been awarded a degree, and had clearly never taught a class.

The credential was bogus.

But Nick’s knowledge was genuine. He knew his stuff. Because to make his cover perfect, in case a neighbor by chance happened to ask, or if something went wrong and the cops questioned him, he had to be prepared. So, when he wasn’t out of town on an assignment, Nick was in the library or on the internet or at bookstores: reading, studying, researching.

He loved noir.

It’s my calling.

3

DID YOU GET HIM?

The voice on the captured cell was gruff, hostile.

Say goodbye to Nick Hunter.

Where is he?

Good question.

Nick’s mind flashed through everything: only one logical answer.

In the trunk.

As planned. Excellent. Now bring him in. They’ll want visual confirmation.

Can’t do that.

What?

There’s a problem.

Goddamn, Tom, we don’t accept problems.

Tom. So that’s who’s going to be walking with a limp.

There’s going to be another body.

What happened? Is Bart okay?

Bart’s dead.

No! Bart was our best agent.

Thanks for the compliment.

The caller took a deep breath, clearly trying for control. This is no time for egos, Tom. You’re a valuable team member. You follow orders, you do your assignments. But … how did it happen?

Bart got sloppy. Or Nick was faster. He clobbered Bart right in the throat with a baton. Destroyed his larynx.

And you…?

I shot Nick. Three times. Then put one in his forehead. He’s not going to look too pretty. There was another deep sigh on the line and before the caller could say anything else, Nick said, We’ll need a different rendezvous.

Why?

Because I think we have a mole.

A mole! Impossible.

Yeah? Well, Nick was ready for us. There’s no way anyone could react that quickly without being prepared in advance.

Shit. The caller inhaled deeply. Okay, where?

Madison and 121st. I’ll be there in an hour.

Okay.

And you should know something else.

What?

You’ll be surprised when you see Nick Hunter.

4

THE CADILLAC CTS WAS A POPULAR AUTOMOBILE. And black was the most popular color. Nick found one fifteen minutes after he’d ended the call. Ten more minutes later he was flying down the road toward the rendezvous.

Twenty minutes passed and he parked the car at the corner of Madison and 121st.

He had deliberately overstated his drive time to give himself fifteen minutes to set up for the nasty man on the phone. A nasty man who most likely wouldn’t be coming but sending an underling in his place. Or if he did show, it wouldn’t be alone. Because while Nick had piqued his curiosity about the two dead bodies, Mister Nasty didn’t get to his position by being stupid.

Mister Nasty wasn’t stupid. And even smarter than Nick thought.

Because as Nick shut off the ignition, he saw the brief flare of a car’s interior light up ahead on his right.

No shit? He got here before me?

Nick clicked off the overhead light so it wouldn’t come on when he opened his door. He watched the street ahead.

There!

Two men got out of the car. No, three—there was movement from the rear door of the car—another CTS. Maybe the Boss got a deal on them. Or maybe a Cadillac dealership was just another of the companies in his organization.

Nick eased open his door and rolled out of the seat unto the sidewalk. He reached up and pushed the door closed, but not hard enough so the mechanism caught and clicked. He scooted back and made sure he stayed below the fender line of the car until he was well past it and next to another car parked behind it. He rose slowly, a human periscope breaking just above the car, an old, hulking Chevy from the 90s, and scanned the area.

A large man walked down the center of the street—the decoy. No sign of the other two, but Nick knew they’d split and taken the opposite sidewalks, staying close to the buildings. Maybe they weren’t there to erase Tom or maybe they were just being careful.

Nick saw the man in the street busy himself with something in his hand, then move his hand to his ear. He was calling Tom. Nick just managed to mute the volume, so the call just buzzed the cell. It vibrated several times then stopped.

The man in the street stopped too.

Tom, where are you?

His voice carried all the way to Nick.

Tom, pick up.

Nick moved behind the Chevy’s trunk. The car in the other space had pulled almost to the Chevy’s bumper and it was a tight fit. But perfect for Nick because that meant that the man coming up on the left sidewalk couldn’t sneak in behind him.

The man in the street put his cell in a pocket and bellowed, TOM!

In the quiet after the man’s shout, Nick heard running footsteps on both sides of the street. He slid through the narrow opening between the cars and slipped along the length of the Chevy and around to its trunk. He propped his left arm on the trunk and braced the automatic with his right hand.

The man on the left got to the Cadillac first. His gun was down by his thigh as he slowly approached the vehicle. He peered, trying to see through the tinted windows which were totally blacked-out since there were no streetlights. The man tensed, then sprung to the car and yanked open the door.

Fuck!

His head spun around, looking for Tom.

Then his head spun nearly off its neck as Nick shot him through his right eye, the impact of the .45 bullet destroying anything in its path at this close range.

Nick swung the gun down the street where nasty man was jumping for cover.

Nick’s bullet caught him mid-air—another head shot—knocking it sideways in a mist of bones, brains, and gore. And the human head, even what was left of this man’s skull is the heaviest part of the body, so when the man’s head got knocked to the right, his body followed and slammed into the street.

The Chevy’s rear window exploded in a corona of glass that sprayed all over Nick. A second shot ricocheted off the trunk, the wrangee-wrangee of its new trajectory whistling past Nick’s ear.

Nick looked for the shooter, but he’d ducked down behind a car.

Six shots left. I can waste a couple.

Nick crouched down then sprang up and fired off two shots, purposely high and nowhere near where he thought the man might be, then spun back to his right, using the car behind the Chevy, a Buick, as his shield.

The plan worked. The shooter got bolder, figuring whoever was shooting couldn’t hit shit, and sprang from his hiding place and sprinted across the street, trying to get behind whoever had taken out Tom.

Nick centered him in his sights and shot him in his right shoulder, the impact spinning him around, his weapon sailing out into the street. Nick was on him before he could roll up to try and get away or defend himself.

Just give me the name.

What? the shooter murmured, still in shock and pain from the bullet. He was dark-skinned, some combination of Hispanic and African, and his long, shoulder-length black hair was slick with blood.

Who calls you? Give me his name and I’ll let you live.

The man shook his head and reached over to touch his destroyed shoulder. He saw the blood pouring from the wound and fainted.

Hey, hey. Nick slapped the man’s face, grabbed him by the chin and shook his head. Wake up, c’mon.

The man’s eyes slowly came back into focus.

Who ... who are ... you? he asked.

The man Tom and Bart were supposed to kill.

It took the shooter a moment to process the information.

Shit... you’re Nick?

Ta-dah. Now you know my name, what’s yours?

Jorge.

What?

Washington. My name is Jorge Washington.

It took Nick a moment and then he laughed out loud.

George Washington! Seriously?

Seriously.

Okay George Washington who cannot tell a lie, who gives you orders?

Bruno.

Who’s Bruno.

Jorge moved his chin toward Mister Nasty. Him, the guy you shot. That’s Bruno. That’s who calls me and Jonny.

Jonny’s the guy that came from the left?

Jorge nodded.

Nick patted the man’s pockets, found his cell and took it.

Don’t kill me, please. I got a wife. And a baby girl on the way. Please.

Nick looked into Jorge’s bright black eyes.

What’re you going to call her?

Who…? Oh … we….

Don’t say Martha.

No, no. Sarah and I... we are going to call her Rose.

Rose Washington. I like that.

Nick slipped his gun behind his back.

Tears sparkled in Jorge’s eyes. Thank you, thank you.

Nick moved fast and pressed down hard on Jorge’s neck, compressing his vagus nerve. Jorge’s eyes fluttered, then closed.

You’ll wake up in about ten minutes with the worst freakin’ headache of your life. But you’ll be alive to see your baby girl.

Nick turned for Bruno, then stopped. He pulled out Jorge’s cell, turned it on and hit recent calls. There were five to Sarah. He pressed Sarah’s button. The phone rang several times and then a sleepy-voiced Sarah answered.

Baby, you okay?

This isn’t Baby and Jorge’s not okay. But you should call 9-1-1 and send an ambulance to Madison and 121st.

What? Wait ... who…?

But Nick had already ended the call.

He went to Bruno’s body and got his cell. He turned it on and went through Bruno’s calls. Tom was first on the list. His finger flicked through the calls until he came to a name that had (10) beside it.

So, Viktor, vhat kind comrade you are needs to be called ten times, eh?

5

NICK DIDN’T CALL VIKTOR.

Not until I can get a better idea of who you are and where you fit on the chain.

Instead he called Ollie.

Bruno...? Ollie’s voice was guarded, tense.

Yeah, Nick grunted, deepening his voice, injecting some nasty into it.

How did it go?

Okay.

What’s wrong? You sound different.

That sonfabitch hit me in my throat. Thought I was going to choke to death.

I told you he was dangerous. You okay?

Yeah.

So ... he’s gone?

Yes. But we’ve got a problem. Nick hacked several times, making sure he cleared his throat loudly into the speaker.

You sound like shit. What kind of a problem?

Not on the phone.

Christ. Does the Boss know?

Not yet. That’s why we’ve got to talk, figure out the best way to tell him.

Goddamnit, goddamnit. I tried to warn everybody. That’s why I asked to let me take him out. That way he’d never have suspected.

Nick isn’t or wasn’t the problem.

What?

I’ll be at your place in an hour.

Here?

Yeah. And make me some tea with honey. My throat’s a mess.

Nick hung up before Ollie could say anything.

But he’d already said enough. That’s why I asked to let me take him out.

Ollie, you back-stabbing bastard. How many years were you my handler? How many assignments did I carry out for you?

Far too many.

And yet the one I don’t do, the one that was wrong. That’s the one they crucify me for?

But it was wrong. Carlos Gomez didn’t rat. He kept the secrets. And he was set up. By the fucker that was the rat: Abe Mayer. Honest Abe they called him. Because he was the chief accountant for the Boss, and his books always balanced.

Always balanced because the little four-eyed, four-flusher was so goddamn smart with numbers he’d siphoned off millions—tens of millions—from the Boss, and nobody in the organization caught it.

But the FBI caught it. And Abe spilled his guts to them for immunity, for a free ticket to WITSEC. Getting ready to disappear with a new name and a new life. Until Nick ended his life before it got a chance to start.

And they wouldn’t believe me. Went bat-shit crazy on me. Sent those three beasts after me. Three beasts whose heads I could have mounted on the wall.

If there was anything left of their heads.

And why wouldn’t they believe me?

Because the Boss was in on it. He’d wanted Carlos gone, no matter what. He knew Abe was the rat. He’s too smart, too cunning to not have known. That’s why even though Carlos got away—they knew Nick had helped him—they still got him. Got his wife and little baby boy first. And then when Carlos didn’t care, when he came after them, it was all a trap. And they blew him away. More than fifty shots, the autopsy said.

Fifty fucking shots.

That’s not revenge, that’s psychotic, sick-fuck murder.

And you did it, Boss.

So, fuck you. You will be my last selfie. My last assignment.

Live or die.

The rear end of the car slid out and Nick automatically corrected for it, getting the sleek vehicle back into the lane.

You’re going too fast. Pay attention.

He checked the dashboard clock: 1:35. He’d be at Ollie’s in twenty minutes. Well ahead of his expected arrival time. Nick pulled the Colt automatic and set it on the passenger seat, then took a clip from a pocket. He put both knees tight on the steering wheel, holding it steady, then ejected the old clip and slammed home a new one.

Three shots left on the old one, but you never know if Ollie’s got company.

6

HELL, I COULD’VE USED THE OLD CLIP.

Ollie didn’t have company. And he wasn’t expecting to see anyone but Bruno.

Much less Nick.

Jesus, Nick, Ollie said. You scared the hell out of me. Are you okay?

Oh, were you worried about me?

Yeah, of course. I mean I want you to know that I did everything I could, to try and plead your case upstairs. I talked to managers who talked to managers five levels above. Only man left was the Boss himself.

Terrific, I appreciate that thank you.

Sure, Ollie nodded, and he moved to his right to the granite counter.

Nick knew that Ollie kept a Sig-Sauer 9mm behind the toaster and took a casual half-step with him.

Could you do me a favor?

Sure, Nick, sure. Anything.

Could you call Bruno?

Bruno? Why do you…?

Just a little mix-up that I’m sure he can straighten out.

Ollie’s cell was on the granite counter, not too far from the toaster and the automatic.

Nick waited, ready.