Hunter dh-1

by Robert Bidinotto

  “That’s the guy. The testimony from the two of you really impressed everybody during the hearings. Anyway, if there’s any fuss, I may need you to come down here and soothe some nerves.”

  But who’s going to settle mine?

  “You can count on me, Congressman,” he said. “I’ll do whatever it takes. This bill represents the culmination of my life’s work.”

  “That’s the spirit. Together, we’ll get it done.”

  They had reached the end of the passageway, where it connected to another corridor.

  “Okay, this is where I have to leave you. I’ll let Wendy show you upstairs to the exit.” He stuck out his hand, clapped MacLean’s shoulder again, turned on his one-hundred-watt smile. “It was great to see you again, Ken. Thanks so much for dropping by.”

  MacLean was outside of the building before he realized that Horowitz had used exactly the same words to greet him and to send him on his way.

  CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  Friday, October 3, 2:45 p.m.

  “Hey there, stranger, what’s the big rush?”

  Annie stopped in the middle of the corridor. “Oh, Susie. I didn’t see you.”

  Her friend laughed. “You had your eyes on your watch. You blew right past me.”

  “Sorry. I have my mind on other things, I guess.”

  “I guess, indeed.” Susie took in the coat draped over Annie’s arm. “Leaving so early?”

  She nodded. “I’ve come in early the past couple days so that I could beat the Friday traffic.”

  “Yeah, yeah, well, you can’t fool me. I bet you’ve got a hot date.”

  The joke caught her by surprise. She felt her cheeks grow warm.

  Susie’s eyes widened. “No. Not really.”

  Dammit.

  Susie grabbed her arms. “Oh my God! Oh my God!” Suddenly, a huge grin spread across her face. “It’s him, isn’t it? Tell me it’s him!”

  She had to smile and nod. “It just…happened.”

  “Wow! When?”

  “Two weeks ago”

  “And you’ve been keeping this a secret from me?”

  “Well, I really didn’t want to say anything. I mean, you just-” She stopped.

  “Oh, Annie. Did you think news like this would make me feel bad? Didn’t you know I’d be thrilled for you, girlfriend?”

  She could only answer with a long hug.

  Susie moved back, held her at arm’s length. “I should have known. You’ve been absolutely glowing lately. And I certainly knew he was interested. That night at my house-he couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”

  “Shhh.” She glanced around. “Don’t you know this is the CIA? The walls have ears.”

  Susie laughed. “Well, when you can spare some time- if you can tear yourself away from him-let’s get together for coffee. Then you can tell me all about it. Everything. I want sordid details.”

  “Pervert.”

  “Just teasing. I’m so happy for you. What a catch!” Then she looked her up and down. “No, I take that back. He’s definitely getting the better of it.”

  “Susie, dear, you are such a treasure.”

  “Well, a fine treasure I am, holding you up. Now, go to your man, Annie Woods.”

  The words struck her with unexpected force. She leaned in to kiss her friend on the cheek, then had to turn away quickly.

  Washington, D.C.

  Friday, October 3, 3:45 p.m.

  She reached the office building just up Connecticut from K Street. After a couple of left turns, she drove down the ramp on 18th into the underground garage. Following his instructions, she took the elevator to the tenth floor.

  When she entered the reception area, a gorgeous African-American woman seated behind the counter looked up and smiled.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yes. I’m here to see Mr. Hunter.”

  The receptionist’s eyes moved in an appraising, once-over glance. “You must be Ms. Woods, then.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ll let him know you’re here. Why don’t you have a seat?”

  She felt the woman’s eyes on her as she walked to a chair.

  He emerged from a hallway a moment later. He was in a business suit, beautifully tailored and charcoal gray. As he approached, she noticed how the rich copper tones in his tie picked up the hazel of his eyes.

  She stood to meet him. He smiled his crooked little smile and kissed her. Not long. Just long enough for her to notice the receptionist raise a brow in amusement.

  Dylan took her hand and drew her to the desk as the woman stood.

  “Annie Woods, this is Danika Brown. Danika handles all my business arrangements.” He paused, just an instant. Looking at her, not the receptionist, he said: “Annie is my girlfriend, Danika.”

  The word sent a tiny shiver through her.

  Danika’s face lit with a dazzling smile. “I am truly pleased to meet you, Ms. Woods.”

  “And Dylan has said wonderful things about you, Ms. Brown.”

  He groaned. “Ladies, please. Cut the Ms. stuff. First names, shall we?”

  They laughed.

  “Okay-Annie,” she said.

  “I’m delighted to meet you, Danika.”

  “There. That wasn’t so hard, was it? I wanted Annie to see where I work. At least, where I sometimes work.”

  Danika shot him a mischievous glance. “Well, Mr. Hunter, meeting this lovely lady, I understand now why I’ve seen so little of you lately.”

  He grinned. “Mainly, though, I wanted the two of you to meet. You’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the future. Annie will give you her phone number before we leave today, so that if you can’t otherwise reach me, you can try her. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Danika, I’ll show her around a bit before we head over to the Mayflower for cocktails and an early dinner.”

  As he walked her down the hall, Annie couldn’t resist saying, “She’s truly stunning.”

  He turned to her, eyes twinkling.

  “Second most stunning woman I’ve ever met.”

  Bethesda, Maryland

  Friday, October 3, 8:07 p.m.

  He parked the Forester in a reserved spot in the apartment’s underground garage. Then he went around to help her out and carried her suitcase to one of the elevators, where they ascended to the ninth floor of the tower.

  “Welcome to my secret lair,” he said, pushing open the door to his apartment.

  She stepped inside and wandered into the living room. “Nice digs, Mr. Hunter. Nice furniture.” She looked at the walls, ran her hand over a piece of classical sculpture on a bookcase. “Fine taste in art.” She went to stand at the sliding window to the balcony, her back to him. “Beautiful view.”

  “Beautiful view from here, too.”

  She turned and made a face. “You’re bad.”

  “This is news?”

  She looked at the floor. “Oh, my! What have we here?”

  “The other woman in my life. Annie, meet Luna.”

  The cat approached her one cautious step at a time, sniffing the air.

  “Well, hello, Luna.” She bent over and extended a hand. The cat leaned forward, took a whiff of her fingertips, then proceeded confidently beneath her palm. Annie stroked her and the cat responded by rubbing against her legs.

  “Dylan, I figured you as more of a dog guy than a cat guy.”

  “I like dogs, but they’re too damned much work. Especially in an apartment.”

  “I suppose you also identify with cats because they like their independence.”

  He stifled the urge to smile. “There’s that.”

  “Okay, I consider myself warned. So, who takes care of your baby when you aren’t here?”

  “I pay a neighbor kid to stop by and do that, and to water the plants.”

  She picked up the cat and scratched her head. Luna closed her eyes appreciatively.

  “Now that was quick bonding. You’ve passed the pet test.”

  “And
if I didn’t, are you saying that you’d dump me for this cat?”

  “In a heartbeat. She doesn’t cost as much to feed.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Hyattsville, Maryland

  Wednesday, October 22, 8:40 p.m.

  Too easy.

  That was the thing. Car break-ins here were just too damned easy. That’s why Tomas Cardenas and Manuel Maldonado liked working the parking lot at the Mall at Prince Georges.

  That’s what he concluded after watching the pair for the past two evenings. He’d remained hidden in his car, studying them through the SuperVision scope to get a sense of their methods and physical capabilities. Cardenas, a tall, rail-thin ex-con, covered the lot methodically with his squat, beefy partner. Maldonado was a cholo in the same Mexican gang and, like Cardenas, a stone-cold killer.

  They showed up each night about eight-twenty, arriving from the Prince Georges Metro station across the highway. They carried empty duffle bags over their shoulders. They wandered into the parking lot, well beyond the useful range of the security cameras, and hid among the vehicles until the patrolling guards cruised past. Then they systematically checked the parked cars until they found ones with shopping bags or nice electronics. One guy would stand watch while the other broke in. Along with store purchases, they pulled out stereos, GPS devices, and any other valuables, dumping the loot into the duffle bags. When the bags were loaded, they left on foot. The whole process took just over half an hour.

  The first night, he trailed them from the lot back to the pedestrian bridge that crossed over the East-West Highway and into the Metro station. At that hour, with few people around, he hung back, so they wouldn’t spot him. He knew where they were headed-back to their apartments in the projects, just one Metro stop away. He’d scoped out that location previously; no good. Too many residents up all night.

  The takedown would be easier here. Not easy. But easier.

  Tonight, his vantage point was the second floor of the stairwell-and-elevator structure that brought shoppers up onto the pedestrian bridge-the same one the two gangsters had crossed to get here from the Metro. From this perch, he used the scope to keep an eye on them as they worked the lot.

  This was where he’d intercept them when they returned.

  Standing isolated at the edge of the parking lot, the drab concrete structure was like a small military blockhouse. Its walls were covered with grimy beige ceramic tiles, meant to resist graffiti; its floors were pimpled with dried wads of chewing gum and streaked with urine stains that ran from the corners. The passenger elevator was out of service, forcing anyone brave enough to enter at this hour to climb the narrow stairwell. The stairs were enclosed on both sides with thick wire mesh, which also extended out across the footbridge.

  Like being trapped in a cage. A perfect spot for a predator to stalk his prey.

  Somebody had trashed the stairwell security camera. Bad for public safety, but one less thing for him to worry about. He’d also taken care of the lights, so that he could remain in shadows. And he’d changed his appearance, too. The cops were looking for the bearded, red-haired guy from the Alexandria courthouse. But the rare person walking past him now saw a clean-shaven blond guy in a gray raincoat and black gloves, leaning against the wall and blathering into his cell phone about some meeting in New York.

  Like the previous missions, this one had its own challenges. His chief target was Cardenas, not Maldonado, but he’d have to subdue both. He’d left his vehicle not far away, as close as he could park to this structure. Plan A was to incapacitate Maldonado and leave him here, then force Cardenas to the car at gunpoint. Plan B was to kill Maldonado on the spot, if necessary, then proceed with Plan A. Plan C was a contingency if everything went south; it had some basic elements worked out, then required a lot of improvising.

  But absolutely no hesitation. That’s why, before every mission, he liked to recall the criminal history of the perp. To put himself in the proper frame of mind.

  Since his early teens, Tomas Ernesto Cardenas had belonged to a Mexican crime gang. At seventeen, he was charged with conspiracy to commit first-degree murder in the shooting death of a sixteen-year-old during a drug dispute. The charges were dropped a month later. The next year, Cardenas pled guilty to a firearms charge and was sentenced to a five-year prison term. But the judge suspended four years and nine months, giving him just five years of probation. Over the next two years, he was charged three times with probation violations. Yet despite the insistence of his probation officer, he was never sent back to prison.

  He raised the SuperVision scope and studied the guy again. Six-three, skinny, baggy low-slung jeans, hooded sports jersey. Furtive eyes, darting around like a rat’s. If the bastard had gone to prison, he wouldn’t have been free to participate with an accomplice in that drive-by gang shooting five years ago.

  The night when one of his stray bullets took the life of George Banacek’s boy, Tommy.

  Now, the legal system’s revolving door had spun again, dumping Cardenas and Orlando Ramirez Navarro-his partner that fatal night-back onto the streets. An advocacy group appealed the manslaughter convictions of Cardenas and Navarro on grounds that the lead detective was “prejudiced,” based on a record of past ethnic slurs against Mexican-Americans. The detective’s testimony had been critical in getting the convictions. Now, the pair was free once more, pending a new trial.

  He took a last long look at Cardenas. Then tucked the scope into a deep inner pocket of the raincoat.

  He was more than ready.

  *

  Just before nine, he checked his watch again. This is when they’d quit the past two nights. He glanced outside and, sure enough, they were headed his way.

  He crouched in the corner shadows and drew the Glock 17-the one he’d used to kill Valenti-then put on the same suppressor, the SVR.

  They were babbling excitedly in Spanish when they entered the stairwell below him. He heard their scuffing footsteps as they started up the stairs. One of them made an obscene comment about some puta; the other hooted, his laughter echoing sharply off the concrete walls.

  Deep breath. Out slow.

  The street lights outside cast a bobbing shadow across the floor before him as one of the men reached the top of the stairs. It was Maldonado. Cardenas, still out of sight on the stairs, was complaining about the weight of his haul. Maldenado laughed and hoisted his duffle bag repeatedly overhead, making like a weightlifter.

  He rose smoothly from his crouch. Then, just as he brought the Glock around to sight on where Cardenas would appear, Maldonado spun to face his companion.

  And saw him.

  “Ese!” the man yelled.

  He moved the gun back toward Maldonado at the same time that the guy heaved the duffle bag at him. He fired blindly and tried to jump aside, but the heavy bag caught his legs, knocking him to his knees.

  Maldonado was yanking his own pistol from under his jersey. In response, he launched himself from his knees into a side roll against the wall and came up with the Glock while Maldonado fired. The blast was deafening and stinging chips of concrete from the wall above him sprayed his back and legs. He squeezed his trigger three times, fast. He couldn’t even hear his own suppressed shots through the ringing in his ears, but saw them hit-thigh-chest-face. The Mexican bucked with each impact. He collapsed, and his gun hand, in spasms, unleashed another thunderous shot that sparked off the floor and ricocheted off into the night.

  Plan B.

  He heard Cardenas screaming in the stairwell. He pushed himself to his feet and flattened against the wall, watching the floor at the top of the stairs for the murderer’s shadow to appear.

  Instead, he heard a fading rush of footsteps.

  He’s running.

  He spun around the wall and ran to the top of the stairs. The guy was almost to the ground floor entrance, struggling awkwardly to get free of the cross-body strap of the duffle bag. He snapped off a shot at him, but it careened off the wire-mesh screens. Cardenas dumped
the bag and ran outside. He hurtled down the stairs after him.

  When he emerged it took a moment to spot his target. Cardenas had rounded the structure and tried to cross the highway. Blocked by the metal fence barrier running down the median strip, he turned and ran back into the parking lot.

  He raced after the guy. Cardenas glanced back over his shoulder at him in terror, trying to zig-zag among the remaining parked cars and small islands of decorative trees scattered throughout the lot.

  Ahead in the distance he saw a flashing yellow light at the far end of the mall. The security car. Cardenas was headed toward it.

  This had to end fast, or end badly.

  His panicked quarry was winded and slowing. He wasn’t. He cut a direct route toward the security car, gaining rapidly. As he closed, Cardenas reached another patch of trees and half-turned to look behind him. Then his low-slung jeans caught his heel. He stumbled.

  Fatal fashion faux pas.

  He dropped to one knee and from a distance of about thirty yards fired once, center-mass. The suppressed shot wasn’t loud at all. But the Fiocchi 9mm round knocked Cardenas right off his feet.

  He trotted up to him. The guy lay on his back across a patch of grass under a small tree. His eyes were wide with shock and his lips sucked for air, like a fish in a bowl of dirty water. He didn’t have enough breath even to moan. Blood poured from the hole in the belly of his Baltimore Orioles jersey. Cardenas would be gone in another couple of minutes.

  But he didn’t have a couple of minutes to wait around.

  He leaned over him. Looked into his rat’s eyes.

  “For Tommy Banacek,” he said quietly.

  He pointed the end of the silencer at the middle “o” in “Orioles” and pulled the trigger.

  Tomas Ernesto Cardenas stopped sucking air.

  *

  Unscrewing the silencer, he looked around. Incredibly, he could spot nobody looking his way.

  Plan C. Leave the body here with the slug in it. They’ll do a ballistics match with the one from Valenti and figure out who did it. And why.

  Good. But not good enough.

  Maybe you can still pull it off. All of it.

  Back to Plan A.