Never Anger an Apex Predator

By Guerdon Monroe

About the Book
In a long abandoned hydraulic diggings, three lifelong friends dispose of the last bit of evidence tying them to the previous year’s assassination attempts and cold-blooded murders. Benjamin (Whit) Whittingham, Greyson (Grey) Milner, and Ned (Abe) Penrose survived but at a great cost. Ned’s new love, Allyson Chandler, bled out due to a killer’s stiletto. Grey’s volatile girlfriend, Veronica Sanchez, simply disappears. Whit’s, Katelyn Summers, recoiled in shock when she learned of his violent methods of revenge. She walked out of his life. The sole consolation for Whit, Grey, and Ned, after eighteen months of hell, they still had each other. Whit tried to forget his Kate, but time only made life without her pure anguish. He embarked in an all-out effort to find her. Unfortunately, at the same time, old enemies and new ones made other plans for Benjamin Whittingham. They joined forces to make sure Whit never turned forty-two. Whit quickly realizes, with humans, as in nature, never anger an apex predator.

About the Author
Guerdon Monroe retired after 44 years of working in the forests of Northern California. Mr. Monroe continues to participate in numerous appointed positions on county boards, councils, commissions, and special districts. He spends his free time fly-fishing in Alaska and Montana, bird hunting in Nevada and South Dakota, restoring Goldrush and Comstock era cabins, and vacationing in Kauai with his life-long friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Mar 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887296555

Book preview

Chapter 1

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Obsession

In early 1990, Katelyn Summers—the assertive, big city, east coast, liberal journalist—fell head over heels. She crossed paths with Benjamin (Whit) Whittingham—a small town, west coast, conservative biologist. They met at…of all places…a formal function at a Kennedy mansion. Sensing at best, someone completely out of his element or, at worst, a party crasher, Katelyn pounced. Their volatile initial encounter quickly subsided, then slowly grew into an intense sexual attraction. Whit and Kate’s evening ended in a passionate and nearly sleepless one-night affair.

Diametric opposites, Whit and Katelyn grew up in worlds as different as night and day…north and south…Mars and Venus. Yet, the power of their love fused them together with molten intensity. Katelyn quit her job, left her previous life behind, and followed Whit to northern California. Nothing could pierce their profound physical and emotional bond. Nothing except, as it turned out, one dark flaw in Whit’s character. Unfortunately, it took less than eighteen months for that defect to surface. Whit’s deep-seated personal sense of right and wrong and potential to viciously and lawlessly strike back when harmed crossed the line. Ironically, Whit lost his Kate—not for lying about what he did, but rather for telling the truth. Katelyn asked Whit—more like pleaded with him—to come clean about any involvement in some recent violent deaths. She recoiled at what Whit revealed. Shocked and sickened, Katelyn couldn’t accept her lover’s savage actions. She walked out of Whit’s life.

Katelyn returned to the Beltway to collect her possessions. She met for lunch with her friend, the senior reporter for Progressive Politics, Sharron Jensen.

Over mimosas, Sharron asked warily, So, you’re not coming back to work? Because you’re not getting your congressional reporter job back. It’s mine now, period.

No, I can’t go back after…I don’t know, being on the other side, I guess.

Surprised, Sharron prodded, Your big hunk Reptilican turned you that fast? But he’s out of the picture now, right?

Yes…no, I, I don’t know. Katelyn shook her head and looked away.

Sharron’s reporter instincts told her not to respond. Let Katelyn stew, collect her thoughts, allow time for the tasty morsels to boil up to the surface.

Katelyn slowly turned back to Sharron with watery eyes and let it fly, Sharron, I can’t stop thinking about him, he’s just so, so- She stopped herself and looked down. Quietly, she added, He crossed the line, Sharron…went too far…reacted as violently as the killers chasing him.

Ah, I was right…juicy stuff. What did your lover-boy do, pray tell? I want the dirt. Sharron put a hand on Katelyn’s and squeezed softly. She replied, I’m here for you. I’ll help you anyway I can. I just need some…context. Maybe if you go back to the beginning and get me up to speed.

Katelyn shook her head, I can’t, Sharron; it’s bad, really bad. Whit could go back to prison for good.

Back to prison? Damn it! He’s dangerous, volatile, and a hunk. I am seriously jealous. Okay, ace reporter…get the story. Just get her talking. Sharron tried another tactic. "Sure, I get it. How about just an outline, no particulars."

Katelyn thought a bit, then decided a summary would be okay. I need to talk to someone. If I can’t trust Sharron…

Over the next fifteen minutes, Sharron never uttered a word—riveted by what she’d heard. When Katelyn finished, Sharron inquired, So, at first this crazy ex-friend of Whit’s just tried to ruin his and his buddy’s lives?

Katelyn nodded, so Sharron continued, Failing at destroying their lives, he doubles down? He decides to kill them?

Katelyn nodded again, then added, I was with Whit and his buddy, Grey, at the hit attempt at Whit’s cabin. They nearly killed me too.

Sharron nodded, That’s when your Whit went all out berserko?

Katelyn shook her head sideways, As I look back, I think Whit had already started looking for them. He retains a fierce loyalty to his friends. I’m almost certain Whit decided early on to go after whoever almost killed one of his closest friends and left another one permanently injured. I also now know that Whit lied to me at first. Once he found them, he was never going to the police.

Sharron thought, Holy shit, I’m warming up to this take-charge ex-love machine of Katelyn’s. Why can’t I find someone like this Whittingham guy? Sharron asked, So, what did your stud do?

Katelyn shook her head again, and said, You’ll have to wait for the book.

Book, what book?

Katelyn replied, You know, before I left my reporter’s job, I wrote those two short stories about Beltway intrigue and romance?

Sharron nodded, Yes, author Sam Lund…interesting penname. You laid waste to ambitious powerful men and how they use women. I liked how their women got even. Sharron sincerely added, Both good books.

Katelyn continued, Well, my publicist pushed both books pretty hard. They’re doing well and he urged me to go big time. My, uh, experience recently in California reads like a novel—love, murder, betrayal, revenge, redemption, tragedy—it’s all there. I jotted down a quick outline then banged it out. It flowed as fast as my fingers could type. It’s edited and went to print last week. I’m sticking around until tomorrow to meet with the press and hand out pre-release copies.

Sharron asked, So, you’re not staying in town?

No, I’m moving to Enfield, Connecticut.

Surprised, Sharron raised her hands, Why Enfield?

Katelyn shrugged, I don’t know. I need to go somewhere. It’s relatively small but with all the amenities. Besides, it’s close to Hartford. Tad, my publicist, works from there.

Sharron sensed something. Um, do I detect a little romantic interest?

Katelyn looked surprised, My publicist? No.

Sharron again patiently waited. Finally, Katelyn explained. Well, Tad’s a bit younger but very handsome. He’s attentive, and he promoted my first two books very well. I know he’s interested in me. But…I don’t know, Sharron. Maybe, maybe when I’m ready.

Sharron smirked, That’s a long clarification after just…no.

Katelyn changed the subject. I’ve already rented a condo and will be moved there by the end of the week. But, if you don’t mind, I’ll still need a contact here…at least for a while.

Sharron’s cat eyes sparkled. Sure sweetheart…anything for a friend. You can also send the Reptilican or your handsome publicist my way anytime.

Chapter 2

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Last piece of evidence

Adjacent to the deep, blue pond near the center of a large hydraulic diggings, three lifelong friends systematically worked in the setting sun. Long, early spring shadows crept across the reddish dunes. They needed to remove the battery and all the fluids from the year-old, 1990 gray Ford F150 as quickly as possible. No one boosted the truck, and they weren’t stripping it for parts. The vehicle simply needed to disappear. Two professional hitmen had rented the truck in Reno. They drove to the small Northern California mining town of Cedar Creek to kill. Their mission failed; their victims survived. Those survivors, Ned Abe Penrose, Greyson Grey Milner, and Benjamin Whit Whittingham continued to diligently drain, siphon, and collect every drop of liquid stored in the pickup’s sealed reservoirs.

Over time, Ned, Grey, and Whit’s childhood friend, Jonathan Neuton developed a narcissistic and downright mean attitude toward kids he viewed as lesser or inferior. The three drifted apart from their once close friend. By the end of their senior year, outcast Neuton loathed his onetime close buddies. He moved away and eventually changed his name to Steven Sliger. Decades later, his seething hatred and sense of betrayal persisted. Wealthy and powerful, Sliger decided to use his money, influence, and network of subordinates to secretly turn the table, seek revenge, get even…with interest. When destroying the livelihoods of his old friends failed, he turned to a more permanent solution. He hired hitmen.

One of the killers, Lamar Jackson, bled out due to two quick pistol shots from a 9mm. One bullet exploded a jugular; the other partly severed his spine. His body died before it hit the floor. Lamar now lay slowly rotting away in cold, damp, darkness—not a half-mile away from where his life ended. The targets he tried to kill dumped his nearly bloodless body down a long ago abandoned mine shaft. After 20 years of solitude, the bones of the only other occupant at the bottom of that pit silently received a roommate. Killer number two, Donnie Sloane—also shot in the neck—barely survived. Agents from an unidentified and obscure Federal agency arrived to whisk Donnie away quickly and quietly. Strictly illegal for the CIA to conduct any operations within the US, the spy agency adamantly denied the existence of any domestic covert cells. However, somewhere someone authorized violating the constitutional rights of targeted criminals. The secretive group of federal agents dispensed justice using the same morals, values, and ethics as the bad guys. An eye for an eye, or as they say out west…shoot, shovel, and shut up.

Organic gardener and farm supply owner Greyson Milner placed a three-gallon bucket under the radiator to empty the greenish liquid. Grey’s short- fused ex-lover, federal agent Veronica Sanchez, saved Grey during the first assassination attempt. Against his better judgement, assassin Donnie Sloane acquiesced and allowed his rookie partner, Lamar Jackson, the chance to pull off the hit…alone. Lamar seriously underestimated Veronica Sanchez and botched the shooting. Veronica paid the assassin back far more successfully a few weeks later.

Stationery store owner, Ned Penrose—Abe to his buddies—rested his cane against the truck’s left front fender. He leaned under the Ford F-150’s hood carefully unbolting the battery. Ned’s cane and unstable gait were the result of Sliger’s second assassination attempt. Sliger’s arrogant and sadistic son, Lance, convinced his father he could eliminate Ned by staging his death as a suicide. Lance pitifully failed, but oxygen deprivation left Ned permanently disabled.

Biologist and licensed forester, Benjamin Whittingham’s legs stuck out from under the truck’s passenger door. Motor oil and transmission fluid dripped into wide flat pans near his head. Deeply troubled at the damaging events occurring to him and his buddies, that anguish turned to rage after the assassination attempts on his lifelong friends. To find the mastermind, Whit matched his enemies and took a no mercy approach toward anyone involved.

Ned looked down through the engine compartment and asked, Hey Whit, how again did you know where to find the truck?

While replacing the plug to the oil pan, Whit explained, After Doc Conte gave Donnie Sloane a direct transfusion from Grey’s bat-shit looney girlfriend, he came to briefly. I asked-.

Veronica likes being called V, Grey cut in, but unlike you, I would never call her bat-shit looney to her face. I called her crazy once, and she damn near crushed my Adam’s apple.

Ned broke in, I told you she was trouble when you hit up on her at Pete’s Place. Do you ever listen to me, Grey? No.

No one spoke until Ned raised his voice, God damn it, Grey; you did it again. I asked Whit a question and before he answered, you butted in and changed the subject.

I’m just providing insight and depth, Abe. Besides, if Whit ever answered in a timely fashion, I wouldn’t be able to interrupt.

Pointing his wrench, Ned shot back, Bullshit, Milner; you always just blurt out whatever pops into your head and get us off track. Like now.

After a pause, Ned continued, And now, since you’ve gotten us off on a tangent, I want to know why V gave that hit man a transfusion. Christ, she shot Donnie in the first place after killing his partner; then she gives him a transfusion? I don’t get it!

Smiling at how easily he could get Ned flustered and off track, Grey replied, After Whit pointed out to V that Donnie retained valuable information crucial to the Feds…and to us…she calmed down. The Feds needed dirt to bust Donnie’s employer—crime boss Johnny Ramelli—and we still didn’t know who asked Ramelli to send the two professionals to kill us.

Whit raised his voice. Girls, can you please try to work and gossip at the same time? How about we get back to Ned’s original question…while working?

Grey glanced toward Ned, rolled his eyes, and silently mouthed, "Who made Whit king?"

Whit didn’t hear any response but knew something derogatory had transpired aimed his way. From under the truck, Whit leaned over and smacked his crescent wrench down on top of Grey’s closest boot.

Ouch! Grey leaped back then kicked dirt under the truck. Jesus, Whittingham, that hurt.

Ned chuckled, but his expression quickly turned to concern. He jumped back as Whit’s wrench slapped the dirt, just missing Ned’s boot.

Ned leaned over and asked, half in jest and half seriously, Christ, Whittingham, what makes you so damn mean?

Whit ignored Ned’s current question and returned to answer his previous one. With Grey’s bat-shit looney girlfriend’s blood, Donnie came to briefly. I asked him if he hid the truck within a mile or two from my cabin. He just stared. I asked, within three miles…and he blinked slowly. It took me two days to find it. I left it there all fall and winter to allow this whole murderous episode to fade away. But I can’t risk that truck being accidentally found so close to my cabin. A renewed investigation including cadaver dogs would screw me but good. Therefore, the need for this truck’s watery internment today.

Ned nodded slowly, then said almost to himself, Then this truck represents the last bit of physical evidence that those two hitmen ever existed.

As Whit squirmed toward the front differential, he thought, plus your cane and unstable gait, Abe. Whit replied, Yep, unless out there somewhere, Donnie Sloane still has a heartbeat. A cold-blooded killer for sure…but smart. I’m sure the Feds used him, and that’s why mobster Ramelli sits in prison.

Returning to the work at hand, Whit asked, Hey, either one of you two slugs think you can get the rear end while I drain the front end?

Hell, no. Greyson Milner admonished. Not after you attacked me. Besides, Abe and I are still relatively clean, while quite frankly, you are not. We want to throw back a few at Pete’s Place tonight when we’re done and don’t want to look like grease monkeys. Furthermore, you can clean up and change at your cabin on the way.

Fine, you prissy bastards, Whit answered sarcastically, then asked, Can you at least kick me that paint can near you and toss the other one under the pickup bed?

Anything for a buddy, as long as I stay clean. Grey pushed one empty can toward Whit.

Thinking of a more recent unresolved issue, Grey broke the silence and addressed another taboo. Whit, when are you finally going to open up and let us know about Katelyn?

Ned glared at Grey and quietly hissed, Let it go, Milner.

Ignoring Ned, Grey pushed on. Come on, Whittingham; the last time you went back east to visit Mikie and Janet, did you find Katelyn?

Flat on his back, under the assassin’s pickup, Whit stopped working. Damn. Grey’s question jabbed his chest like a violent blow to his solar plexus. Did I find Katelyn? Whit exhaled hard. Hell, yes, I found her. Whit dropped his hands and lowered his head to the ground. For a while, he just stared at the truck’s undercarriage. Slowly, he closed his eyes.

Chapter 3

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The perfect recruit

Sara Reveen grew up smack dab in the middle of concrete, steel and asphalt. Her parents owned a large older home in northwest San Francisco, near the intersection of 32nd and Pacheco. With Sara’s mother and father both working for local government, their dual incomes provided their only child a not-for-want, middle-class lifestyle.

At twelve, Sara’s progressive schooling included graphic sex education. The course and simple math confirmed that Sara was, in fact, an oops. Her parents wed in February 1968; Sara popped into the world in August… of the same year. When confronted, her parents decided to reveal everything, be totally honest…well, to a point.

Sara’s father, a New Yorker, and her mom, from Newark, New Jersey, met at an anti-Vietnam War rally in Washington DC. They decided to tune out society, drop out of college, and trip out as they hitched their way to San Francisco. Both desired the carefree, peaceful lifestyle they believed ‘the city of love’ offered. As best as they can figure, sperm met egg somewhere in between Battle Mountain and Winnemucca, Nevada. Hopping into a car carrier on a long freight train leaving Elko, they rolled out greasy sleeping bags in the bed of a one-ton flatbed. Both desperately needed a hot shower and a laundromat. To celebrate renting a room when they reached Reno, they engaged in a high desert, open-air, doggie-style quickie. Their impulsive act taught the guilt ridden, pseudo-Catholics a valuable life lesson. Pushing the limit of the luteal phase of pre-ovulatory infertility inadvertently complicated their stress-free ‘summer of love’. In other words, the rhythm method sucks.

Running low on funds, both eventually called their parents. Forced to reveal dropping out of school, hitching their way to the west coast and engaging in unprotected sex with the obvious result, major shit hit the fan. Shocked, embarrassed and more than a tad angry, both parents abruptly curtailed all financial assistance. Their choices and lack of candor left them parentless and penniless. The easy, laid-back, anti-establishment, groovy summer of love quickly evolved into a struggle to survive. Minimum wage jobs at tie-dye stores and incense shops left them barely clothed, sheltered and fed. With little Sara’s impending arrival and even less income and additional costs forthcoming, the hapless parents faced a dire future. Sara’s dad broke rank and reentered society first. He luckily picked up a parks and recreation job with the city. Money, a nice home, and a little security trumped ideology. After Sara turned two, her mom followed suit and took a county job in social services. Not accepting or admitting hypocrisy, they retained their liberal views… just in vastly more comfortable environs.

Sara grew up with no brothers or sisters. Bright but somewhat a loner, slender, dark-haired Sara enjoyed solitude. Her tomboy short dark hair, dark eyebrows over similarly dark eyes, and tiny nose and chin gave Sara an interesting dichotomous appearance—alluring with a petite kind of pretty to some, cute but mousy and off-putting to others. Sara’s somewhat unapproachable aloofness definitely fit both scenarios. Listening to and observing nature’s wildlife became her respite from the chatter, smell, and clutter of city life. To escape, she often traversed the eight blocks of traffic north to Golden Gate Park. Sara felt the most tranquil and connected while meandering along the tree-canopied walkways. She loved nature…well, an urban park’s best effort.

No surprise to her parents, their nearly 4.0 grade point daughter chose higher education at Humboldt State in Eureka, California. Four years later, on a foggy morning in the spring of 1990, Sara graduated with an Environmental Science degree. On that dreary, damp, gray day, Sara vowed to dedicate her life to save Mother Nature’s dwindling wildlife. A true believer, Sara jumped at the chance to work for CBI, the Center for Biological Integrity. She set up rallies, marches, and sit-ins. She prepared and distributed petitions and authored stinging rejections to environmental impact reports. Yet the planet continued to die. Unrelenting forest destruction, rampant development, third world exploitation, slash and burn agriculture, all those damn farting cows and corporations using the oceans for their toilet never lessened. Even with mass extinction on the horizon, the insane suicidal love affair with coal, oil and natural gas continued. In Sara’s mind, no matter what she and others did, the merciless suffocation of the planet proceeded unabated. Lawsuits sometimes forced mitigations…but, more often than not, only seemed to slow down the inevitable projects. Not a lawyer and loathing the slow judicial process, Sara wanted, demanded, screamed for more instant results. She viewed herself as a nature warrior, running out of time to protect all living organisms devoid of a voice.

After eighteen frustrating months, Sara began venting her anger and disappointment. She became increasingly vocal about a militant shift. Peaceful resistance wasted time, and time was running out. She pushed for direct intervention, sabotage, physical attacks targeting the worst industries and the foulest capitalist pigs. Sara’s radical views began seeping from her work to the press. Some tied her remarks to CBI as new policy. Dakota Webber, CBI’s CEO, knew Sara well and enjoyed her… participation as part of the team… and more. Their on and off again trysts, whenever Dakota’s wife dashed off to this or that crusade, added another perk for the man at the top. But he needed to quell Sara’s increasingly anarchistic views from the public, his board members, the press, and especially big donors. But how? He couldn’t fire her or risk censoring her work. No; you never know how a stilted lover will react. Not that he really gave a crap if his wife found out about the affair…he retained good intel that his wife diddled on the side, too. The real problem came right from his mouth. Like a dope, during intimate moments, Dakota revealed to Sara some of the Center’s less-than-ethical fundraising tactics. A tabloid-type blowup and other bad press could hurt his rather lucrative position and quite possibly force him out. He doubted Sara would cross him, cared about inappropriate tactics or would back stab the cause, but with…the other woman, do you ever really know? He needed a government-type solution for Sara, to advance her career, promote her upward… far, far away. Dakota Webber felt he had the right contact to do just that and made the call.

Earth Wild, this is Harmony. How may I direct your call?

Dakota Webber for Ms. Waxman.

Of course, Mr. Webber. She just returned from court. Let me try her office.

Curious, Dakota asked, Which case?

"One of our redwood warriors on the north coast fell out of a tree and broke her back. Allegedly, she didn’t stay