Hot Property: A Joe Hunter Short Story Read online

  HOT PROPERTY

  A Joe Hunter Short Story

  Plus a Bonus Tale of Revenge

  By

  Matt Hilton

  HOT PROPERTY

  A Joe Hunter Short Story

  Plus a Bonus Tale of Revenge

  By

  Matt Hilton

  Published by Sempre Vigile Press

  Copyright © 2016 Matt Hilton

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover images © used under standard license.

  Background: Getty Images

  Figure: freedigitalphotos.net/Phiseksit

  Cover design © 2016 Matt Hilton

  Hot Property © 2013 Matt Hilton

  The Able Man© 2013 Matt Hilton

  Contents:

  Hot Property

  The Able Man

  Also by Matt Hilton

  HOT PROPERTY

  A Joe Hunter short story by Matt Hilton

  The sun sent chisels of light into my brain. I squinted, placing one hand to my forehead to stave off the harsh reflections. The sun was over my shoulder, a strategic position chosen so that those guarding the house wouldn’t spot me. The drawback being, the same glare that put anyone off paying attention to my hiding place was now causing me the same problem. Earlier when the sun was higher in the sky the windows had reflected only trees and the road on the opposite canyon wall.

  It was time to move.

  Staying low and slow, I made my way down a game trail cut into the forest, one eye on the rugged track, one on the large house across the way. I’d dressed for the terrain in browns and greens, but any sudden movement might catch the attention of an alert watcher. Earlier I’d noted one of the muscle-bound guards scanning the area around the large house through binoculars. On a happier note he could have been watching through a riflescope.

  The trail descended into the canyon. The trees that crowned the ridge thinned out as I progressed, and boulders and natural creases in the land became my choice of cover. Deeper down in the canyon the sun that played havoc moments ago was again my ally. Because of the lay of the land, the ridge now cast its inky shadow across my route. I’d be largely invisible, discounting any of the guards watching via thermal imaging technology. I doubted they’d go to such lengths, but you never could tell.

  The six Ps, Hunter, I reminded myself.

  During basic training as a soldier in Her Majesty’s armed services the concept of the ‘Six Ps’ was drilled into me. ‘Prior planning prevents a piss poor performance,’ a corporal had often reiterated. Wise words, but he was only partly correct. Over the subsequent years I’d learned that plans were transient and required constant rejigging dependent on the reactions of the enemy, or in this case my pernicious ally, the sun.

  A vehicle rolled by on the road above. Not unusual, because it was the main route towards a nearby lumberyard. The pitch of the engine changed as the driver dropped gears to power up an incline to the south. In that moment any observer at the house would probably glance towards the truck, and I used that moment of possible inattention to move across the canyon floor. When there was no call of alarm, I headed for the opposite slope.

  The house was above me now, and all I could see of it was the underbelly of the deck and its support stanchions. The deck protruded about twenty-five feet from the back of the house, offering leisure space unavailable on the steep canyon walls. Railings ran its full length and breadth, apart from at one corner where a short flight of wooden steps gave access to the space beneath. Windblown trash and forest litter had gathered there, not only spoiling the look of the multi-million dollar structure but also causing a fire hazard. Now and again I assumed one of the hired hands would go beneath the deck to tidy up, but that didn’t seem likely to happen now as evening approached. I began to climb the steep slope. Closer now I could make out the soft clop of boot heels on the wooden planks. I paused. As careful as I was, my feet had been dislodging loose pebbles and one of the guards might have heard.

  A spark arched through space.

  A smouldering cigarette hit the slope barely ten feet from me. So much for them worrying about fire hazards. I was tempted to go over and crush the ember underfoot. But didn’t. I merely waited until I heard the retreat of feet across the deck once more. I caught the soft hush of a sliding door opening, and beyond it the muted voices of TV land. I doubted it was Cara Michel who’d stepped out for a smoke, not without one of her ex-boyfriend’s men shadowing her every move.

  I’d come here to northern California at her parents’ request, the full breadth of a continent from my usual stomping grounds of Florida. Jacob and Harriet Michel had convinced me that their wayward daughter required liberating from her ex-boyfriend’s control, after they played me a recorded message begging them to help her come home. When I learned about Johnny Renard, and more pertinently about how he made his living, I couldn’t agree more. They’d agreed my asking fee, plus expenses, and I’d taken the job to repatriate Cara to her family home.

  The obvious would have been to call in local law enforcement, tell them that Cara was being held against her will, but on the occasion that the Michel’s had tried that strategy it failed. Police officers attending the billionaire’s home had found Cara reluctant to leave. She explained that her tearful call home had followed a fight with her boyfriend, and feeling fragile and home sick she had called her parents. But everything was okay, their fight over something stupid and of no consequence now. With no evidence of a crime the officers had no option but leave. Cara was an adult and capable of making up her own mind: supposing she wasn’t terrified of the consequences of running away from Renard. Harriet Michel had spoken to a girlfriend who Cara confided in, and learned that Renard had not only threatened her daughter, but also the lives of her and her husband if ever Cara left him.

  Johnny Renard was a work of art. And I mean that in its most contradictory, derogatory sense. At face value he might come across as a good-looking guy but it was an image made from a huge pile of steaming human excrement.

  He produced and directed porn movies, often playing the romantic lead.

  That in and of itself wasn’t enough to make him a bad guy. Each to their own, I say, though his was the kind of porn movie that churned my guts. If it was kiddie porn he was filming I would happily walk directly into his palatial home and put a bullet between his eyes, but it wasn’t. It was almost as bad in my book, but then again I’m not into the type of movie that resembles snuff: to my knowledge nobody had died during the production of his films, but the sex was akin to rape and battery, none of the action down to CGI. I had the sense that a man who liked his sex XXX-rated might carry some of that fantasy over into the bedroom. It was time for Cara to come home.

  Cara had moved out to California following the Hollywood dream, but instead had fallen into nightmare. To her parents’ shame, Cara, under the nom de plume, Vixxen, had starred in a number of Renard’s movies – at first at the softer end of the spectrum – but had quickly been coerced into the seedier, more lucrative violence-porn on which he’d made his fortune
. Her parents refused to view any of the flicks she starred in, and I didn’t blame them, but I’d sat through about one minute and been sickened by what I’d witnessed. Nobody had died during filming one of Renard’s films, but it was only a matter of time.

  Yesterday I called Renard on his cell.

  ‘Allow Cara to leave before tomorrow evening and you don’t need to speak to me in person,’ I told him. ‘This is the only warning you’re going to get.’

  To forewarn my enemy might sound foolish. But I wanted this piece of crap to learn about cause and effect. He wasn’t shy of violence, and he had to learn a lesson. He had to understand what it meant if, once Cara was free of him, continuing through with the threats he’d made about harming her and her family held dire consequences.

  He’d called me some savoury names and then laughed before hanging up.

  Suited me fine, because it only confirmed that he was ripe for the lesson of his life.

  A definition of ‘insanity’ is repeating the same actions and expecting a different result each time. In the past I’d put the fear of God into a number of punks the like of Johnny Renard. Most, if not all, had responded as if they didn’t appreciate the one opportunity to save their arses I was offering, and I didn’t expect Renard to be any different. So despite giving him the heads-up that I was coming, I wasn’t being totally insane. I expected the guy to try to balls things out with me: evidence was the number of heavies in residence. He’d called in back up. But that was okay by me. The more witnesses I embarrassed him in front of the better.

  And one other thing: Renard wasn’t the only one who had friends he could call in.

  I moved the last few yards up the steep incline and settled a foot on the lowest rung of the steps. I’d already prepped my SIG and knew it was good to go, but I checked it over once before going up the stairs to the deck. I paused at the top, peering in through the open sliding door.

  The sun was now a scarlet smudge over the western canyon wall. Inside the lights had been turned on as the house was invaded by the evening shadows. I couldn’t see Cara or Renard, but there were three other individuals in the large living room. Two of them were guys, muscle freaks with the kind of long wavy hair that only works on male strippers or yaks. The third person was an older man of average height and build. I could almost feel the waves of apprehension coming off the muscle men, but the innocuous fellow was cool with it. Of the three, he gave me most pause.

  I watched and listened.

  The two big guys were telling each other what they’d do to me if I tried anything. To listen to them they were choreographing a scene from one of the movies they played bit parts in. It was all bluster, and it was evident that they were crapping their pants. The third man didn’t join in with their bravado, sitting quietly and casting them squints of disapproval now and again. He warranted them with as much respect as I did.

  I could see no firearms. That didn’t mean there were none, just that they might be out of sight. I held mine ready as I moved up on to the deck. My SIG was an equalizer, just in case, though I’d no intention of killing anyone unless it was absolutely necessary. I stepped up to the open door.

  The seated man was the first to notice me. He greeted me with the shadow of a smile. The other two almost jumped a foot apiece in the air. I held my gun down by my side, but there was no doubt in their minds that I was prepared to shoot.

  ‘Sit down,’ I told them.

  The muscle-heads looked at each other. All their imagined tactics had been replaced by numb fear and I was sure that they were about to turn and flee, screaming for their mothers. I took a couple of steps into the room while they made their minds up.

  ‘You heard the man,’ their older pal said. ‘Sit down before you get hurt.’

  ‘Good to hear someone has sense,’ I said to him. He accepted the compliment with a mild nod. He sat with his hands on his thighs. Nonthreatening, but I was all the more wary of him because of his nonchalant pose.

  The two muscle freaks didn’t have the brains to listen to his good advice. They stood side by side, fingers curling in and out as their minds contemplated first surrender, then violence. The smaller man simply shrugged at me.

  One of the big guys, whose hair was marginally longer and wavier than the other’s, fancied himself as being the one in charge of Renard’s security. He concluded that maybe he should do something to earn his pay.

  ‘You’ve ten seconds to get the hell outta here or you’re gonna be sorry.’

  ‘I doubt you can even count to ten,’ I said. ‘Now be a good boy and sit down.’

  The big man glanced at my gun. ‘You’re a tough guy holding a piece. I bet you’re nothing without it.’

  I didn’t bother replying. I slipped my SIG into my waistband at the back. Like I said, I wasn’t there to kill anyone if I could help it. Putting away my gun actually helped solidify my position. Suddenly the head of security ran out of words. He lifted his palms and backed up a step.

  I ignored him.

  His twin was conspicuously edging away, placing the plush leather settee and the third man between us.

  I nodded at the seated man.

  ‘We can do this in a civilized manner. Convince Renard to let the girl go and we can all end this night happy,’ I said.

  The man gave an apologetic grimace. ‘Not why I’m here, buddy.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I represent some parties who have a vested interest in Vixxen’s continued involvement in Renard’s movies.’ He sniffed as if his next words meant little to him. ‘Vixxen is hot property. I’m here to ensure she doesn’t renege on her contract.’

  I didn’t ask who the people he represented were: it was evident he was talking about one of the organised criminal gangs who controlled the porn industry.

  ‘Her name is Cara, and she’s no one’s property,’ I told him. ‘Vixxen doesn’t exist, so no contract is valid.’

  ‘You put away your gun,’ the man said, ‘which shows me you’re a reasonable man. Are you prepared to negotiate a new agreement on her behalf? Whatever her parents paid you, I’m authorized to double the amount just for you to go away.’

  ‘You don’t look much like her agent to me,’ I said.

  ‘Just call me a middle-man.’

  ‘That would make these two chumps book ends,’ I said, indicating the two muscle heads and eliciting a smile from him. ‘It’s a generous offer, but I’m not in this for the money.’

  ‘Oh? Then you must have a personal interest. That might prove difficult for us to come to some form of arrangement.’

  ‘The only arrangement is that I’m taking Cara out of here, whether Renard, you or those ‘interested parties’ you represent like it or not.’

  The man shrugged again. ‘I was kind of expecting you to say that.’

  ‘Yeah, for my faults I am pretty transparent. Where is she?’

  ‘With her boyfriend.’

  ‘Ex-boyfriend.’

  He wasn’t interested in arguing the point. Neither was I.

  ‘Are they still here?’ I asked.

  ‘Gone,’ he said. ‘You’ve missed them, I’m afraid.’

  I wasn’t upset. The Six Ps. I’d already made a contingency plan.

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘It means she won’t get hurt during any fall out.’

  He moved slightly on the settee. For the first time I caught a flicker of concern behind his eyes. Not that he was afraid of me but that he’d made an error of judgment in allowing Renard and Cara to leave. I offered him a smile that told him he was correct to be worried.

  There was no way that Johnny Renard was going to hang about and face me personally. I’d kind of expected as much. I also expected him to lay this mantrap. The point being, my warning had to ring loud and clear, so I’d willingly sprung his trap, to show the punk the error of going to war with me. It didn’t hurt that those ‘interested parties’ he’d called on for help would learn the lesson t
oo.

  I took out my cell phone and put it on speaker.

  ‘Hey, Rink. How’d it go, buddy?’

  ‘Cara’s sitting in the back of my car as we speak.’

  ‘She okay?’

  ‘Sitting pretty as a picture,’ my back up said in his Southern drawl.

  ‘And Johnny?’

  ‘Nursing both his pride and his broken jaw.’

  ‘Nice work,’ I said.

  ‘It was my pleasure.’

  The point made, I hung up.

  The seated man sighed. ‘You set us up.’

  ‘Like I said, I’m pretty damn transparent.’

  ‘And now that we’ve no leverage you’re definitely not about to make a deal.’

  The two muscle-heads shared concerned glances. They were dense, but even they were getting the message. I hadn’t come to negotiate. I was here to make demands.

  ‘We can leave things at that,’ I offered. ‘Your people let Cara go, they forget about her and her family, and it’s finished between us.’

  ‘The alternative?’

  I only looked at him.

  He stood up slow and easy, while the big guys fidgeted.

  ‘My employers aren’t the forgiving type,’ the man pointed out.

  He wasn’t referring to what they might do towards the Michel family or myself. He meant that his punishment would be dire if he didn’t try to reclaim some amount of their pride.

  To be fair he won my respect; but it was the same kind of respect I held for a slavering pit-bull protecting its yard.

  For the lunkheads, who I’d recognised from that short viewing of the Vixxen movie, I held only disgust.

  I pulled out my SIG and put a round in them apiece. I shot both in their outer thighs. The wounds would be incredibly painful, debilitating for a while, maybe even leave them both a tad limp, but they’d live. It would also put them out of the fight while I faced the real threat.

  Both big guys cried like babies while they hugged their damaged legs on the floor.