BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers)

by Robert Bidinotto

  Now, waiting in the stairwell, he sized up his guys a last time, to see how they were handling this.

  There was the black kid, Devonn. Early twenties, new hire, no work experience. He came cheap, though, because he needed a job to satisfy his probation officer. He looked tough enough, but his eyes had a faraway look. Probably doped up before he got here.

  Then there was Terry. Big guy, nearly thirty, and definitely tough. Word was that he had been an amateur middleweight about to turn pro when he was sent to prison for aggravated assault. Like Devonn, he had gotten the unskilled laborer job a few months back as a condition of his parole.

  Devonn and Terry were both hard dudes. They’d give him enough backup.

  Billy, the skinny dago kid, was a question mark, though. He looked either excited or nervous—hard to tell. He bounced on his toes, and he seemed to be breathing fast. But he was ambitious, and when he overheard Smoky pitching Terry, he begged to come along.

  “Hey, Billy. Chill.”

  “I’m cool,” he replied, looking anything but.

  Through the security window on the metal door, Smoky saw headlights flash into view. A dark car, he couldn’t make it out clearly, swept around quickly and moved toward the parking space.

  “Okay, this is it. Remember: We belt him around some, but no serious damage. You hear that, Terry? Don’t beat him into the pavement. And I do all the talking. Got that?”

  They all nodded.

  He pushed open the door and went out, followed by the others. Then stopped in his tracks, so abruptly that somebody right behind him jostled into him.

  It wasn’t a blue CR-V. It was a big black BMW sedan. And the guy getting out wasn’t a curly-dark-haired man dressed for business; he was some guy with blond hair wearing glasses, a short leather jacket, and jeans. And he had parked right in M-12, nice as you please.

  Shit. This clown is going to blow everything.

  “Hey! You can’t park there!”

  The guy closed the door and turned to face them. “Who says?”

  “I do,” Smoky snapped. He began to march toward the dude, hearing the footfalls of the others behind him. “That place is reserved.”

  “You don’t say,” the guy replied, leaning back against his car door and crossing his arms. “You don’t look like you work here. You have any credentials?”

  “I’ll show you some credentials,” Smoky said, doubling his fists and stepping in toward the guy, who seemed to shrink back in sudden fear.

  Then the guy moved and there was a blur and something crashed into the side of his skull …

  He sized them up fast as they approached. Four normally would be tough odds; but if they weren’t pros, and if he kept his back to the car so that they couldn’t circle him, they’d mostly get in each other’s way. The mouthy blond kid in front looked strong, but the way he moved didn’t suggest any special fighting skill. Take him out fast, give the others something to think about … maybe peel off a coward or two.

  The blond kid raised clenched fists and walked in wide open. Hunter went for shock value, snapping out a right front kick over the raised fists and into the left side of the guy’s face. He didn’t want to kill the jerk, so he made sure to take something off it, and angled it to catch him with his instep, rather than his steel-reinforced boot toe.

  Even before the kid had toppled, Hunter slid into a martial arts stance—turned to the side, knees flexed, hands raised for parrying and open for grabbing.

  The rest of them skidded to a halt and automatically fell back a step. The skinny kid bringing up the rear kept retreating, out of play; he clearly didn’t have the stomach for this. But the other two fanned out in front of him, undeterred.

  Big, beefy, dark-haired guy, jaw like an anvil—shuffling to Hunter’s left, lowering his chin protectively to his chest, raising his fists and forearms just the way an experienced boxer is supposed to …

  Short, lean black kid, puffy dead eyes—sliding to Hunter’s right, his right hand diving into the pocket of his hoodie. It emerged with a knife that he flipped open with a flick of his wrist …

  The glitter of the blade in the garage lights made Hunter suddenly aware of the still-sore tightness in his left thigh, where a blade had penetrated deep, not even two months earlier. Nothing the boxer could do with his fists posed that much of a threat. As the black kid started to brandish the knife, Hunter knew that he’d have to take him out first.

  The kid held the knife in his right hand, whipping it around fast, feinting a few times. Hunter moved to his right, away from the boxer, keeping his still-healing left leg in contact with the car, so that the big guy would have to step over his fallen comrade to get in close. He kept his right leg poised forward, on tip-toe, ready to strike—and to give the knife artist something to think about.

  But time was on their side, and from experience he knew what to expect. In a few more seconds, the big guy would make a move to distract him, then the black kid would dart in to carve him up. He would turn to defend himself from that attack, and the boxer would tag him.

  He had to act first.

  Pushing off from his right foot, he lunged back toward the boxer, just as the guy was raising his leg to step over his buddy’s unconscious body. He shot a right front kick at the guy’s left knee. It caught the big man off-balance, in mid-step, but it didn’t catch him quite right—it was more a glancing blow off the top of his calf—but it was enough to cause him to grunt and stagger to the side.

  As Hunter anticipated, the black kid rushed forward, knife pointed to dart into him, like the needle on a sewing machine. Still balanced on his left foot, Hunter leaned his upper body away from the oncoming kid and shot a reverse right kick to the rear. The kid’s forward momentum caused him to lurch into Hunter’s boot heel, which smashed the blade aside and crashed into his ribs and liver. As he buckled, the kid’s arms clutched instinctively toward his midsection … and accidentally tangled around Hunter’s extended foot.

  Wobbling on his left foot, Hunter yanked his right leg away from the falling kid and tried to regain his balance—but not before the boxer had regained his own. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the guy stepping in, fast. He knew what was coming, so he ducked—

  —not quite fast enough. The thunderous left hook only grazed the right side of his skull; but already off-balance, he knew he was going down. He held his forearms alongside his ribs, fists alongside his face, just in time to intercept the guy’s crushing follow-up right. It banged into his right bicep with such force that it bounced him off the side of the car as he fell.

  He landed on his left side and arm. His entire right arm went numb; he couldn’t even raise it to cover his exposed ribs from what he guessed was coming next. He drew up his knees toward his chest as he watched the big man limp into position to kick the crap out of him with his right, uninjured leg.

  The problem for him was, he was a boxer. He was trained to fight with his fists—not with his feet.

  Hunter was.

  The guy stepped forward, balanced unsteadily on his injured left leg, and started to raise his right. Still on his left side, Hunter snapped out his own legs in a scissoring motion. His left foot, moving forward along the concrete, smashed against the big guy’s left ankle, while from the opposite direction his right heel swept backward, simultaneously crashing against the inside of the guy’s already-damaged left knee. The scissoring motion swept the man’s leg right off the floor and forced his leg to buckle outward at the knee joint. For a fraction of a second both legs were in mid-air; but then he crashed down, landing first on the now-dislocated left knee.

  He screamed for a second after he hit, but only for a second. Continuing with the momentum of his own legs, Hunter rolled to a sitting position, then silenced the wailing guy with two solid elbow strikes to the guy’s massive jaw.

  By this time, the skinny kid who had backed out of the fight was on the run. He was struggling to open the stairwell door just as Hunter regained his feet. A quick glance tol
d him that the three unconscious men would do him no good; he needed answers to some questions. So, ignoring his pain and his useless right arm, he took after the fleeing guy. The fellow finally got through the door, but he was in lousy shape. Hunter caught him on the stairs before he reached the door on the ground floor.

  He grabbed the terrified kid with his left hand, spun him around, and shoved him into a corner. Then gripped the collar of his hoodie and pressed against him with his whole body. Put his face three inches from the kid’s, close enough to smell his rancid breath.

  “You want me to do to you what I did to your buddies?”

  The kid, shivering, could only shake his head.

  “Then you’re going to talk to me, tell me who sent you here, and why. Aren’t you?”

  The kid could only nod.

  Perched thirty-one floors above the garage, rocking in a big high-back chair behind a big cherry desk, Damon Sloan turned his gaze away from the city across the Potomac to check once again his gold desk clock. 6:46. He should be hearing from Russo any moment, as soon as he, in turn, heard from the men he’d dispatched here to deal with Hunter.

  Before that happened, though, he heard something else: even through the thick windows, and from this lofty height, the sound of approaching sirens. Then they cut out abruptly.

  He rose, went to the window, and looked down. He saw three police cars pulled to the curb on the street far below, at the garage entrance.

  They better not have killed the bastard … Or maybe he reported the assault …

  Two more minutes went by. Then he heard the famous melody from The Ride of the Valkyries, announcing an incoming call on his cell. He grabbed it from its case on his belt.

  “Yes, Lou?”

  “Is this Mr. Sloan?”

  Hunter’s voice! What the hell …?

  “Ah … yes. Yes, this is Damon Sloan. Is that you, Mr. Hunter? I, ah, have been waiting for you, and … I wondered …”

  “I am so terribly sorry, Mr. Sloan, but you won’t believe what just happened.”

  Silence.

  “I … I don’t know. What happened, Mr. Hunter? I hear sirens outside. I hope you haven’t had … some sort of accident, or—”

  “Oh, no. It was no accident, Mr. Sloan.”

  Silence again.

  His mouth felt parched. “Then … what?”

  “It was a deliberate mugging.”

  His heart was pounding. “What? You were mugged?”

  “Oh no, Mr. Sloan. Not me. Some other guy.”

  Sloan collapsed in his chair. “I don’t understand.”

  “You see, just before six-thirty, I entered the garage, using the code—just as you instructed. But when I got down to the parking area you described—well, there was a fight going on. Three or four guys were attacking some blond-haired man, right next to what I suppose was his car—a fancy black BMW. I took one look and there was no way I was going to stick around. So I got out of there fast. And then I called the cops.”

  “You called them?”

  “I did. I don’t have to tell you, it really rattled me. I had no idea something like that could happen in your building.”

  “Neither … did I.”

  “Yes, I can tell it has you rattled, too. Obviously, you understand why I didn’t make our appointment. Maybe we can reschedule sometime in the near future. But really, I was only meeting with you as a courtesy. I have enough information now to write my first article. I’ll give your office a call on the day it’s published, so that you can have a heads-up.”

  “Yes … I’ll appreciate that.”

  “Well, I’ve got to get back home, now. I think I need a stiff drink or two tonight. You sound as if you could use one yourself.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Sloan.”

  He stared into space a long moment.

  So who was the guy they beat up?

  He closed his eyes, wondering how things could get any worse, when the Wagnerian theme sounded again.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Lou,” came the familiar voice.

  Then Damon Sloan discovered just how much worse things could get.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Hunter rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands. The soreness along his right cheekbone reminded him of the fading bruise there. A glance at his watch reminded him that it was Friday and that it was now after three o’clock. He realized that he had been working nonstop for five hours on his operational plan for the coming days.

  He pushed back from his desk, stood on stiff legs, and moved to the office window. The marsh behind the house on Connor’s Point was frozen over; fugitive weeds stuck up here and there like tufts of hair through bald patches of ice. A light snow coated the dead grass out there and in his back yard, and the gray overcast threatened more to come. Not a single bird or other living thing was in sight.

  He thought of the funeral he’d have to attend tomorrow. He thought of Annie, and his need to talk to her again tonight about all of this. He didn’t look forward to either prospect.

  He returned to the desk. Using a fresh burner phone and a spoofing website, he keyed in the private cell number of the Inquirer editor. It rang a few times before he heard the familiar growl.

  “Listen, whoever you are, I don’t know how you got this number, but I’m not buying whatever you’re selling.”

  “That’s too bad, Bill. I guess I’ll have to peddle my next article elsewhere.”

  “Hunter!” Bronowski barked. “You’ve taken your sweet time returning yesterday’s call.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t check in with my answering service till just a few minutes ago.”

  “Oh yeah—I forgot. Your answering service. I suppose it’s out of the question for His Royal Majesty to use voicemail and a phone number that shows up on Caller ID, like the rest of us mere peasants.”

  “I told you before, Bill: I piss off the wrong people. I get lower insurance rates if they can’t track me down.”

  “Well, plenty of the wrong people had no trouble finding me since I ran your piece yesterday. Gavin Lockwood of Nature Legal Advocacy called first thing this morning to say they’re considering a defamation lawsuit. The EPA’s press office issued a statement around noon accusing us of ‘groundless and irresponsible speculation.’ Then Senator Conn’s chief of staff—some snotty piece of work name of Kaplan—phoned to demand a retraction and apology. And all that before Addison chewed me out for half an hour this afternoon. He told me Conn himself had just called him to bust his balls.”

  “Oh my. Have I provoked our dear publisher again?”

  “He’s not the only person you provoked.” Something changed in the newspaperman’s rough voice. “You also got a threatening email.”

  Hunter watched a low cloud scudding over the marsh. “How threatening?”

  “Threatening enough for me to call the FBI.”

  “Okay, you’d better forward a copy to me at the file storage site.”

  “Already did … You know, reading this message, the language sounds like it could be one of those crazies up there in the woods that you wrote about. But whoever it is sounds really pissed off at you.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  After the call, he logged into his folder at the online cloud site, through a chain of “backdoor” computers that included a netbook that he’d stashed at a distant public wi-fi hot spot. He downloaded and printed out the message, then spent another half-hour pondering it.

  Its author had to be Boggs. He’d been reading the man’s past writings, and the style was too similar to be coincidental. Most of it was a long rant against fracking and the “falsehoods and half-truths” in Hunter’s article. He skimmed through the turgid ideological prose—but paused when he saw the name of CarboNot:

  “You insult the millions of us who cherish the Earth when you falsely align our interests with those of so-called ‘green energy’ corporations, such as CarboNot. We reject entirely, on moral prin
ciple, their manipulative abuse of nature and their empty claims of environmental sensitivity. To us, the horrifying holocaust of birds perpetrated by windmills erected by such rapacious companies is no moral ‘alternative’ to the use of fossil fuels. Neither is their desecration of miles of pristine landscape with ugly solar panels …”

  It sounded sincere. So, maybe he was wrong to assume there was an alliance between WildJustice and the rest of the anti-fracking crowd.

  He read on. A few paragraphs later, Boggs got personal:

  “Mr. Hunter, your very name gives unapologetic voice to the arrogant human impulse that has so long defiled and disrupted our fragile ecosystem. In rationalizing that destruction, you prove yourself to be far more dangerous than the developers and drillers like Adair, whom you champion. Your perverse anthropocentric ‘values’ have damned you. That is why you must be—and will be—stopped.”

  The following paragraph, also curiously personal, caught his attention:

  “I can tell from your past articles that, in a strange way, you are a lot like me. You believe in a black-and-white morality—except that yours is the inverse of mine. To you, black is white. But you and I both make binary moral choices. Things are ‘either/or’ for us. That makes you predictable—and that is your Achilles’s heel.”

  He read and reread it, faintly aware of the rasp of ice crystals whipped against his window by the rising wind.

  Luna sat on the kitchen mat watching him pour a glass of wine. He heard the front door open, then the sound of her footsteps approach behind him.

  “Hey, you,” she said. The sound of a smile in her voice.

  He pulled out the cork and turned. “Hey, you.”

  The smile vanished. “Your face! What happened?”

  “Would you believe me if I told you I fell out of bed?”

  “I’d believe you if you told me the truth!”

  “Oh. That. Well, the CEO of CarboNot invited me to meet him at their offices. He sent a reception committee to wait for me in the garage.”