Parker 04.5 - The Hunters Read Free

were just a little wider, a little warier. They both knew how much was at stake, how much they’d worked twenty years for.
    “Should we go in yet?” he asked, making sure the words came out as pure question. No insinuations whatsoever.
    She checked her watch. Her long, black hair was tied into a tight braid that flipped around like a scythe. She portrayed no hurry, and very few emotions at all. She had filled him in on her reasons for this meeting and what they hoped to achieve from it.
    A rapper, she’d said. Li’l Leroy, or something like that. So many rappers had Li’l attached to their name, as though they wanted to make you think they spent their nights swinging on jungle gyms or bouncing on trampolines.
    Not this Li’l, however. What he was going to do tonight would most certainly get his Li’l card revoked.
    “It’s time,” the woman said. The blond man began walking. No time wasted with a nod or salute or even a word. If it was time, every second mattered. And then she spoke, as if she’d read his mind. “I want him to be anxious,” she said. “He doesn’t know what he’s getting into. He doesn’t know what he thinks he’s buying. I want him flustered and on edge.”
    “Why?” the blond man asked. He felt that was a fair question. He wasn’t imposing, just asking her to elaborate.
    “Because once he tries the product and thinks back to this meeting, he’ll know that we came late for a reason. We’re doing him a favor by even being here. So the next time we come he’ll be sweating like a junkie. He’ll eat out of our hands if we want him to.”
    The blond man nodded. Despite his shortcomings—and the man knew he had many—he had remarkable self-awareness. He did not have the calculating mind that she did, but he had enough confidence to admit it. He had the utmost respect for the woman, and if she was sure about what she was doing, so was he. So while this rationale did not completely make sense to him, he knew it did to her. And that mattered more.
    His mind may not be as sharp as the edge of a knife, but it was as powerful as a sledgehammer. He may not have been subtle, but he got the job done.
     
    The woman said, “Let’s go.”
    They approached the building, located in uptown Manhattan on 135th Street off Adam Clayton Boulevard—right near the neighborhood YMCA. The building was completely devoid of tenants. Well, that was the technical truth, as there were no tenants who lived there on a permanent basis. The owner of the complex was named Leroy Culvert. Leroy Culvert was worth well over thirty million dollars.
    While there were no permanent tenants, the building was not kept in a state of disrepair. It was not an eyesore like so many other unoccupied projects in uptown New York, but rather, Culvert kept it in good enough shape that it was never approached by squatters, never frequented by junkies and never attracted the homeless population who assumed that a building in total disrepair was one where not too many people asked questions.
    Culvert kept it in just good enough shape that it went unnoticed in the neighborhood. It wasn’t nice enough that it would stick in peoples’ minds, but not dilapidated enough that it would pique their interest for other reasons.
    In fact, the dark-haired woman was moderately impressed by the security system. A reinforced steel door and roving camera setup that was partially obscured by tree branches. Just enough to keep the bad guys out without alerting pedestrians as to what—or who—was being guarded.
    The blond man punched out a number on his cell phone. After two rings, a man with a deep, baritone voice answered.
    “Whozis?”
    “Mr. Malloy and a guest. We’re here to see Mr. Culvert.”
    “We ain’t hear nobody buzz upstairs.”
    “We don’t ‘buzz.’ And we both know that your buzzer system also records fingerprints. I’m mildly impressed with your security, but Mr. Culvert knows how we do business.”
    “Hang on a