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

by Robert Bidinotto

  “The ‘kid’ is my son, Perry, and someday he’ll be running my business. So I think this meeting will be a valuable civics lesson for him.”

  “Suit yourself. But don’t expect me to pull any punches just because he’s with you. I invited you here right after I got a call from Dick Ryker at the paper. He told me what you’re up to. Mike, what the hell are you trying to pull here?”

  “That’s exactly what I came here to ask you. You know damned well I don’t do projects built on eminent domain takings. But you guys on the council tried to hide that fact from me about the Bloomfield project.”

  Matt sat back, listening and watching as the argument unfolded and grew more heated by the minute. Nickson finally exploded in a torrent of profanity when Dad said he was hiring a lawyer to represent the property owners.

  “Understand this, Malone: We won’t put up with that kind of shit. Not from you, not from anybody. I don’t give a shit how much work you have done for the city before, or what your reputation is, or what other contracts we have pending with you. I’m telling you right now: You pursue this, we’ll ruin you. I’ll ruin you. I’ll make sure that your company never works again in this entire city. Hell, in this entire state. I have a lot of friends in Harrisburg. I can see—”

  “Matt,” Dad interrupted, turning to him. “I’ve changed my mind. I need a private moment with Mr. Nickson. Would you excuse us for a few minutes, and go wait in the outer office?”

  Matt got up and left, closing the door behind him. Nickson’s secretary was away from her desk. He stood there, not quite knowing what to do. He took a visitor’s chair in the waiting area.

  Then he heard noises from the office he had just left. Then a sharp squeal. Then more noise, and a heavy thump against the wall next to the office door. A scuffling sound, as if something were scraping against the wall.

  Then the sound of a low voice that he thought was Dad’s.

  He waited anxiously for several minutes.

  Finally, the door to the office opened.

  Dad walked out, looking serene.

  Behind him in the room he caught a glimpse of Nickson—tie askew, straightening his glasses and his suit jacket, a terrified look on his face.

  “Come,” Dad said, motioning him.

  Matt got to his feet and walked beside him down the hall, toward the elevators. His father’s face was always hard to read, but it had what seemed to be a look of amusement.

  “So Dad … what happened?”

  “It’s all settled,” Dad said simply.

  Matt ventured, “What did you say to change his mind?”

  Big Mike looked down at him, a twinkle in his pale blue eyes.

  “I spoke the only kind of language people like him understand.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  The first one was tricky.

  His target, Gavin Lockwood, lived at the end of a peninsula that jutted out into the Severn River. Planning the op, he studied the site online, using satellite maps. Big problem: only one main access road in and out, branching off into a lot of curling cul-de-sacs. If he drove in, he couldn’t park on those roads without some risk of being noticed by patrolling cops. Even if his car was overlooked, his only escape route might be blocked off once the 911 calls began.

  Another option was to come in by water, using his boat. But that was tricky, too. A boat on the river would be conspicuous, particularly fleeing the scene. It also would be in a narrow channel of water that could be blocked in either direction, again cutting off escape. Very risky.

  The satellite imagery revealed a third option. The peninsula where Lockwood lived was one of several that ran parallel to each other out into the river. They were separated by creeks a couple of hundred feet wide. Easy to swim from one peninsula to the other.

  Just after midnight on Wednesday morning, he left the house in the CR-V and drove to the commuter bus stop on Kent Island, right across from the K-Mart. He pulled in next to his BMW High Security 7, which he had driven out of D.C. two days earlier and left there among the other commuter cars. He got out, checked both directions. No approaching headlights. He went around to the back of the CR-V, pulled out a large Army-type duffle bag, then transferred it quickly to the back seat of his BMW. Seconds later, he had swapped out vehicles and was on his way.

  Twenty minutes later, he turned off the Generals Highway in Annapolis onto a road leading to one of those peninsulas. He drove out slowly through a spider web of little streets with big houses, to the very end. He pulled into the lot at the community marina, backed the car in close to a stand of trees that marched right out to the water. Nobody would think that the luxury Beemer was out of place here.

  He went around to the back seat, tugged out the duffle bag, and hauled it into the trees. Then he shrugged off his long overcoat. Underneath he wore a black, two-layer dry suit—neoprene over a polyester liner—with neoprene dive boots. The gear would make the swim possible in the frigid water. He opened the duffle, pulled out the integrated hood, gloves, mask, and flippers. And a lightweight waterproof backpack.

  He shoved his overcoat inside the duffle and hid it in some bushes. After zipping and sealing the hood and gloves, he crept carefully through the trees toward the water, carrying the mask, flippers, and backpack.

  At the edge of the dock he paused to scan the area. Not a soul. The tethered boats rocked almost imperceptibly in the river current, making soft squeaks, and the water lapped and gurgled against the wooden pylons. Above, the overcast sky hid the moon, but glowed faintly from the lights of the nearby city.

  He moved cautiously out onto the pier, careful not to make sudden movements that might attract attention. Kneeling between a couple of bigger cruisers, he prepared and slipped on the mask, checking the seal against his skin. Then donned the flippers and backpack. Gripping the dock line of one of the boats, he eased himself down into the water.

  Before moving out, he submerged his face and blew some bubbles, to alleviate stress on his lungs from the shock of the cold. Then he kicked off into a slow, deliberate swim across the creek, careful not to splash.

  The neighboring peninsula lay barely two hundred yards ahead. Approaching, he veered right along its shoreline, skirting around the eastern end. A crumbling, abandoned pier jutted out before him. Rounding it, he saw another—and his target.

  He had read about Lockwood’s love of sailing, and the first sight of the boat almost caused him to change his mind. Sundancer was indeed a beauty, its graceful, stiletto-sharp lines silhouetted against water and sky.

  As he came within eyeshot of the mansion on the hill above, he drew a deep breath and lowered his head beneath the surface. He powered forward underwater, mostly on the strength of his legs, just as he used to do in his old college meets. The drag from the backpack fought him, and his exposed mouth and chin stung from the cold. But he did not want to risk being seen by someone’s chance glance from a window.

  His lungs were aching when he finally surfaced. He had estimated pretty well; he was within ten feet of the pier. Eyes on the darkened house looming at the top of the slope, he moved around to the far side, where the craft was tied.

  It was moored bow outward. He paused there, treading water. No lights on in the house; no indication that anyone had spotted him.

  Grabbing the end of the pier with his left hand and giving a hard kick with the flippers, Hunter launched his body upward from the water and seized the gunwale with his right. He chinned up and hauled himself out of the water with his forearms. Rolling smoothly onto the deck, he scrambled immediately behind the low wall of the cabin. There he lay still, catching his breath in the frosty air.

  After a moment, he pulled up his mask. The icy breeze bit at his hot cheeks and forehead and made his eyes water. He blinked to clear them, then crabbed along the deck toward the stern. Reaching that end of the cabin, he slipped off the backpack, opened a pouch on the side, drew out a screwdriver, then attacked the locked cabin door. He was inside in five seconds.

  He checke
d his diver’s watch. 0053 hours. Then he unzipped the backpack and went to work.

  A rippling flash against his closed eyelids, then two loud bangs, jolted Gavin Lockwood awake. He felt Selena jerk beside him.

  “Jesus!” she croaked. “What was that?”

  “Damned if I know! It sounded like an explosion!” He glanced at the bedside clock. 1:25 a.m.

  What the hell?

  Then saw light dancing on the curtains.

  He tore off the covers and rolled out of bed. Stumbled across the room to the window.

  He had to grab the frame to steady himself.

  “Oh dear God!”

  Beneath him flames and smoke were pouring from the cabin of Sundancer, sparking and flickering off the ripples of the river.

  “Gavin! What?”

  He felt-heard her rush to his side. Then gasp.

  “Ohhhh … Oh no!”

  He turned to her, heart pounding. She was biting her fist.

  “Call 911!” He shouted. “Get the fire department out here!”

  He ran to the wall, clawed for the light switch. Then looked around wildly for something to put on. She was naked, too, scrambling for the bedside phone.

  Lockwood dashed into the walk-in closet, yanked a pair of trousers off a hanger, then onto himself. He jammed his bare feet into a pair of loafers, then snatched a suit jacket, sending its wooden hanger and matching trousers flopping to the floor. He emerged to hear Selena whimpering “Come on … come ON!” into the phone. He pushed his naked arms into the sleeves while he rushed down the stairs to the kitchen, where a fire extinguisher rested somewhere in the pantry.

  Back across the water, Hunter stood in the trees near the marina, wrapped again in the overcoat. His gear was back in the duffle at his feet. He pressed a compact pair of binoculars to his eyes with one hand; in the other hand was the cell phone he’d just used to set off the charge.

  He watched orange flames spread across the deck of the cutter, then lick up the masts. Slowly, inexorably, the boat began to sink forward, where the hull had been breached.

  He shifted the binoculars toward the house. Saw a figure slip-sliding down the slope, landing on his ass, then bouncing up and continuing a frantic zig-zag course to the wooden stairs that led down to the pier. As the figure ran toward the flaming boat, he could see that it was a man carrying something. Then he was at the stern, and even from this distance the flames revealed the horrified face of Gavin Lockwood, a fire extinguisher in his hands. He stopped. Dropped the extinguisher. Then bent forward at the waist, seizing his head in his hands.

  Hunter moved the binoculars back to the cutter. Watched, emotions torn, as its graceful bow slowly settled beneath the inky surface of the river.

  He raised the binoculars up the main mast. In the last flickers of flame before the river extinguished them, he could make out the little black flag he’d hoisted—the one with the skull and crossbones.

  The second one was even trickier.

  Due east of Dulles International Airport in Herndon, Virginia, lies a business park known as Dulles Corner. Incongruously, a well-maintained baseball field lies on its western edge.

  He had found it online, again through satellite imagery. Given its placement, Hunter had no idea who used the field. Or cared. But it was sited just a few thousand feet from his next target.

  At 0310 hours he reached the business park by means of the Dulles Toll Road, found his way onto Sunrise Valley Drive, then continued to where it intersected Dulles View Drive. Deceptive name: a short, quiet residential street whose view of Dulles Airport was blocked by a line of trees. The street led him past an apartment complex directly across from the ball field. Okay, that explained the ball field.

  He hung a right into the driveway that led to a small parking lot on the third-base side. It was empty. He killed the lights and rolled on to the western end of the lot. Backed in right next to the trees. Killed the engine.

  Nobody around. Even if they were, it would be almost impossible to spot him back here.

  He got out and stretched. The dark overcoat now covered jeans and a sweatshirt. He’d changed out of the diving suit in the restroom of a Denny’s, where he’d sucked down hot coffee.

  He was dog-tired from the events of the day.

  He had to push thoughts of her from his mind.

  He went around to the trunk and unlocked it. Reaching into the well, he hoisted out several items, one at a time. He quickly assembled them on the ground. Then carefully lifted the ungainly contraption and carried it out into a grassy area alongside the ball field. No lights out here, as he’d hoped. He set it down, flipped several switches on it, stood back, and watched it shiver and buzz to life.

  It was almost as noisy as a lawnmower. That wouldn’t leave him much time before someone looked out a window, wondering what the hell was going on. He ran back to the car, to the laptop that he’d left running on the passenger seat. With the door still open, he bent over and keyed in the first command.

  Out in the field, the small helicopter drone rose straight up into the air, hoisted by three propellers. He watched it wobble a little in the invisible wind eddies before he turned back to the laptop. The computer was connected to a powerful radio transmitter, and the receiver on the drone was highly sensitive. The setup had cost a small fortune, and consisted of state-of-the-art parts from widely scattered manufacturers. From his CIA days, he knew which ones did contract work for the Agency. With his credentials, money, and a good pretext, it wasn’t hard to get what he needed.

  Last week he had flown his Cessna into Dulles in order to get the precise GPS coordinates of his target. Those were programmed into the drone’s GPS. All he had to do now was get it up to the proper altitude and turn it loose. But he had a joystick attached to the laptop, too, for when he needed to intervene manually.

  He tapped in a new elevation of three hundred feet, to clear any possible obstacles, followed by the program code. His eyes followed his machine as it soared west, right over the treetops.

  One of the switches he’d flipped had activated the tiny ball-shaped video camera on the underside of the drone. He could make it swivel around with his touch pad, and did so now. He followed the flight path on the screen. It zipped quickly over Sully Road, which paralleled the east side of the airport, then crested another line of trees. As it emerged over the airfield, he immediately brought it down to an altitude of seventy-five feet.

  The radio scanner on his dash was tuned to the tower, and it stayed quiet. No air traffic coming or going, so no risk that the drone would hit any plane. He let it continue on its way. He tilted up the camera lens so that he could see exactly where it was headed. The drone crossed a couple of hundred meters of open field, then a runway, then a tarmac. Then approached a group of planes parked on the tarmac and the grass in front of a general aviation hangar.

  He had to make sure the area was clear of people, so he took over with the joystick and made the drone do a quick loop. No one in front of the general aviation hangar. No one anywhere near his target, which sat off by itself.

  He swung the little aircraft around again, zooming the lens to confirm the number on the plane. That was it, all right. He swerved the drone around to the jet’s nose, slowed its speed, and keyed another command. The camera, now tilting downward, revealed the object that he had just released, plunging to the tarmac in front of the plane.

  Perfect.

  Pulling back on the joystick, he gained altitude again. What happened next would require a lot of acceleration and momentum. At three hundred feet, he disengaged the joystick and let the program do its thing.

  He watched as the camera dived straight down toward the rapidly growing image of Avery Trammel’s Gulfstream 200.

  Then the screen went dark.

  He straightened, took a step back from the car.

  Heard a sharp distant crack.

  “Did you see that?” came a shout over the scanner.

  He shut down the laptop. Went back and close
d the trunk. Heard a louder, secondary explosion. Glanced up, saw billowing coils of orange-glowing smoke churning above the trees to the west. Sliding into the cushioning comfort of the heated driver’s seat, he heard a siren begin to wail in the distance.

  He closed the door against the outside noise. Pressed his skull back into the soft headrest. Shut his eyes for a few seconds.

  Two tricky ops in one night. Not bad. The next wouldn’t be tricky at all. Because it was already in motion and didn’t need his further involvement.

  He was yawning as he emerged from the business park onto the Dulles Toll Road, heading back toward D.C. He would return to the Bethesda apartment tonight, feed Luna, catch a little sleep.

  It would be fun later today to check in on their recorded calls and emails.

  Especially after they found out that their properties were no longer insured.

  To Joe Moretti, it made no goddamn sense how rich people could blow through their cash like this.

  As his demo crew moved in the heavy equipment, he stood smoking at the edge of the lake, looking back at the summer cottage. It was gorgeous, not a goddamn thing wrong with it. Cedar shingle siding, slate roof, big enclosed sun porch. Hell, he would give his right ball for a house like this. And this was only the dude’s summer home.

  And now the asshole wanted it demolished. To make space for some cold “contemporary” piece of crap, instead.

  He cleared his throat and spat. Took another drag, shaking his head. Some people just had way too much money. But no values. They couldn’t appreciate nothing.

  He caught motion out of the corner of his eye and turned.

  Smoky Scanlon walked up. It was his second day back on the job after he went out with a concussion. That fight a couple weeks back, where several of Joe’s guys got the shit kicked out of them. Everybody was closed-mouthed about it when he asked. When he pushed it, Lou Russo called and told him to butt out.

  Okay. Not his business. But he was glad the boss’s nephew got his ass kicked. Joe had known for a long time the prick wanted his steward job. But apparently Smoky had screwed up something royally and was now on Uncle Lou’s shit list.