The Thrill of the Hunt

By Darryl Matter

Joan Gilbert works undercover as a gun runner, supplying guns on the black market, until a mole in the police department gives her away. In the ensuing gun battle, she manages to kill three thugs and is nearly killed herself. Once out of the hospital, she's out to identify the mole and seek revenge on the powerful crime figure who wants her dead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darryl Matter
• Release date: Aug 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463292006

Darryl Matter

Hello,I'm an ancient, long-retired college professor who likes to write stories. My educational background is somewhat varied. I first earned a B.S. Degree in Mechanical Engineering with a Management Option. The industrial management and psychology classes interested me in human behavior, and I eventually earned a Ph.D. in Human Development. In addition to writing stories, my interests include reading and stamp collecting.I grew up in a rural Kansas community, and I now live with my wife in a retirement community. I appreciate each of my readers, and I thank you for reading my stories. Furthermore, I encourage each of you to write something of interest to you and then publish it--to share with the world.Being the antique person that I am, the tech-side of publishing doesn't come easily to me and I appreciate the support staff at Smashwords.Again thank you for your interest in my stories.Sincerely,Darryl Matter

Book preview

The Thrill of the Hunt

A Joan Gilbert, Undercover Cop, Novel

by Darryl Matter

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2018 by Darryl Matter

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The Thrill of the Hunt

A Joan Gilbert, Undercover Cop, Novel

This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

* * * * *

Prologue

There aren’t many female cops working undercover as gunrunners. In most people’s eyes, gunrunning is a man’s game. It just doesn’t seem right for a female to be running guns, but that’s what I do—or did. I went from uniformed cop to detective to undercover assignments in less than two years after graduating from the police academy, and stepped into my role posing as a gunrunner about six months ago.

Guns have always fascinated me, maybe because I grew up around them. My father was a small arms instructor in the United States Army, and he taught me how to shoot when I was twelve years old. Before then, actually. By the time I was in college, I could hold my own with anyone, male or female, on the rifle or pistol range.

Not only did my father teach me to shoot, he taught me how to reload my own ammunition using his equipment. Shotguns, rifles, handguns, I could reload any ammo made. Maybe it was that interest in guns that led me to a career as a policewoman, and more specifically, to an undercover role as a gunrunner.

Seems there are more women involved in serious crime today than ever before. That’s why some of my supervisors, who thought that my being female might make potential gun buyers less likely to think that I was a cop than one of my male counterparts, believed I could get away with passing myself off as a gunrunner. I thought their reasoning was seriously flawed, but it was their call, not mine. I'd give it a try.

One thing that was in my favor, though, was that posing as a gunrunner was not my first undercover assignment. While I was training for that stellar role, I spent six months undercover in a sting operation as a buyer of stolen luxury cars. Before that operation was over, we’d shut down three chop shops and broken up two major auto theft rings. And I’d enjoyed every minute of it.

Next, I spent a few months posing as a fence buying stolen art. That role proved to be an eye-opener for me because I’d had no idea how much stolen art was on the market. At any rate, it was after that operation shut down that I became a gunrunner.

Of course, even with those two undercover assignments successfully completed, I didn’t just step into the role of gunrunner without plenty of additional training. I made sure that nobody, and I mean nobody, knew more about guns than I did. That means I studied makes and calibers, wholesale and retail prices, and street values. I also consulted with anyone and everyone I could find who knew anything about the gun trade to learn which guns were most in demand and, most importantly, the ever-changing dynamics of the gun trade.

The men in charge of the police armory taught me how to disassemble all of the guns I’d be likely to encounter. When I’d finished with those armory instructors, I felt confident in tearing down and reassembling most makes and models of guns, both of foreign and domestic manufacture.

It wasn’t enough for me just to learn about guns. I needed to know how to use them as efficiently as possible. That’s why I took all the classes offered by the police department to improve my marksmanship. Some of the instructors were ex-servicemen who were well versed in the art of using guns, and in addition to marksmanship, they taught me about speed and control. Being able to get a gun into action fast was something I needed to learn, and I practiced drawing and dry-firing my own guns every chance I got.

Not only did I learn about guns and how to use them, but I learned about carrying them as well. When I was in uniform, I carried my 9mm Smith & Wesson in a holster on my duty belt. That didn’t work so well out of uniform or as an undercover cop, so I tried several other methods of carrying—shoulder holsters, fanny-pack holsters, ankle holsters, the works.

Most of the policemen I knew who wear plain clothes carried their guns in shoulder holsters. That doesn’t work very well for a gal who’s built like me with large breasts, so what I finally settled on for my own use was a holster that allowed me to carry my gun behind my back. Of course, I had to wear a fairly heavy leather belt to support it, but the gun nested nicely in the small of my back and was virtually undetectable under a jacket.

The only problem with this method of carrying was that there was no way I could carry the big Smith & Wesson behind my back. Even though I liked the firepower of that gun, I finally had to settle on a smaller .380 auto for everyday carry. It was light and inconspicuous under a jacket, and with practice, I could get it into action fast. Of course, it didn’t have the power of the big 9mm, but I figured any self-defense shooting I would have to do would take place at close range anyway. The .380 probably would do. It would have to do.

When I thought I might run into trouble, I carried more than that one gun. In addition to the .380 holstered in the small of my back, I sometimes carried a second .380 in an ankle holster or in my purse, depending on what I was wearing.

It wasn’t long before the other cops began to take me seriously when it came to my knowledge of guns. Several of the Assistant District Attorneys began to call me regularly with questions regarding guns, and the Federal Justice Department even called me with a question!

Obviously, it’s not enough just to know about guns or even to know how to use them. Hesitation will get you killed. If you’re going to have to shoot at somebody, you better be able to do it without any hesitation whatsoever, and that involves a lot more than just having the right guns in the right holsters. You have to be mentally tough and prepared to shoot. I worked hard on that aspect of being a cop.

Chapter One

Early on in my role as an undercover gunrunner, I set my sights on a guy named Alan Hall. He supplied guns to several of the larger motorcycle gangs operating in the Midwest and on the West Coast. These gangs typically were involved in smuggling drugs into the United States.

To my knowledge, Hall didn’t deal directly in drugs. What he did was supply guns to the drug dealers and launder a tremendous amount of money for them. He also was rumored to be a hit man who, for a price, would kill anyone. Some of his men would burn down buildings, too, for a price. In fact, there didn’t seem to be anything Hall and his thugs wouldn’t do if the price was right.

Part of my interest in bringing down Hall was personal. He’d killed a young cop named Ron Whitney who’d been at the police academy with me. My friend had been working undercover when a money-laundering deal with Hall’s men went bad.

Alan Hall supplied guns to several other criminal organizations and, according to the drug enforcement officers, was beginning to export guns to drug and paramilitary groups in South America and Europe. I wanted to bring that guy d-o-w-n, the sooner the better.

About the same time I went undercover as a gunrunner, the cops shut down two operations that were importing guns from outside the United States and selling them illegally. Guys like Hall have to get their guns somewhere, so with his major regular sources shut down, I figured he’d get around to doing business with me sooner or later once I caught his attention.

While I waited for him to notice me, I bated a trap for Alan Hall. I built my reputation by selling a variety of guns to the local riffraff, including fifty 9mm Beretta autos to members of a local motorcycle gang. I knew that by making that sale I was taking business away from Hall. That would get me noticed.

It was after I’d come up with another fifty 9mm Beretta autos and one hundred boxes of 9mm ammo for a drug smuggler that I got a call from a man who identified himself as Kevin Applie, a self-styled friend of Alan Hall’s.

"Wanta talk ta ya, babe," he began, his voice a kind of sing-song.

Fine, I said, "but we gotta get somethin’ straight first. I ain’t your babe. Now, whatdaya wanta talk about?"

Nothin’ on the phone.

Where, then?

What if I pick ya up? We’ll go have a drink.

Is it worth it to me?

You can bet on it, b . . . . He started to say babe, then apparently thought better of it. Where da I pick ya up?

I gave him the address where I was staying. Corner of Hastings Avenue and 23rd Street. Do you know where that is?

We’ll find it. My driver knows this town like the backa his hand. Watch fer a black Caddie with mirrored windows.

I’ll be standing on the street. I’m wearing blue jeans, a white blouse, a blue denim jacket, Western boots.

Ten minutes. There was a click as the phone went dead.

Blue jeans, a white blouse, a blue denim jacket, and Western boots, a cowgirl outfit some call it, had become my usual uniform. Sometimes I wore a leather jacket instead of the denim one. The heavy leather belt that held the holster at my back wasn’t conspicuous with such outfits, and I just plain liked the large Western-style buckles, especially when they matched my earrings. Sometimes, I also carried a small two-shot derringer in one of my boots, the ultimate fashion statement for me.

The address I gave this friend of Alan Hall’s wasn’t the address of my own apartment. I wasn’t living at the apartment I call home, hadn’t been for some time. Instead, the police had moved me into a small apartment on the corner of Hastings Avenue and 23rd Street, and I hadn’t brought anything there that would connect me with my job or my real life. Moreover, the police had my telephone tapped, and somebody should have heard that conversation. And they should be able to tail a black Cadillac anywhere. Even though I didn’t think anything was going to happen with this particular meeting, I hoped the hell I had reliable backup.

No sooner had I reached the sidewalk in front of the apartment building than a black Cadillac, its windows mirrored against viewers, pulled smoothly to the curb in front of me. The back door swung open. From inside the car, a young man wearing a gray business suit, white shirt, and red tie, his eyes hidden behind wrap-around sunglasses, leaned toward me. His teeth glistened in a full-mouth smile against his swarthy complexion. Miss Gilbert, I presume?

Yes. At times like that, I figure the less I say, the better.

I’m Kevin Applie. Won’t you join us, please?

I looked up and down the street but didn’t see anyone I knew. Of course, if my backup cops were doing their job, I wouldn’t see them. What the hell, I thought, here goes! Without another thought, I climbed into the back seat of that Cadillac.

Kevin Applie looked me up and down appreciatively it seemed, then extended his hand. Thank you for joining me.

Thank you for inviting me. I shook his hand. Yuk! His was a damp, limp handshake.

Our driver swung the Cadillac into traffic. I sank back into its leather seat cushions and waited.

I studied the man across from me as I continued waiting for him to start the conversation. He was a big guy, maybe 6’-2" and stocky, barrel-chested, the kind of guy who might once have been a biker himself.

We’ve been hearing good things about you, Miss Gilbert, he began.

Have you now, Mr. Applie?

Oh, please. Call me Kevin.

I’d go with that. Alright, Kevin. Call me Joan.

Good. I like being on a first name basis with my friends. Maybe we can help each other now that we’re friends. At least, I hope so.

I ignored his comment about our being friends. I hope so, too. I’m in business to help people like you.

I did not refer to the specific nature of my business. I’d wait for him to bring up the subject of guns.

Kevin Applie leaned forward and gave instructions to our driver. As he did so, his jacket stretched tighter across his chest, and I saw the unmistakable outline of a large semiautomatic pistol riding in a shoulder holster.

We rode in silence for perhaps ten more minutes. Then, our driver eased the Cadillac into an off-street parking lot and pulled the car into a parking space near the entrance to the Cheetah, a bar I’d heard about but never visited, never wanted to visit.

Applie turned his attention back to me. Here we are, Joan. Let’s go have that drink, he murmured.

Both the driver and Applie climbed out of the car fast. The driver opened my door for me and held it. Applie beamed down at me as he took my hand and helped me out of the car.

Inside, the Cheetah was one big room that had been divided into cozy little seating areas. Colored lights played over the tables. Applie released my hand, took my arm, and led me through the room, guiding me around several occupied tables to a table in a corner of the very back.

Care for something to drink now, Joan? he asked. His voice had become very polished, almost seductive.

Sure. I’ll have whatever you’re having.

Applie summoned a waitress and asked for a rum and Coke for each of us. He paid for the drinks, peeling off a hundred dollar bill from what looked like a whole roll of hundred dollar bills, then turned back to me.

So, how long you been in business, Joan?

Two years. How about you?

Off and on. I spend some time in Miami. You ever been in Miami?

Before I could answer, I detected motion behind me, and a shadow fell across our table. Apple looked up, and I turned to follow his gaze. A tall, thin man wearing a gray suit similar to the one Applie was wearing stood directly behind me.

Applie pushed back his chair and stood up. Excuse me, Joan. He spoke to the man behind me: Hello Frank.

Hello Kevin.

Frank, this is Joan Gilbert. Joan, this is Frank Crowell.

I started to get up, but the man standing over me put his hand lightly on my shoulder. Don’t get up, Joan.

I thought Frank Crowell was going to join us. Instead, he motioned for Applie to go with him. The men moved away from me and began a whispered conversation that I could not hear. That made me decidedly uncomfortable.

Moments later, Crowell came back alone to where I was seated. Kevin has been unexpectedly called away. Mr. Hall needs him for something urgent. Kevin asked if I’d see you home.

That’ll be fine.

I’m afraid we’ll have to leave now. Sorry we can’t have those drinks, bu we’ll have an opportunity to do that later. Crowell was already moving toward the exit.

It’s okay.

I followed Crowell outside. In the daylight, he didn’t appear nearly as tall as he had in the Cheeta. He put his hand lightly on my arm and guided me to another black Cadillac, similar to the one Applie had used, then opened the back door and held it for me. Once I was seated, he closed the door, walked around the car, and climbed in beside me.

Where do you live? Or perhaps I should ask, ‘Where do you wish to go?’ he inquired.

Hastings Avenue and 23rd Street.

Crowell relayed the address to our driver. We headed back the way I’d come with Applie.

"Both Mr. Hall and I are sorry