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

by Robert Bidinotto

  The coffee table before them held the bomb: a gray metal rectangular affair, like an oversized briefcase. It was pushed right to the edge of the table, pressed against a tall red cylindrical gas tank that stood upright on the floor.

  “Dylan, I’m sorry,” Adair began. “I just—”

  “No need to apologize, Dan. I’m a big boy. This was my call.”

  “How noble,” Boggs sneered. “Now go join your friends, in that empty seat.”

  Hunter took the chair. Once again Boggs stood back, training the shotgun on him while Rusty moved toward him with short lengths of rope.

  He raised his feet a few inches from the floor, then pressed his heels down—hard—first right, then left. Felt the two little clicks.

  Plan B …

  “Nightstalker, we have audio from inside the room,” Grant said. “I’m going to patch you into the feed so you can listen in.”

  Annie was trotting up the steep slope on some narrow path made by dirt bikes or all-terrain vehicles. She had to zig-zag around low bushes, jump fallen limbs, and watch out for holes and ruts underfoot. At least the path was easier to navigate than the woods.

  “Copy that,” she panted.

  The twenty-five pounds on her back were starting to feel like twice that, and the straps of the backpack stabbed into her aching shoulders with every step.

  “How much … farther?” she gasped between strides.

  “You’re only a third of the way. You’ve got to pick it up.”

  She pushed down the panic. Tried to force the trot into a run. Raised her eyes.

  The slope above her, glowing ghostly green, rose even steeper.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  For the first time, Hunter noticed what sat propped on an end table next to the sofa. He nodded in the direction of the small black device, which stood mounted on a tiny tripod.

  “So, what’s that thing, Zachariah?”

  He knew exactly what it was. But he also knew Boggs would love to show off and brag about it.

  Boggs half-closed his eyes, and a little smile played at his lips.

  “That’s a 3G camera. Video and audio.” He patted his pocket. “I can control it remotely, right from my smartphone.”

  Hunter tensed his muscles, raising his right wrist a fraction of an inch off the chair arm to give it a little play while Rusty bound it. Maybe he could work himself loose.

  “Let me guess: You’re going into the movie business, and this is going to be your pyrotechnic demo tape.”

  “Oh, it will be a ‘demo tape,’ all right. I’ll release it in a day or two to all the media. I’ve already filmed my statement of introduction for it. But in a couple of more minutes, you will get to be the stars of the production.”

  A couple more minutes … You need to keep him talking.

  “I’m truly flattered, Zachariah. All this trouble, just for us. So, why not just shoot us?”

  “Because you need to be taught a final lesson in humility. You—and the world. You all do. It’s human arrogance that brought you to this. I want your last moments to be spent contemplating your crimes against the natural order. Your punishment will be recorded so that I can release it to the world.”

  “Zak!” Will screamed. “Don’t do this!”

  Nan, Adair’s wife, was sobbing uncontrollably. Beside her, Adair’s daughter Kaitlin sat mute and motionless; her lips were parted, and she stared blankly into space.

  “You’re a monster, Boggs!” Adair shouted. “It’s me you want—not my family. For God’s sake, let them go! Then you can just shoot me and be done with it.”

  “Be serious. We can’t have them running off and calling for help, now, can we? Anyway, I think their deaths will serve an educational purpose. What happens to them will be an object lesson for every other corporate predator out there. They’ll learn that those they love won’t be spared the consequences of their actions.”

  Hunter kept the heels of his loafers an inch off the floor while Rusty tied his ankles to the chair. By pressing down on his right heel, he had activated the miniature audio packet transmitter hidden inside. Before he’d turned it on, it couldn’t be picked up by the bug detector. Now it was transmitting their conversations in brief UHF bursts, only milliseconds in length and on shifting frequencies. Even if Boggs used his bug detector again, it couldn’t pick up those signals.

  But the tiny transmitter’s signal wasn’t powerful enough to reach the Predator. The solution for that was the other transmitter, in his left heel. That one sent out a single burst signal that activated the UHF repeater under the passenger seat of the Forester in the driveway. The repeater amplified the transmission from the heel mic and—he hoped—was even now sending audio from the room up to the Predator. If everything was working properly, Garrett should be hearing every word in here now.

  Boggs looked on with a strange look.

  “Tie down his left forearm, Rusty—but not his wrist. I want his hand free to move.”

  Rusty finished up, then checked the bonds. Boggs picked up a small metal box resting atop the bomb. Four long wires trailing from one end of it ran back inside the bomb casing. He handed it to Rusty and fished a roll of duct tape from his jacket pocket.

  “Now, tape this box to the arm of his chair, near his free hand, so that his fingers can reach those buttons.”

  Hunter examined the flat little box as Rusty taped it in place. It was featureless except for two plastic buttons on top—one black, one white. He sensed that this was some kind of sadistic game. So he wouldn’t give Boggs the satisfaction of asking about it.

  “Okay, Rusty,” Boggs said, “I can handle the rest in here, now. Leave the shotgun with me and take the pistol. Drive the truck over to that little dirt access road we found the other day. Remember? The one that leads onto that ridge across the road. Park up there where you’ll have a good vantage point. Then warn me on the walkie-talkie if you see any cops or visitors. Don’t hesitate to shoot anyone who approaches this place.”

  “Sure thing, Zak.”

  “Rusty, I’m impressed,” Dylan said. “You may be the first man in history who’s sniper-qualified on a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver.”

  “Screw you, funny man. I got a Remington 700 in thirty-ought-six out in my pickup. I can put down anybody who tries to get in here.”

  “… I can put down anybody who tries to get in here,” said the voice in her earpiece.

  Her boots pounded up the slope, feeling as if anchors were attached. The pack on her back flopped back and forth with each stride, sometimes pulling her off balance and causing her to stumble.

  Grant’s voice crackled in the earpiece.

  “Did you hear that, Nightstalker? We have two tangos; one inside with a shotgun; one outside with a rifle and .38 revolver. The man with the rifle will be in a pickup on the ridge south of the house. You’ll have to stay out of his line of sight.”

  Her mouth and lips felt like paper. She could only manage to croak:

  “Copy.”

  Hunter watched the older red-haired guy leave the room. He turned to Boggs.

  “Zachariah, it looks as if all that’s left of your organization are you and Rusty. Of course, it’s got to be easier to lead a movement with just one follower—right, Zachariah?”

  Boggs’s expression grew dark. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Call you what, Zachariah?”

  Boggs strode over and swept the butt of the shotgun up and around. Hunter saw it coming, timed it, jerked his head to roll with it. The glancing blow only grazed his forehead.

  “Shut up!”

  Hunter straightened in the chair. He had to try to get Boggs ensnared in a time-killing debate. Play on his narcissism … He loves to think he’s smarter than anyone else.

  “Wow. Is violence your substitute for intellectual argument, Doctor Boggs?”

  “I don’t have time to argue with you.”

  “You mean you can’t.”

  “Oh, I only wish I did have the time. Much as I lo
athe him”—Boggs nodded toward Adair—“you are far more despicable. You defend predators like Adair here.”

  Hunter shook his head. “You’re confusing production with predation.”

  “What the modern world calls ‘production’ is predation. Adair and corporate jackals like him make their millions by preying on nature. By devouring limited resources for their own selfish gain.”

  “No, Doctor. They don’t devour resources; they develop resources. They take untapped resources and transform them into things that are useful to us. What they do is creative, and it’s for the betterment of us all.”

  “You mean: for the betterment of the most destructive creature in all of nature!” Boggs began to turn away.

  Hunter’s eyes went to the clock on the mantelpiece. Twelve-thirteen. Come on, people—where are you?

  He had to keep this going.

  “You know your problem, Zachariah? You want to live in a fantasy world. In an imaginary Garden of Eden—a place where fruit just drops from the trees into your lap, and crops magically transform themselves into food, which then magically materializes on your kitchen table.”

  Boggs turned back to him. “You’re talking about the hunter-gatherer era. That’s the only period when humans actually did live in harmony with nature.”

  “And when average life expectancies were about twenty years, due to starvation, diseases, and exposure. But we eventually solved those problems by developing natural resources. Oh, and tell me, Zachariah: How does that ‘hunter-gatherer’ thing work out for your own little tribe? Do you practice it? Hell, no. You go play Noble Savage in the woods while you enjoy all the benefits of modern civilization: food, tents, and clothes produced by industries you despise. Hell, you misfits wouldn’t even have gotten here, except for the automobile and fossil fuel industries. So, you want to kill Adair? Every day, you should thank people like Dan Adair—thank them for using their brains to develop natural resources, and keep you alive.”

  “‘Develop’ natural resources? You mean destroy resources! You mean turning the natural into the unnatural!”

  “Gee, Doctor. Since you’re a genius, could you please explain to me why ‘nature’ consists of everything in the universe—animal, vegetable, or mineral—everything, except for human nature?”

  “I don’t have any more time to listen to your bullshit rationalizations for destruction!”

  “Really?” Hunter nodded toward the bomb. “Look at that thing. Now, who is really offering bullshit rationalizations for destruction?”

  Boggs spun on his heel, went over to the camera, and flipped a switch. Then he returned to the coffee table. He pulled two cell phones from his jacket pocket and placed one on the table beside the bomb. Then he used the second to dial the first. When the one on the table chirped, he clicked on its speakerphone.

  “Test … test …” His voice came through the cell’s speaker on the table. “There. I’ll keep these two phones connected, so that when I leave, we can continue to chat.”

  He pocketed the second cell and rested his hand atop the bomb. His eyes gleamed.

  “I’m especially proud of this one, you know. Nothing I’ve ever built before comes close. I customized it, just for you and Adair. Actually, Hunter, you gave me the idea for it, with your newspaper columns.”

  “They are inspiring, aren’t they?”

  “Let me explain. This thin casing”—he tapped the large metal box—“contains ten pipe bombs. Remember the bomb that destroyed the CarboNot office? That consisted of only two. Those contained ammonium nitrate and magnesium, among other things. Very potent. But these new ones are bigger and much better—far more powerful. Do you know what I did?”

  “I’m sure you’re going to tell me”—he nodded toward the camera—“along with the rest of your worldwide viewing audience, of course.”

  “I’ve developed a reliable way to stabilize acetone peroxide!” He sounded like a man boasting about landing on Mars. “Those crystals pack a tremendous wallop; their power almost rivals some military-grade high explosives. But the chemical is terribly unstable. A lot of people have died handling it. Well, I figured out a solution to that problem!”

  “I would applaud, but my hands are tied.”

  “Go ahead, mock me. But you’re about to experience the results. As you see, I’ve also placed the bomb against this tank. It’s holding natural gas. It’s not really necessary, of course, given the power of the pipe bombs themselves; but I thought natural gas would add a nice symbolic touch.” He looked at Adair, his twisted grin like a yellow scar parting his long dark beard. “Don’t you think?”

  “You sick son of a bitch!”

  “Now, now, Adair. No need to get all upset. Especially since I’m going to give Hunter here a chance to save all of you.”

  Hunter stared into the glittering eyes of madness. Took in the dark, unkempt hair and beard. The sadistic little smile … A name from history floated into his mind. Rasputin.

  “Here’s how the game works, Hunter. Pay attention. See this switch on top of the bomb? When I flip it, it will start a four-minute timer that will detonate the bomb. That’s plenty of time for me to get clear. Now, those two buttons near your hand: Observe that one is black, and one is white. One of them can deactivate the timer on the detonator. The other actually will set off the bomb.

  “So, when I start the timer and leave, you’ll have four minutes to figure out which of the two buttons to press in order to shut off the timer. If you choose the right one, you’ll all live. But if you choose the wrong one—well, you’ll hear a buzzer for about five seconds, just long enough to let you that know that you blew it … Hey, that was funny, wasn’t it: ‘blew it’ … Anyway, you’ll have those five seconds to contemplate the crimes that brought you here. Then there will be a big, blinding flash. Don’t worry, I don’t think you’ll feel or hear anything, because you and most of this house will instantly be blown to bits.”

  She heard it all.

  “Grant!” Her lungs and throat were on fire. “How far?”

  “You’re still about a third of a mile out. But you have time. You can make it.”

  His voice—calm … reassuring.

  Her legs felt like rubber. She staggered, almost fell … recovered.

  A third of a mile … uphill. It might as well be a hundred miles.

  Dylan …

  She thought of his face … his cocky grin.

  She sucked in deep breaths, put her head down, and drove sheer will into her aching legs, forcing them to continue.

  “You know, I don’t get it, Zachariah.”

  “Get what?”

  “Why give us any chance at all to live?”

  “Because if you do, you will write about it—and my story will spread to millions. In that case, I doubt that Adair or many of his kind will dare continue their current destructive careers. But if you don’t live—” He shrugged. “No loss.”

  It was lame, an obvious lie. Boggs had already said he rigged the bomb to be set off remotely, too. If the timed detonator didn’t explode, he would just trigger it with a phone call. But he played along, buying more time.

  “So, you’re giving us planet-rapers a fifty/fifty chance to live.”

  Boggs chuckled. “Oh, I’d say the odds are far less than that. You see, I’ve read your articles, Hunter. And I understand you. Like me, you see the world in black and white. Of course, your notions of what is black and what is white are opposite mine. But knowing that, I can predict exactly what you’re going to do.” He pointed at the twin-button device. “So that’s why I’ve given you a black-or-white choice—and wired it accordingly.”

  He smirked again; his sharp yellow teeth reminded Hunter of a rodent.

  “Well, it’s time I leave you to ponder your symbolic choice. Will you identify your moral values with white, or with black? Normally, you would choose white. But knowing that’s the predictable choice, maybe you’ll choose black, instead. Then again—have I anticipated that you’ll try t
o fool me, and pick black? Maddening, isn’t it?”

  “No—just mad.” Hunter shook his head and laughed at him. “You know, you sound remarkably like the character Vizzini in The Princess Bride.”

  “I’m not familiar with the reference.”

  “He invented a similar game of wits. It didn’t work out very well for him, though. And there’s a good reason why this one won’t work out any better for you.”

  Boggs couldn’t resist. “And what’s that?”

  “You both think you’re much smarter than others—and much smarter than you are. You share the psychological affliction of terminal arrogance. And that’s why you are so predictable, Zachariah.”

  Boggs was irritated and it showed.

  “Well, then, Hunter—let’s see if you are smart enough to predict how my mind works.” He reached toward the bomb switch.

  “What ‘mind’? You’re a narcissistic lunatic. A nihilistic sociopath.”

  The words stopped the man’s hand.

  “Look at you standing there, Boggs,” he went on. “You’re enjoying this. Which proves my point. All your environmentalist blather is just a rationalization—a narrative that you recite to yourself, so that you don’t have to face your real motive. Which is that you like to kill. Gives you a sense of power, doesn’t it? Face it: You’re nothing but a skinny little misanthropic loser who loves destruction.”

  Hunter didn’t know why his words affected the man so much. Boggs stormed over to him and slapped his face. Then twice. And again.

  The killer stood over him, shaking; his eyes seemed to be focused somewhere else. Then he blinked and returned to the here and now.

  “Zak … pleeeease!” Will’s voice was a pig-like squeal. “Don’t leave me here!”

  Boggs looked at Whelan blankly. “You said you were willing to sacrifice for our cause.”

  “But I did everything you asked! I don’t deserve this!”

  “You worthless piece of shit!” Adair snapped. “You’re the only one here who does deserve this!”