Hunter's Haven

By Linda Thackeray

John Hunter is haunted by his past.

After a notorious drug lord murders his sister, John takes the law into his own hands. A wanted man, on the run for his life and craving sanctuary, John makes his way north and finds refuge in a place called Haven - and in the beautiful Lakota Grae.

Drawn into a fight against overwhelming odds, John has one more war left to fight — and one last chance for redemption.

This book contains adult content and is not recommended for readers under the age of 18.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Feb 12, 2022
• ISBN: 486752462X

Book preview

Hunter's Haven

Linda Thackeray

Copyright (C) 2015 Linda Thackeray

Layout Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Ivanzanchetta.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. 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 the author's permission.

I 

Chicago

Medea screamed when the blood splattered across her cheek.

Gore and blood turned her high-pitched wail into shrieks of terror and had her shaking where she stood. Her scrawny form, petite to begin with, shook like a leaf in the wind. With raccoon rings around her eyes from running mascara, she remained frozen to the spot. The remains of her pimp, Dwyer, were oozing down the now-slick leather of the ruined sofa.

The man who killed Dwyer didn't pay her any attention despite the noise she was making. In fact, he didn't appear to see her at all as she continued to shriek, trying to wipe pieces of Dwyer's brain off the sleeve of her blue vinyl jacket. Stepping away from Dwyer, he slapped another magazine into the LSAT machine gun he was carrying and surveyed the room, looking right through her as he regarded Pinto and Armstrong in more or less the same state as Dwyer, their blood seeping through the parquet floor.

You should go, he said simply as he turned to leave.

Medea fell silent immediately and nodded. Conditioned to obey when orders were given, her shriek came to an abrupt halt in her throat. The killer strode past her, all six feet one of him, blue eyes seeming almost black in this light, just like his brown hair. He wore a black military coat and his gloved hands clutched the machine gun he'd used to cut down Pinto and Armstrong when they had tried to come to Dwyer's aid. God only knew how many of Dwyer's crew was dead downstairs.

She'd heard the gunfire when he'd swept into the club, followed by the screaming of fleeing clubbers into the night. By the time the gunfire below fell silent, Pinto, Armstrong and Dwyer were poised and ready to take him on. But the shooting didn't come through the door to the upstairs apartment. Rather, it came through the floor. Even now, she could see the bullet holes that riddled the floor beneath them. Debris from cracked mortar and broken glass covered everything else.

Dwyer tried to make a run for it, but there was only one way into the apartment, and the man with the black coat was already there. He put a bullet into Dwyer's shoulder, forcing the MAC-10 from his hand, then spent a few good minutes clubbing Medea's former daddy about the head until he was good and bloody.

Then he asked his questions.

Medea crouched in a corner, hands over her head, trying to remain unnoticed. She was nobody in the scheme of things, just another bitch in Dwyer's stable of girls. Quaking in her stiletto heels, she tried not to listen as Dwyer spilled his guts to the stranger, giving him all the answers even though the revelation would mean death when Othello found out. In the end, it hadn't mattered anyway.

When the man had his answers, he shot Dwyer in the face without a moment's thought.

He didn't wait for her to answer after telling her to leave. He just walked out.

* * *

The EMTs raced into South Chicago.

Normally, they stayed clear of the area, but something was happening in Triple C territory tonight, something that lit up police switchboards from the South Shore all the way to Hammond like Christmas trees. Reports were coming of mass shootings, with bodies left on the street or in the wrecks of burnt-out cars, as well as an equal amount of fire-gutted buildings. The authorities put it down to an internal turf war. After all, Triple C was an amalgamation of several crews under one leader, Othello Price. It was best to let them fight it out and clean up the mess when it was done.

As the night progressed, it became increasingly clear that this wasn't one crew jockeying for position, but all of them running scared from a new player in town. Someone was moving through the neighborhoods with systematic precision. Originating in South Chicago, the violence spread out like a virulent plague, laying waste to everything in sight, leaving destruction behind like someone scorching the earth.

In the course of a single night, someone was dismantling the Triple C hierarchy from the low-level mules to the producers and dealers, distributors and finally to the first-rung soldiers. Anyone wearing Triple C colors was being exterminated, and while the cops knew they should be racing to the scene to determine who was responsible, Chicago PD remained strangely indifferent.

By 2030, Triple C had grown to become the largest gang in Chicago. It was born out of the Criminal Deportation Act of 2016, allowing authorities to repatriate second- and third-generation Americans to their country of origin if convicted of serious crimes. The act was passed due to a nation's increasing fear of the rise of homegrown Islamic terrorists, but was quickly exploited by law enforcement to target ethnic gangs such as the Latin Kings and the Pistoleros Latinos. With the deportations, the void left was quickly filled by Triple C.

In the early days, the gang mostly made its coin from auto theft, extortion and dealing. Eventually it began moving product for the Mexicans before expanding into the lucrative sex trafficking industry by bringing in girls from Eastern Europe and Asia. Very soon, Triple C was dominating the criminal landscape and, as most of its members were disenfranchised African-Americans, many of whom lived below the poverty line, they were immune to the Deportation Act.

Furthermore, with the end of the war in the Middle East, a new conflict arose, this one involving the country of Azerbaijan, nestled between Eastern Europe and Western Asia. It drew in all the major super powers, ensuring the country's attention was focused on international politics while ignoring the growing problem at home—the rise of the gangs.

By 2030, Triple C was as large a threat to Chicago as the Latin Kings were before them. Its current leader, Othello Price, ruled absolutely over South Chicago and its neighboring communities. By paying off or intimidating city officials, he kept the law out of Triple C business. When that didn't work, Triple C wasn't above killing cops, and if a clear message needed to be sent, he got to their families. So savage was his reputation that attempts to prosecute were simply abandoned. Prosecutors were just as expendable.

The law was happy to oblige on this particular night.

Some cops even switched off their radios and ended their shifts in bars, toasting the carnage and laughing that they could just hose the place down in the morning to get rid of the garbage. The powerless had long memories and karma was a bitch getting paid tonight.

* * *

Have Casey and Lopez checked in yet? Othello Price demanded.

Omar Phelps lowered the cell phone from his ear, his expression grim as he shook his head, jaw ticking as he formulated his answer and the best way to deliver it. In the end, he realized there was no best way, just the only way.

No, he said grimly, and they're not going to. Jacey, working the strip around the corner from Lockweed, says they got hit hard. The whole building is up in flames. She doesn't think they made it out.

FUCK! Othello lashed out, swiping all the contents of his desk to the floor in a burst of uncharacteristic rage. An assortment of objects clattered against the Persian rug—books, pens, papers and a tablet, which cracked on impact. He kicked the chair to its back before turning around to face Omar again.

How many is that now? he asked after a moment, breathing hard, fighting to compose himself. His fists were clenched as he stared into the green felt on the oak desktop, trying to comprehend what was happening, trying to wrap his mind around how this could be happening at all.

Twenty-two dead so far, Omar hid his own fear at the storm coming their way. We can't be sure how many were at Lockweeds. We know a couple of guys haven't checked in yet.

Twenty-two men, all dead. They were shot, burned, stabbed or killed in some equally gruesome fashion. Everyone he'd sent out to deal with the situation had not come back. When Dwyer bought it at the Sin Kitty Club, the night was young, but that was hours ago. As the hours ticked by, more and more of his crew were getting hit. Some in their homes, others at the various businesses owned by the Triple C and some while their dicks were still in their girlfriends' snatches. It began to dawn on Othello that he had crossed a line, and he had crossed it with the wrong cop.

The fucking war hero was coming.

How many guys we got around here?

Thirteen, Omar said, still recovering from the realization that Othello, the baddest motherfucker he knew, was scared. Four on the roof, three at the gates and the rest patrolling the house. There ain't no way that psycho cop is getting in here. We got eyes on the ground. He'll never get past the gate. Lamonte is watching the cameras.

Good. Othello nodded, grateful that his young cousin was not out on the front line, so to speak. An hour ago, he had done something he never imagined he would do. He had sent Mona and the kids out of the city to her folks in Indiana. He didn't know whether or not the cop would hurt them, but he wasn't risking it. The cop hadn't just killed members of his crew. He had killed anyone who worked for Triple C—pimps, mules, dealers, cooks and soldiers. He didn't seem to care if they were male or female. If they were Triple C—they died.

Don't worry, Theo, Omar assured him, using the old nickname from back in the days when they used to run together as kids. We'll get him.

Yeah, Othello grunted, walking to the liquor cabinet and retrieving a bottle of scotch from inside of it. He didn't pour himself a glass, instead taking a healthy swig of it because he wanted the liquor to burn its way down his throat.

All this over his bitch sister, Omar commented, going to the leather sofa in front of his desk and lowering himself into it.

Othello tensed. He didn't want to think about the girl.

Mention of her immediately dredged up the memories of the brunette college girl they dragged off her campus three days ago. Her brother was one of those who wouldn't be intimidated, who wouldn't take a bribe. Fucking Captain America who came from the war thinking it meant shit in the real world. Othello wanted to show him how touchable he was, like Charles Martin Smith was in that old movie with Kevin Costner.

They had her for almost a day in one of his warehouses, him and four of his boys. Omar included. She was a real looker too, long legs, brown hair and a killer body. Taking turns at her was sweet and they all had a piece. She'd screamed and wailed as they tore into her body, smacking her good and bloody when she made too much noise.

Yet through it all, she didn't break. The bitch didn't fucking break. Even after they'd left her bleeding and naked, covered in their jizz, he remembered the look in her eyes, the defiance as she stared at him. Smiling, with broken teeth and covered in blood, she said to him without fear, He's going to kill you all for this.

It was the last thing she said before he put a bullet in her head.

It pissed him off that she hadn't begged, not once. Not when they were violating her. She cried and she screamed when they hurt her, but she didn't beg. That defiance infuriated him, made him think she'd deserved more pain, more desecration. So he told his boys to send her back to her brother, special delivery.

They sent her back in pieces.

Othello thought the cop was finished. No one came back from a thing like that to be of trouble ever again. The leader of Triple C was confident the cop would rage and curse, but it was all he could do because, unlike Charles Martin Smith, he and his crew were untouchable. In this world where the law was breaking down, he and his guys were the new reality. The cop had no proof they were responsible and even if he did, there wasn't anyone in Chicago brave enough to come after him. He was invulnerable.

Or so he thought.

Something caught his eyes through the window of the study. He winced as the light overloaded his retinas. Blinking the spots out of his eyes, he saw twin strobes glaring through the front gates. Striding to the desk, he opened the top drawer and retrieved his gun—a Glock—and went to investigate.

What's going on? he heard Omar ask, but ignored him. Just before he reached the glass, he heard gunfire and immediately dropped to his knees. Omar dove for the floor behind him. Othello heard the rat-tat-tat of an assault rifle just before bullets riddled the window above his head. Glass shattered and he was driven backwards to the cover of the desk.

Only when he was behind the sturdy safety of oak did he dare look up again. This time, he saw that the sentries at the gate were firing blankly at the strobes, which just so happened to be headlights rushing at them. Not from a car, though, he thought. The headlights were too far apart and too high off the ground.

The cement truck tore through the steel gates like paper, crumpling one and tearing the other off its hinges to roll off the hood as if it had been swiped aside by its wipers. Two of his men, Naf and Elroy, were mowed down as the vehicle accelerated. The third leaped out of the way only to be cut down by a barrage of gunfire from the driver's side.

Othello heard footsteps pounding over his head. The guys on the roof were running into position, and he imagined the racket was bringing the others patrolling the grounds. The truck rolled down the paved driveway before stopping short of the house, idling.

Suddenly, the door swung open and the faint shape of a body seemed to be taking cover, just as the guys on the roof opened fire. The driver didn't immediately respond. Lost in the sound of MAC-10s was a single burst of sound, like a champagne cork popping. With that single sound, the driver retreated into the safety of the cabin even as bullets pinged loudly against the steel.

The explosion that followed rocked the house to its foundations. Othello heard screams as one of his men went over the side, landing on the grass near his window. His back was a mess of burnt flesh and fabric. It was difficult to tell which was which. He landed with a sickly thud, body flaming but still alive.

What the fuck was that? Omar demanded, staring at the ceiling. Pieces of mortar broke off in chunks and concrete dust came through freshly made cracks.

I think the fucker launched a grenade at us! Othello got to his feet.

Another burst of gunfire erupted as the men patrolling the grounds circled the house, closing in on the truck, but before they could get close enough, the side passenger door swung open once again. GET CLEAR! Othello ran to the window and screamed. GET CL…!

He never finished the sentence because another loud pop was heard, and this time the grenade landed in the middle of the group. The explosion sent dirt and smoke in all directions. He heard more screams, followed by the pop and whistle of another grenade being launched. The explosion must have landed closer to the house, because once again the walls shuddered and the smell of smoke and flames was more pungent. It was only the size of the place keeping him and Omar alive in the study.

As the lights died around the house, another eruption of gunfire filled the air. The large-caliber shells being fired from behind the shield of the door fairly ripped apart the remaining Triple C soldiers who hadn't been killed by the second grenade. The bodies of the dead or wounded, he'd never know which was which, were also riddled with stray gunfire as if the cop wanted to make sure they didn't get up.

Jesus! Lamonte stumbled into the room. Theo! We need to get you out of here! That grenade took out all our guys on the roof.

Suddenly, the gunfire stopped and Othello ran to the window. He saw that the driver had retreated into the cabin of the truck and was gunning the engine once more. The wheels spun in place, smoking up the driveway with the stench of burnt rubber. The bullet killed the lights outside, but one of the truck's headlights remained and it glared into the house like a searching eye.

Fuck this! Othello growled and stomped to the front door. He wasn't going to wait for the crazy son of a bitch to come back at him. Flinging the door open, he stood beneath the portico and started shooting at the windscreen. The bullets of his .457 exploded out of the magnum, killing the headlight and what remained of the frosted glass.

Your sister was such a good thing to fuck! Othello screamed at the truck. You should have heard her howl! She was begging for more by the time we were done!

The wheels continued to spin even after the windscreen was gone. Through the darkness, he tried to see the driver but there didn't seem to be anybody at the wheel. 'What the fuck?' Othello thought. Where was the war hero?

He had no sooner asked the question when suddenly the truck lurched forward, the wheels creating a loud screech before the vehicle roared ahead, quickly escaping the driveway and ruining the manicured lawn. Othello squinted, trying to see who was driving, but as the truck rumbled towards the walkway leading up the porch, he was driven backwards into the house.

Run! he shouted, seconds before the truck smashed through the front porch, crashing through columns and bringing down the balcony. Masonry and wood clattered against the huge cement truck as it became wedged in the ruined doorway and buckled the walls against the study. The grill stopped short of the staircase upstairs.

Carlo and Meacham, the last of his soldiers still standing, appeared then, coming through the kitchen. They were farthest out and thus had been spared the death that had come to the others on the front lawn. They opened fire, bathing the cabin with a murderous barrage of artillery. They maintained the relentless assault for what seemed an eternity, covering the already dented front of the truck with so many holes that the engine was no longer running. It died with a pitiful final roar diminishing into a weak rumble before stopping entirely.

Is he fucking dead? Omar stepped forward, making sure that Othello was behind him as he, Carlo and Meacham closed in.

If he ain't dead, Carlo snorted, he'd be wishing he was right about now.

Meacham, one of the few Caucasians in the Triple C, approached the driver's door first, nodding at Carlo to cover him as he pulled it open. The bullet-riddled door swung open and Meacham peered in, expecting to find a body just as ruined as the truck, but instead the cabin was empty with a baseball wedged against the accelerator.

Another loud bang was heard and the last thing Meacham saw before the truck exploded, taking him, Carlo and Omar with it, was the man standing on the walk to the house with the grenade launcher.

Othello started running as soon as he heard the sound of the weapon discharging. He tried to warn Omar and Lamonte, but there wasn't enough time. The fireball swept through the house, and he took comfort in the fact that Omar probably died instantly. Lamonte was not so lucky. The last thing Othello saw of his cousin as he flung himself through the window was the fire sweeping over Lamonte, bathing him in flames.

He landed on the grass outside, scrambling backwards as he saw Lamonte thrashing desperately, his entire body consumed by fire. His screams were barely audible through the roar of the flames. Othello gagged when he realized the stench he was breathing in was Lamonte's cooking flesh.

LAMONTE!

There were tears in his eyes, not just from the smoke, but from seeing his house, the one he'd had built specially for Mona and the kids, crumbling before his eyes. The lawn, which he so enjoyed walking across with his bare feet, was covered in debris from the explosions and the pieces of men who were once his friends.

By now Lamonte tumbled to the ground, disappearing in the blaze. The fire was out of control and the heat so intense Othello was unable to stay where he was. Backing away, he got up when something moved into the edge of his vision. Still clutching his gun, he whirled around sharply only to cry out in pain when a boot caught him in the jaw. Reeling, he fell back on the grass and tried to raise his hand only to find the same boot driving his wrist into the ground, forcing him to relinquish his hold of the weapon.

FUCK YOU! Othello cursed through broken fragments of teeth.

He was answered by the butt of a rifle, this one shattering his nose. Othello uttered a scream, one hand flying to his face as the pain flared across his skull and warm blood flowed down his lips and chin. He opened his eyes to look and saw the same gun, now flipped over, the barrel held poised over his forehead.

Come on, war hero. Othello laughed bitterly as he stared into the cop's face. Do it! Pull the trigger! Ain't gonna bring your bitch sister back, is it?

The cop shifted the barrel of the gun away from his forehead and fired.

Othello screamed as the single bullet tore into his shoulder. He collapsed on the grass as the pain tore through him. He didn't have time to recover because no sooner had one shot stopped ringing in his head than another shot discharged and he was screaming again. His knee shattered under the force of the bullet and he lay on the grass, writhing.

Panting hard, trying to regain some measure of dignity despite his pain, he glared at the cop with hate-filled eyes. Just do it! You fucking coward! Get it over with!

The cop, the war hero, stared at him with dark eyes. There was no trace of grief, no sign of the fury precipitating this night of carnage; just dead, dark eyes boring into him like he was already a ghost. Reaching into his long coat, he retrieved a plastic bottle and began squirting its contents at Othello.

The stuff smelled and it burned.

What the fuck! Othello glared at him and realized what he was being doused with.

It was acetone.

Fuck you, war hero! the leader of the Triple C screamed as his final fate dawned on him. I'm glad I fucked your sister! Glad I sent her to you in a doggy bag! he ranted as the cop emptied the bottle's contents all over him.

The cop reacted to none of this except to toss the bottle aside when he was done.

Go to hell! he shouted when he saw the matches in the cop's hand.

Probably will. John Hunter spoke for the first time. But not before I make a stop in Gary, Indiana. You know where that is, don't you?

Othello froze.

Jesus! Mona and the kids!

He opened his mouth to plead, but he never got a chance as the war hero flicked one of the matches to life and tossed it at him.

After that, he was beyond thinking about anything.

II 

After the Plague

The night was deadly silent.

The road it overlooked was even more so.

There was a time when this road was an artery clogged with holiday makers, truck drivers and just plain ordinary folk, a community of travelers moving from one place to another in a seemingly endless cycle. In those days the highway was seldom dark. There would always be street lights bouncing off the tar surface and headlights crisscrossing the night. Sometimes, it would come from parked campervans pulled up along the road or from the truck stops along the way. Even the windblown dust glistened under the streetlights or the moon, sparkling like fireflies.

In those days, the highway was a living thing, the circulatory system of the great American landscape. This was Route 50 and its main purpose was to take travelers across the Rockies into Washington State and then farther north to Canada. These days, only the tall redwoods that flanked the winding passageway of tar and rock remembered that glorious past.

In the darkness, their majesty felt imposing instead of inspiring, like an ever-looming black tide, threatening to overtake the lingering remnants of civilization. In some ways, it was almost poetic. For centuries, man had ploughed his way through the land, laying waste to everything in the name of progress.

Now, he was the endangered species.

The end of human civilization had been inevitable since the turn of the millennium.

Now pockets of humans gathered in small communities to protect themselves, like tribes in the Stone Age. Some survived and thrived, most did not. The need to be led after two thousand years of bureaucracy drove many to flock to charismatic men who promised safety and order in exchange for allegiance. The results were mixed, and warlords with delusions of grandeur began to appear too frequently where large groups of humans gathered.

Hunter had seen enough of this in the past year and wanted no part of any of it.

As he drove down the winding highway, the roar of his Harley Davidson motorcycle seemed out of place in the stillness of the night. The single headlight cut through the darkness on this open and forgotten highway, and it struck him then that he could not recall the last time he had seen another human being.

The Canadian border was about a day away, and he knew he could make it all the way to Samish without stopping. The Harley had been the only thing on the road and he had a full tank of gas. Besides, he did not know the area and saw little to recommend stopping. If the last two years had taught him anything, it was the wisdom of selecting a good place to bunk down for the night. With the supplies he had on his cycle, he was an attractive target to anyone who had less.

These days, it was every man for himself.

* * *

Once upon a time, John Francis Hunter was a war hero.

He enlisted in the army straight out of high school because in those days, people still believed wars could be won. Leaving behind his middle-class family, with parents and a baby sister who was still riding a bike with training wheels, he was an ocean away before he realized how completely wrong he was.

Not since the Vietnam War had the stakes been so unclear, with alliances shifting constantly and tin pot dictators jockeying for position with neighboring governments to destabilize the region even further. Each superpower seemed hell-bent on disrupting the other's interest in the area with little ground gained by anyone.

Whatever the reasons for the war, it mattered little to the young soldier he had been. He took an oath and would serve his country. There was plenty of time for his idealism to disintegrate into apathy. He started out in the infantry, and it wasn't long before Hunter impressed his commanders enough to be recommended for Special Forces training. Once there, he performed every morally ambiguous thing they asked him of him, carrying out assassinations, destroying insurgent strongholds, carrying black ops behind enemy lines, and burying more dead comrades then he'd care to count.

Three years after he left home, Hunter began receiving letters from his sister, Sydney. She was seven years his junior and only thirteen when she started writing to him. Accustomed to emails from his mother and father, Hunter remembered the shit he put up with the first time a pink, strawberry-scented envelope was delivered to him. Sydney, who had been a freckle-face little girl in ponytails the last time he saw her, was now a teenager wanting a relationship with her barely remembered older brother.

She wrote frequently and never seemed to mind that he did not keep up with her correspondence. In an age of social media, Sydney appeared to be the only teenager in America who actually wrote letters on stationery. When he asked her about it, she wrote back telling him that a letter was something personal. Emails couldn't show him how much her handwriting had improved or let him see the teardrops against the ink when she wrote him about a bad breakup.

He could have done without the details of her first period, though.

Still, she was right because when the burden of what he was doing became too much to bear, Hunter could read those letters and be reminded that there was purpose to what he did. If he had to get his hands dirty making the world safe for her, he could live with that. Without realizing it, her teenage musings kept him from completely disconnecting from the world.

He came home two years before the Plague.

During a mission to free a group of civilian hostages, Hunter took two slugs to the chest and lost half his team. Even though they completed the rescue, it was enough to take him out of the war indefinitely. Sent home for his convalescence, Hunter was in a VA hospital when he learned that a drunk driver had taken out his parents. The first time he saw Sydney face to face since he'd left home, he had to console her over their shared loss. He promised her that everything would be okay. He would take care of her.

And then he utterly failed her.

* * *

The Plague began with a group of gangbangers,