The Hunt

Mark, of course, was ecstatic at this change in his fortunes. Finally, he thought, after all this time, maybe things were looking up. Now, Mark wasn't an overly patient man, and he found waiting as the days passed for whoever it was to contact him to be nothing short of torture. Nearly two interminable weeks had gone by before the phone finally rang.

"Mr. Anderson?" Mark didn't recognize the voice; in fact, it didn't even sound human. Having seen his share of TV, Mark quickly realized that whoever was on the other end was using one of those electronic voice disguisers.

"Yes" he answered.

"My employer would like to set up a meeting to discuss your future."

"OK?" he replied, trying to stay non-committal. "Sounds good."

"Excellent. I would like to meet you tonight at midnight in the parking garage on the corner of 128^th and Maple on the fourth level."

Taking only a second to consider whether he really wanted to do this or not, Mark knew that he really didn't have much choice. This could be his last chance to really make something out of himself. Thinking about it that way, he found the choice -- such as it was -- an easy one.

"I'll be there," he replied.

"Make sure to come alone, Mr. Anderson," the voice warned, "I'll see you then." With a click, the phone went dead in his hand. Well, here we go, Mark thought to himself.

Seeing it wasn't even 6 p.m. yet, Mark took a shower and had some dinner. He even tried to sleep but found he was too excited about the meeting later to even catnap.

Finally, unable to wait any longer, Mark decided to leave early, figuring he could always drive around the block a few times if he had to.

The assigned meeting place wasn't in the best part of town to be in after dark, but it wasn't too wild either. Like any other rational person, Mark simply kept the doors locked and the windows rolled up and hoped that he'd get there all right.

Seeing that midnight was at last approaching, Mark drove into the agreed-upon parking garage and found his way to the fourth level, just like he'd been told. Parking the car, he looked around. The place looked pretty deserted even for this time of night -- which was the point, he supposed. He'd only been waiting for a minute or two when another car pulled in: a shiny black Lincoln Continental. In fact, it looked brand new to Mark. These people must be pretty well off, he thought. He did wonder idly how this information could translate into a bigger paycheck for him

The newly arrived Lincoln pulled up a short distance away and flashed its lights at him, just like in the movies. Figuring that they wanted him to come to them, Mark got out of his car and, after carefully locking it, started walking toward whatever awaited him.

Approaching the Lincoln, Mark never saw the shot that dropped him. All he felt was a sharp pain in his thigh. Reaching down out of reflex, he pulled out what looked like some kind of dart. He only had a second to wonder what the hell was going on as he found, much to his amazement, that the ground was rushing up at him.

Two men dressed in black stepped into the meager light offered by the few working night lights in the low-rent parking garage. They rolled Mark over and, after making sure that he was really out, quickly and expertly searched him for weapons, cell phones, and anything else he might have on him.

After relieving him of what little he did have, the men bound Mark's hands and feet with flex cuffs and unceremoniously dumped him into the trunk of the Lincoln, which promptly drove off.

The team knew from experience that even if the police were called about Mr. Anderson going missing, they wouldn't find anything. The letter he'd received had been sanitized; nothing about it from the paper to the ink or even the stamp used could be traced back to them.

They'd even mailed it on the opposite side of the country from where they were going. Likewise, the call they'd made to him had been done from the payphone right here in this parking garage. So even if the cops investigated which they probably wouldn't, everything would lead here, and that's where it would end.

Their employer didn't like the idea of the cops or feds -- or anyone else, for that matter -- snooping around in his business, so they carefully followed his instructions to the letter. The boss would have his fun with this poor bastard, and they'd get paid -- which was, after all, the only thing that mattered.

Pt. 3

Being driven through the darkened city on his way to a business meeting, Raphael Ramirez ("Paco" to his friends -- not that he had many of those anymore) sighed to himself at the depressing thought of his lack of friends. Having friends --especially close friends -- just wasn't a good idea in his line of work.

Being one of the biggest and, in his opinion, best drug distributers in a city the size of L.A. meant that having friends was a liability that he just couldn't afford.

Paco had climbed up the criminal ladder the hard way. Starting out as a lookout and small time street dealer when he was 10, he didn't take long to see that someone else was making more money off his hard work than he was.

On top of that, he was the one who was taking all the risks. He could've gotten arrested or killed at any time. It just wasn't right, so the intelligent and ruthless up-and-comer did something about it.

First, he slowly worked his way into the confidence of his boss, Charley Gonzalez. He did it in part by doing whatever he was told quickly, efficiently, and without comment. Seeing that the young man was someone he could depend on to carry out his orders, Charley started bringing his would-be protégé more and more into the organization, showing him just how things were done.

Paco soaked up these lessons and got himself ready to make his move. Being an ambitious young man, he wanted to do a lot more with his life than play second fiddle to anyone.

If Charley had ever suspected what Paco had really been up to, he would have killed him in an instant. But Paco played his role of the obedient and loyal underling well, so Charley never suspected a thing -- not until the night, years later, when Paco and a hand-picked crew ambushed him coming out of a club in east Los Angeles.

After the coup was complete, the newly minted drug kingpin brought the same level of ruthlessness to his dealings with his competition, the cops, and anyone else that stood in his way. Paco was on top, and now he was ready to move on to still bigger and better things.

As if someone had read his mind, his grandmother had received a very interesting letter for him. It stated that a certain prominent businessman was interested in what he had done up to this time and wanted to meet to discuss a future working relationship.

This was good news to Paco, for not only could it open up new markets to him (since he, like everyone else, knew how those rich white kids loved their drugs), but it could also give him at least two other things that he had always wanted and, even with all this power and money, couldn't buy.

The first was a better and cheaper way to launder his money. With the cops and feds always sniffing around, it was getting harder and harder and more expensive to get it done.

The second thing that Paco wanted was respectability. He'd grown up on the street and knew the people he sometimes dealt with now didn't give him much respect since he didn't dress or talk or even act like them. That irritated Paco, which wasn't usually a good thing for the people who did the irritating.

The letter made it clear that he should call a certain number on a certain day and time if he wanted to talk. Making the call, Paco was, of course, still suspicious of this sudden good fortune and had at first thought that this had to be some kind of police scam. But to prove his good faith, the man on the other end of the phone had informed him that the feds were planning to raid two of his shipments that would soon be coming over the boarder by mule.

The term mule was just a nice way of saying that his people in Mexico would recruit some locals who wanted to come to America -- usually young, strong men, since it didn't do anyone any good if the poor suckers died in the desert before transferring the drugs they were carrying to another group of his people, who would bring it and them into the city.

The drugs would get cut and start hitting the street within a day or two. The mules would either get recruited to work for him or they would get put to work with one of the industrial or construction companies Paco had a deal with to provide cheap labor for a fee.

Even with the potential tip off, he still wasn't sure if whoever this was he was talking to was on the level. Paco, though, being a pragmatist, decided not to chance it. He sent the incoming shipments in question along a different route and started checking with his own informants, both on the street and with the cops.

Eventually, he found out that this informant, whoever he was, was telling the truth about the raid. Paco figured that his new friend had just saved him close to five million dollars.

That went a long way to inspiring the drug distributer's confidence. Still, the ever-cautious Paco wasn't completely convinced. He wouldn't put it past the feds to deliberately tip him to what they were up to, just so they could work one of their informants into his organization. That was, after all, how he'd do it.

He'd spread some more bribe money around on both sides of the border and found that the cops were plenty pissed about what had happened and were looking everywhere for leaks in their organizations. Paco concluded that if this was a set-up, it was a real beauty of one. With that in mind, he decided to go to the suggested meeting and find out just who he was dealing with. If he didn't like what he was seeing after that, he could always kill the guy and never look back.

After some further negotiation, the parties agreed that Paco would meet in person with his potential new business associate. Apparently this supposedly upright business man was also looking to branch out into some new areas and make more money, which was a sentiment that Paco could understand completely.

However, being ever prudent, he did go to the meeting with two of his well-armed bodyguards, since he never went anywhere without protection. Being driven through the darkened city, Paco found himself actually looking forward to what the future might bring.

The agreed-upon meeting place was in an old warehouse district near the harbor, which had the virtue of being nice and quiet. Pulling up, Paco and his bodyguards could see two well- dressed men standing near what looked like a brand-new Lincoln Continental.

Getting out of their SUV, Paco and his guards walked toward them. Now, Paco had lived by his instincts for a long time, and right now, he felt like they were trying to tell him something. Paco didn't like the situation he was walking into here; something was wrong.

Almost unconsciously, Paco ran his hand down the outside of his coat, feeling the comforting presence of the 9mm he always carried. It seemed to reassure him as he kept walking.

When they were just about close enough to make his introductions, Paco heard two muffled pops, followed by the thuds of his bodyguards hitting the ground stone dead. Both, Paco saw, had been shot through the head.

Dammit! It had been a set-up. Going for his own gun, Paco knew that he'd never make it back to his car; instead, he tried for one of the steel support beams holding up the roof of the rundown warehouse the meeting was taking place in.

He'd only made it about two steps when he felt something hit his thigh. Thinking that he'd been shot, he looked down in amazement to see a dart sticking out of his leg. Not understanding what was going on, Paco felt his whole leg quickly go numb as he fell to the ground. Faster than it had seemed possible, it now felt like his whole lower body had gone to sleep. As the seconds passed, the sensation spread to the rest of his body, and he passed out, thinking that he was a dead man.

Two men dressed in black camouflage clothing came out of the surrounding dankness, weapons at the ready. While his partner kept him covered, the other man rolled their target onto his back and quickly searched him, finding both the 9mm on his waist and the 32 automatic that Paco liked to carry on his ankle.

After checking him for anything else he had on him, they bound his hands and feet and tossed him inside the Continental's trunk. Now entirely unimportant, Paco's now deceased guards were simply left where they fell.

The two teams of men moved with both speed and a practiced efficiency. Knowing they still had one more pickup to make for their employer, both teams headed for the out-of-the-way airport and the private jet that was already waiting.

Part 4

Jennifer Ryan, being the very embodiment of the driven modern executive, was already up, showered, and hard at work at the desk in the spare bedroom of her condo that she'd converted into an office, when her alarm went off at 5am. She was, in fact, so deep in thought that it took her a moment to notice the electronic noise coming from her bedroom.

Only allowing herself to get slightly irritated at the interruption, the well-dressed women got up from her desk, papers still in hand, went over to turn off the alarm, and then retraced her steps to her desk -- all without taking her eyes off the report she'd been reading.

Jennifer was getting ready for the quarterly review, and her already heavy work load had nearly doubled. She did have others in her office who could have taken care of most of this, but she was convinced that she was the only one who could get it done right the first time.

With a shake of her head, she wondered (and not for the first time, either) how some of the people she was forced to work with had ever gotten out of college; it was just beyond her. Both the men and women in the office seemed a lot more interested in just having a good time than in getting their work done right, which was to say, to her satisfaction.

She knew what they said about her behind her back. Called her the Dragon Lady and all that crap, she thought with a snort. All that was just fine with Jennifer, since she was the one living in this condo, driving a new top-end BMW, and on the fast track to be senior VP, if not CEO, before she was 40. If anybody doubted her, they had better get of the way, or she'd run right over the top of them.

Noting the time, Jennifer knew she had to get going. Slipping on the high heals she wore to try to compensate for her 5' 1" stature, she checked herself briefly in the hall mirror.

Jennifer had to admit to herself in a brief moment of vanity that she still liked what she saw staring back at her. Her long, natural, chestnut-brown hair was pinned up the way she preferred to wear it to the office. Her brown eyes still looked good even though she now needed to wear glasses for reading (she'd tried contacts but just couldn't get use to them for some reason; she had been told that some people just couldn't wear them, so being ever practical, she simply went back to wearing her glasses). She was also dressed the way she liked: in a smart business suit, showing her to be the successful executive she was without being flashy or tacky.

Walking toward the door, she couldn't help but pause for a moment to look out at the city that was laid out beneath her balcony. It was still dark out at this time in the morning, of course, but she could just see the first hints of dawn lighting up the eastern horizon.

The view from these windows was the main reason that she'd bought this condo in the first place. It was one of her few indulgences in an otherwise disciplined life. She loved just sitting in the big, overstuffed chair she'd purchased just for that purpose and spending a portion of her precious spare time just looking out at the city beneath her.

Pulling herself away from the enticing view with some effort, Jennifer knew that she simply didn't have time to indulge herself right now. Maybe she could find some time this weekend, she mused, if she didn't have too much work to do.

Driving through the still slumbering city, the overworked executive watched with contempt as other people were just now waking up and starting their day. Pulling into the company's private underground parking garage, past the security guard whom Jennifer nodded politely to as she shot past (it didn't hurt to be polite to the worker bees as long as they remembered their place), and parked in her reserved spot with the other executives and away from the riffraff.

Waiting for the elevator, she glanced over at the building directory and found another reason to sigh. The 12^th floor held what used to be the executive gym, which Jennifer had been a member of -- that is, until the board of directors, over her objections, opened it to everyone. She'd quit going that very day, since she had no intention of working out alongside the secretaries or whomever. She'd simply worked too long and hard to be a success to do that. Jennifer had instead joined the most exclusive private health club in the city to get her needed workouts done; her workouts and her view were two of the few ways she had to relieve the stress she was constantly under without going crazy.

She got on the elevator with a group of other executives she hadn't even bothered to pay attention to before, being too lost in thought to even notice their approach. Now, though, Jennifer was struck again by how much bigger everyone else seemed to be compared to her petite frame. She sometimes felt like a child trying to sit at the grown-up table. Sighing again, she pushed the thought from her mind; she had too much to do to waste time worrying about things she couldn't do anything about.

When evening came, she found herself still at her desk, working late as usual. Even though it was a Friday and she'd already sent her secretary and assistant home, Jennifer really didn't have anywhere else to go, so she kept plugging away at the seemingly never-ending pile of papers on her desk, hoping to get a jump on what she needed to do on Monday.

At last, seeing that it was already after eight, she did stop working long enough to go down to the cafeteria that she had insisted to the building managers be kept open late. The kitchen was closed, but they still had a good selection of sandwiches, salads, and things like that in some coolers. Paying a bored-looking clerk for her selections, Jennifer was on her way back to her office when she was nearly run over by an idiot of a janitor pushing a big cleaning supply cart.

"Hey, watch where you're going!" she barked at the dumpy, somewhat unkempt-looking guy driving the thing. Glancing at the plastic name tag he wore on his cheap nylon shirt, she read the name Stillman.

"You OK?" he asked, not appearing to be all that concerned. "Yes, I'm fine," she told him.

"Then what are ya yelling about?" he asked her with a shake of his head as he started back down the hall.

"Do you know who I am?" she asked, full of self-righteous indignation that this...this menial would treat her like this. Stopping and turning to look back at her, he replied, "Yeah, I know who you are."

"Then why don't you show me a little respect! I could have you fired any time I like." she told him, figuring that it would put him in his place.

But he just shrugged. "So go ahead and do it, then. I'm not afraid of you, lady, and by the way, respect is a two-way street. If you want some, you have to be ready to give some. You should remember that," he told her before resuming his course down the dimly lit hallway.