THE MAN WHO HUNTED HIMSELF Read online

  Published in 2017 by Kaybec Publishing

  441 Avenue President Kennedy

  Suite 1003

  Montreal

  Québec

  H3A 0A4

  www.kaybecpublishing.com

  Copyright © Lex Lander 2017

  Lex Lander has asserted his moral right to be identified as the author of this work under the terms of the 1988 Copyright Design and Patents Act.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  Publisher’s Note:

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9949981-6-3 (kindle)

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  THE MAN

  WHO HUNTED

  HIMSELF

  Contents

  Cover page

  Title page

  Copyright

  HUNTER HIRED

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  THE HUNT IS ON

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THE HUNT IS OFF

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  HUNTER HUNTED

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  HUNTER HIRED

  ONE

  The girl was alone and the four guys had backed her into a corner. The way it was shaping up they were hell bent on rape.

  Standing in the forecourt of the filling station, I watched the scenario unfold behind the glass front of the brightly-lit office. The guys were too hyped-up on testosterone to notice me. The girl had guts. No yelling, no cringing at their feet. In her right hand a mean-looking pair of scissors, wielded dagger fashion. She wasn’t going to surrender her virtue without a fight.

  The guys were young and uniformly kitted out in jeans and windbreakers. Their taunts came to me through the glass, though my Spanish wasn’t good enough to translate them all. One, his stance marking him out as the ringleader, was wearing an olive green baseball cap back to front; fists on hips, reflecting his arrogance. Even as I took an uncertain step forward, another of the group produced a switchblade knife, taunting the girl with it. She subsided against the wall, her bravado tested to its limit.

  Noble dragon slayer I was not. For starters, could I take on four young thugs and come through without serious injury? For seconds, however this ended up it was likely the Guardia Civil would be dragged in, and I had good reason to stay clear of the law and all its works.

  Consequently, I hesitated. Until the girl did finally cry out when they wrested the scissors from her, and the ringleader delivered a sharp slap to her face that was audible from the forecourt. A sense of ignominy tugged me forward. When I opened the door to the accompaniment of clothing being ripped, nobody heard me. By then the girl was down on the floor, making sobbing noises, and they were stooping over her, pumped up and cawing with excitement, egging each other on.

  So, summoning up a breezy demeanour I was far from feeling, I announced myself.

  ‘Buenos tardes, señora, señores!’

  Being sucked into a rape in progress was the start of a sequence of incidents that had begun three days earlier, transforming my life from dreary but tolerable to a disaster in the making.

  On that particular Sunday, resting between contracts, I had been sailing my boat Seaspray on the Spanish side of the Mediterranean, soaking up the unseasonably hot October sunshine and the occasional cooling spindrift. The wind wasn't much, a whisper of breeze from off the land with occasional flurries. It propelled the boat along at no more than three knots. Therapeutic and short on drama of the kind that goes with strong winds. By two o’clock I was ten miles offshore, all but alone on this particular piece of seascape. I shortened sail, leaving just the flying jib to keep the boat on course, set Autohelm, and went below decks to join Simone. She was stretched out on the master bed, naked and desirable, and in a state of readiness. Was she ever not? Creamy skin with freckles, sandy-auburn hair, hazel eyes. Subtle curves. Half my age.

  The games we played in the master suite of Seaspray in a great deal of screaming, panting, and writhing, and gnawing of knuckles (none of it by me). Simone, bless her, was not shy about letting her enjoyment hang out.

  As usual, she took charge. All I was required to do was assume a prone position and let her bounce up and down on top of me. Even when it was all over she didn’t immediately settle down, but continued moaning and generally making a lot of fuss, framed in the square of sun that the cabin skylight projected on the bed like a stage artist in a spotlight.

  For my part, today as on all days when Simone and I had sex at sea, I lay there and let the sweat cool on my skin while Seaspray undulated easily in the swell. This sort of inaction was not for Simone. When she was all moaned out, she clumped up on deck for a smoke, stark naked, with only her freckles (which were abundant) to preserve her modesty. A juicy eyeful for other shipping. I didn’t begrudge them the view. Where Simone was concerned I was no more possessive than she was prudish.

  An hour or two drifted by. Hunger pangs came, along with a blazing sunset that transformed the sky into an artist’s palette of red, orange, purple and gold. Catering aboard Seaspray was my domain. Simone was a star in the sack but null in the kitchen. No matter. When I was feeling inspired I rustled up a meal; if not, we ate out. Tonight, I was uninspired. Or maybe just worn out.

  I roused myself to turn the boat around and head back to the shore, using the Perkins inboard motor for propulsion instead of tacking against the wind. Around seven, after we had docked in Sitges’ Aiguedolc marina, hosed down the teak decking, and made everything shipshape, we strolled into the town. Simone clung to my arm and gazed up at me frequently, as if she worshipped me, which she didn’t. Her chief attachment was to the size of my bank account; the physical me was just convenient fodder for her sexual appetite. By my reckoning she was destined to become a fully-fledged whore, if she wasn’t already there.

  It was still early for dining out by Spanish standards. Our chosen restaurant, La Bocana, overlooked the marina. It was almost empty of diners, so we had our pick of the tables. We decided on the terrace. It would get cool later but there was a radiant wall heater overhead, and they would switch it on if asked.

  The waiter proposed a selection of “catches of the day”. Both being partial to fish, Simone and I were happy to go along with that particular flow. For wine we stuck to Freixenet Mia, a young and fruity white from just down the road. The evening progressed in idle banter. Simone was a genial
companion – bright, funny, pleasing to behold. Very tactile. Forever stroking my forearm, or twining her fingers in mine, or running the back of her hand down my cheek. She knew all the gambits. I just thanked God I wasn’t in love with her.

  ‘You are so good to me, chéri,’ she murmured, between mouthfuls of salted dorado.

  ‘It’s mutual. I can’t resist frigid women.’

  Out came the pout. ‘Frigid?’ Comprehension followed almost at once. ‘Aaah, you are joking with me.’

  Unlike many French she was able to distinguish the serious from the frivolous.

  I laid my knife and fork on my cleared plate, finished chewing, and said. ‘Not entirely. I’m getting to the age where a little frigidity is occasionally welcome.’

  The pout was genuine this time.

  ‘Don’t talk about age. You are still young to me, and you are very fit, n’est-ce pas?’ She caressed my right arm bicep under the short sleeve of my shirt, tracing the bulge of flesh with her index finger. ‘I like a man with muscles. They make me feel hot.’ Her expression became dreamy and she started to squirm. ‘Can we go soon, chéri. I need you to fuck me.’

  ‘Again? I suppose we could always use the table …’

  Damn me, if the strumpet didn’t seriously consider it.

  ‘We will have to get them to clear the dishes away and everything,’ she said, frowning over the logistics, not the decency issues.

  ‘You’re utterly incorrigible,’ I said. The word is the same in French.

  While she was assembling a riposte, the cell phone in my pants pocket vibrated. I hauled it into view and noted the caller’s number. It was all too familiar, unfortunately. I cursed under my breath, as it most likely meant a job in the offing. Right now I wasn’t in the market, or maybe just not in the mood.

  Still, it was only a text message. I could let it lie, though the sender being who he was, I couldn’t ignore it altogether.

  Seeing my cell phone prompted Simone into demanding a selfie.

  I sighed. ‘Must we?’

  ‘I won’t see you again for months,’ she reminded me. ‘Please, André.’

  ‘Okay.’ My resistance was always low when it came to indulging her. Truth was, I took pleasure in it. She was such a nice kid.

  After the selfies, Simone took herself off to ‘ze laydeez’. She liked using the English term, relished being a ‘lady’ rather than just a femme. In her absence, I took a peek at the text.

  Urgent you meet new client

  in France. Location to follow.

  State earliest date and time

  As always the New Client was incognito. His or her name might never be revealed except person to person. My go-between, the originator of the text, was bona fides enough.

  I responded with a feeble excuse in the hope he would go away and leave me alone:

  No current ID for pro activity

  outside Spain. Need min 3

  days and cost will be charged

  to client if no work results.

  Within seconds, I was reading his terse reply.

  Use crossing at coustouges.

  The unwritten sub-text of those four words was that proof of identity was not required at remote border crossings like Coustouges. All very well, but I still needed some documentation, if only for the hotel. Plus, if I were stopped by the police for a security check, lack of papers could get me arrested. There was a solution, though I didn’t let on to my contact. It suited me to let him think I was doing him a king-size favour.

  I texted back that I would be there on Wednesday, which was three days hence.

  Simone returned to the table, her smile wide and warm. Her teeth were good. Sharp too. Under cover of the white table linen she stroked my inside thigh. I reciprocated. She always insisted on tablecloths with a long overhang, the better to conceal the goings-on beneath.

  A waiter came to remove our dishes and the condiments, and she cast a speculative eye at the cleared space, wriggling her eyebrows at me. The restaurant was still far from full and most of the other diners were inside, but no way was I humping Simone on a restaurant table, with or without an audience.

  ‘Behave yourself,’ I said.

  ‘Only if you take me back to the boat and fuck me like crazy.’ Baises moi comme un fou, were her actual words.

  With an offer like that, what can a guy do but pay the bill and head for home?

  Simone lay on her side towards the middle of the bed, her breath caressing my cheek. She always slept soundly and late, and needed an alarm to awaken. I was on my back, restless, metaphorically chomping my lip. Every new job that came up represented a heightening of risk. I had retired once, and been forced by circumstance to defer my retirement. Now I was at the beck and call of powerful men who wouldn’t leave me be. A contract meant travel. Crossing borders into other countries meant venturing into uncertainty. The drawback with movement is the electronic paper trail it leaves.

  Whenever and wherever possible I paid bills with cash, no matter that it often raised eyebrows in our cashless age. Going by train was no problem; I bought my tickets at the station. A name was not required. Using my own car was equally uncomplicated. Payments were limited mostly to purchases of gas, highway tolls, and the occasional meal. All payable in cash, leaving no traces. Bills for hotels and the rest were likewise settled in cash, whichever the currency.

  Flying with an airline, and renting a car or a boat required presentation of a passport or ID card, even when using green stuff. Regrettably, there were occasions when these forms of travel could not be avoided. To ensure that the real me was not linked to the card transactions I had to resort to my second identity.

  Years ago, I had come to realize that total anonymity could only be achieved if the name André Warner never appeared on written or computer records as having travelled to any country on or close to the date of execution of a contract. This meant establishing a long-term parallel identity. It was a challenge, especially as it had to stand the test of time and be updated regularly. Not only that, it required much more than just a fake passport and some other bits and pieces. Since banking rules were tightened to put a brake on money laundering, the once painless processes of opening a bank account and obtaining a credit card had taxed my ingenuity to the hilt. Yet, with the liberal application of financial balm, I managed it. With the result that my second self was a true doppelganger of the original.

  By comparison, obtaining one-off fake documents for my third, strictly transient, identities, to be destroyed once a job was done, was a breeze. My two regular document providers (they hate to be called forgers) had been working for me for the best part of a decade, and had a stock of personalized identities in their computers that enabled them to crank out a basic set of paperwork – passport, driving licence, social security card, medical card, credit and charge cards – within hours of my placing the order. Delivery took a little longer.

  The one flaw in this modus operandi was the knowledge and therefore the power it gave my providers. Either of them could expose me at whim, or for reward, or under duress. To minimize this danger I had never revealed my real name to them. I was Mr Jones to one, Monsieur Dubois to the other, who was French. I paid them too well to make it worth their while to betray me. Moreover, I had the necessary hard proof of their unlawful activity. A single telephone call or text message would send it winging to the Interpol HQ in Lyon, if ever either of them talked. Even at that, it was a weak point, and one day I might have to do more than simply buy their silence.

  After delivering Simone to Barcelona El-Prat Airport for her 12.20 flight to Grenoble via Lyon, I spent the rest of Tuesday spring-cleaning Seaspray. The following morning I packed a suitcase, tied up a few loose ends, and by early afternoon I was heading north on the AP7 autopista in my spare car, an unremarkable Seat Leon; I almost never used the Aston Martin for business trips. Never be conspicuous. That was just one of the many codes of conduct that governed my routine.

  Dusk was falling when I quit the
highway by the Figueras exit to join the N260 and head for the coastal town of Port Bou, just below the Franco-Spanish border. Less than 50kms to go. The N260 was a standard two-lane highway, and not much used. Habitations were scattered, mostly farms or small factories. After fifteen minutes of droning through this sterile terrain I noticed the fuel warning light was glowing, and the gauge well inside the red sector. Fuel gauges being notoriously vague, the tank could be as good as empty. Keep going and hope to happen on a gas station, was my best option.

  Another three miles or so down the road, my headlights picked out an off-ramp signposted to Garriguela, presumably a town, and therefore sure to have gas. It was one of those junctions where you leave on the right then turn left to cross the highway on a bridge. Another sign announced that the distance to Garriguela was 1.5km. Up ahead, on the darkened road, was an illuminated oval on a pillar about the height of a streetlight, with the orange-over-red circle of Repsol. A filling station oasis in a gas-free desert. Now even if the tank ran dry I could walk it.

  After two solid hours at the wheel I was glad to get out of the car. It was bordering on chilly up here in the foothills, and in my T-shirt I felt it. The silence was almost eerie. My ears still resonated with the drone of the engine. I glanced towards the brightly-lit office of the filling station. A battered Ford stood in front of it, headlights on. Inside the office, people, movement. The diesel pump though ancient was functional as far as I could tell, but when I disengaged the pump nozzle it didn’t hum into action. I waited a few seconds, then replaced the nozzle and tried again. Still nada.

  No attendant came to my aid. Resignedly I set out for the office. After two paces I stopped. Inside, four guys stood in a loose semi-circle around a girl ...

  ‘Buenos tardes, señora, señores!’

  In response to my cheery greeting the four guys froze in their respective stances; only their heads moved, and all of them towards me. No welcome in their expressions. A little fear perhaps, some resentment certainly, but mostly just plain hostility. It radiated out at me like a blast of hot air from a furnace.