“I’ve got more than one bullet in this pistol.”
They looked scared, nervous. She indicated the burlap bags, where one was ripped and the corner of a kilo brick stuck out. The paper wrapping was torn, revealing marijuana. “You’re carrying grass, not coke or heroin. Think about it.”
The gun carrier tensed and Hunter said, “You even breathe funny, I’ll drop you. And if your two friends flinch, I’ll drop them too.”
He looked at her and knew she meant it. Those eyes...
Hunter recognized the tattoo on the gunman’s forearm and said, “Where’d you serve, Marine?”
It caught him off guard and he blinked, “Afghanistan.”
“More than once?”
“Two tours. Had to come back when a roadside IED blew us up.” He was lost in thought for a few seconds, “Lost all my friends…”
“What’s your name?”
“Tom.”
“Well, Tom, you need to decide what you’re gonna do. I’m hoping a Marine, a war hero, will make the right choice. This here is just one small mistake in your life. It’s not your whole life. Understand?”
“If I shoot you-“
“You won’t.” She pointed at a small pin on her shirt pocket, “This is the first place medal for the State Combat Pistol Championship. I will kill you if you move that pistol.”
“You killed anybody before?”
“Just like this. He never got off a shot, and he was as good as they get.” She was ready, and adrenaline surged into her system like it was coming from a fire hose. Tom made her angry, too, for putting them in this situation. She said, “Hands up right now or I shoot.”
“Wait,”
“Up!”
Tom raised his hands and laced his fingers behind his head. Hunter said, “You two sit down right there. You move, I shoot.” She walked behind Tom, pulled the pistol out of his belt and stuffed it under hers, then cuffed his hands behind his back. “You did the right thing, Marine.”
Help arrived in fifteen minutes. They took the prisoners to Marfa, and Hunter did the paperwork as the other agents helped her with fingerprints and processing. It went quick, and Hunter drove home after eight hours, a rarity for her.
Hunter took a nap that afternoon, read some, and flipped channels on the television. She fixed the first screwdriver while watching the six o’clock news, and the second when it finished. She doubled the vodka in the third one and turned off the television. She felt morose, angry at everything. She drank the screwdriver and made another, already feeling the first ones.
She wanted to strike out at something, or someone and didn’t know why. Hunter rubbed the cold glass against her forehead.
***
The phone rang. Hunter picked it up, saw the caller ID showing Randall Ishtee.
Her thoughts flashed back to Randall and John Quick, the South Florida Homicide Detectives, when the three of them battled the huge, terrifying psychopath named Prendell Taylor. She shook off the black memory, picked up the phone and said, “Randall!”
“Hey beautiful, how’ve you been? I saw on the news where you stopped a terrorist attack there in Texas. Girl, you are awesome. I’m thinking of buying you a shirt with a big red S on it, and I’ll throw in a cape, too.”
She laughed, “How are you doing?”
“Good. John and I were wondering if you are ever gonna come back to Florida and hang out with us. We’ve got some leave we need to use or lose, and if you could get off, we thought we might do some fishing, some eating, some drinking, laying in the sun, swimming in the ocean, all that kind of stuff.”
“Heck yes. I’d love to! Let me call you back, I have to clear it with my Supervisor first.” She hung up, dialed the PAIC at home and asked if she could still take annual leave.
He said, “You mean like I told you to? Sure. What days?”
She told him the dates and he okayed them saying, “Enjoy this one, okay?”