HUNTER: A Thriller (A Dylan Hunter Thriller)

by Robert Bidinotto

  “But that’s—”

  “—political dynamite,” he finished. “As Malone would soon discover. When the Russians missed their man, they followed the same trail of informants backwards, to Malone. They convinced one of the informants to tell Malone there was a meeting planned between Russian embassy personnel and some top Taliban. They knew he’d want to witness and record it. Malone took along a SOG guy for backup. But when they got to the place, all that was waiting inside was an IED.”

  “God!”

  “Only because he was so careful opening the door did he survive at all. He stood to the side, but the blast still blew the door right back into him, smashing his face. He took a few pieces of shrapnel, too. The SOG guy was out covering the alley, so he was okay. He picked up Malone and drove him out of there. We got Special Forces medics to stabilize him and we flew him to Germany, then back here to Walter Reed.”

  She tried to process it all. “Russia—backing the Taliban! Grant, why is this is the first time I’m hearing about this?”

  His face was drawn into bitter creases. “Because after risking his life to get that explosive information, Matt Malone was betrayed once again. This time, by his own commander-in-chief. While Dr. Copeland was piecing his face back together, just a few miles south, our dear president decided that it would be far better for his future relationship with Putin to sweep the whole thing under the rug.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that American troops are dying over there, thanks to the Russians—but nobody’s doing a damned thing about it?”

  “If you’re angry, imagine how Malone felt when he found out.”

  Once again, she looked at the photo on the coffee table. “How could they do that to him?”

  “Can you see now why he would’ve been angry enough to blow Muller’s brains out?”

  *

  She sat in her office, hunched over a few sheets of paper and a man’s photo.

  The papers were notes she’d been scribbling since the meeting with Garrett and Kessler ended an hour earlier. The photo was the one of Matt Malone.

  She kept going back to the photo. Maybe if she could come to understand him better, she might be able to find him. Though now that they knew what they were up against, it seemed almost hopeless. Clearly, he was a genius in the clandestine arts. Probably a genius, period.

  She tried to imagine the intensity of the idealism that could compel someone to such extremes. For she had no doubt, based on what they had said, that Matt Malone was a passionate idealist. A man so idealistic that he could lay down his life for his principles. Or, if necessary, kill for them.

  It caused her to wonder about the depth of her own principles, and what she would or wouldn’t do in their name. What is the boundary line between a man of principle and a fanatic? Between a person moved to violence by a passion for justice, and a person motivated to violence by blood-lust and nihilism? Surely there was a difference, not in degree but in kind, between someone like Matt Malone and a typical terrorist. A moral difference. He seemed a reluctant warrior, someone for whom violence had become a last resort, not a preferred alternative.

  She tried to put herself in his shoes, tried to fathom the sheer depths of his loneliness and isolation. She thought of his life history, of its promise, of what he could have become. Of what he should have become. He was a man of enormous talent, courage, and integrity. The sort of man who, in a just world, would be making headlines with his deeds.

  What a tragic waste.

  She heard the faint tone of her cell phone and dug it out of her purse. Frowned when she saw who it was.

  “Yes, Detective Cronin,” she answered.

  He chuckled. “I wonder how many heavy breathers have been put out of business by Caller ID?”

  “Better living through technology. What’s up?”

  “We haven’t talked for a while. Just wondered if anything new had developed?”

  “Not really. He contacted me again. We’re going to get together this weekend.”

  “Well, that’s something, at least. We lost track of him a couple of weeks ago. I don’t know how; we had his place staked out pretty well. Anyway, I called his editor at the Inquirer, and he said that Mr. Hunter told him he was off researching another crime piece.”

  “No doubt. I wonder what new surprises he has in store for us?”

  “You sound a bit negative. I thought you liked what he is writing.”

  “Oh. Well, yes. I guess I’m just a bit tired.”

  “Don’t lose your idealism, Ms. Woods. I like that about you. And, truth be told, I like your boyfriend’s idealism, too.”

  “So do I,” she said. She glanced at Malone’s photo. Another idealist. She smiled to herself. I can’t seem to escape them.

  “Well, as long as I have you on the line,” he continued, “I might as well bring you up to speed on the investigation. Don’t spread this around, but we have a blood sample of one of the shooters.”

  It perked her interest. “Really. That’s great news. How did that happen?”

  “We didn’t let it out to the press. But remember that Navarro killing a couple weeks ago? The guy owned a Doberman. It bit the shooter before he killed it and Navarro. We got the shooter’s blood sample off the dog. It had to be his blood, because it didn’t match Navarro’s. It’s our first real break, because when we eventually get a shooter suspect, we can check for a DNA match or maybe scars from dog bites.”

  “That’s at least some progress.”

  “The longer they do this, the more chances they take, the more mistakes they make, and the more clues they leave behind. And the people around them start to notice things, too. All the sneaking around.”

  “It’s a shame you don’t have more than the blood to go on, so far.”

  “Not much. Just that and the symbolic names.”

  “Symbolic names?”

  “Oh. Sorry. That hasn’t gotten out, either. The vigilante team has been using symbolic aliases.”

  “I still don’t get what you mean.”

  “You know, names like ‘Lex Talionis’ and ‘Edmond Dantes.’ Lex Talionis, that’s Latin for ‘eye for an eye.’ Old Testament justice, you see. They used that in Hyattsville, when a—”

  Something froze inside her. “Did you say Edmond Dantes?”

  “Yeah. One of our guys looked it up. That’s the hero in a classic revenge novel, Count of Monte Cristo. That guy was also a vigilante. So the way we—”

  “Billy Joe Stoddard,” she mumbled.

  “Excuse me?”

  The walls seemed to be spinning.

  Suddenly, things began to crash together.

  Malone assassinates Muller, out of revenge.

  And leaves behind the name of a fictional avenger as his signature.

  The vigilantes assassinate criminals, also for revenge.

  And leave behind the name of fictional avengers.

  Matt Malone is a vigilante?

  “Ms. Woods?”

  She stared in shock at the photo on her desk.

  It couldn’t be.

  It couldn’t be.

  But then everything else began to tumble into place.

  Matt Malone, CIA master of assassination and disguise...and of surveillance detection.

  Matt Malone, idealist...who had plastic surgery...who left his old identity behind...living now under a false identity...seeking justice....

  “You still there? Ms. Woods?”

  Arthur Copeland rebuilds Matt Malone’s face....

  Her pulse was hammering.

  Dylan Hunter—with a rebuilt face and a new identity—shows up at Arthur Copeland’s funeral....

  She stared at the photo of the dark-haired man. Began to shake.

  No—God no!

  She felt a crushing weight on her chest, making it hard to breathe.

  Matt Malone...Dylan Hunter...

  You’ve been hunting your own lover!

  “Annie! Is anything wrong?”

  “I...have to go
....”

  She clicked off the phone. It fell from her shaking hand to her desk.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA

  Saturday, December 20, 4:25 p.m.

  The sight of her lingerie in the overnight bag caused her to shudder.

  She had to stop packing and sit on her bed, trying once again to settle her nerves.

  Since yesterday, the fear had come upon her in sudden waves. It prevented her from sleeping last night, until she finally took a pill that relaxed her enough for a fitful few hours of semi-consciousness.

  Throughout the day, though, the thought of facing him again terrified her. All the facts, all the logical inferences she could draw from them, told her that Matt Malone, CIA assassin, had become Dylan Hunter, leader of a team of vigilantes.

  But those same facts—and mistaken logical inferences drawn from them—had led her and Garrett astray for the past six months. The same facts and erroneous inferences had propelled them into futile manhunts for imaginary Russian moles and military snipers.

  Well, were her inferences any more valid this time? Everything she felt, everything she knew, told her that she was right about this. But did she really know everything?

  Before she would say anything to Garrett or Cronin, she needed proof. Iron-clad proof. She could not destroy Dylan’s life because of some terrible mistake or misinterpretation.

  She ran her hand over the smooth fabric of the bed’s comforter.

  Nor could she destroy their relationship because of some tragic error.

  So she had to face him tonight. Had to pretend to him that she had resolved her doubts and fears. Had to play-act long enough to get the proof she needed. Or evidence that would exonerate him, once and for all.

  She stood again, started to zip the bag. But stopped once more at the sight of the lingerie.

  How could she possibly get through the next twenty-four hours? She would have to sleep with him. Lie in the arms of a possible assassin that she had sworn to bring to justice. Allow herself to be touched by the hands of a possible killer hunted by the police.

  How could she do that?

  She entered the bathroom. Ran cold water over a face cloth. Pressed it to her eyes and cheeks. Let the chill dampness penetrate her skin.

  Eyes shut, she thought of the man in the photo. The man named Matt Malone. Of his idealism and bravery. Of the obscene betrayals and the horrific trauma he had endured, and that had fueled his desire for retribution. Of his rebirth under the skilled, caring hands of Arthur Copeland.

  Then, she thought of what it had to be like for him to learn that a trio of sadistic savages had destroyed the man who saved him.

  And what of the man she knew only as Dylan Hunter?

  All right, suppose he was Malone, resurrected. Suppose he had taken on the role of a vigilante, retaliating against those monsters in order to avenge the ruined lives of people like Arthur and Susie. And against other monsters, on behalf of Kate Higgins and George Banacek.

  How could she blame him?

  She removed the cloth from her face. In the mirror, her eyes were tired, gray, desolate.

  No, that wasn’t the question. The real question was: How could she betray him?

  After all, if she were honest with herself, that’s what she was planning to do. She was a government security officer. She had sworn an oath to abide by and to protect the nation’s laws. To shield a killer from the reach of the law would dishonor that pledge.

  Now, she had to choose.

  She could betray the law that she had vowed to uphold, and end her career.

  Or she could betray the man she loved, and end their relationship.

  But she could no longer remain loyal to both.

  She tossed the cloth onto the sink. Began to gather the last of her toiletries.

  It would be so much easier if only she had some valid reason to hate him, a motive strong enough to tip the balance, to commit her to stopping him. Then, turning him in would not be a betrayal. It would not be fraud this time, either. It would be an act of loyalty.

  But what reason could turn her against the man she loved?

  Unbidden, an image arose in her mind.

  Her father’s face.

  She remembered the night at his home, not so long ago. Remembered how he had responded to her anger with his patient, deep, gentle faith. Recalled the hurt in his eyes at her harsh parting words.

  Then she remembered the news conference. Remembered how Dylan had stalked up the aisle, his face cold, his accusations merciless. Recalled the look of shocked vulnerability on Dad’s face....

  She looked again into her reflected eyes in the mirror. Saw a measure of resolve return.

  Then she strode back to her overnight bag, tossed in the rest of the items, and tugged the zipper closed.

  She would spend the weekend with him. She would sleep with him. She would force herself to do these things, in order to learn the truth.

  And if, at last, she found him to be responsible for these crimes, then she would turn him in to the authorities.

  Yes, he might have his high ideals and principles.

  But she had hers.

  BETHESDA, MARYLAND

  Saturday, December 20, 6:20 p.m.

  She had managed to hold onto her sense of cool control during the drive over, during the elevator ride to his floor, during the walk down the hallway to his door. As she rang his doorbell, she reminded herself of her father and of her oath.

  The door opened on his face. The thick dark curly hair, the cleft chin, the green-brown eyes. The eyes looked hard, for just an instant, then softened. That funny little twisted smile formed on his lips.

  “Hi, you.”

  She felt her resolution soften, felt herself smiling.

  “Hi, you.”

  He lay his big hand on her arm, guided her inside, closed the door. He lifted the overnight bag from her shoulder, set it down on the floor. They stood in the tiny foyer, looking at each other, not touching. She felt the tension build between them.

  He raised his hand to her chin. Gently tilted it up, leaned down and kissed her.

  It was like the first time, the night of their first date, outside her door. She felt his strong arm move around her, felt herself leaning back under the pressure of his lips, felt her arms rise to grip his powerful shoulders, felt everything else falling away. She was molded to his body, responding helplessly, her knowledge and will obliterated.

  He pulled back first, his face hovering just above hers. He stroked her hair with the back of his hand and stared, unblinking and serious, into her eyes.

  “We’re going to get through this, Annie Woods.”

  The words, so unexpected, so right. She had to blink rapidly to keep from crying. “I hope so, Dylan,” she whispered.

  He held her at arm’s length, looked her up and down. “Better than I remembered.”

  She laughed in spite of herself, relieved to release the tension without tears. Then she did the same to him, taking in his sports jacket, cord slacks, and short boots, all deep tan. “You look great, too. Are we going somewhere?”

  “We always seem to do better when the evening begins with a good dinner,” he said. “I’ve got seven o’clock reservations at a nice little French bistro.”

  “Do I get to change first?”

  His eyes roamed her body again. He shook his head. “You’ll do.”

  *

  Though the place was jammed, their table was set apart in an alcove filled with hanging plants. The wall was exposed brick and adorned with an Impressionist landscape. They ate meats baked in puffed pastries and shared a good bottle of Cabernet Franc.

  She felt surprisingly relaxed. Looking at him study the painting in the candlelight, she couldn’t make her suspicions real. Garrett and Kessler had led her to believe that Matt Malone was a tragic victim of circumstances. But the man before her was their confident master. His light-hearted gaiety, his serene self-assurance...this was not a brooding, damaged
soul, striking out in blind, bitter anger.

  He turned to her. Then grinned. “Still trying to figure me out, I see.”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “To me.”

  “I’ll have to remember that.” She searched his face. “I’m just wondering how you got to be you.”

  He sipped his wine, not breaking eye contact. Then: “Long story.”

  “We have the weekend.”

  He put down the wine. “So, what specifically do you want to know?”

  “In my experience, most men are cynics. You’re not. You don’t seem to have a cynical bone in your body. You’re an idealist.”

  “My idealism does get tested, from time to time. As I’m sure you know.” He paused, his expression now serious. “Because you’re an idealist, too, Annie Woods.”

  She tried not to show a reaction. “Maybe. But this is about you, Dylan. I know that justice means everything to you. What interests me is why. How did that develop?”

  “Maybe it’s not something that develops. Maybe it’s something that people have, but lose.”

  “That sounds clever, but I’m not sure I understand.”

  He gestured toward their fellow diners. “See all these people? How many of them start out their lives as cynics? How many of them, as little kids under five years old, have no dreams or ideals? How many identify with the bad guys?”

  “Okay. I get that.”

  “But by the time they’re in their teens, a lot of them have. They’ve already given up. Why? Face it, idealism is hard. It’s hard to adhere to some standard. Selling out is so much easier.”

  “Then you’re saying that a cynic is just a coward?”

  “Yes. But so are a lot of those fake ‘idealists’ out there, who turn their cowardice into virtues.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His eyes rested on the chandelier above their table; they flashed in its light. “Annie, it’s not easy to live with yourself when you sell out. When you give in, just to ‘belong,’ just to ‘keep the peace,’ ‘not make waves,’ ‘go along to get along,’ and all the other common euphemisms for cowardice. Because that’s what it is. Cowardice. And at some level, the person doing that knows that he’s a coward. And he feels guilty.”