Sixteen Bullets: The True Story of a Man Who Has Been Shot 16 Times—and Is Still Alive to Tell About It.

HUNTER

Copyright © 2019 Hank Hunter.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-2494-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-2442-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019910079

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Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 09/16/2019

I am one lucky fucker. – The Duke

Author’s Note

I first met Duke in May of 1994. We won’t use his real name, or mine, for obvious reasons you’ll understand as you read this tale. Some of the stories have been changed just a bit to obscure names, places, and organizations. That noted, other than names and precise locations, the stories are relayed exactly as they happened. Because of that, you’ll soon learn that Duke is a walking miracle. Hyperbole aside, he’s a living legend to his friends and, believe it or not, a really good dude. If I need something, anything, he’ll try to help. He’s not a bad guy at all—he just has a different moral code than most of us. Anyway, you’ll catch on as we take this journey together. Let’s begin back in 1994…

My first meeting with Duke is burned into my mind for several reasons. At that time, I was a pre-college soldier stationed at Fort Bragg, in North Carolina. Even though I was young, I wasn’t exactly a babe in the woods, either. I was 22 years old and had a full military tour of Germany under my belt.

A few months before I met him, I’d begun my training to be a skydiver. I was already Airborne qualified, but civilian skydiving and military parachuting are about as similar as playing soccer and playing tackle football. While there are similarities, the differences are extreme. The greatest thing they have in common is jumping from an airplane with the plan of not killing oneself. That’s always the plan. Like me, Duke had been military airborne qualified, too. Only, his Jump School training had occurred a few years before. Okay, maybe more than a few years. We’ll get to all that.

So, before I had my A-license—a basic skydiving qualification—I came home for the weekend to see my mom for Mother’s Day. Since I didn’t want to lose the momentum of my skydiving progression, especially with summer coming—the best time of year to make a bunch of jumps—I signed out a parachute rig before leaving Fort Bragg. Then, on Saturday, I showed up at the local dropzone I’d located thanks to a pre-Google directory we used to use known as the Yellow Pages. You Millennials might have heard of it.

The dropzone in question was a small affair, especially when compared to the large dropzone near Fort Bragg. This one was situated within shouting distance of a large southeastern university. Its physical location was just off the end of the runway at a nearby municipal airport. After locating the dropzone, I parked my car and removed my gear. I asked one of the skydivers who I needed to see about making a few jumps. He told me the owner of the dropzone was flying the plane, and I should speak to him.

Other than that, and a few curious stares, no one talked to me. This isn’t uncommon for groups of men. When a strange guy, especially one with an Army high-and-tight and a fake tough attitude shows up, men don’t typically roll out the welcome wagon. One nice lady did talk to me—Linda—but she was busy running the business side of the dropzone. Like the skydiver before, she advised me to wait for the owner to land. He’d taken a load to 10,000 feet, in a Cessna, so it would be a while.

Anyone who has flown to 10,000 feet in a heavily loaded Cessna knows it does indeed take a while.

So, with nothing to do but wait, I decided to attempt to look like I knew what I was doing. I removed all my gear from my flight bag and began arranging it on the packing mat just as I’d been taught. This goes here. That goes there. Check all your connections and fittings. Once I’d done just about all I could do, I noticed someone’s shadow looming over me. I turned, looking up at a man, his face obscured since the sun was directly behind him.

You ain’t dumbass enough to jump that piece’a shit rig, are you?

As I mentioned, I was young, but no babe in the woods. I’d done time in the Army. Hell, I was on the boxing team and I was old enough to realize I’d just been challenged. Who the hell was this guy? The sun was bright and I could barely see.

I turned and stood, ready to stare this asshole down. I quickly realized I was about three inches and seventy-five pounds shy of my new tormentor. And those pounds he had on me weren’t fat, either. This guy was chiseled from marble and he didn’t back away. In fact, he took a step forward and stared at me, his piercing green eyes twinkling. While he might have been slightly menacing, I couldn’t help but notice that his grin wasn’t fully malevolent.

He was amused.

Since I was a kid, I’ve had the gift of being a quick study of people and their intentions. Believe me, my initial impression of people isn’t always accurate. I’ve got a false tooth to prove it (courtesy of another Army boxer with lightning fast hands. I got him back, but that’s another story for a much shorter book.) So, on this day, my initial impression read this man’s words as a challenge, albeit a friendly one. His challenge was delivered in a smartass manner with a thick—and I mean thick—southern accent. Despite his russet tan, his outlaw moustache, and his dual sleeves of story-telling tattoos, I came to the conclusion that my new acquaintance meant no real harm in his comment. While my conclusion was accurate, I also deduced that he did, indeed, consider me stupid if I were going to jump the piece of shit rig I’d brought with me.

All these permutations took about a second.

I planned to jump it, yeah, I answered him. Why?

I smelled his Big Red cinnamon gum as he stood there and chewed for a moment, still grinning at me, displaying a mouth of pearly whites that belied the tough looking hombre they resided in. You from Bragg? he asked.

How’d you know that?

Another grin. He nudged the gear with his foot, compared it to canine excrement—not his exact words—and sauntered away.

What the hell?

I turned and watched him as he bellowed good-natured, yet vulgar, insults at the assembled skydivers gathered around the packing mats. I began to realize this guy was a classic ball-breaker. In the Army, ball-breakers like him are a regular occurrence. One need grow thick skin early on, or a guy like this one will realize you can’t handle his insults, and then he’ll really break out the scalpel. Regardless, I could tell his insults didn’t have any heat behind them. This guy, who I’d later learn was known in some circles as Duke, fired volleys at people he liked—but there was no hurtful meaning behind any of it.

Which, in turn, makes his comments hilarious. It also marks him as your friend. Some people won’t understand this. But Duke’s friends do. He’s got a treasure chest full of shit-talking monikers. If you’re easily offended, skip this part. But you do want to truly know the subject of this book, don’t you? He says these things in jest—not hurtfully, and not racially, not xenophobically. Final warning—enjoy at your own risk:

To Duke, an Irishman is a tater.

A Brit is a limey.

A normal male friend of his is a bitch.

A mortician is a cotton packer.

A cop is Barney Fife.

And so on, and so on.

Reflecting, a few things quickly stood out to me that day, and the first had to be his physique. The guy looked like a freaking NFL linebacker, standing 6’2" and probably weighing around 230 pounds. His muscles were that of a bodybuilder, their striations made more obvious by a tan that would make George Hamilton jealous. It was hot that May day, and his jump suit was tied off around his waist—the mark of a skydiver who’d be jumping again that afternoon. As he walked away from me, I realized the tattoos covered more than just his arms—they were all over.

But there was something else I noticed, although it took a moment.

I saw the scars of old bullet holes on his body.

There was no mistaking it. I’d seen similar scars from guys I’d served with. A few were from Vietnam vets. One was from a guy who’d grown up in South Central Los Angeles.

But I’d never seen multiple bullet wound scars on one person.

Duke had bullet scars.

Scars…

Plural. Meaning, more than one.

Who the hell was this guy?

I stood there watching as skydivers began landing all over the place. Pretty soon, a red and white Cessna touched down and taxied to a halt near the dropzone. The owner walked to the small shed where Linda was working. They chatted for a moment. Then, my new friend began speaking with the owner of the dropzone. He pointed at me and gestured to my parachute rig. They both laughed openly.

Okay, enough of this. It was time for me to display some balls, even if it got me killed.

He’s been shot multiple times. Are you sure you want to call him out?

Screw it.

I stared at the tough looking hombre until he looked my way again, then I extended my middle finger and mouthed a common two word insult.

He laughed again, good naturedly, as if he were proud of me.

He walked back over and we talked for a half-hour. Military stuff, first, then skydiving. At that particular stage in my training, I was due to make a low jump known as a five-second delay. Such a jump is also known as a hop-and-pop. Essentially, the skydiving student climbs out and, at the jumpmaster’s direction, lets go. You fall for just five seconds and then open your parachute.

He asked for my logbook and read through each of my jumps.

You’re due for a hop-and-pop, right? he asked.

Yep.

Are you a pussy?

I arched my eyebrows.

Are you? he demanded.

Of course, I answered, Fuck no.

Okay, he grinned. Don’t embarrass me.

Then he turned and yelled over his shoulder to the owner of the dropzone, This guy’s almost done with his progression. Put him down for ten-thousand feet.

The woman, Linda, nodded and scribbled something on the manifest.

Holy shit, 10,000 feet? That’s like a 45-second delay. A real free-fall—the last altitude a student jumps from before he gets his license.

Hey, I’m not qualified for that, I hissed.

There was that twinkle in his eyes again. But you said you’re not a pussy.

I’m not.

Then be quiet so no one knows. Put your logbook away, and get ready to grab your balls.

So, a few hours later, with nobody at the dropzone any the wiser, he and I flew the Cessna up, up and up. And remember those blue skies? They were gone. A nice May thunderstorm had blown in. There was rain, towering thunderheads and crazy wind. Thankfully, the owner of the dropzone didn’t fly the airplane on this load. No, it was one of Duke’s buddies. Several times during our ascent, the pilot mentioned that we shouldn’t jump.

Nah, we’ll be alright, Duke said. Keep climbing. We’ll find a hole.

While Duke might be cavalier in his ways, he did coach me all the way up and reassured me several times that I’d be okay. Finally, after the agonizingly slow, turbulent ride to altitude, he opened the door and we circled till he was able to spy the ground. After a few corrections to the pilot, he told me to climb out.

There’s a step on the Cessna you put your feet on. You use both hands to hold onto the diagonal strut that supports the wing. Once you’re out, you kick your feet off and hang, buffeting in the wind like a person holding a tree branch off of a great cliff. I hung there, rocking back and forth in the rain as lightning cracked all around us.

Hanging there, I turned and looked at him. His expression asked me if I was okay. I nodded. He grinned again, then pointed at me which meant, Go!

Off I went, arching in an effort to fall face to earth. I looked up and, just as he was supposed to, he jumped right after me.

In short order, we were in full free-fall, racing toward the earth at 120 miles per hour. We fell through clouds, our bodies rocketing to the earth far faster than the rain, which was stinging my face. He flew in front of me, holding his two fingers out in front of him. This instructed me to put my legs out. With your legs on your ass, you backslide. Backsliding essentially means you fly backward—a common rookie mistake in free-fall. That corrected, I went through a series of maneuvers he’d taught me.

Left turn. Right turn.

Left barrel roll. Right barrel roll.

Duke was grinning the entire time. Amused. Proud of me. When I was done, he gave me a thumbs up. We fell for a few more seconds, the clouds racing by. As I checked my altimeter, I knew I should be pulling soon. I turned my eyes back to Duke.

He pointed at me. I waved off, as I’d been taught, and opened my parachute, just as it was designed. He smoked it on down and landed a good 90 seconds before I did. On my chest was a radio so he could talk me in. But sticking with our ruse, the radio crackled once and he simply said I won’t say anything unless you start getting off course.

A jumper on his last student jump shouldn’t need talking in.

Considering the wind and rain, my landing wasn’t all that bad. At least I landed on the airport.

I gathered up my gear and walked the short distance back to the dropzone. Because of the rain, most people had packed up and gone home. But Duke waited on me, chuckling as we discussed the jump I’d just made. Putting me out at 10,000 feet was technically illegal. Jumping in a thunderstorm was definitely against the rules.

Like he cared. He knew I could handle it.

How ’bout we go get a few beers? he asked. We did. More than a few.

That was the genesis of a lifelong friendship.

Before We Begin, A Word from The Duke

So many people who know me have told me there should be a book about my life. People have suggested reality shows and television interviews. The author of this book feels I’d best be captured in a documentary. But since not everything I’ve done has been exactly legal, I’ve resisted the urge to tell my story. Now, however, as I’ve gotten a bit older and reflective, I have to admit my tale is rather unique. I don’t feel immodest saying it’s a miracle I’m still alive.

Most of the content of this book involves the 16 gunshot wounds I’ve suffered. If I chose this book off the rack, that’s what I would want to read about. Knowing that, the author and I have tried our best to give you the full story of those gunshot tales, along with a few other missions that were notable. But along the way, I do want you to understand a little more about me. I’m not a cold-blooded killer. I’m not. Because of my reputation and military background, I’ve been approached by numerous people asking me to eliminate someone in their life. I always tell them hell no. I’m not some contract killer for hire. I don’t kill cheating wives or philandering husbands. I don’t knock off business partners so someone can have the entire company for themselves. That’s their problem, not mine.

I’ve also spared hundreds of people I believed to be innocent. Further into this story, you’ll read about me and my fellow operators knocking off drug processing facilities. I always made sure anyone who was unarmed got away safely. I know how those places work. Out in the remote hills of Mexico, the cartels use the locals as slave labor. I would never set out to hurt any of those people.

But if some hombre was carrying a rifle, he was my enemy. And I don’t ever shoot to wound—I shoot to kill. That’s part of the reason I’m still here.

Some people know me as Duke—a nickname I was first given in the Army. No, I don’t look like John Wayne, but I guess I do have a bit of his swagger. There are other nicknames, too, namely Shooter. But, damn, that one’s been done to death, so we decided to go with Duke for this book.

There are many people in my life who are special to me. I have kids and grandkids. Ladies. Friends. Buddies. Like you, I have basic needs that have to be met. In many ways, I’m a normal man.

Some people won’t be able to get past some of the things I’ve done. I get that. But I hope, as you read this, you’ll give me a fair chance at understanding my point of view. More than anything, I hope this book entertains you.

Other than the names and places, it’s all true. All of it.

In preparation for this book, the author and several others involved had my injuries, scars, and resulting evidence scrutinized during an exhaustive physical by two board certified physicians. They verified all of my wounds, including the 16 gunshots.

They also concurred that I am, indeed, one lucky fucker.

When you’re done, I think you’ll agree.

CHAPTER ONE

My First Gunshot Wound. First? Wait…that means there will be more?

Before I joined the Army, sometime during high school, I taught myself to play the guitar. Like so many other teens who learn guitar, I helped put together a rock n’ roll band. We’d get together for hours on end and play music from the Stones, The Who, Zeppelin—all the usual suspects, especially during that time period when hard rock truly found its soul. My favorite was, and still is, Creedence Clearwater Revival—so, of course we played their stuff. We’d also play songs from bands like Blue Cheer, Deep Purple, Cream and even plenty of country music. Real country music—not that pre-packaged pop shit they call country nowadays. Playing music was a release, and it certainly didn’t hurt our appeal with the girls.

That’s never a bad thing. Wasn’t then—isn’t now. I’ve been on the hunt for good trim since I was about 12. Hey, you want the real truth, don’t you?

We’d been playing as a garage band for about six months and we were getting good enough that someone might call what we were making music. Of course, we thought we were the second coming of CCR, so we immediately lined up a string of gigs at local juke-joints and roadhouses. Though we definitely needed more practice, playing live gave us the opportunity to make some dough and perhaps meet a few girls.

Once our first gig loomed, we doubled our practices. Knowing you’ve got to get up in front of a group of people and perform is a helluva motivator. At that particular time it was the dead of summer in the south. Hot, sticky, sweltering summer. The kind of long days and nights that make a person want to trudge north until they find snow, then wallow around in it in only a thin pair of underwear. The heat in the south, especially in July and August, is absolutely brutal, and back in those days we didn’t have air conditioning. Some people did—we sure as hell didn’t.

On the night in question, we were all practiced out. My fingers were red and sore, my clothing soaked. I was sick of playing guitar and worn out of hearing the same damned songs over and over. We all were. I was leaning up against the block wall of our drummer’s garage, my pawnshop guitar amp by my feet. The sun had just gone down and I’m sure we were debating where to go, how to lay our hands on some booze, and arguing over which hangout would boast of the most available girls.

Our drummer’s little brother, Kenny, a kid of about fourteen, came out from the house to join us. The drummer, Jake, had run his kid brother off twice already and, like most kids, Kenny probably just wanted to belong. He wasn’t allowed around us while we were practicing. But now that the music stopped, he came out to try again.

But this time, probably to earn our bona fide interest, he brought a small pistol with him.