The Hunted Read online

  “Willis overpowered me,” Johnson croaked into the phone. “He made me tell him where you are. He’s on his way up now to kill you. I lied to him, though. I convinced him that there are armed guards in the lobby, so he’s taking the fire stairs instead of the elevator. Get out of there now, Barron. You’ve only got a minute, if that!”

  Willis disconnected the call before Barron could respond. He closed the trunk on Johnson.

  Johnson’s cell phone rang back seconds later. Willis let it ring. Less than two minutes later a man who must’ve been Tom Barron emerged from the elevator. He was about fifty. A round man with an overall doughy look about him. His nose was a round knob of flesh and his jowls were thick and heavy and hid any chin he might’ve had. He wore a dark blue suit that hung poorly on him, and he looked more like he should’ve been a British TV comic than a man supervising the assassination of hundreds of people.

  Barron moved his fat chubby legs quickly as he headed to his car. He kept glancing around but never saw Willis. He was opening the driver’s side door for a newer model Buick Regal when Willis grabbed him from behind with both hands and swung Barron to the ground.

  “If you think this is going to do you any good—” Barron started to shout, but before he could get another word out Willis had Bowser’s toy rubber ball shoved in his mouth, and then secured it with masking tape.

  Barron tried to struggle as he lay flat on his stomach, but it didn’t do him any good. His arms were yanked back and his wrists were secured together with masking tape. When he tried kicking with his legs, Willis punched him hard in the kidneys and that collapsed Barron long enough for Willis to wrap his ankles together with tape. Willis took his car keys, then searched his pockets and pulled out also his wallet, cell phone and Factory badge. He left the badge on the ground, then dragged Barron to the back of the Buick, opened the trunk, and heaved Barron into it. Barron’s face had purpled and his eyes were wide as he tried yelling through the gag, but little sound came out. Willis closed the trunk shut on him.

  Chapter 13

  Willis used Dan Johnson’s badge to leave the garage, and once he was outside of it, he tossed the badge out the window. He first drove past where he had left Bowser and his car. He wanted to make sure the location hadn’t attracted any police, and once he was sure it was safe, he circled back so he could pick up Bowser and his packed suitcases. As he expected Bowser had chewed up part of the backseat. When he let the dog out of the car, Bowser let out a few of his angry pig-grunts, but also eyed Willis cautiously as if he were expecting a scolding. Willis didn’t bother with that. He understood the dog’s frustration at being abandoned there, and besides, he was finished with the car.

  Willis next drove to the empty house that The Factory has indicated would be available for surveillance of his most recently assigned target. It took an hour to drive there, and about twenty minutes into it, Barron began banging furiously from within the trunk. All he accomplished was causing Bowser to lift his bullet-shaped head with curiosity and to bring a thin smile to Willis’s lips.

  When Willis arrived at the abandoned house, he pulled into an attached garage, dumped Barron onto the floor and then dragged him into the house, leaving him in a small foyer. Bowser started barking angrily from inside the car. Willis removed the gag from Barron’s mouth, and went back to the garage to warn Bowser to be quiet. He tossed the rubber ball to Bowser so the dog could gnaw on it. “Give me ten minutes,” he warned the dog, who stared at him with his head cocked to one side. The dog grunted as if in acknowledgement.

  Barron had been left lying on his side. Willis pulled him back so he was against the wall, then lifted him into a sitting position. Willis remained standing, forcing Barron to crane his neck to look up at him.

  “You’re making a big mistake, Willis,” Barron forced out, his pasty face mottled purple with rage and shiny with perspiration. He paused before saying, “It’s not too late to rectify this. You were a good worker for us. Better than most, actually. We should be able to figure out a way to get you back on track.”

  “Shut up.”

  Barron smiled sickly. “Or what? You’ll kill me?”

  “Eventually.”

  “Look, Willis, you were hired for a job. An important one that’s needed to keep this country safe.”

  “Yeah, right. These were never insurgents you were having me kill.” Willis made a face as if he’d swallowed something unpleasant. In a disgusted voice he added, “These were only poor saps who had the misfortune of being unemployed.”

  “They’re still insurgents. They’re still working to destroy this country. Even if they don’t realize it.”

  Willis felt the muscles around his mouth tighten. “Yeah? How’s that?”

  “Have you heard the latest figures for the unemployment rate? Twelve point six percent. Do you know what the rate would be without this initiative? At least fourteen percent. Do you have any idea what this high of an unemployment rate for this long a period does to the economy? To investments? Consumer confidence? Simply the morale of this country? It dooms us, Willis. The perception is we’re all going down the toilet and that becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy as companies stop investing and people stop spending. The only way to stop this downward spiral to death is to change the perception and get the unemployment rate back to a more manageable seven percent. And we’re on track to do this, Willis. Another four years and we’ll be there. And the men and women working to achieve that goal are all heroes, just as you were before this nonsense today.”

  For a long moment all Willis could do was gape at Barron. Even though he had realized what was going on, hearing this man’s logic for the reason of it was like tumbling down a rabbit hole where black was white and up was down. He didn’t want to get into this kind of discussion with Barron, but he couldn’t keep himself from asking why they couldn’t be training these people for new jobs instead of solving the problem by killing them.

  “What new jobs would these be? It’s not just manufacturing that’s been decimated in this country, but corporations have been on a frenzy to outsource any industries and jobs they can, and whatever’s left, if it can be automated or moved online, it’s eliminated also. So if we train these people to be lawyers or accountants or engineers, what good is it going to do? Hell, Homeland Protection has created more jobs in this country over the last two years than all the Fortune 500 companies combined. Look Willis, studies don’t lie. If someone’s laid off and they don’t find another job within three months, they’re not going to. Ever.”

  “Yeah? What about Melanie Hartman, the target you gave me?”

  Barron shook his head sadly at Willis. “She’s the exception. You’re always going to have exceptions. But goddammit, Willis, you should understand this better than anyone. I saw your folder. You were a top sales rep for your industry when you were laid off. How much luck did you have finding another job? And guess what? Since you’ve been with us the situation has only gotten worse.” Barron forced a toothy smile and in a more chummy manner added, “We all make mistakes, Willis. I can understand you flying off the handle the way you did, but now that you see how things really are, how about we try to fix this? It’s not too late.”

  Willis stood rubbing his jaw with his left hand as he considered what Barron had told him. For a while it was as if he’d forgotten that Barron was there. When his gaze shifted to meet Barron’s, he shook his head.

  Barron sneered in contempt. “Then what the hell is it that you want? To kill me? Are you that pedestrian? Is that what you think you need to do to make everything alright?”

  “I want names,” Willis said. “Your boss, anyone else above you, any of your fellow supervisors.”

  Barron’s sneer turned into more of a look of self-righteousness. “You’re not getting anything from me,” he stated.

  “You have a family, don’t you, Tom?” Willis said. “I could hurt them if I had to to make you talk. I’ve already killed a lot of people thanks to you. A few more won’t mat
ter.”

  Barron shrugged indifferently. “Do what you have to.”

  Willis lowered himself so he sat on his heels and was eye level with Barron. “I’m guessing after Johnson called you, you had time to send personnel to your home while you were running out of the office. One or two men aren’t going to help. Unless you sent a lot more than that to protect your family, I’ll be able to get to them.”

  “Again, do what you have to.” Barron had looked away from Willis but he turned to meet Willis’s gaze, his own eyes every bit as much steel as Willis’s. “Unlike you I’m a patriot. I’ll sacrifice whatever I have to for this country, including my family.” With defiance burning in his eyes, Barron added, “There’s not a damn thing you can do to make me talk.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Willis went to work. After fifteen minutes it was obvious to him that he wasn’t going to get anything out Barron, and he stepped away.

  Panting, Barron yelled at him in a croaking voice, “You’re a coward, Willis! You don’t have the stones for a little torture! How the fuck did you ever kill twenty-five men?”

  Willis didn’t respond. He left Barron yelling at him as he walked back to the attached garage. Bowser sat sulking in the backseat gnawing angrily at the rubber ball. Willis put his hand under the dog’s muzzle and ordered him to drop it. The dog complied.

  “I’ll be back in one minute,” Willis told him, and he left the dog again in the car. When he walked back in the foyer, Barron was still yelling at him, his voice more hoarse, a triumphant glee in his eyes.

  If this had been a high-budgeted action movie Willis might’ve come out with some catchphrase, such as ‘I’m laying you off,’ and then pump several bullets into Barron’s brain. But it wasn’t a high-budgeted action film, so instead he ignored Barron’s insults and simply walked over to him and pinched Barron’s nostrils closed. When Barron opened his mouth to gasp for air, Willis shoved the rubber ball deep in there while still keeping the nostrils pinched shut. Less than a minute later, Barron slumped to the side dead.

  Willis had already made peace with what he was going to do next. He had names for two other supervisors, as well as knowing that Colonel Jay T. Richardson ran The Factory. Maybe he’d be able to get more names too from Barron’s cell phone. He was either going to work his way up from the bottom or down from the top, but one way or the other he was going to do what he could to blow up The Factory and put them out of business. He would have to abandon every aspect of his past life, but he was fine with that. It wasn’t as if he had any connections to anyone or anything. He would also have to live on the fringes, rob or commit other criminal activities to survive and fund his war against The Factory. He had decided he was fine with that, too. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had any choice. He wasn’t going to commit any more murders for The Factory, not after discovering the truth. If he ran they’d hunt him down until they found him. If he fought back he’d have a chance, and if nothing else, Willis was a pragmatist.

  He left Barron lying dead on the floor. He didn’t bother pulling Bowser’s ball out of the dead man’s throat figuring he could buy Bowser another one. Instead he walked back to the garage, and got in Barron’s Buick Regal. Bowser growled out one of his pig grunts as Willis pulled the car out of the garage and drove away, almost as if he were asking whether Willis was done yet. Willis nodded, although he was far from done. First off, he was going to have to dump the car and get another one under a fake name. It shouldn’t be that much of a problem. But that was only the first of many things he was going to have to do.

  He felt tired all of a sudden. More so than he’d felt in a long time. He needed to go back to his rented shack and rest for a day or two. He and Bowser had a long road ahead of them.

  ###

  About the Author

  Dave Zeltserman:

  I was born in Boston and have lived in the Boston area my whole life except for five years when I was at the University of Colorado in Boulder working on my B.S. in Applied Math and Computer Science.

  I spent a lot of hours as a kid watching old movies with Hitchcock, the Marx Brothers, and film noir being my favorite, especially The Roaring Twenties, The Third Man and The Maltese Falcon. I also always read a lot, everything from comic books, Mad Magazine, pulps (Robert E. Howard being my favorite), and science fiction. When I was 15 and spending a few weeks during the summer at my uncle's house in Maine, I picked up a dog-eared copy of I, the Jury by Mickey Spillane, and from that point on was hooked on crime fiction. From Spillane, I moved on to Hammett, Chandler, Rex Stout, Ross Macdonald, and many other crime writers before eventually discovering Jim Thompson and Charles Willeford in the early ‘90s. Thompson, in particular, had a big impact on my writing, not only in the way he got into the heads of broken psychopaths and had you rooting for them, but in the way he took chances in his writing. For years before I read my first Jim Thompson novel, Hell of a Woman, I was trying to write what amounted to bad Ross Macdonald. Once I started reading Thompson, it opened my eyes to how I could break every rule I wanted to as long as I could make it work, and this led me to finding my own voice. My first book, Fast Lane, was probably equally inspired by Macdonald and Thompson—it had the sins of the father theme that Macdonald did so well, but written from the unreliable narrator and mind of the killer that Thompson excelled at. Years after writing Fast Lane, I read about Macdonald's last unfinished Lew Archer novel, and was amazed to find that it had a major plot-point in common with Fast Lane. Of course, my Julius Katz stories are heavily inspired by Rex Stout, and are almost the polar opposite of my crime noir novels.

  Fast Lane was sold first to the Italian publisher, Meridiano Zero, in 2004, and was later published by a small U.S. publisher. Since 2008, I’ve had ten books published, and have seen two of them (Small Crimes and Pariah) named by the Washington Post as best books of the year, one of them named by NPR as one of the five best crime and mystery books of the year (Small Crimes), and another short-listed by the ALA for best horror novel of the year (The Caretaker of Lorne Field). My books are now also being published in Italy, France, Germany, Holland, Thailand and Lithuania. Outsourced has been optioned by Impact Pictures and Constantin Film, and A Killer’s Essence has been optioned by Braven Films.

  To learn more about my books and writing, please visit me at http://www.davezeltserman.com