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

by Robert Bidinotto

  “Whoever it is can wait.”

  Another chirp.

  “Dylan, after all that’s been happening, it could be some emergency. You should check.”

  He sighed, got up, and went to the phone as it chirped a fourth time, then a fifth. This line was secure enough; any calls other than those from Annie and Wonk were forwarded through a spoof site and another burner. He glanced at the screen and frowned at the name and number.

  “It’s Adair,” he said to her, clicking the talk button. “Yes, Dan?”

  “Good evening, Mr. Hunter.”

  He’d heard the voice just once before, at the diner, so it took him a couple of seconds to place it. Only a second more to adjust to the surprise. No way that Boggs could have gotten this phone number—unless …

  He had to put him off-balance while he tried to sort things out.

  “Have you found it yet, Boggs?”

  “Found what?”

  “Your head. You should look for it in its usual hiding place—up your ass.”

  He heard two hard breaths, like snorts. Then: “You wanted to speak to Adair, right?”

  “Actually, you should be flattered to know that you are my second choice for a phone chat. Of course, my first choice is anyone else. So, yes—why don’t you put him on?”

  Annie rushed to his side; her hand gripped his arm. He poked the speaker button so that she could listen in.

  “Dylan?” Adair’s voice, strained.

  “Are you all right, Dan?”

  “So far. But they’ve got us. Me, Nan, Kaitlin, and … Will.” He almost spat out the last name. “We’re tied up here in the den. He’s rigged some kind of bomb to a gas cylinder they rolled in.”

  “How many of them, Dan?”

  “Just two. They—” He heard a noise, then a grunt. In the background, women’s voices cried out. A different male voice, not Boggs’s, cursed and told them to shut up.

  “Adair just broke one of the rules,” Boggs broke in. “He added something to the script. So he’ll have a serious headache in the morning—assuming that he lives that long.” He chuckled. “Don’t even think about it, Hunter. Calling the cops, the FBI, buying time—forget about it. If you try, I’ll kill them all before anyone can lift a finger. In fact, I’m quite willing to die tonight to make that happen.”

  “In fact, I’m quite willing to assist you.”

  “Shut up! I’m not going to waste time fencing with you. I called you for a reason.”

  “I wouldn’t assign the word ‘reason’ to any of your motives, Boggs. But I’ll humor you. Other than send in the army of shrinks that you desperately need, what exactly do you want from me?”

  “Your newspaper calls you ‘a heroic journalist.’ Well, let’s see about that. I want you to conduct an interview with me, Hunter. To be published, in full and verbatim, in the Inquirer. You are to show up here alone, tonight, and conduct the interview. After that, we’ll get out of here and call the cops, telling them to come and set you all free.”

  “Wow, what a deal. I’m supposed to trust someone who already sent a bomb to my newspaper to try to kill me. What could possibly go wrong?”

  “You may trust me or not. Regardless, if you don’t arrive by midnight, the Adairs all die. And if you don’t show up alone—or if you try to send in cops or snipers or SWAT teams—the Adairs will die. I have people watching this house from a distance. As you know, it’s perched up on a hill, exposed. So they will see any cops coming from a long way off, and alert me. Then I’ll detonate the bomb remotely. Even if we’re caught—which won’t happen—the Adairs will die in the process. And their deaths will be on your conscience, Mr. Heroic Journalist.”

  “By midnight? That’s ridiculous, Boggs. It’s already after nine, and I’m in the D.C. area, over three hundred miles away.”

  He heard a tsk-tsk. “That’s too bad. I won’t allow you to stall and give the FBI’s H.R.T. goons time to put a hostage rescue plan in place. So you have until midnight, on the dot. One second after that, Adair and his family will be scattered in tiny toasted pieces all over his showy, chemically-poisoned lawn … Or are you telling me that I should just go ahead and blow them up right now?”

  “No. Wait … I can fly in. I have a private plane not far from here. It’ll take a little time to get ready, but I can be at the house in about three hours, give or take.”

  “Give or take nothing! I said midnight. Not a second later. Also, know that when you get here, you will be thoroughly searched—and I know exactly what to look for. So don’t even dream about bringing weapons or bugging devices. Bring only your notepad.”

  “I don’t take shorthand, Boggs. If you want a full, accurate interview transcript to run in the paper, I’ll need to use my microcassette recorder. It’s the usual hand-held type.”

  Boggs hesitated. “All right. Just the recorder. But again: no weapons, wires, or cops.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Boggs hung up on him.

  “It’s a trap!”

  He turned to her. “Of course it is.”

  “Dylan, you can’t!”

  “It’s as he says. If I don’t show up, alone, they’re dead. If the cops show, they’re dead. He’ll spot them coming, and he said it’s rigged to be set off remotely.”

  “But once you’re inside, he’ll blow you up with the rest of them, anyway!”

  “I know. I’ll have to play it by ear and think of something.” He looked at her. “Annie, you were right. It’s best that you stay clear of me, so you won’t get involved in—”

  “But I am involved.”

  He thought about that. Began to pace.

  His watch said it was now nine eleven. Ironic.

  All right. First, you need intel. Then you can figure out the right kit and resources.

  He continued to pace, thinking. Feeling her watching him.

  Back in the day, you could just call on the Pentagon or the Agency for all that. But now, it’s just you—and there’s no time for intel-gathering. So, how can you—

  He stopped pacing.

  She stood in the center of the den, a stricken, helpless look on her face.

  He went over. Looked down into her eyes.

  “You’re right. You are involved.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m having a brainstorm. I just remembered a black op I was on with a team in Afghanistan. Something similar might work here. But I’m going to need your help.”

  “You want me to be involved in this?”

  “Hell, no. You won’t play any operational role. We both know you can’t. But I think you can get me some things I’ll need.”

  He took her by the arm, steered her to the interior door leading into the three-bay garage. He opened it and switched on the light. His blue Honda CR-V sat next to a black Ford panel truck and a motorcycle.

  “Where are we going?”

  He squeezed her arm, guiding her past the vehicles, toward the rear door.

  “First, I want to show you where Vic Rostand keeps his toys.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  They reached Bay Bridge Airport just before ten o’clock. The back seat of the Honda CR-V held the gear he had selected from the small storage room under his shed.

  Seeing the hidden cache for the first time had astounded her. “This is all ‘state of the art,’” she said as she looked around at the racks of weapons and shelves of electronics. “Where did you manage to get all this stuff?”

  “Oh, a little bit here, a little bit there. It helps to know the right sources.”

  “And to have millions of dollars to spend.”

  “That, too.”

  He parked the car, grabbed a small bag from the back, and walked with her to his Cessna 400. He had changed into jeans, boots, a dark pullover sweater, a lined leather jacket, gloves, and a black wool watch cap. She’d changed, too, into outdoor clothes that she’d left at the house after their recent weeks in the forest.

  She stayed close beside him a
s he made a circuit of the plane, checking it out. His eyes were intense and his hot breath puffed little clouds into the cold air. It made her think of that cold morning when they had left for the diner—when he had paused outside the cabin to set his tell-tales, and she could see his breath. How long ago had that been? She was startled to realize that it had been barely a month.

  “Do you think this can really work? It’s so complicated.”

  “Are you kidding? Remember who’s running this op.” He bent to examine the landing gear.

  “Am I allowed to be scared?” she said.

  He stood. She looked up at his reassuring smile as he embraced her.

  “I’m used to walking into traps involving bombs, you know. And surviving.”

  “Oh, Dylan!”

  “Don’t worry. The only one who’s going to die tonight is Zachariah Boggs.” He softened his voice. “I love you, Annie Woods.”

  “I love you, Dylan Hunter.”

  He hugged her tight. “I needed to hear that.”

  “I needed to say that.”

  He pulled back a little. Lifted a brow.

  “Does this mean we’re going steady again?”

  She laughed, in spite of herself.

  He bent and kissed her.

  Then he climbed up into the cockpit. He gave her a little wave and wink, then pulled down the gull-wing door. It thumped shut with the sound of finality.

  She stood at the car as the Cessna’s wheels left the runway. Its flashing wing lights rose over the Chesapeake. She watched the space between the lights narrow as the plane receded from her into the distance, gaining altitude. It banked right, heading north over the Bay Bridge. Then its engine noise faded into the background of distant traffic noise. Then the blinking wing lights became one.

  Then it vanished, too.

  A gust of icy wind hit her in the face.

  She turned to the side and checked her watch: ten twelve.

  She took off a glove, took out her cell, and poked in the familiar series of numbers.

  “Yes, Annie.”

  “Grant, please tell me you were able to do what he asked.”

  “Almost.”

  “What do you mean almost?”

  “Let me explain. First, I’m using the pretext of an impromptu night-training mission, to test our emergency rapid-response capabilities to a sudden terrorist act. So far, everyone has bought it. On that basis I managed to commandeer one of our MQ-1 Predators out of Quantico.”

  “So we have a drone, then.”

  “Don’t let their pilots hear you call them that. The official term is UAS, Unmanned Aircraft System.”

  “Whatever. The point is: Can it get there in time and do what Dylan needs?”

  “Absolutely. I borrowed a UAS pilot and two sensor operators from the al Qaeda targeting team. They’re in their command center next door, running it under my direction. The bird is already well on its way, and it should be on site in … let me see … another seventy minutes. Or 2330 hours. This one is unarmed—not that we could lob a Hellfire against a domestic target in any case. But its infrared cameras can track a person on the ground, at night, from ten thousand feet. And it also carries the experimental ASIP-IC package.”

  “English translation, Grant.”

  “Sorry. ASIP can monitor cell calls, radio transmissions, and a lot more. So we’ll be able to watch everything on the big screens here while we monitor the commo, too. That takes care of Dylan’s intel.”

  “Great. Now, what about getting a SOG operator out here, to pick up—”

  “That’s where the almost comes in,” Grant cut in, his voice suddenly grim. “I’m afraid all our SOG guys are either deployed or unable to get here in time. So that means—”

  “I know what that means, damn it! It means you’ll be watching him with your fancy drone cameras while he walks into a trap and gets blown up!”

  “Annie, hold on. There is another option.”

  She took a breath. “All right. I’m listening.”

  “Using the same pretext, I called the commander of the 12th Aviation Battalion at Fort Belvoir. An old light colonel buddy of mine. He’s sending a Bell 429 chopper out to you. That’s a brand-new model, not even in production yet. We’ve been testing it for possible addition to the Agency’s fleet, because it’s small, fast, and quiet. He told me the pilot is former 160th SOAR—a Night Stalker guy, combat-experienced and extremely capable. He should be there in another five minutes.”

  “So he’ll pick up the gear from me and do this, then.”

  Grant was silent a moment.

  “No. He will pick up the gear and you. You are going to do this.”

  She couldn’t speak.

  “Annie, listen to me. This pilot hasn’t been briefed on what’s really going on, and he can’t be. Besides, he has to stay with the bird. But you’ve been through all the tough training at the Farm, including night insertions. You also had extra training when you worked in the Security Office.”

  “But—”

  “No ‘buts.’ You can handle this as well as anyone. All we have to do is fly you there, and all you have to do then is get close to the house. That’s it. No big deal.”

  She found herself trembling.

  “But if I can’t—”

  “Annie, you can. There’s nothing to it. I’ve looked at the satellite imagery of the site. The ’copter will drop you just a little more than a mile from the place. You’ll hike in unseen, under cover of the forest. You’ll sneak in close to the house. Then, once the immediate threat is neutralized, we’ll call in a hostage rescue team.”

  “But what if Boggs and his people return to the house? They’re armed. They can just shoot everyone.”

  He was quiet for a few seconds. “Do you have a weapon with you?”

  “No, not here.” Then she remembered. “Oh, wait a minute.”

  She opened the driver’s side door, reached under the seat, and found it. She came up with his Beretta.

  “Okay. I do have a pistol. A Beretta.”

  “Good. Listen, the chopper pilot is bringing night-vision goggles for you. And Dylan told me he already gave you an earpiece and mic. So when you get on site, you and I will be in constant contact through the Predator’s satellite uplink. It will give us eyes and ears on the bad guys, and on you, too. I’ll be able to tell you exactly where they are positioned and what they’re doing. The details, we’ll improvise. But please understand: You’ll have every advantage over them.”

  She stared at the Beretta in her hand, feeling surreal, disembodied. The sudden image floated into her consciousness: Dylan on her kitchen floor, crawling toward her … bleeding …

  “Annie—you can do this.” Grant’s voice, strong and firm.

  She pushed the ugly image out of her mind and looked off, over the bay. Flashing lights, low in the sky, approached rapidly.

  “I think I see the chopper,” she said. Her voice sounded alien to her.

  “Great. Just make sure you take along all your gear.”

  She opened the rear door of the car, pulled out the bulky backpack, and shrugged it onto her back.

  “Grant … just how fast can this chopper get me there?”

  “It can do 150 knots. From your current position to the site, and considering wind, it will take around ninety minutes. So, ETA will be about 2350.”

  “But that’s almost midnight! And Grant, I’ve been to Adair’s place. From the LZ, I’ll have to hike over a mile through those woods, uphill and in the dark. It could take me fifteen or twenty minutes to get to the house.”

  “I know. Look, I’ll call him right now and tell him to arrive at the house as close to midnight as possible—and then stall them for as long as possible after that.”

  “Have you told him yet that I’ll be the one going in?”

  “No.”

  “Then don’t. I don’t want him to be distracted by worrying about me.”

  “Of course … Annie—I know you can do this.”

/>   She slammed shut the rear door of the car. Then faced into the icy wind blasting in from the west, ahead of the rapidly oncoming chopper. Her eyes watered. But only from the cold.

  “I’ll have to,” she said.

  Once again he maintained a northeast heading after takeoff. To avoid having to file a flight plan or talk to air traffic controllers, he flew under 3,500 feet and along the eastern shore of the Bay, parallel to the restricted airspace stretching from Essex to Aberdeen. South of Elkton, he turned northwest and climbed. He crossed into Pennsylvania and dropped the Cessna low over the high ridges northwest of Harrisburg, then descended into some of the valleys, below radar visibility. He turned off his transponder and popped up again miles away—just another anonymous, untraceable blip on ATC screens.

  Meanwhile, he pondered his just-ended radio conversation. Grant told him that the Predator would be in position before he arrived. The Bell 429 and its team of operators also were en route to Adair’s, after picking up his gear from Annie.

  It annoyed him that the Agency—the CIA, for God’s sake—didn’t have ready access to the same kit that he possessed. But Grant said they didn’t, not on site, anyway, and there was no time to look anywhere else. So, the chopper had to fly all the way to Kent Island to pick up his. A waste of precious time.

  He did some fast calculations. He didn’t like them one bit.

  At a cruising speed of 235 knots, his Cessna would make the 250 nautical mile run to Tidioute in just over an hour. ETA 2325 hours. He’d then drive from the airstrip to Adair’s—about ten more minutes, or 2335. That meant he would have to waste at least twenty minutes before showing up at the house, in order to give the helicopter team maximum time to get on site.

  And they’d need every minute of it. The chopper had taken off from Bay Bridge Airport ten minutes after he did. Grant said he’d clear the red tape to let it cut across the restricted Aberdeen airspace, so it could make a beeline to Adair’s. That would save a lot of miles and minutes. Still, at its much slower airspeed, it wouldn’t arrive till almost midnight. Then the operators would have to traverse the rugged, wooded terrain between their LZ and the house.

  Hunter had to be at the house by midnight. But he couldn’t see any way for the team to get in position until ten or fifteen minutes after midnight.