The Monster Hunter Ch. 01-10

"You can't do anything?"

He looked defeated as he said no. "The detectives can look into it, but if they don't find anything to corroborate your statement, I can't bring charges. It's his word against yours, and you were five years old. I'm sorry, Michael."

The only one punished was Michael. He was kicked off the soccer team for fighting.

That was the day Michael lost faith in the justice system, and Angel vowed to seek justice for those like her.

Michael graduated from the University of Wisconsin ROTC program and joined the Marine Corps. He spent four of the next five years commanding Embassy Security teams overseas. Two years later, Angel got a scholarship to Marquette University and studied Forensic Accounting. She had two years in law enforcement before she joined the FBI.

Michael was proud of what Angel had accomplished, but the problem was so much larger than the system could handle. The underground network of pimps, pedophiles, slavers, and organized crime was not something the Feds could infiltrate and eliminate. It was like a balloon, where if you squeezed one part, it squeezed out somewhere else.

He stuffed his backpack with four days worth of clothes and some gear. He dressed for the ride; black jeans, heavy black motorcycle boots, a white T-shirt, a black Marine Corps hoodie, and a motorcycle jacket. He locked up the condo before walking out to his 2018 Harley-Davidson Fat Bob and fired it up.

Heading out of the neighborhood, he relaxed into the ride. Motorcycles were more effective than therapy and far cheaper. He took his time, taking Route 97 north to Gettysburg. Parking his Harley near the entrance, he spent the next four hours walking around and thinking about what he'd do next.

Acting on a tip from one of the tour guides, he ended up at the Appalachian Brewing Company pub at the near end of town. He set up in one of the booths, giving the waitress a big tip on the first beer before staying to order dinner. The food was good, and he found a couple of beers he liked in the flight she brought him. The baseball game was a blowout, so he spent more time watching the patrons than the ballgame.

And that's when he saw it.

Two men sat down on each side of a young woman sitting at the bar, and her body language said she wasn't interested. When she turned to the guy on her left to tell him to get lost, the guy on her right dropped something in her wine glass. He was smooth; if Michael hadn't been watching them with an experienced eye, he wouldn't have seen it.

She had no idea she was about to get roofied. The man on her left got up and left, probably to get their car. The guy on the right smiled, said something, and raised his glass. The woman reached for her glass in response.

Before she brought it to her lips, Michael was out of the booth and between them. "Don't drink that," he said as he put his hand over the glass.

"What the fuck, jarhead? Who the hell do you think you are?"

Michael ignored him, waving at the bartender. "Can you call 911 and ask for the police and an ambulance at this location?"

The female bartender nodded. "For what?"

He gave a death stare at the guy on the barstool. "Because Holmes here is going to drink this glass of wine and need an ambulance, or he's going to jail for attempted rape."

The guy looked down at the wine glass. "Fuck you."

Michael just smiled. "Maybe we won't need an ambulance. Maybe after you drink what you put in her glass, we'll walk you out of here. We can tie your unresisting, drugged-out ass over a picnic table down at the park and invite every big dick within forty miles to spitroast you until dawn. Your buddy should go first, though, before your ass is so wide he can't touch both sides."

The crowd that gathered around us laughed, and that was enough to push him over the edge. The punk picked up the wine glass and threw the White Zinfandel at Michael's face, but his face wasn't there anymore. Michael ducked down and rotated, driving a fist into his solar plexus. Suddenly unable to breathe, the guy sank to the ground between the barstools. "Do you have a Ziplock bag," I asked the bartender?

"Sure," she said.

"Put the glass into it, but don't touch the inside. The police will need it for testing."

The first officers arrived shortly after, and the bartender waved them over to where the guy was throwing up on the floor. A search of his pockets found the Rohypnol, and he was cuffed and stuffed in the back of the police car while we were filling out statements. "Should I file charges," Amber asked as I handed mine to the waiting detective.

"They've done this before, Amber. Pick a woman who's alone, distract, drug, then walk her out to the waiting car like she had too much to drink. The next morning she wakes up on a park bench wondering why she can't close her legs." Predators don't stop until they are dead; it's the way they are.

"Are you a cop?" The detective looked over at him with some interest.

"No. I spent a couple of years as an agent in the Diplomatic Security Service; it's like the Secret Service, but for diplomats. I'm in private security now."

"I'm pressing charges," she said as she gave her sheet over. I didn't tell her sex crimes could be charged without her consent; Amber needed closure after this close call.

Her stomach growled, and she looked at her watch. "My date stood me up," she said.

"I can get you home, but I'd prefer you'd let me buy you dinner," Michael offered. Amber accepted, and the two went back to his booth.

The owner comped their meals, grateful that Michael had stopped a customer from being raped. "And you did it without breaking anything," she said with a laugh.

Amber was a delight; intelligent, funny, and sexy. She was a senior in college, working in sales at a local furniture store. She talked about her dreams, and he told stories about his adventures overseas. When midnight arrived, Michael asked her to join him in his room.

He left her quite satisfied when he drove off the next morning. He didn't take her number, and they would never meet again. She was a nice girl, and she deserved someone who wasn't damaged as he was.

Ch. 6

Michael showed back up five days later at dinner time, and Angel's condominium was dark and quiet. He sent her a text that he'd arrived, asking if he should get dinner. Angel didn't respond by the time Michael finished his workout and shower.

He ordered Chinese food for delivery, figuring she could reheat it when she got home. After finishing his sweet and sour shrimp and rice, he went out to her garage and started working on his Harley. He'd put over a thousand miles on it this trip, and it was time for an oil change and maintenance.

He'd just finished wiping down the engine when she turned into the driveway and pulled into open space. She looked tired and defeated. He hit the close on the garage door as he waited for her to get out, but she didn't. He could see her crying, and it broke his heart. Michael walked around to the driver's side door and opened it. "Come on, Sis," he said as he held out his hand for her.

She wiped her eyes and let him help her to her feet. She wrapped her arms around his waist, and he held her as she let it out. When she looked up, he smiled at her. "Whatever it is can wait until you eat some of your orange chicken," he told her. "I'll get it ready while you change into your suit."

"Hot tub?"

"And then bed for you," Michael agreed. "I can tell you need to relax and sleep. I'll even give you a foot massage if you don't argue with me."

"Fine," she said as she grabbed her bag out of the front seat. She disappeared into her bedroom while Michael made up her plate and put it in the microwave. He grabbed a beer and poured her a glass of wine, bringing the bottle out to their patio. They had a small table next to the hot tub with two chairs that he set them on. The privacy fence hid them from neighbors, so no one saw the tiny two-piece she walked out of the house wearing.

"Talk to me, Angel," he said.

She rolled her eyes as she wolfed down her food. Michael figured she was working too much and not eating regular meals again. "You were right," she told him between bites. "We found cellphone and banking transactions tying Daniel Jackson to a Turkish import-export company out of Baltimore going back years. It's not a big company, but the State Department registered a half-dozen diplomatic shipments, accompanied by the Colonel, leaving on company jets from private airfields in the last three years."

"Shipments that could hold captives," Michael replied. "It doesn't take that big a suitcase to hold a child that age."

She nodded. "The private aircraft used have the range to fly directly to Istanbul. Once the doors would close, they could bring the girls out. The Colonel has the connections to bring them into the country without a paper trail."

Michael watched as she put her fork down. "There's more."

"We found enough connections to get a warrant for the charter company and their owner. We detained a pilot for questioning, but he lawyered up. We didn't have anything to hold him on, but he was the pilot on three of those flights. We seized the company's computers, but so far, the search is a bust. It was a different story at the owner's house, where we found him in the basement of his house."

"You found him?"

"I was in the first group down the stairs. The owner had a nice little woodworking shop down there, with one of those old-style wooden workbenches about ten feet long. He was dead, and it was our guy who did it."

"What did the scene look like?"

(Skip the next paragraph if squeamish)

"The smell hit us as soon as we opened the door. The owner was in his sixties and lived alone. We found his hands nailed down at the end of the workbench, both legs chained to the base, and he was bent over ninety degrees at the waist. His neck was chained and padlocked to the bottom of a patternmaker's vise, this huge antique thing about this big." She held her hands to show a rectangle about a foot wide and nine inches tall. "The Monster Hunter held his head motionless in a fucking vise, then went after his knees and elbows with an electric drill. When he'd had enough, he tightened the vise slowly until his skull crushed."

"Jesus."

"Yeah. It was pretty gross, especially since the crime scene was three or four days old."

That put the timing shortly after he killed the two guys in Falls Church. "Why did he wait so long to go after the guy?"

"We don't know, Michael. We don't know how old Monster Hunter is, where he lives, or what he looks like. We don't know why he picks these victims. We don't know why he kills them the way he does. We don't know a lot of fucking things about him, and I'm tired of playing catch-up."

"Any fresh leads?"

"Not a thing. Crime scene techs are looking, but the Hunter is damn good at picking up after himself." She pushed the rest of her food away.

"What did the profilers say? Anything helpful?" The FBI's profilers reviewed cases and provided insights about the person who did them. Most times, their conclusions were pretty close.

"White male, between thirty-five and fifty-five. Son or daughter was a victim of a child abuser who got away with it or got a weak punishment, so there is a grudge. Background in law enforcement, military, maybe even a lawyer. He is upper-middle-class, intelligent, and motivated. He may have support in research or transportation, but he does the murders alone, and he enjoys it. He won't stop until we stop him."

"So to summarize? The Monster Hunter keeps wasting the bad guys you used to catch, and he's smart enough to avoid leaving evidence. The task force is leaving you frustrated, exhausted, horny, and sleep-deprived."

"And not in that order," she said as she rolled her eyes. "You look rested, and you probably got laid." He stifled a grin. "Multiple times. Fucker."

Michael got up and grabbed her plate. "Grab your wine and get in there, and I'll be right back to tell you about it." He took the dishes to the sink, coming back out a few minutes later wearing swim trunks and carrying a fresh beer. Angel had taken the cover off the hot tub and submerged herself to her neck in hot water, her eyes closed as she leaned back. Michael set his beer down and slid in across from her, moving until the jets hit his lower back. He let out a groan as he stretched.

"Good ride?"

"Interesting," Michael said. He told her about his visit to the Gettysburg battlefield, then the attempted date rape he stopped. "I got a call from the lead detective on the case yesterday. DNA evidence tied the guy to two other rapes, and he gave up his buddy in a plea deal."

"Two more predators off the street," Angel said with a smile. "Congratulations. You accomplished more than I did."

"Give me your feet," Michael replied. Angel put her arms along the edge, letting her body float up until her feet were in his lap. Her brother started to work on her feet and calves, massaging out the soreness of the long days. "When was your last day off?"

"I was supposed to have the weekend off before I got called out early Saturday morning for the double murder," she said.

"So what? Ten, maybe eleven days?"

"It happens," she said. Special Agents expected to work fifty plus hours a week, but this task force was not a 'normal' assignment. She'd been working twelve to sixteen hour days for a month with three days off. "I got sent home today. Boss says there's nothing for me until they break the encryption on his phone and computer. He doesn't want me back for two days. So tonight, I'm going to drink heavily, sleep through the night, and not set my alarm."

"And tomorrow?"

"I don't know yet," she replied. "Now, who was the girl?"

Michael laughed and told her about Amber. It was clear from his telling of the story that he liked her, and she liked him. "She sounds nice. Are you going to see her again?"

"Is there any point? You know I don't do girlfriends, Angel. I take my pleasure, and I leave before they find out how fucked up I am inside. I'm the same as you."

Angel drained her wine and got out to refill her glass. "We should head out tomorrow and hit a bar. Maybe we can both get lucky," she said as she poured.

"Riding leather or suits," Michael responded.

"The last well-dressed suit I got in bed was a dud, so let's try the biker this time. I need to find a guy who can ride me hard," she replied. "Promise me you won't get in a fight. I don't want to spend my night off trying to keep you out of jail again."

"I know a place down in Virginia Beach that might work," Michael said. "You can ride down with me when you wake up."

"Sounds good," she said. "Close up? I'm going to bed."

"Sure," Michael said. He stayed out in the hot tub for another fifteen minutes, then went inside and showered. She was dead to the world by the time he downloaded the latest FBI files from her laptop.

Ch. 7

Angel slept without a nightmare and woke up late in the morning. Her tongue felt like sandpaper, and her head was throbbing from the wine last night. She noticed a bottle of water and some headache medicines by her phone and silently thanked Michael for taking care of her. She downed both, eventually making it to the bathroom.

She got dressed for the trip; jeans, heeled boots, a Marquette T-shirt, shoulder-holstered gun, badge, and a thin zip-up Harley hoody. Although she wasn't working, the Monster Hunter could strike anywhere and anytime. She had to be ready. Angel grabbed her motorcycle jacket and headed downstairs. "How'd you sleep," Michael asked her from the kitchen. He was wearing sweatpants and a sleeveless shirt by the stove.

"Better than expected," she replied. "Breakfast?"

"Pour the juice and grab plates," he said. "It's ready. I started when your hangover spoke louder than you did."

"Funny guy." A few minutes later, he was dishing out eggs and bacon and brought over the buttered toast. "When are we heading out?"

He looked at his watch. "I got a text from a buddy in the Fortunate Sons Motorcycle Club in Annapolis. He invited me to join them on a fun run they are doing to Ocean City today."

"What kind of motorcycle club?" It would not go well for her as an FBI agent to be rolling with an outlaw club.

"Veterans," Michael replied. "I've ridden with them once, and they're good people. They're meeting up to eat crab at one o'clock before heading out at two-thirty."

"I could do that," she said. "The Eastern Shore is a nicer ride than going around Washington. What is the weather going to be?"

"High seventies, mostly sunny and not as humid. Bring your suit, towel, and a change of clothes. Put your stuff in my backpack, and we can head out as soon as you're ready. I'll clean up."

Angel went back to her room to get ready. She placed her clothes in a zip-lock bag, then wrapped it in a towel. She made sure she had cash and a credit card in her badge wallet and went back downstairs. "Where is your backpack?"

"On the bike," he said. Angel walked out to the garage, opening the garage door, and found it on the saddle. She zipped her things inside and swung the bag onto her back. As she did, she looked at the odometer; it read "11087."

She froze, knowing that before he left, it hadn't rolled over ten thousand. She did some quick math; Pittsburgh was about two hundred and fifty miles away.

He'd done a lot of riding in the last week.

Michael came out of the house, locking the door to the kitchen before opening the garage door. "Ready?"

"Yeah," she replied. Michael got on his Harley and walked it out of the garage and sideways to the door. Michael got the destination set into his phone's navigation system, and the headsets and microphones in their helmets synced up so they could talk. Angel closed the door and climbed on behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist as he pulled away.

It took about an hour to go from Rockville east on the Beltway to Highway 50, then east to Annapolis. They pulled into the lot at Cantler's Riverside Inn twenty minutes before mealtime, and it looked like a good ride was setting up. Dozens of motorcycles were parked already, and I could hear more coming in.

Since he was a guest, Michael pulled in near the end. "Bulldog" saw him and came over, the linebacker-sized black man with his petite wife Monique. They introduced the pair to the other Club members by their road names. Michael could join the club since he was a Marine, but Angel could only join as a WAG (wife or girlfriend).

Cantler's was an Annapolis institution, a seafood shack that began in 1974. It wasn't a fancy place; picnic-style tables sat end to end with plain brown grocery-bag like paper covering the top. The club members and guests started taking seats. Michael ended up sitting with Bulldog and some of the Club leadership, while Angel ended up next to Das D and Red. "You don't want to hang around with those boring married types," Das D told me. He was active-duty Navy, a Lieutenant Commander teaching Thermodynamics at Annapolis. Das D said he got his name from his service in submarines and something he'd show me later.

"It's not dark, but I like dangerous women," Red said as their beers came. He looked at the bulge where her hoodie hid her shoulder holster. "Cop?"

"Fed," Angel replied. Red was a former Seabee who owned an excavation company. The waitress started bringing out the food, bushels of steamed Maryland blue crab, and trays of oysters. "I don't know how to do this! I always bought crabcakes or king crabs," Angel said.

"Here, it's easy," Das D said as he leaned over to show her. She loved the taste of the crab, but the small blue crabs came with "some disassembly required." After a few with help, she was scooping the tender meat out like a pro. Piles of crab carcasses started to form, taken away by the wait staff as they brought refills.