THE THOUSAND DOLLAR HUNT: Colt Ryder is Back in Action! by J.T. Brannan

be forced into killing them?
    And what would happen if I did escape? I had no evidence, it would be my word against Badrock’s – and he was a famous general, whereas I was . . . well, I wasn’t a general anyway. Nobody would believe me over him. Especially if – as he’d indicated – some of the people who hunted here were the very people I might want to go to with the information. A presidential candidate accidentally getting shot by an overexcited chief of police was one of the examples Badrock had used, and I had no way of knowing if this was literal or merely figurative. Were these existing clients, or just an example of the sort of people who came here? Either way, I couldn’t afford to take the chance of contacting the wrong person.
    I considered the fact that the general might keep records – who was visiting, how much they paid, the trophies they bagged. It was more than likely that he did, but where would I find them? It was unrealistic to think that there would be paper records in an old metal filing cabinet somewhere; Vanguard would be sure to employ computer security specialists, and any evidence would be well protected on a hard drive somewhere. I was good at many things, but hacking into computers wasn’t one of them. Hitting people with batons, yes; sophisticated network security, unfortunately not. I wasn’t exactly a Philistine, but I wasn’t far from it.
    So I would do what I always did in these situations – I would play it by ear. And if I got the chance – decorated war hero or not – I would bring it all tumbling down around Roman Badrock’s head.
     
    I was back at the main station, not so far from Badrock’s house, checking out the supply of hunting rifles, when Miles Hatfield strolled into the armory.
    Kane responded immediately, hackles raised as he emitted a low warning growl.
    ‘Hey,’ Hatfield said with palms held out in placation, ‘I come in peace.’
    I nodded at Kane and he retreated to my side, still keeping his gaze on the Delta Force commando but silent now, allowing me to take the lead.
    ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I suppose we’re colleagues now, right?’
    ‘Exactly,’ Hatfield said with smile. He looked around the large room, with its specially made gun racks and ammunition stores, then back at me. ‘So what do you think?’ he asked with a raised eyebrow. ‘Has Bruce done a good job?’
    The Bruce he referred to was Bruce Underwood, the armorer here. He was in the back, rechambering a Winchester hunting rifle for a bigger load. Previously a Small Arms Repairer/Technician with the Marine Corps, he’d been running his own specialist high-end gunsmithing workshop in Montana when Badrock had come to see him, apparently making him an offer he couldn’t refuse.
    ‘Well,’ I said as I looked down at the Ruger No.1-H Tropical Rifle chambered in .458 Lott, designed for taking down African big game, which rested in my hands, ‘he definitely knows his business.’ I looked around the armory, then back at Hatfield. ‘And I think that there are enough weapons here to invade a small country.’
    ‘You know how it is,’ Hatfield said with a grin. ‘The people we get here, they’ve got lots of different needs, we need a lot of different weapons to suit them. Let’s say we’ve got a young lady, maybe five two and a hundred pounds, but she wants to put down a bull elephant. What’s she gonna use? It’s a problem, right? She needs a big load, a powerful rifle, but then will she be able to control it? So we’ve got weapons here to suit everyone, and Bruce helps to personalize them to requirements. We don’t want our clients to embarrass themselves out there, you know?’
    ‘That would be a real shame,’ I said as I put the Ruger back in its rack.
    Hatfield laughed. ‘Sounds to me like you’d love it if they did.’
    ‘What can I say?’ I responded. ‘I’m a mercenary, like you. I’m willing to take the general’s coin, so I don’t judge. Hunting animals