HUNTER: A Thriller (A Dylan Hunter Thriller)

by Robert Bidinotto

  He pulled into the driveway, shut off the car. “Lamont is hiding out, for the time being. He can’t do any immediate harm, so a follow-up piece will wait. Meanwhile, something else has my attention.”

  “Good to hear. I trust it’s got a lot of potential.”

  He was looking at Annie’s house. “Definitely.”

  *

  Hours later, illuminated only by soft candlelight, they lay in each other’s arms in her big four-poster.

  He nuzzled her fragrant hair. His limbs felt heavy and relaxed. His body seemed to be floating, drifting along in a slow, languorous current.

  It dawned on him that he was happy. Happy, for the first time in many years. The realization astonished him.

  What did you do to yourself?

  “Dylan?”

  He closed his eyes and squeezed her. “Yes?”

  “I know we’re both private people. But the thought occurred to me again today—I don’t even know where you live.”

  He opened his eyes. Saw shadows moving on the walls, cast by the sputtering candles.

  “I mean, isn’t that little strange?”

  You knew it would come to this.

  “I have an apartment in Bethesda. In a high-rise, right off Wisconsin Avenue. Just a couple of blocks from the Metro.”

  She remained quiet.

  He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  “I think you’ll like it. Why don’t we go there next weekend?”

  She snuggled against him, the satin sheets whispering with her movements. “That sounds nice.” He heard the smile in her voice.

  Trust.

  Hers and mine.

  He kissed her forehead and closed his eyes again.

  TWENTY

  CANNON HOUSE OFFICE BUILDING

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Friday, October 3, 11:08 a.m.

  Kenneth MacLean did not often have a case of nerves. But he did now as he waited in the marble rotunda of the Cannon Office Building, watching the House Majority Whip conclude a live television interview.

  For his part, Congressman Morrie Horowitz seemed relaxed and comfortable under the camera lights, standing against the impressive, familiar backdrop of soaring white Corinthian columns. He toyed playfully with a well-known Capitol Hill correspondent for CNN, like a genial, horse-faced grandfather handling a naughty child. But MacLean knew that the affable appearance was an illusion. You don’t get to be a party Whip if you don’t enjoy hardball politics.

  Echoing noise from a small group of visitors made the interview unintelligible at this distance. MacLean took the opportunity to lean over the second-floor balustrade and admire the vaulted dome, where natural light poured through the central glazed oculus. It reminded him of the one in the Pantheon in Rome, which he had toured during a vacation visit to the Vatican a few years before.

  He noticed that the reporter had turned to the camera and was making what looked like concluding remarks. When he finished, a scruffy young man standing beside the camera made a knife motion across his throat. Horowitz’s young aide, George, who had been leaning against a column, approached his boss and pointed in his direction. Before MacLean could even move, the politician was headed his way, led by a toothy grin that beamed as bright as the television lights.

  “Ken, great to see you! So good of you to stop by,” he said, pumping MacLean’s hand and clapping him on the shoulder as if they were old college drinking buddies. It was only the second time they’d ever met.

  “My pleasure, Congressman.”

  “Wish I could’ve met you in the office, Ken, but I have a vote coming up at eleven-thirty. Have a few minutes? Good. Walk with me.”

  Horowitz led the way while two aides trailed them. They made small talk until they arrived at an imposing set of bronzed elevator doors. Once inside, Horowitz didn’t waste time getting to the point.

  “About H.R. 207, Ken. We’re all tied up with other business for the next couple of months, but we’re looking good for squeezing a vote in before the Christmas recess.”

  “That’s great to hear, Congressman.” MacLean started to relax.

  “But the reason I wanted to talk to you. Some people in my caucus are beginning to get a bit nervous. It’s all that vigilante nonsense, and those Inquirer stories about crime victims.”

  “Oh.”

  “Nobody wants to be tagged as ‘soft on crime.’”

  “I know.”

  They were now walking along the broad underground passageway that linked the Cannon Building to the Capitol. Thick pipes and cable conduits ran along one wall, while the other was decorated with pictures.

  “Hey now, don’t worry. We’re still in good shape for a floor vote. Just a few folks are wavering, that’s all. I’m sure I can hold them. Especially since nobody has gone directly after the bill in the media. We do get some mail from the victims’ rights groups, but so far there’s no public commotion.”

  “I see.” He understood the implication. And it caused him to remember the phone call yesterday—an interview request from some researcher with a funny name. Diffendooser, or something like that. He was glad now that he hadn’t taken the call.

  “So the plan is, we keep a low profile until the vote. If there’s any public discussion, though, I may have to call upon you again, and your associate—what’s his name?”

  “Dr. Carl Frankfurt.”

  “That’s the guy. The testimony from the two of you really impressed everybody during the hearings. Anyway, if there’s any fuss, I may need you to come down here and soothe some nerves.”

  But who’s going to settle mine?

  “You can count on me, Congressman,” he said. “I’ll do whatever it takes. This bill represents the culmination of my life’s work.”

  “That’s the spirit. Together, we’ll get it done.”

  They had reached the end of the passageway, where it connected to another corridor.

  “Okay, this is where I have to leave you. I’ll let Wendy show you upstairs to the exit.” He stuck out his hand, clapped MacLean’s shoulder again, turned on his one-hundred-watt smile. “It was great to see you again, Ken. Thanks so much for dropping by.”

  MacLean was outside of the building before he realized that Horowitz had used exactly the same words to greet him and to send him on his way.

  CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  Friday, October 3, 2:45 p.m.

  “Hey there, stranger, what’s the big rush?”

  Annie stopped in the middle of the corridor. “Oh, Susie. I didn’t see you.”

  Her friend laughed. “You had your eyes on your watch. You blew right past me.”

  “Sorry. I have my mind on other things, I guess.”

  “I guess, indeed.” Susie took in the coat draped over Annie’s arm. “Leaving so early?”

  She nodded. “I’ve come in early the past couple days so that I could beat the Friday traffic.”

  “Yeah, yeah, well, you can’t fool me. I bet you’ve got a hot date.”

  The joke caught her by surprise. She felt her cheeks grow warm.

  Susie’s eyes widened. “No. Not really.”

  Dammit.

  Susie grabbed her arms. “Oh my God! Oh my God!” Suddenly, a huge grin spread across her face. “It’s him, isn’t it? Tell me it’s him!”

  She had to smile and nod. “It just...happened.”

  “Wow! When?”

  “Two weeks ago”

  “And you’ve been keeping this a secret from me?”

  “Well, I really didn’t want to say anything. I mean, you just–” She stopped.

  “Oh, Annie. Did you think news like this would make me feel bad? Didn’t you know I’d be thrilled for you, girlfriend?”

  She could only answer with a long hug.

  Susie moved back, held her at arm’s length. “I should have known. You’ve been absolutely glowing lately. And I certainly knew he was interested. That night at my house—he couldn’t keep his
eyes off you.”

  “Shhh.” She glanced around. “Don’t you know this is the CIA? The walls have ears.”

  Susie laughed. “Well, when you can spare some time—if you can tear yourself away from him—let’s get together for coffee. Then you can tell me all about it. Everything. I want sordid details.”

  “Pervert.”

  “Just teasing. I’m so happy for you. What a catch!” Then she looked her up and down. “No, I take that back. He’s definitely getting the better of it.”

  “Susie, dear, you are such a treasure.”

  “Well, a fine treasure I am, holding you up. Now, go to your man, Annie Woods.”

  The words struck her with unexpected force. She leaned in to kiss her friend on the cheek, then had to turn away quickly.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Friday, October 3, 3:45 p.m.

  She reached the office building just up Connecticut from K Street. After a couple of left turns, she drove down the ramp on 18th into the underground garage. Following his instructions, she took the elevator to the tenth floor.

  When she entered the reception area, a gorgeous African-American woman seated behind the counter looked up and smiled.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yes. I’m here to see Mr. Hunter.”

  The receptionist’s eyes moved in an appraising, once-over glance. “You must be Ms. Woods, then.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ll let him know you’re here. Why don’t you have a seat?”

  She felt the woman’s eyes on her as she walked to a chair.

  He emerged from a hallway a moment later. He was in a business suit, beautifully tailored and charcoal gray. As he approached, she noticed how the rich copper tones in his tie picked up the hazel of his eyes.

  She stood to meet him. He smiled his crooked little smile and kissed her. Not long. Just long enough for her to notice the receptionist raise a brow in amusement.

  Dylan took her hand and drew her to the desk as the woman stood.

  “Annie Woods, this is Danika Brown. Danika handles all my business arrangements.” He paused, just an instant. Looking at her, not the receptionist, he said: “Annie is my girlfriend, Danika.”

  The word sent a tiny shiver through her.

  Danika’s face lit with a dazzling smile. “I am truly pleased to meet you, Ms. Woods.”

  “And Dylan has said wonderful things about you, Ms. Brown.”

  He groaned. “Ladies, please. Cut the Ms. stuff. First names, shall we?”

  They laughed.

  “Okay—Annie,” she said.

  “I’m delighted to meet you, Danika.”

  “There. That wasn’t so hard, was it? I wanted Annie to see where I work. At least, where I sometimes work.”

  Danika shot him a mischievous glance. “Well, Mr. Hunter, meeting this lovely lady, I understand now why I’ve seen so little of you lately.”

  He grinned. “Mainly, though, I wanted the two of you to meet. You’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the future. Annie will give you her phone number before we leave today, so that if you can’t otherwise reach me, you can try her. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Danika, I’ll show her around a bit before we head over to the Mayflower for cocktails and an early dinner.”

  As he walked her down the hall, Annie couldn’t resist saying, “She’s truly stunning.”

  He turned to her, eyes twinkling.

  “Second most stunning woman I’ve ever met.”

  BETHESDA, MARYLAND

  Friday, October 3, 8:07 p.m.

  He parked the Forester in a reserved spot in the apartment’s underground garage. Then he went around to help her out and carried her suitcase to one of the elevators, where they ascended to the ninth floor of the tower.

  “Welcome to my secret lair,” he said, pushing open the door to his apartment.

  She stepped inside and wandered into the living room. “Nice digs, Mr. Hunter. Nice furniture.” She looked at the walls, ran her hand over a piece of classical sculpture on a bookcase. “Fine taste in art.” She went to stand at the sliding window to the balcony, her back to him. “Beautiful view.”

  “Beautiful view from here, too.”

  She turned and made a face. “You’re bad.”

  “This is news?”

  She looked at the floor. “Oh, my! What have we here?”

  “The other woman in my life. Annie, meet Luna.”

  The cat approached her one cautious step at a time, sniffing the air.

  “Well, hello, Luna.” She bent over and extended a hand. The cat leaned forward, took a whiff of her fingertips, then proceeded confidently beneath her palm. Annie stroked her and the cat responded by rubbing against her legs.

  “Dylan, I figured you as more of a dog guy than a cat guy.”

  “I like dogs, but they’re too damned much work. Especially in an apartment.”

  “I suppose you also identify with cats because they like their independence.”

  He stifled the urge to smile. “There’s that.”

  “Okay, I consider myself warned. So, who takes care of your baby when you aren’t here?”

  “I pay a neighbor kid to stop by and do that, and to water the plants.”

  She picked up the cat and scratched her head. Luna closed her eyes appreciatively.

  “Now that was quick bonding. You’ve passed the pet test.”

  “And if I didn’t, are you saying that you’d dump me for this cat?”

  “In a heartbeat. She doesn’t cost as much to feed.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  HYATTSVILLE, MARYLAND

  Wednesday, October 22, 8:40 p.m.

  Too easy.

  That was the thing. Car break-ins here were just too damned easy. That’s why Tomas Cardenas and Manuel Maldonado liked working the parking lot at the Mall at Prince Georges.

  That’s what he concluded after watching the pair for the past two evenings. He’d remained hidden in his car, studying them through the SuperVision scope to get a sense of their methods and physical capabilities. Cardenas, a tall, rail-thin ex-con, covered the lot methodically with his squat, beefy partner. Maldonado was a cholo in the same Mexican gang and, like Cardenas, a stone-cold killer.

  They showed up each night about eight-twenty, arriving from the Prince Georges Metro station across the highway. They carried empty duffle bags over their shoulders. They wandered into the parking lot, well beyond the useful range of the security cameras, and hid among the vehicles until the patrolling guards cruised past. Then they systematically checked the parked cars until they found ones with shopping bags or nice electronics. One guy would stand watch while the other broke in. Along with store purchases, they pulled out stereos, GPS devices, and any other valuables, dumping the loot into the duffle bags. When the bags were loaded, they left on foot. The whole process took just over half an hour.

  The first night, he trailed them from the lot back to the pedestrian bridge that crossed over the East-West Highway and into the Metro station. At that hour, with few people around, he hung back, so they wouldn’t spot him. He knew where they were headed—back to their apartments in the projects, just one Metro stop away. He’d scoped out that location previously; no good. Too many residents up all night.

  The takedown would be easier here. Not easy. But easier.

  Tonight, his vantage point was the second floor of the stairwell-and-elevator structure that brought shoppers up onto the pedestrian bridge—the same one the two gangsters had crossed to get here from the Metro. From this perch, he used the scope to keep an eye on them as they worked the lot.

  This was where he’d intercept them when they returned.

  Standing isolated at the edge of the parking lot, the drab concrete structure was like a small military blockhouse. Its walls were covered with grimy beige ceramic tiles, meant to resist graffiti; its floors were pimpled with dried wads of chewing gum and streaked with urine stains that ran from the corners. The passenger elevator was out of service,
forcing anyone brave enough to enter at this hour to climb the narrow stairwell. The stairs were enclosed on both sides with thick wire mesh, which also extended out across the footbridge.

  Like being trapped in a cage. A perfect spot for a predator to stalk his prey.

  Somebody had trashed the stairwell security camera. Bad for public safety, but one less thing for him to worry about. He’d also taken care of the lights, so that he could remain in shadows. And he’d changed his appearance, too. The cops were looking for the bearded, red-haired guy from the Alexandria courthouse. But the rare person walking past him now saw a clean-shaven blond guy in a gray raincoat and black gloves, leaning against the wall and blathering into his cell phone about some meeting in New York.

  Like the previous missions, this one had its own challenges. His chief target was Cardenas, not Maldonado, but he’d have to subdue both. He’d left his vehicle not far away, as close as he could park to this structure. Plan A was to incapacitate Maldonado and leave him here, then force Cardenas to the car at gunpoint. Plan B was to kill Maldonado on the spot, if necessary, then proceed with Plan A. Plan C was a contingency if everything went south; it had some basic elements worked out, then required a lot of improvising.

  But absolutely no hesitation. That’s why, before every mission, he liked to recall the criminal history of the perp. To put himself in the proper frame of mind.

  Since his early teens, Tomas Ernesto Cardenas had belonged to a Mexican crime gang. At seventeen, he was charged with conspiracy to commit first-degree murder in the shooting death of a sixteen-year-old during a drug dispute. The charges were dropped a month later. The next year, Cardenas pled guilty to a firearms charge and was sentenced to a five-year prison term. But the judge suspended four years and nine months, giving him just five years of probation. Over the next two years, he was charged three times with probation violations. Yet despite the insistence of his probation officer, he was never sent back to prison.