Slashing Backhand: Hugh Horner Mystery

By William Pritchard

Three cargo containers filled with weaponry are unloaded in the Los Angeles Basin Harbor. A Host of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearm agents are summoned to seize and secure the shipment and bring the smugglers to justice.
In San Francisco, Hugh Horner is hired to protect a frightened ex-tennis player, Sylvia Defoe, blaming her ex-husband, Brad Gillmore for stalking and harassing her. He is brutally murdered by a mysterious butcher, and Sylvia is the accused.
Horner sets out to find the killer. He encounters a host of suspects, two murderous partners of the Gillmore Shipping gang, an erotic stripper, a pawnbroker, and a tempting redhead who was one in a long list of the dead mans lovers.
During his investigation, Hugh is beaten, shot, knifed, chased through the streets of San Francisco, and falls for the beguiling Sylvia. To make matters worse a professional killer from Chicago is hired to end Horners life.
The disgruntled Hugh feels he should chuck the case and get back to a more secure existence. Hugh calls in a trusted friend to help in the battle. Both discover the mobs strategy and set out to foil their plans.
The story takes another twist as Sylvia lures Hugh to Puerto Vallarta on a much-needed holiday at her wealthy parents, isolated villa. Unaware theyve been followed, Hugh and Sylvia settle into a peaceful way of life, parading as lovers. But fate is their Master.
This compelling thriller is a must-read whodunit, and the spine tingling ending will straighten the neck hair of booklovers everywhere!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 23, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469111995

William Pritchard

William Pritchard plays tennis at Howarth Park in Santa Rosa, California. His passions are writing, tennis, traveling, beaches, boats and golf. He is enthused over his forthcoming novel, Phantom Falcons, pitting Hugh Horner against a well-disciplined army of worldwide extremists.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Port of Los Angeles

Commander Dennis Martin crouched behind a forty-foot cargo container that had been unloaded and mounted on a truck trailer the night before. His partner next to him, special agent Tim O’Flatery, was squatting, peering around a set of duel axles and tires. Both wore black tailored fatigue outfits and armed with Bushmaster automatic rifles slung across their shoulders. Gas masks, canisters of tear gas, and clips of ammunition were fastened securely to their pistol belts.

The highly respected agents had been twenty-five year members for the U.S. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms and were part of a twenty-man team assigned to a stakeout at the Los Angeles Basin Harbor. The ATF unit’s present mission was to seize and secure three cargo containers, allegedly filled with dangerous weapons.

Dennis was the taller of the two men, lean and wiry, with piercing blue eyes and black hair that was graying at the temples. He raised his binoculars, focusing on the ship’s unloading procedure, training his eyes toward a curious looking container being lowered onto a truck trailer fifty yards away.

That’s number two, he whispered.

How do you know? asked Tim, carefully standing, keeping out of sight. He was short and burly with puffy cheeks and had a slight paunch protruding over his belt but by far the stronger of the two.

It’s more yellow than the rest. See, it’s got green bordering and has MI LING SINGAPORE written on the bottom left-hand corner. That’s one of them. I’m positive.

We’ve got one more to go, said Tim, raising his binoculars, letting a deep breath whistle through his lips.

The moonless night cast an eerie outline of the enormous Korean freighter, Kem Chee Wong, which had been unloading cargo round-theclock for the past three days. A huge Mantowoc dock crane, towering two hundred feet, worked the dock one hundred yards to the north from where the two men lay in wait, undergoing their demanding stakeout. Both could barely make out the massive boom high in the air, as the fog rolled across the bay basin like a fine vapor of mist. The soup was beginning to dull the brilliant beams fixed to a row of elevated steel poles that were designed to light the pier, freighter, and surrounding area. Behind the mammoth concrete dock and crane was an endless maze of warehouses.

The huge crane lowered the 8x8x40 foot cargo container gently on the truck trailer. A ground crew of four longshoremen disconnected the hundred ton, braided steel slings from sturdy shackles that were fixed to lifting eyes of the container. One rigger signaled the crane operator high above the pier to hoist the slings for another load.

That’s Captain Quan Lo coming down the gangway right now, said Tim who had shifted his field glasses to the top deck of the Korean freighter.

Dennis adjusted his to view the gangway, positioned in the center of the huge cargo ship. Four Chinese men clad in formal dress white were now a quarter of the way to the bottom. The men were obviously laughing and joking, presumably on their way for a big night out on the city of angels.

Dennis snatched his two-way radio. Unit three, unit three, he ordered through the small transmitter that fit in the palm of his hand.

This is unit three, over, came an answer.

Send some men to follow those guys dressed in white coming down the gangway. Don’t let them leave the dock compound until this is over. Do anything necessary to detain them. Do you read me?

Affirmative, leader one. We’re on their tail right now.

Dennis secured his transmitter then directed his field glasses to the unloading operations. He could hear a giant forklift traveling toward them from behind. He quickly ducked under the trailer next to his partner.

Don’t want anyone to spot us until the next container is safely on the dock and ready for transport.

How do you know which containers have weapons?

They’re specially marked, according to our agent from Hong Kong. The containers were smuggled aboard in Singapore. They were mixed in with a load of textile and Malian furniture. The furniture was unloaded in Hong Kong, passing customs. The cargo ship was reloaded with computer monitors made in Japan. The guns stayed aboard. Hong Kong is a critical hub in the shipping industry. A majority of everything on earth has passed through its ports at one time or another. It will never change, even now that the Chinese have taken over. There’s too much money involved. Goes to show that even the communists let money rule! Hell! The Captain and crew probably don’t know the containers are full of weapons, or you know they’d be a little more discreet unloading them now.

What kind of weapons are being smuggled? asked Tim.

We think, handguns and automatic assault weapons of every make and description. Rocket launchers are tucked away somewhere in those containers with plenty of ammunition. That’s what we’re worried about.

Why are they shipping them over here? Tim asked. He shifted his weight to his left side. His leg was beginning to cramp.

Because of the new laws here, outlawing assault weapons. Guns are shipped all over the world. Gangsters everywhere are paying top dollar for them. Look at Mexico. The only ones who have guns are the crooks and their Feds. The average Mexican has to have a special permit to hunt. But, you can bet your ass every gangster is armed to the hilt. The United States is the leading manufacturer of weapons. We ship them out to illegal dealers around the world, then sometimes they are resold and shipped back, ready for sale underground. The guns, or whatever, become very expensive, answered Dennis. He paused, fishing a cigarette out of his coat pocket, lighting it.

Sounds like a merry-go-round to me, said Tim, raising his binoculars again.

Yeah, the whole world is a friggen merry-go-round.

Oh, oh! Look what we got here. Both agents watched as the third yellow container slowly moved downward. It slowed as if dangling in mid air. Two riggers appeared out of the murkiness and began tugging on the guide ropes fastened to the container, positioning the heavy load directly over the trailer. Then the container settled on the third flat bed, coming to a rest. At the same time three Mac truck tractors were backing toward the coupling pin of the trailers, getting ready for transport to their presumed disreputable destination. In unison the three tractors made contact, and the sturdy pin and horseshoe hitch snapped into place. Six burly men, wearing black p-coats, jumped from the cabs and were now signaling the drivers to secure the load. Both agents began stirring.

Units three and four, this is leader one, ordered the Commander, excitedly. I want you to take positions in front of the trucks behind us and converge on them, when I give the order. Units one and two stand by at the gate and let no one pass. I repeat, no one pass. Clear the area of any innocent bystanders hanging around in case things get out of hand. Don’t do any shooting unless I give the order. Understand? Over!

This is Units one and two, we confirm.

Units three and four, read you loud and clear.

Agent O’Flatery and I will make the first contact with the lead truck, yelled Commander Martin. Maintain your positions.

Little did the Commander know that the last order maintain your positions was interpreted by units three and four as to hold their present position instead of moving up toward the trucks behind O’Flatery and Martin.

The three truck tractors had finished coupling, and the drivers and their helpers were securing the loads with heavy canvas slings. Agent O’Flatery and Commander Martin jumped to their feet and began skirting their target, running from parked container to stacked crates, hoping the truckers would not spot them in the soupy glum.

Two minutes later the last of the work was completed, and the men mounted their cabs. The lead truck shifted into first gear and was creeping forward.

Units three and four, we’re converging. Now!

Dennis and Tim leaped out in front of the truck’s path and held up their left arms. Bushmasters were drawn and aimed at the occupants inside the cabs.

Halt, yelled Dennis. "This is Commander Dennis Martin, United States Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. Stop your vehicles and get out with your hands reaching for the sky.

Commander Martin, Commander Martin, blared the man in charge of Unit three, through Dennis’s two-way radio. This is Units three and four. We’re not close enough to help; we’re a hundred and fifty yards behind you.

It was too late. An automatic weapon answered the commander’s halt order with a volley of slugs blazing from the right window of the lead cab. Dennis dove towards his right, sliding on the concrete dock then rolling sideways under an empty flatbed trailer. Tim wasn’t so lucky. He took three slugs in his left hip and one in his right thigh. The truck began moving faster, aimed directly at Tim who lay helpless on the concrete.

With no time to think, Dennis abandoned his weapon and rushed out to save his partner. Just as the right tire of the lead truck was about to roll over the wounded man, Dennis grabbed him by his ankles, dragging him clear, but not before two lead bullets smacked Dennis in the chest. He crumpled. The three trucks drove past.

Still barely conscious, Dennis pulled out his phone and choked out, All units, open fire on the bastards, I repeat open fire, also, two officers are down on the docks and bleeding. We need help, we need help. Dennis’s voice began to trail off. It was getting hard to breath. He could hear an abundance of automatic fire coming from further down the dock, where the trucks were passing the warehouse. Then everything went black.

The three trucks hauling their valuable load fled the scene, taking down three more ATF agents, smashing through the gate at the entrance of the shipping yard. But the Los Angeles County Sheriff ’s Department, Sky Watch, and Highway Patrol were alerted instantly. Within minutes every helicopter and mobile police unit in the vicinity were converging on the three runaway trucks but were minutes too late.

The nine men in the three trucks were far more intelligent than the police had given them credit for. The unsavory truck characters and the leaders behind the botched smuggling caper had formed an escape plan in case something went wrong. The trucks were found at an underpass, beneath the San Diego Freeway. The weapons in the shipping containers were still attached to the trucks, but the cabs were empty of men. The ATF presumed a second vehicle had been waiting to rescue the truckers.

Commander Dennis Martin was rushed to the hospital with a damaged right lung. His surgery to remove bullets was a success. He was back on the job six months later. Tim O’Flatery was not so lucky. The bullet he took in his hip destroyed vital nerve tissue, and he had to retire on disability. He now walks with a limp and uses a cane.

The three tractors were property of Quicker Freight Lines, located in Ventura north of Los Angeles. U.S. attorneys tried to make a case against the two owners of Quicker who were very wealthy ex-cons and had been suspected of gun smuggling without a conviction once before. Quicker’s slick attorneys contended that the Mac truck tractors were stolen from their yard. The AFT had no proof to the contrary.

Two of the three truck drivers were captured six months later, leaving fingerprints inside the cabs, matching those in FBI print files. The drivers confessed, turning Federal evidence against Quicker Freight Line owners. Just after arrests were made and the trial was about to begin, the two truck drivers were found stabbed in their respective cells, each a knife in the belly. The ATF had no case. The whole arrest was for naught.

The Korean freightliner, Kem Chee Wong, and its crew were cleared of any wrong. After careful investigation by the ATF, it was proven that the shipping company, Wong Shipping, was also not involved. The band of clever smugglers was actually from Hong Kong and later arrested and prosecuted by the Chinese government.

Months passed and the ATF decided to turn the cargo containers, filled with the weapons, over to the State of California Department of Salvage to oversee their destruction, melting them down. The containers and weapons were transferred to an evidence yard in Los Angeles County, owned by the state. There they sat, packed in their crates for a year, buried in a mile of red tape.

CHAPTER TWO

Paso Robles

Three Kenworth truck tractors rolled down Highway 101 in a convoy. A mellow roar from diesel engines pierced the night air with a throbbing, even clamor while exhausting a dark billow of oily vapor to the rear. The torrid heat that day had reached into the high nineties to low one hundreds, causing the night to be hot and clammy. Bright stars flecked the black sky as a yellow moon rose in the east, outlining distant coastal peaks.

South of Paso Robles the truck tractors slowed, veering right onto an off-ramp then turning west at a county road. After four miles the road narrowed into two lanes, winding through a desert region, landscaped with sagebrush, cactus, and rough rocky terrain. Rising over a mild incline, the road straightened, leaving the desert. The trucks sped westward through barb-wired farmlands, flourished with grazing cattle and rolling hills of alfalfa.

After ten miles the road began winding upward into the coastal foothills. The trucks slowed, approaching a lighted sign reading STATE OF CALIFORNIA, DEPARTMENT OF SALVAGE. Downshifting gears, the tractors turned right onto a gravel road. The road was smooth and well maintained for another mile. A lighted area was ahead, and the trucks switched off their headlamps.

Ben and Jeff sat quietly inside the guard shack. It was small with just one desk, two wooden chairs, a radio, telephone, and a filing cabinet. There was no air-conditioning and the glass door leading outside was propped open with a whiskbroom.

Ben loosened his tie, unbuttoning the collar of his poplin shirt. His eyes were trained on a story in a fishing magazine. Jeff sat, leaning back in his chair with his feet resting on the wooden desk, listening to the wrap-up of a Dodger game. His hands were cupped behind his head, and he sleepily stared out the window into the black night.

Both men seemed young for their years, Ben being fifty-nine and Jeff sixty-one. They had worked for the California Department of Salvage as night security guards for over five years and were the best of friends. In the past whenever Ben needed time off, Jeff would cover for him. Ben would do the same. During hunting season, the two buddies headed for the coastal range near Fort Hunter Liggett and camped for the weekend, drinking beer, sharing stories, and hunting bucks.

Ben was a big man with red hair and wrinkled blue eyes. He had a deep booming voice that could rattle plates in any cupboard and was a retired merchant marine sailor.

Jeff was shorter and leaner with dark skin, balding, and bristly gray hair covering the back of his head. He grew a trimmed black mustache and retired a banker from Georgia. Both men were widowers.

Well, the Dodgers blew another, said Jeff. They better get rid of that high priced pitcher. He’s not worth a shit.

Ben leaned back in his chair, peering at his friend over his spectacles. Now Jeff, you say that every year. Who in hell can afford him at ten million a year? Baseball has gone to pot anyway, with the free agency and all. I’m gonna quit listening, concentrate on retiring in Baja."

I hear you say that every year, said Jeff. I know, you’re going to marry some pretty little senorita and have a nest of kids.

I’m gonna buy a shrimp boat and become a millionaire. You bought any shrimp lately? That shit’s like gold dust. The Sea of Cortez is loaded with shrimp.

Yeah, and every Mexican is out there scoopen’em up. The sea won’t have many left, when the fishermen are through.

Speaking of boats, I guess that Korean freighter that was captured in the Long Beach harbor was loaded with all kinds of guns. Jack was telling me, before I came on duty this evening,

What freighter? Jeff asked.

You know, the one that was seized by the Feds a few years ago down in L.A. They were trying to smuggle weapons in from China, I think.

I don’t remember. What did they do with the guns?

According to Jack, the guns got misplaced. He thinks they were shipped up here.

Jack likes to bullshit a lot, interrupted Jeff.

I know, I know. He says that they’re parked in back of warehouse number four, three cargo containers, sitting on flatbeds.

Aren’t the weapons melted down by the State? Jeff ’s eyebrows furrowed, causing his forehead to wrinkle.

Yeah. They should be, but they weren’t, according to Jack.

Ben stood from his chair, dropping his magazine on the desk. He stretched. Anyway, someone should be picking them up soon, wouldn’t you think?

I guess. It all sounds pretty strange to me, said Jeff. He reached across the desk, changing the radio from the AM Dodger station to FM, picking up KJAZ. Aretha Franklin was finishing a number, The End of The Night.

Sounds like we got some company right now, said Ben. Both men put on their security hats, straightening their ties, and walked out into the warm night. They casually made their way to the middle of the gravel road and watched the incoming truck tractors.

What are those trucks doing with their headlights off? asked Jeff. What the hell? It was the last question he would ever ask.

The column of three giant tractors slowed as if to stop then accelerated ten feet from the helpless guards. Ben and Jeff stood frozen for an instant then frantically attempted to jump clear.

A steel bumper of the lead truck bashed headlong into the defenseless night watchmen with a sickening smack, smashing their bodies against the chain-linked gate. The gate snapped from its hinges like a brittle pretzel. The lead truck accelerated, dragging and mauling their torsos for thirty yards between a bumper and a fractured gate, then ripping, grinding and crunching it into useless metal while chewing up the two guards.

The trucks rolled on.

San Francisco Saturday Morning

Hugh Horner left his third story apartment with the door unlocked. He yawned then gingerly made his way down three flights of steps to the ground floor. He counted the sore muscles in his back, legs, hips, and feet, not to mention the stiff knee joints and other past injuries that annoyed him on a damp morning as he grew older. Turning forty was no easy chore for any active man who ran, played tennis, and boated on a continuous basis. But he knew he had to keep moving vigorously, or he’d turn into one big knot.

Letting himself outside through the ground floor door of the building, he first checked for any mail, and then looked out at the city. A first glimmer of morning sun glowed through the damp fog. Bay Street was pounding out its normal beat of squealing brakes, angered horns and roaring engines. The baritone moan of a foghorn sounded from the bay three blocks away.

On the sidewalk Hugh stretched his stout frame the best he could and began jogging with a slow even pace. Normally on a Saturday morning he would be playing doubles out at Harding Park or at the indoor courts on Hyde, but his partner had canceled their game at the last minute. It didn’t matter. He needed to run and blow out the buildup of tar and nicotine that he just knew had stuck to the lining of his lungs from stupidly smoking for so many years

After ten blocks, passing Fort Mason, he left the noises of heavy traffic near the Fisherman’s Wharf area. Increasing his pace, he veered right on Cervantes Boulevard, reaching the Marina residential district at a full sprint. A few blocks later he turned left on Beach, slowing to a walk, cooling down, breathing in the freshness of clean damp air.

Walking over a slight incline and crossing a street, he came to an asphalt walkway that stretched along the manicured shoreline of a unique lake. The seventeen block run was just under two miles and definitely exhausting. He sucked in deep breaths as he walked while admiring the sheer beauty of trees, colorful flowers, and bird life in front of the Palace of Fine Arts.

Pulling out a plastic bag from his jogging jacket, he began tossing stale bread beside the water’s edge. Flocks of seagulls, ducks, and geese hurried toward him swimming, gliding, flapping their wings, splitting the misty morning silence with honks, squawks and ruffles of feathers then fluttering quickly over the placid waters to gather near the marshy banks and gobble the food.

The Palace was one of Hugh Horner’s favorite places in the city. It was quiet, enchanting, and had a way of calming him while restoring his energy. His