The Butcher Read Online Free PDF

MAKING OF A DRAGON SLAYER
    A s Tommy Pitera made his way to Japan to learn the finer points of martial arts, DEA agent Jim Hunt was seventeen years old. Though he didn’t know it yet, Hunt had being a cop in his blood. Of course, he knew his father and grandfather were both dedicated to law enforcement, but he had no personal connection to their careers, to their morality, their sense of right and wrong—to their dogged adherence to the rule of law.
    His grandfather, Joe Hunt, emigrated to America from County Roscommon, Ireland, in 1913. Joe heard that there were jobs that paid well in the mines of Montana. After arriving in New York, traveling with fellow Irishmen, he made his way to Montana by way of trains. The work in the mines was backbreaking and bone twisting, under the worst, most dire of circumstances, but Joe Hunt did not complain. Joe Hunt did what was required of him. He was a genuinely tough man, nearly six feet tall. He had blond hair, blue eyes, and chiseled cheekbones. In his mind, calluses and sweat went hand in hand with making a living, getting somewhere in life.
    News of World War I hit Montana like a bomb. Though Joe Hunt hadn’t been living in the States long, had only been exposed to backbreaking, menial labor, he felt it was his inherent duty, obligation, togo fight in the war to end all wars. He traveled via rail back to New York and without hesitation joined the army.
    As it happened, Joe Hunt was wounded in hedge grove country in France, both shot and gassed. Because of the gassing, he would have respiratory problems his whole life. He was given several medals and an honorable discharge. He heard, through family and friends, that there were civil servant jobs available in New York—specifically, openings for policemen. This, in a large way, appealed to Joe Hunt, so he found his way back to the cobblestone streets of New York and joined New York’s finest.
    A large, tough man, Joe was ideally suited to work the rough streets of New York. He readily passed the physical and psychological tests, and he began walking a beat, carrying a club and wearing a shiny, brand-new .38 on his hip. Joe quickly took to the job. He liked putting bad guys behind bars. He felt he was not only protecting society but the weaker members of society—children and women. He felt he was the difference between chaos and order. It was the Roaring Twenties and drinking and living in excess were the norm, making Joe Hunt a very busy man. Despite the realities of the age, Joe dealt with the curveballs life threw without regret, attributes he would instill in his sons. A dedicated family man, Joe returned home after work every day, and the weekends found him with his family. The murders, the violence, the amazing brutality men showed one another, were all left at the door. Joe never brought the job back home, to his wife and children, one of whom was named James.
    When Joe Hunt retired, he was a happy, content man. He had found his niche in life and he felt he had served society well. Since he was only fifty-two years old, he opened Joe’s Stroll Inn bar on Crescent Street in Queens. The bar was frequented by many in law enforcement and Joe’s Stroll Inn prospered. The problems in Joe Hunt’s lungs by way of gassing during the war gave him a severe case of emphysema, which ultimately stole his life away.
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    Like his father before him, James Hunt I, known as Jim, was born to be a cop, but as it turned out, he was a natural-born fighter as well; not barroom brawls, not with strangers over supposed or real insults; he was not an argumentative individual who was easily offended. Jim was a boxer, a very tough middleweight. As a boy, he began boxing in the Golden Gloves and knocked out numerous opponents. He was fast and agile and had a wicked left and right, both capable of knocking out an opponent. He was thickly muscled with no fat on his body. If he’d had his choice in life, he would have