Annie Hansen Mysteries Collection: The Complete Series

Excerpt from Annie Hansen Mysteries Collection

Ben the Butcher’s life ended in a cacophony of bullets. From the Albert-01R handgun, an enhanced missile crashed to spiral past the line of swinging pig carcasses into the back of the Butcher’s head. His brain exploded. More projectiles followed, rendering the brawny man’s crown a bloody piece of meat. The basement room reeked of old bleach and fresh blood. Meat muscle slammed to the floor.

“Bull’s Eye!” shouted the murderer, called the Bloodhound. “Pig’s Eye, I should say. This ain’t called the Butcher’s Den for nothing,” continued the hitman, extracting white sacks of cocaine from the pigs’ innards after he holstered the smoking Albert. The bags were sewn into the carcasses. He ripped them apart with a ten-inch knife.

“Anybody come between the boss and the coke trade is found here or in East Van with bullet holes in their skulls. Now to look up the rest of the Butcher’s men and see if they need persuading to work with us. It weren’t easy to trace him, but this is Big City junk with small-town dealers. He didn’t count on an early morning raid or the Bloodhound’s patience.”

The hitman passed the bags to the three figures shadowed behind him in the basement room of the meat shop. “When we find the paperwork, we’ll know when the next shipment is due from Miami and on what flight path. Give me his tablet. He had quite a sweet business here as the middleman between Nanaimo and the coast.”

The shadowy figures toted the sacks up the stairs through the back door of the butcher shop, and into a waiting black van. The van had mirrored windows and a local license plate recently installed.

“His men ought to be close by. Maybe it’s too early for the bodyguards– good luck for us,” said one of the thugs. “He wasn’t expecting trouble. Piece of cake.”

“Yeah,” the Bloodhound said, backing away toward the stairs. “Let’s go. You drive. I’ll keep a lookout in the back of the van. Someone’s sure to have heard the shots.”

In the parking lot, the men heaved the last of the cocaine into the van.

“Those two lazy cops in the station won’t be on duty yet,” said one, picking at his ear.

The hitman chortled. “No, but the detective’s still here and that crazy female private eye, too. Remember the doctor and crooked mayor two years ago? She solved those crimes when nobody else could. It was on the national news at the time. Her partner is a detective in the RCMP. He’s part of their major crimes unit and specializes in homicides. Our East Van cartel knows about the– er– challenges here. Shall we say? Somebody big in East Van has their eye on us, let’s say.”

“You got contacts all around, boss. Good,” the other thug said.

“Of course. In high places. Not the bruiser Ed Adonis in East Van but above him.” The hitman sniggered. “Serendipity is a hellhole now. Ed will be popped soon, too, along with us if we don’t deliver.”

“Piece of pie, boss.”

Over the Courthouse to the north swung the last white silver of moon. The Butcher’s Den was closed and almost dark. One basement light remained that signaled to any curious onlooker that the Butcher was cutting up and packaging today’s meat, as was his custom from Tuesday to Saturday. Not until the first customer rang the bell would the grisly discovery be made. Perhaps not then. The Butcher’s hours were erratic.

The black van belched oil and blasted down the dirt road toward the First Nations reserve near Modge Bay, but didn’t stop there.

“Wonder when they’ll find out there won’t be steaks from the Butcher for the barbecue tonight?” the hitman said with a chortle.

“Boss,” the driver said as dirt billowed from the churning tires, “do we know the schedule the Butcher left? Ed the Bruiser wanted it.”

“Yah. Took a look at his tablet while you were loading the merch. Everything’s on there. Adonis will be happy with us.”

“A course. Cup of soup for you, boss. This went smooth as goose shit on a hardwood floor.”

“There’s a shipment next week on a private plane that lands on Vancouver Island, coming here on the ferry from Campbell River. It’s in bags labeled, coarse Kosher salt,” the hitman replied.

“He was taking a chance.”

“Sometimes it IS coarse Kosher salt,” said the Bloodhound. “Though the Butcher was a careless man.”

The other man slammed on the brakes in front of the ferry dock. “Obviously that worked against him.”

The Bloodhound laughed and spittle flew from his rough lips. “I’d say so.” He removed the Albert from its holster and wiped it clean of prints. “What Butcher-boy?”

The four men climbed out of the van and slammed the doors. The hitman consulted his mobile.

“The jetboat meets us here in five minutes. You two hike back to our warehouse in the bush to scout out the Butcher’s boys the rest of the day, and the two of us will pack the dust into the boat when it gets here. There’s a car you can use hidden in the warehouse. You’ll like it. Only used a few times but enough so the townsfolk know it as belonging to local dudes. I’ll take the van on the ferry after we load the snow on the boat. This has been slick, dudes, and I thank you for your help.”

A tall, lean thug nodded. “Yeah, boss. No problem.”

They shook hands and parted. The hitman and his companion slouched in the front of the van and waited. The ferry would be there in a couple of hours, and they would be on it after the powder was on the jetboat headed for East Van.

Ammo enhanced with chemicals slammed into the black vehicle as the jetboat docked in a swirl of foam. Something exploded. A flamethrower ignited the vegetation. The Bloodhound cranked the engine to life and turned the wheel to escape but his blood erupted from a blasted artery in his temple. He was dead before his torso slumped across the dash.

The van crashed into a Douglas fir. The tree splayed the metal like a surgeon’s hands would open a heart. Running for their miserable lives, the other two thugs crashed lifelessly into the undergrowth in a torrent of bullets.