Free Hunter: A Thriller by Robert James Bidinotto

the frets and everyone was chanting his name now he was the drummer and hot chicks ripping off their clothes around him and the lights flashing in his eyes the girls dancing naked in the lights and calling his name they were saying hello William grabbing his arm William hello William wake up lights flashing in his eyes William...
    “Hello, William.”
    Light flashing into his closed eyes. Somebody had his arm in an iron grip. Then jerked him over roughly, onto his back.
    “Huh?” He blinked, dazzled by the light in his eyes.
    “Back to the land of the living. At least, for about another minute.”
    He felt a jolt of panic.
    “Who the hell are you?” he yelled, trying to see the face behind the blinding flashlight.
    Without warning, a hand shot forward, grabbed his hair and yanked hard, pulling him up to a sitting position.
    His hair was released but a split second later a tremendous blow crashed across his face, snapping his head to the side. He found himself on his back again, everything spinning, his left cheek and jaw numb.
    “Let me introduce myself. I’m a messenger, William,” the voice said softly. “Just a fellow here to deliver a message from some people you know.”
    The blinding light moved away from his eyes, darted around the walls of the dark room. He heard movement.
    “Hell you talkin ’ ’bout, man?” he mumbled, fiery pain now burning his cheek and mouth.
    The overhead light to his room flared to life.
    He squinted. Next to the light switch at the door, a bearded guy in a baseball cap. Black gloves. Sticking a thin flashlight into his belt.
    “I’m a messenger from your victims, William.”
    He sat up, rubbing his jaw. “ Whaddya mean? Don’t know ’bout any—”
    “Susanne Copeland.” The voice was low, quiet, coldly matter-of-fact.
    He felt something drop inside his stomach.
    The man moved toward him. “How could you forget Susanne, William?”
    He shuddered, suddenly unable to speak.
    “And then there’s Arthur Copeland.” The man stopped at the foot of the bed. Looked down at him.
    Something in his hand, down along his leg.
    William Bracey shuddered.
    “I’m also here to deliver a message from Yoshiro Takahashi. Oh, I see you remember him, too. Yet you told the court you weren’t even there. Tell me something, William: What do you suppose Mr. Takahashi was feeling when you pointed your .357 magnum at him?”
    “ I didn’t!”
    “You’re lying, William.”
    The man leaned over him and raised his hand.
    A gun with a long, fat barrel.
    “No! I didn’t—”
    “You did.” The man glanced down. Shook his head. “And you just peed your pants, William.”
    “Please!” he whispered, staring into the black hole of the sound suppressor. “Honest to God no I didn’t I didn’t—”
    “And now the one-word message from your victims, William: Goodbye .”
    Bright light flashed in his eyes again.
    Just once.
    *
    He stood with the gun in his hand, barrel pointing toward the floor.
    Stared at the skinny young punk on the rumpled bed. A pool of crimson expanded in a circle around his shattered skull.
    He watched the glassy expression fix in William Bracey’s eyes.
    He felt drained. He didn’t enjoy taking a human life. Never had. Even though it was his business.
    But sometimes, there is no other way.
    He listened once more. Silence. Turned out the light, pulled aside the window shade, looked outside. No lights. No movement. He cleared his weapon, shoved the magazine into his back pocket. Unscrewed the suppressor, stuck it into his front pocket. Jammed the Sig into his belt behind his back. Pulled his sweater down over it.
    And sometimes, a death can even do some good.
    He approached the body and went through with the rest of the plan.

PART II
    “He who refuses what is just, gives up everything to him who is armed.”
    — Lucanus (Marcus Annaeus Lucan )
    Pharsalia (I, 348)

 
TEN
    CLAIBOURNE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY CLAIBOURNE , VIRGINIA
Monday, September 8, 9:40 a.m.
    “So,