I arrived for my meeting with Zac Hunter fifteen minutes early, only to find that he was already there. The bar was gloomy and sparsely populated, and he’d snagged himself a spot in a corner, alongside the jukebox, his back to the wall, a clear line of sight to both the front and rear exits. As I approached, I could tell that he was in good shape – his shoulders were broad, and his black t-shirt was stretched tight over a muscular chest. A pitcher of beer and two glasses sat on the table in front of him. One of the glasses was half full, the other was empty.
“Hey,” he said, as I pulled up a chair, his eyes flicking briefly over my left shoulder before settling on my face. “Drink?”
“Sure,” I nodded, as he reached for the empty glass and filled it to the brim. Truth be told, I didn’t usually partake this early in the day, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.
“Thanks for meeting with me,” I began, looking to put him at ease with some of my patented small talk.
“What do you want to know?” he responded, his expression stoic. So much for the small talk.
“How about we start at the beginning – with your childhood?”
He stretched his large frame back in the chair, the pose designed to look relaxed, although I sensed he was ready for anything the world might throw at him. Talk about a coiled spring.
“My childhood, huh? Not much to tell. I was raised by my mother. She went when I was seventeen. Cancer. I never knew my father. He checked out at a diner when two kids decided to rob the joint. Gunshot wound to the chest.”
“That must have been hard for you? Losing both parents at a young age?”
Hunter shrugged. “You play the hand you’re dealt.”
“And were your father’s murderers ever caught?”
“Nope.”
“And that’s what prompted you to become a cop?”
“I signed up as soon as I could. Served my time on the streets. Aced the detective’s exam. Went to work. L.A.’s a dirty town. Someone’s gotta clean it up.”
“And you were making a good job of it. You had one of the best arrest records in the city…”
“I did what I could.”
“Until you got fired?”
His eyes bored into me with a ferocious intensity, and for a moment I felt like one of the many criminals he’d apprehended over the years.
“Yeah, I got shitcanned. I beat up on one scumbag too many. The review board called it use of excessive force right before they showed me the door.”
“So what are your thoughts on suspects’ rights?”
“Define suspects,” he growled, reaching for his beer, then continuing before I had a chance to answer. “See, when you’re a cop, there’s two kinds of suspects – there’s those that you think might be guilty, so you investigate them – you look for evidence to prove or disprove your theory.”
“And the second kind?”
“The second kind were born guilty. Every second they walk free they’re a danger to society. You do whatever it takes to bring them down.”
“Whatever it takes? That kind of outlook must have caused you to cross swords with Internal Affairs once in a while?”
“Look buddy, I never punched out anyone who didn’t deserve it,” he said, the muscles bunching in his forearms. “Sure, I’ve side stepped a few laws in my time, but always for the greater good. Lives were at stake. When the accused is a drug pushing, smut peddling, child murdering, homicidal maniac, his rights don’t count for a whole lot of much in my book. What about the victim’s rights? Somewhere along the way society seems to have forgotten them.”
“So where do you go from here? Now that police work’s been taken away from you?”
“Badge or no badge, I can still make a difference. There are plenty of scumbags to go around.”
“So you’re a licensed P.I. now?”
“In a manner of speaking…”
“What does that mean?”
“Call me a concerned citizen with a gun. If someone’s been the victim of a crime and they come to me for help, then I’ll see what I can do. I don’t need a licence for that…I’ve had my fill of rules and regulations already…”
With that, Hunter drained his glass in one long pull then rose from the table.
“I gotta get going. Been good talking to you.”
“Maybe we can hook up again some time?” I suggested, as his long strides ate up the distance to the door. “I’d love to hear more about your ‘freelance’ work?”
“Maybe,” he called over his shoulder. “But next time, you’re buying.”
Viktor Danilov has killed more people than he cared to remember, in more ways than he cared to describe, and while he doesn’t take any pleasure from murder, he doesn’t take any pain either. For Danilov, death is just a way of life.
Deserted by his good-for-nothing parents at an early age, two losers who’d had more love for the bottle than they’d had for him, he grew up hard on the back streets of Moscow, running with a street gang of other luckless urchins, fighting to survive. It was here that he recognised a self-truth that was to change his life – killing came easy to him. No spark of remorse, no twinge of guilt, no sick feeling in the pit of his stomach – he just didn’t care – and it was this ambivalence to death that helped him become a world-class assassin for the Russian mob. But when the Red Mafia expanded into the US, things turned sour for Danilov, and he’s now on the run from his former employees.
Danilov has a thin, wiry frame, his head is clean-shaven, his face is gaunt, and his eyes are like chips of Siberian ice. He has hammer and sickle tattoos, one on the back of each hand, the hammer marking the occasion of his hundredth shooting, the sickle his hundredth knife kill. The sickle came first, as he’s always favoured the close-in work. His life, which he once ruled with iron-fisted precision, has suddenly spun out of control, and he finds himself backed into a corner, which makes him more dangerous than ever. A word of advice – if you’re unlucky enough to see him coming your way, don’t cross the street, cross the state line.
Rebecca Finch is a high-powered defence attorney. A hotshot. A real go-getter. She’s at her best when she’s representing the dregs of society, and she’s happy to pull out all the stops to keep them on the streets. She’s a master of the holy trinity that was pounded into her at law school – procrastinate, obfuscate, and discredit – and she’s dedicated the whole of her adult life to her career.
Rebecca’s an attractive woman somewhere in her early thirties, with a slim, athletic build. When it comes to clothes, she’s a power dresser, favouring a black business suit with a crisp white blouse underneath. She ties her blond hair back in a neat ponytail, and has a pair of designer glasses perched on her freckled nose. The freckles make her look young and innocent. Truth is, she’s anything but.
Outside of work, she’s a loner – her home is a practical nunnery. Men are an unwelcome distraction from the case files she brings back from the office, and she can’t even remember her neighbour’s names. Her parents live on the other side of the country, and she hasn’t seen them in years. Her only real relationship is with her sister, Anabeth, who’s a one-woman cheerleading team for her legal endeavours. Rebecca Finch is all about the law. If you ever cross the line, and find yourself in need of legal representation, then be smart – give her a call.
Bud Carson is a cop from the old school – a shoot first, ask questions later kind of guy. The sort of detective that gets things done, and doesn’t worry about the ramifications of his actions until after the event. Actually, scratch that, a guy like Carson never wastes time worrying about the fallout. His kind gets results in the war on crime, because his kind knows that it is a war, and in a war, you don’t take any prisoners. But times are getting hard for cops like Carson. An ever-growing list of rules and regulations doesn’t sit well with him, and he’s starting to feel like he’s drowning in a sea of red tape. His whole career has been dedicated to capturing criminals, only for the so-called justice system to set them free.
He’s pushing sixty, with closely cropped salt and pepper hair that favours the salt, a weathered face with a slew of broken veins in his cheeks, and a steely blue gaze that grabs your attention and refuses to let go. His build is stocky, like that of a prize-fighter, but it’s hard to tell if he’s in good shape, as he swaddles himself in a knee-length blue coat that’s definitely seen better days.
He started out back in DC, but transferred to Los Angles after his first marriage fell apart. His wife said he was married to the department first, and her a distant second. A few years later he remarried, but wife number two didn’t last long either. You won’t hear him bleat about it though, as he’s got no time for ‘new age crap’ or men that are in touch with their feminine sides. Bud Carson wouldn’t cry if you crushed his nuts in a vice.
Bobby Ashton was born with a silver spoon up his ass. He’s the son of a successful Hollywood movie producer, who spends his time counting down the days until he inherits the family fortune. Bobby doesn’t actually do anything meaningful himself, and he’s got no plans to start anytime soon. Instead, he swaggers around with his film star good looks – high cheekbones, blue eyes, and long blond hair – annoying everyone in his path. If you ever met him, you’d soon realise that he was a royal pain in the ass. He’s elevated being arrogant to an art form, and he’ll piss you off in a way that only the super rich and super arrogant can ever hope to achieve.
But Bobby’s life has just got complicated, as he’s recently discovered that lengthy afternoon champagne binges and high-powered sports cars don’t mix. Having been charged with the vehicular manslaughter of a young child, Bobby’s about to have his big day in court, where he’ll be judged by twelve of his peers. And I used the word ‘peers’ in its widest possible sense – as far as I’m aware, none of the jurors have a multi millionaire for a father. Can Bobby buy his way out of this one? Only time will tell.