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  Praise for

  THE CONTRACTORS

  Hunsicker’s latest book imagines a frightening scenario: private military contractors—the corporate soldiers usually found roaming the deserts of Iraq and Afghanistan—are operating within the borders of the United States. With a relentless pace and doses of black humor, Hunsicker creates a thrilling combination of What-If with an altogether plausible What-Actually-Might-Be, giving the reader a remarkable post-9/11, War-on-Drugs novel.

  —David Morrell, best-selling author of First Blood and The Brotherhood of the Rose, co-founder of the International Thriller Writers

  The Contractors is the fully loaded model with all the options. With streetwise and wisecracking Jon Cantrell and Piper at the wheel, they take the reader for one hell of a ride through the drug- and crime-ravaged parts of Texas that don’t appear on picture postcards or tourist brochures. Hunsicker’s eye for detail, sense of place, and his snappy dialogue shine through.

  —Reed Farrel Coleman, three-time Shamus Award–winning author of Hurt Machine

  The Contractors is film noir without the film, cyberpunk without the cyber. It’s a world to lose yourself in, a fascinating tale that lives in shades of grey. The prose is muscular, the images vivid, and the pace relentless. Simply put, Hunsicker kills it.

  —Marcus Sakey, author of Good People and host of the Travel Channel’s Hidden City

  ALSO BY HARRY HUNSICKER

  The Jon Cantrell Thrillers

  The Contractors

  Shadow Boys

  The Lee Henry Oswald Mysteries

  Still River

  The Next Time You Die

  Crosshairs

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 Harry Hunsicker

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477827659

  ISBN-10: 147782765X

  Cover design by Marc J. Cohen

  To Alison

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  - CHAPTER ONE -

  Sarah is a bandit.

  This is the gift she brings to the world: terror. The moment the gun is aimed, and the muzzle points at a face pale with the prospect of death.

  The fear is sweet and succulent, like a fresh peach. A razor’s edge between life and death visible in the victim’s eyes.

  The gun is a four-inch Colt Python. Old, untraceable. Once the property of her grandfather, who acquired it only the devil knows where.

  Sarah hides the weapon in a purse designed for the concealed carry of a firearm.

  The handbag, certainly not a fashion statement, offers easy access, allowing the gun to be brought to bear in seconds. Sarah is proud of the fact that in twenty outings, she’s never had to fire the revolver. The mere presence of the Python, looming in front of the mark, is enough to accomplish her goals.

  She’s in a five-year-old Buick LaCrosse with dealer tags, idling in the far corner of a motel parking lot off Interstate 35 near Waco, Texas. An auburn wig, made for cancer patients, fits snuggly on her head, hiding her brown hair. Oversized mirrored sunglasses cover her gray eyes.

  This is farm country. Sorghum and wheat, the occasional tract dotted white with cotton. The chrome-colored sky is vast, the horizon reaching as far as the eye can see.

  Only a handful of cars are present on this Tuesday morning. The LaCrosse is neither the newest nor the oldest.

  The motel is a chain, limited services. Not the kind of place that has a restaurant or spa. Not much traffic, few employees.

  She’s done her homework. No detail too small. Nothing left to chance.

  The maid’s rounds have been completed. Cameras are located in the lobby, the front hallway, and the main parking area by the highway. Only one manager is on duty at the moment. Most of the rooms are unoccupied.

  Sarah checks the disposable phone. No messages or e-mails.

  Today’s location is pretty far afield from her usual territory, but as her grandfather used to say, “There’s no sense hunting where there ain’t no critters to kill.”

  She checks a second phone. No messages there either. She sticks this device in her back pocket and taps the steering wheel with her thumbs.

  Almost showtime.

  Adrenaline makes her jumpy.

  She takes several deep breaths to calm her heartbeat, but there’s nothing she can do to stop the arousal from tickling its way up her thighs, building in her belly. That goes with the territory—the gun and the danger, a heady sense of being in control.

  The setup is simple. She robs men who cheat on their wives. The “horndogs,” she calls them. She doesn’t have sex with the horndogs, just steals their wallets. She’s fucking enough guys already. No sense making her life more complicated by boinking some loser she met online.

  The men are acquired via a dating service designed for extramarital affairs. Her username is “SarahSmiles,” her profile pic a selfie from the neck down.

 
A few minutes later, right on time, today’s horndog—username “RockyRoad35”—parks his Ford pickup by the rear door of the motel, just as instructed.

  He exits the vehicle and scans the parking area, trying to look nonchalant, she imagines.

  In Sarah’s profile picture, she’s wearing a black thong and matching bra, her thirty-eight-year-old body still taut and firm in all the right places. Using the disposable cell, she arranges the meetings, either by text, voice, or an e-mail account employed only for this one purpose.

  From across the lot, she can see that RockyRoad35 is true to his profile and picture—a rarity in the world of online dating, an Alice in Wonderland kind of place where people are height–weight proportionate only if they’re nine feet tall.

  He is in his midthirties, a couple inches over six feet, a solid two hundred pounds, with lean, muscular flesh that fills out his Wranglers and pearl-button shirt nicely. Forearms ropy with muscles, thighs straining the material of his jeans. A good-looking man, a rancher maybe.

  Sarah rubs her legs together, fantasizing for a moment about peeling off the man’s clothes while they gaze in each other’s eyes. She pushes those thoughts from her mind, concentrating on the task at hand.

  From Rocky’s vantage point, there’s not much to see but a handful of cars and the Walmart behind the motel. Maybe he notices the LaCrosse with the tinted windows, maybe not.

  After a few seconds, he ducks inside the motel.

  For a moment, Sarah wonders who might be left back at the man’s home. A couple of children maybe. A wife frayed at the edges after a decade or so of marriage, watching her man try to eke a living from the hard-packed soil of Central Texas.

  She ponders this but doesn’t really care. The idea is abstract, not relevant to the current situation. Everybody has left people behind. Even SarahSmiles.

  Her last e-mail contained instructions for the rendezvous, a little cloak-and-dagger routine that cuts out the window-shoppers.

  The keycard to a ground-floor room will be taped to the side of the Coke machine just inside the back door, room number written on the back. Go on in, her e-mail said, make yourself comfortable.

  The horndogs always do as they’re told, especially after she’s sent the other pictures, the ones where she’s removed her bra. They are like little boys—easily manipulated, so agreeable to whatever Sarah suggests.

  She counts to thirty. She exits the vehicle, chirps the locks shut.

  Not even noon, and the heat and the humidity hit her like a wave, making her scalp sweat under the wig.

  She strides to the rear entrance of the motel, steps into an empty, well-lit hallway. The air is chilly, smelling of lemon furniture polish.

  She pads softly to number 139, three doors from the exit. She sticks another keycard in the electronic lock with her left hand. Her right hand grasps the Python hidden in the purse on her shoulder.

  The horndogs come in a wide variety of flavors, emotionally speaking, and Sarah can usually get a read within a few seconds.

  Some—most, actually—are scared and nervous. Others are cocky, a bravado used to disguise their nervousness. A couple have been sad, eyes welling with tears at the idea of what they believe is about to happen. More than a few have been drunk.

  On the locking mechanism, a tiny light winks green.

  She steps inside.

  The door closes and locks behind her.

  The shades are closed, the room dark except for a single light on the desk.

  Rocky is sitting at the desk, one end of a straw jammed in his nose, the other vacuuming up a rail of white powder laid out on the Gideons Bible.

  A pistol rests on the surface within easy reach.

  He looks up, and Sarah knows she’s made a huge mistake.

  Rocky is not like the others. He’s not drunk or nervous or sad.

  His eyes are devoid of emotion, flat and empty like a mackerel on ice.

  “You must be SarahSmiles.” His voice is ragged, like he’s been shouting.

  She doesn’t reply.

  He points to the cocaine. “You want a little pick-me-up?”

  The mackerel eyes don’t blink. They focus on her face, and Sarah imagines he can read her every thought.

  The room is silent, just the hum of the AC.

  The man has a peculiar odor—a musty mixture of sweat, tobacco smoke, and something else she can’t quite place, a faint metallic tang that fills the air.

  “What’s with the gun?” She tries to sound tough, but her voice cracks a little. “That’s not the kind of weapon I’m looking for, stud.”

  He glances at the pistol but doesn’t answer.

  “And the coke.” She shakes her head. “My profile was specific. Drug- and disease-free.”

  “Why don’t you take off your sunglasses . . . Sarah.” He rubs his nose.

  She doesn’t move. Instead she squeezes the grip of the Python hidden in her purse.

  He stands. “At least sit down on the bed, make yourself comfortable.”

  She looks at the bed like it’s covered in hot lava.

  The man smiles, an expression that leaves her cold on the inside.

  Her stomach churns. Her knees shake.

  The idea of challenging this person fills her with dread. There’s no wife and children at home. He’s left horrible things in his path, and she wants no part of them or him.

  “You ever done this kind of thing before?” He steps closer. “You look nervous.”

  She eases away. Her back hits the door.

  “What’s in your purse?” He cocks his head to one side.

  Sweat coats her palms. Her mouth is dry.

  “Have you been a bad girl, Sarah?” He pulls a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket. “Do you need to be taught a lesson?”

  An image of her grandfather forms in her mind, the old man standing on the back porch of his home in Bowie County, up by the Red River. Summertime, early evening. She’s maybe eight or nine. By the fading light she can just make out the scar on his cheek, the one from the German bayonet.

  He’s been dead ten years, but Sarah feels his strength flow through her limbs, the resolve returning. The gift is ready. She pulls the Python out, aims at the man.

  “Hands on top of your head, Rocky.” She cocks the hammer.

  Over the hum of the air conditioner, through the blackout drapes covering the windows, comes a faint cracking noise, several in a row. Not gunshots or a car backfiring, different.

  The sounds stop both of them.

  A puzzled look appears on Rocky’s face, one that no doubt mirrors her own. Neither person moves.

  An instant later, the desk light flickers off, plunging the room into darkness.

  An instant after that, the Python is knocked from her grip as a hand rips open the front of her blouse. The stench of the man overpowers her as much as the attack. Feral, like an animal.

  She wants to scream, but fingers grasp her throat, squeezing tighter and tighter.

  - CHAPTER TWO -

  The badge felt heavy on my chest, tugging at the starched khaki shirt that made my neck itch.

  A six-pointed star. Hammered tin, electroplated with a gold coating that was only a few microns thick. A wisp of metal that weighed four or five ounces shouldn’t feel burdensome. But this one did.

  In the center, in a circle of red enamel, were the words State of Texas—Sheriff—Peterson County.

  That’s me: Sheriff Jonathan Cantrell. Back in the family business, so to speak, quite a surprise to everyone.

  Jerry, the county commissioner who served as my boss, sat across from me in the other side of the booth. We were in a diner about the size of a Greyhound bus, a blue-plate-special kind of place that smelled like coffee and bacon.

  The diner was located in Peterson County, a few miles from a private, for-prof
it prison situated on the banks of the Brazos River, just south of Waco and not far from Interstate 35, the highway that served as Main Street for the entire state, running from Laredo in the south all the way up to Oklahoma.

  Jerry peered at me over the top of his coffee cup. “You’re gonna have to kill him. You know that, don’t you?”

  The diner was full of cattlemen, oil-field workers, and prison guards, in reverse order the three biggest forms of employment in the county.

  “I’m not a hit man,” I said.

  “You ever killed anybody?” Jerry asked.

  I sprinkled some Tabasco on my eggs but didn’t answer.

  Jerry was in his seventies, thirty years my senior, and a veteran of the Vietnam War—no stranger to the ways of violence. He lived a block away from the courthouse in a rambling brick home, an impressive structure that had been in his family since Teddy Roosevelt had been president.

  “Sorry it’s come to this,” he said. “You being new on the job and all.”

  “I’m going to arrest him, Jerry. Not kill him.”

  We were talking about my deputy, a man who’d run his life into the weeds several months ago after he’d discovered the seductive but deadly pleasure of cocaine.

  His wife was in the hospital in Waco, recovering from two broken ribs and a cracked orbital socket. CPS had taken his kids. Money was missing from one of the official accounts to which he had access.

  “He’s not gonna go without a fight,” Jerry said. “You need to be careful.”

  “I’ve handled worse than a coked-up redneck.” I paused. “But I’ll do what’s necessary.”

  Jerry nodded, an expression of approval on his face, and I wondered if my ability to “do what’s necessary” was the main reason I’d been offered the job of sheriff.

  My curriculum vitae was, how shall I put it, checkered.

  After a couple of tours in Kuwait and Iraq during Gulf War I, I’d been a Dallas police officer. After that I worked as a federal law-enforcement contractor, a freelance DEA agent paid on a commission basis—the so-called eat what you kill method of compensation.