“Shut up!” he shouted, banging his fist on the glass.
“Can’t face it, can you? The fact is, your traitor parents turned you into a twisted mess.”
“Shut up, you bitch!”
“Tomorrow, the world will know everything about you and your traitor parents. They’ll—”
He made an inarticulate growl, pointed his gun at her face, and pulled the trigger.
In the confined space of the basement, the roar of the .45 was deafening. The bulletproof glass shattered—or the outer glass layer did. The ballistic, glass-clad polycarbonate did not break through.
She staggered back, stunned.
He stepped back and fired again. And again. And in blind rage kept firing. The entire three-by-three-foot square became completely opaque, like a pile of snow. But Trammel, who had always taken pride in buying only the best, was thwarted. After nine shots, the gun was empty.
He went to the door and in raw fury pounded it with his fists and the gun, screaming for her to let him in.
After a minute, dizzy and panting, he stopped. He leaned his forehead against the cold steel.
Heard the faint sound of her crying.
The empty gun hanging in his hand, Avery Trammel shuffled slowly back toward the stairs, the darkness deepening with every step away from that bright square.
7
“Hunter, you can come out, now. I’m not going to shoot you. See?”
He snapped a glance around the tree. Lasher held the rifle by its barrel, and swung it forward, pitching it into the grass. He held up his Glock.
“See? I’m leaving it here.”
He squatted and put it down on the balcony. Raised his hands, palm outward.
“All I want is what I said before. We meet, hand-to-hand, no weapons. If you toss your own weapon out there, we can do this. The winner walks away. Deal?”
Hunter thought about it. Of course he didn’t trust him. But Lasher was out of the effective range of his Sig. He could never get away from this tree still carrying the pistol, not without Lasher retrieving the rifle and gunning him down. So he was trapped here and would eventually die, unless he played along.
And then there was something more primitive to consider, too. Something more elemental.
The prospect of dealing with Lasher up close and personally.
Of looking into the killer’s eyes as he died.
“All right,” he shouted. “You step away from those weapons, I’ll toss out mine—and we can walk over into the middle of the yard and meet there.”
“Great. I’m coming down now.”
Lasher trotted down the stairs, then moved forward, putting distance between himself and the rifle.
Hunter stepped away from the tree and pitched the Sig and ski mask aside. Then walked out into the middle of the yard. He watched as the killer came to meet him.
He assessed what he could of Lasher’s physical and fighting abilities. The man had about thirty pounds and two inches on him, and the battered knuckles of a boxer or MMA guy. With his shoulders and legs, he obviously was a lifter. The big legs didn’t seem to move particularly fast. So, all in all, probably MMA, but not a kicker. He’d likely come straight in, try to rush you and get you on the ground, where he could overpower you, break limbs, choke you out, pound you.
It would be a good idea to stay off the ground with this guy.
And finish him fast.
“Gee, Hunter, we both look like Ninjas. All in black,” Lasher chuckled. He moved in deliberately and unhurriedly, flat-footed, not bouncing. He raised his fists, boxer-style, left fist forward.
Hunter knew the guy was right-handed. He didn’t need to be tagged by a haymaker, so he started to circle to his own right, away from Lasher’s power punch. He made no moves to reveal what he knew.
“You still have your jacket on,” he said.
Lasher smirked and shrugged, bulging his trapezius and neck muscles. “I like this jacket. Besides, I don’t think I’m going to break a sweat.”
It made no sense for him to keep the jacket on.
“Don’t you want to lose the jacket so you can show off your manly muscles?”
A fleeting movement passed over Lasher’s face. He was hiding something under that jacket.
“You want it off me, you can try to take it off.”
Hunter watched his eyes and body language. Sensed that the fist movements were just feints. Lasher was preparing to rush him, put him down, then pound him.
Hunter saw the legs tense, so when the lurch forward started he was ready, leaping to the right, leaning, then snapping a hard left kick to the side of Lasher’s left knee. The guy’s bulk and inertia continued him forward, like a bull passing a matador, but the knee gave way and he went down in the grass on his knees and arms.
Lasher’s arms were straight and propping him up from the ground. Hunter hopped forward and snapped a right side kick toward Lasher’s rigid left elbow, which would have snapped it at the joint had it landed. But still off-balance, Lasher toppled forward farther, and Hunter’s kick just scraped his triceps. Lasher immediately rolled onto his back, cocking his right leg to kick out and his big hand to grab. Hunter thought better of it and started circling the fallen man. Slowly, gingerly, ready to grab, Lasher regained his feet. However, he was limping from the kick to his knee, which probably came close to dislocating it.
There were no more taunts now; both were serious and focused—so much so that the fireworks were almost pushed out of awareness. While Hunter watched Lasher’s movements, little snippets of memories about his killings kept returning.
Arnold Wasserman . . . the Chechen . . .
They were moving by degrees toward the south end of the pond area. Whenever Hunter made a move to come back, Lasher stepped over to cut him off. He became aware that this was deliberate, that Lasher was trying to corral him into a narrower area, where it would be harder to maneuver and escape—like a boxer cutting off the ring. They were drifting inexorably toward the pathway that led up onto the little bridge that went out to the gazebo.
Lasher did something else. He started to unbutton his right jacket sleeve. Hunter glanced there, wondered why alarm bells were going off . . .
. . . then, in a series lightning images, he saw Lasher’s hand drop with a jerk—the glint of pond lights on something metallic dropping from his sleeve—his hand closing on a cylinder and then rising with a stiletto, rising too high, rising in front of his smirking mouth and mocking eyes that began to squint down its length . . .
. . . and then knowing, Hunter snapped his upper body and head to the left in time with a loud ping and the draft of the ballistic blade whizzing past his cheek.
The reactive move threw himself off-balance, sent him stumbling into a flower bed—and Lasher, showing but a second’s surprise, lowered his head and charged him. Hunter’s foot caught on something, and the momentum spun him, and suddenly he was going down—face down—and feeling Lasher piling right on him, and knowing he was in trouble.
He landed on his forearms and knees in the soft earth, with Lasher’s full smothering weight crashing down upon his back—and he felt the man’s thick, powerful left arm snake around his neck as his big right palm slapped against the back of his head to add to the pressure, and he knew Lasher was going for the choke, and he knew then how Arnold Wasserman had died . . .
And in that instant’s awareness he lowered his chin and hunched his shoulders to protect his neck and throat, and turned his chin left, into the crook of Lasher’s arm—and at the same instant he tucked his right arm under him and twisted his body right, and pushed up hard with his left leg, throwing Lasher off his back before the man could wrap his legs around him. And in the next split second before Lasher could move, Hunter shot his left elbow down into the man’s groin, not once, not twice, but four times, fast and hard, and heard him gasp and then groan explosively as his body curled and his arms jerked down from Hunter’s neck.
And pulling free, Hunter leaned forward, then
whipped back around, shooting the elbow down again, this time into Lasher’s jaw. He felt and heard something crack there and the man’s body went soft.
And seeing his face he thought of all the malignancy of this monster, all the horrors he had committed, all the innocent lives he had destroyed, and he remembered their names and faces, and he knew what he had to do, and how.
Lasher moaned and writhed helplessly; his glassy eyes bulged and jaw hung twisted and slack. But as Hunter rolled to his feet, he knew that was not enough for him—not nearly enough.
“Are you still with me, Lasher? Oh, good. Listen up now. I’m going to tell you the story of your life. You wanted to be a winner, right? But to you, that meant being the only winner. It meant making everyone else lose. Your victory meant their defeat. Your pleasure meant their pain. Your life meant their deaths. Everything you won was taken from the lives and happiness of others. But you don’t get to keep those kinds of winnings.”
The fireworks finale was starting as he grabbed Lasher by the ankle and dragged him over to a cement planter. Lasher had no strength to resist. Hunter raised the killer’s left leg so that its calf was braced at an angle against the planter.
“This is for the life you took from Emmalee Conn.”
He stomped on the shin bone, breaking it. Lasher’s scream was drowned out by the thunderous noise just a few hundred yards away.
He did the same with the other leg. Lasher howled again in anguish.
“And that was for stealing the health and presidency from Roger Helm.”
He flipped him onto his stomach, twisted his left arm behind him.
“Now, this is for the poor old man you murdered in his apartment that same day.”
He kicked the back of the twisted arm at the shoulder, dislocating it. Then did the same with the other arm. Lasher’s cries had become more muted, now.
“That was for everyone else whose lives you’ve wrecked. The girls you raped in the military. The people you assassinated. The ones you’ve terrorized and threatened. Including me, and people dear to me.”
Lasher passed out from the pain. Hunter let him have a minute, then fetched and splashed some water from the pond onto his head, bringing him around.
The fireworks were constant flashes and explosions now, ripping the sky apart.
He squatted down. He had to get right in his face to be heard.
“There’s one other person to remember, Lasher. One more innocent person you killed. A dedicated young reporter named Arnold Wasserman. He was the best friend of a buddy of mine. When I figured out you killed him, then how you did it, I decided there was only one fitting, final punishment for you.”
He grabbed Lasher’s jacket and dragged him to the pond’s edge.
“You rendered Arnold helpless, and then you drowned him. I bet there was a point when he knew exactly what was happening. When he couldn’t breathe and was swallowing water and knew he was dying. Well, I thought maybe you should know what that feels like, Ron. That’s why I just took away your use of your arms and legs.”
He grabbed the murderer by the collar of his jacket, then heaved him upright. Held him over the pond, suspended and screaming, as the fireworks finale pounded the air. To be heard, he had to shout it.
“You lived by the rule of ‘winner takes all.’ Now die by it. Ron Larsen—you lose.”
He dumped him into the shallow pond.
The big fish scattered to a safe distance to watch an alien spectacle. The colored lights at the pond’s edge and the last seconds of the fireworks revealed a human form flailing and twisting helplessly in barely three feet of water, limbs bending, allowing the man no ability to stand, to grab, to crawl.
For a brief, final instant, the killer somehow managed, despite his agony, to raise his head above the water, just once. His skin was white and, like the fish, his lips pursed and puffed and his eyes bugged out as they fixed their last living gaze on the face of Dylan Hunter.
8
He sat alone, in a small puddle of light at the desk in his office, surrounded by darkness and, for the past moments, merciful silence.
He had found a flashlight in Julia’s nightstand, and then a small battery-operated LED lantern out in the garage. He had gone to the garage to try to escape by car, only to find that his last way out had been cut off—that he was, for now, condemned to remain for at least a while longer in this vile country, and sentenced to ponder how so much had gone so wrong.
That she had sabotaged the cars, there was no doubt. Just as there was no doubt that she had betrayed him. She had violated the inviolable trust between a husband and wife, revealing sensitive secrets that any partner had a right to regard as private and privileged. He would never forgive her for this. Nor for the unspeakable insults against his parents. No one could be permitted to say such things and get away with it.
And to do it while hiding behind a wall he had provided for her safety.
Well, she could rot in there.
He looked at his watch. Ten forty. He was relieved now that everything had quieted down outside. Obviously, the threat had been eliminated. Lasher should be reporting back at any time.
For a time, he had had his doubts about the man; but his courage and skills in these matters was unquestionable. He had taken on all his big assignments: the actions against Muller and Helm; the neutralization of Emmalee Conn when she had become a threat; the hiring of Shishani for the terrorism actions; now, the elimination of the enigma operating under the alias of Dylan Hunter. As annoyingly arrogant as the man could sometimes be, Lasher had been a reliable contractor. In exchange for everything, he probably deserved the additional ten million.
If there were a lesson here, it would be to entrust one’s security to the vetted professionals—to Lasher, and to the team hand-picked by Sokolov. He hoped none of them had been injured this evening; he would like to keep some of them around, wherever he wound up living. Once settled, he would phone Leon and thank him for his splendid recommendations.
He did not relish staying up hours more, especially in the absence of electricity, to finish packing. This lantern was woefully inadequate. Well, he would have to make do. It was important to salvage his critical and confidential papers and decide which would be of future use, and which should be burned in the yard.
Trammel’s eyes rested on the envelope at the corner of his desk.
Those photos were the source of his future power. The keys to the kingdom. His Declaration of Independence from Moscow. The Golden Fleece in his quest to vindicate the legacy of his father and mother. Pick your metaphor, however strained or grandiose; but it nonetheless remained true that the Conn/Spencer photos had been the turning point during a bleak period. He had been strategically brilliant to take that otherwise useless Conn whore and sublimate her base inclinations for the benefit of a greater cause. Just as it had been strategically brilliant, as well as courageous, to know the proper time to take decisive action, remove Roger Helm, and salvage once and for all the Spencer candidacy.
When one thinks of the pivotal moments in history, one invariably finds a pivotal man. Future historians would find in him such a bold, seminal figure.
The thought reminded him . . .
He took the old silver watch from his pocket. Gazed upon its cracked crystal—damaged during his father’s arrest. It brought him back to that terrible night. He flipped the watch over in his hand, seeing the worn inscription once again.
“I have been bold, Father,” he said softly. “And fortune has favored me.”
He heard steps in the outer office and glanced again at at the working watch on his wrist. Ten fifty, now. Well, it was about time. He looked up and saw the man’s figure approaching in the shadows and called out.
“I am in here, Mr. Lasher. I have finally managed to find some illumination.”
“So have I,” said Dylan Hunter.
He walked into the surreal atmosphere of Trammel’s office. The billionaire sat behind a massive desk with a stupefied expres
sion. The electric lantern on his desk lit him from below, making him look the very image of some madman from a Hollywood horror film.
If only all this had been a movie.
“You’re devastated to see me,” Hunter said. “I’m so glad.”
Trammel could not speak. A silvery object in his hand clattered to the desktop.
“I know, I know: It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way, was it? You being Master of the Universe and all, reality was simply going to obey your orders.”
Trammel tottered to his feet. Looked around wildly.
“I think this is probably what you’re looking for,” Hunter said, picking up the handgun from the chair where Trammel must have tossed it. “But that wouldn’t have done you any good, anyway.”
He left the gun there and slowly approached the desk, moving into the pale halo of light.
“Of all the evil creatures I have ever encountered,” Trammel croaked, appraising him with unvarnished hatred and loathing, “you are without equal.”
Hunter sighed. He felt terminally weary. Dealing with Lasher moments earlier, he had learned something important.
Now he needed to clarify it aloud, for himself.
“You know, Trammel, all of us grow up believing some story, some narrative about how the world works. A story about why things are the way they are, why people do what they do, and what is right and wrong. It becomes our private morality play. We cast its heroes and villains, and we make ourselves the featured character, because the story is really about us. About our role in the world. And that story gives our lives meaning and purpose and identity.”
“What are you talking about?” Trammel demanded, looking bewildered.
Hunter ignored the question. “And I’ve found two really interesting things about that story. First, most of the things people argue about is really, at root, about that story—the master narrative of our lives. And second, whatever else changes about us, that narrative almost never does. It’s interesting that the most important thing that defines us, that makes us who we are, never really changes.”
WINNER TAKES ALL: A Dylan Hunter Justice Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers Book 3) Page 49
