HUNTER: A Thriller (A Dylan Hunter Thriller)
Page 32
“Annie...I am so sorry,” she whispered.
Movement behind her.
He stepped into view, moved in front of them, stopped and faced them both.
Adrian Wulfe smiled.
“Now Susanne, there’s no need to apologize. Annie, you should know that your loyal friend here truly tried to resist. She didn’t want to make that phone call. She really didn’t. But I made it so that she just couldn’t help herself. Isn’t that right, Susanne?”
“I’m sorry, Annie,” she repeated.
“It’s okay, Susie.”
“‘Susie,’” he repeated. “Not ‘Susanne.’ All right, Susie and Annie, we’ll dispense with the formalities, then. Call me ‘Addie.’ My bitch mother did.”
She looked up at him. “So, Addie, is this how you’re working out your issues with Mommy?”
He lost the smile. Reached her in one giant stride. Drew his huge left hand up to his waist, then back across his body, then whipped it forward, backhanding her across her face.
Seeing it coming, she jerked her head to the right and leaned as it struck, trying to diminish the impact. Still, it hit with the force of a jackhammer, a loud banging crack that rattled her teeth and sent a spear of pain through her skull. She felt her chair falling to the right, but his hand snatched her arm and pulled her back to vertical.
Her head throbbed and swayed. She just couldn’t quite keep it upright and centered. Somewhere, Susie was screaming.
Wulfe knelt before her, his face spinning and drifting crazily in front of her half-closed eyes. He grabbed her chin, steadying her head. His dead gray eyes bored into hers.
“Ever since that day, I’ve been waiting for this one,” his voice rumbled, barely above a whisper. “You two thought you were so high and mighty, so unreachable. Especially you. I remember every word you and your dear friend here said to me. Every word. I didn’t have much to do all day in prison. So, do you know how I filled my time? I wrote out those words of yours. Then I counted them. Then, I imagined a specific penalty for each word.”
He released her chin, then stood.
“None of the penalties will be fatal. But after a short time, Annie and Susie, you will wish they were. We’re going to be here for a long, long time, you and I.”
He turned away, went to an end table holding a large brown paper bag. He picked it up and there was the sound of metallic chinking. He set it on a coffee table, then dragged the table and positioned it before them.
Then he dumped the bag’s contents onto the table top.
Kitchen knives. Garden tools. Screwdrivers. Hammers. Nails....
“Susie, you and Arthur certainly kept your home well-supplied.”
She shrieked. It became a long, low keening wail.
Annie had to close her eyes. She felt herself start to shiver. She had expected to be raped. Then to be murdered. She had already begun to prepare herself, to try to detach herself from her body, to let whatever happened, happen, until it stopped forever.
But this....
The shivering became uncontrollable. She tried to think of something to say, something that would stop him—even delay this, if only for a moment. But her brain was paralyzed, overwhelmed with the horror and the pounding pain in her head.
“You don’t have to do this,” she could only manage to croak.
He picked up a box cutter. Twisted his head around to look at her. Bounced it in his palm. Smiled.
“Oh, but I do.”
Then he paused. “You know, there’s something missing.” He snapped his fingers. “I know! We need a witness to these proceedings.”
He turned and went to the bookcase. Found a framed photo of Arthur Copeland. Brought it back to the coffee table. Put it down on the table, facing Susie.
“No!” She was panting rapidly, gasping, her breathing out of control, hyperventilating. Her eyes, enormous in terror, moved back and forth wildly, from the box cutter in his hand to the photo.
He stood, looked at the photo. Rubbed his chin. Then reached down to reposition it.
“There, Susie. That’s better.”
He turned to face her.
Her lips parted, her eyes lost their focus, and her head slumped forward on her chest.
He went to her, felt her neck with his fingers.
“Why, the little minx has fainted dead away. Oh, well. She’ll keep.”
He turned to face her. “Let’s start with you, then. Just look at you, all dressed up. What a nice Christmas present for me. Let’s unwrap the package and see what’s inside.”
She closed her eyes again, gritting her teeth.
Heard the cell phone.
Her eyes snapped open.
He looked at where it lay, flashing on the floor. “What’s this? A holiday well-wisher? Well, he or she will keep, too.”
Then she knew who it was.
It chirped a second time.
Only chance....
“You really should answer that, you know.”
He raised a brow. “And why should I do that, love?”
“Don’t you want to talk to the man who’s coming right now to kill you?”
Third chirp.
He looked amused. “And just who might that be?”
“Dylan Hunter.”
Fourth chirp.
A sneer twisted across his face.
“Do tell.”
Fifth chirp.
He reached down an ape-like arm for the phone.
THIRTY-NINE
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
Thursday, December 25, 12:06 a.m.
Fifth chirp.
He was shaking, now.
I’m too late....
A soft click.
“Ho, ho, ho!” said the low, unmistakable voice. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Hunter!”
He reached out a hand to steady himself against the desk.
“This is the great Dylan Hunter, isn’t it?”
The name.
It reminded him of who he was.
He straightened. Went into his cold mission mode.
First, gather intel.
“Oh, excuse me. I must have misdialed. I was trying to reach a human being.”
Wulfe laughed.
“Well played, Mr. Hunter! I thought the sound of my voice on this lady’s phone would shock you to your core. But you sound so blasé about it.”
He’s a sociopath. So manipulate his inflated ego. Keep him talking.
“You don’t surprise me at all, Wulfe. You’re entirely predictable. And that’s a fatal flaw.”
Pause.
“Oh really?” A tiny edge in the voice. “The little lady here seems to be under the delusion that you’re going to rescue her and her friend, and then somehow kill me.”
They’re still alive.
He grabbed his car keys, ran to the apartment door.
“You should have believed her, Wulfe. The little lady is right.”
Moved outside, into the hallway.
“My, my! Such bravado from a mere journalist.”
Not the elevator—the cell signal will cut out.
“A journalist deals only in facts, Wulfe. You’re as good as dead.”
He pushed through the emergency door, then hit the stairs, trying to keep his footsteps as quiet as possible while he flew down, two steps at a time.
Eighth floor....
“You know, you’re beginning to irritate me, Mr. Hunter. Perhaps as punishment for your disrespect, I’ll let you listen in while I begin having a bit of fun with Annie and Susie.”
Seventh floor....
Hasn’t started to torture them yet.
“Sorry, Wulfe. That’s just not going to happen.”
Sixth floor....
“You don’t think so? Well, then, just keep listening. I’ll put it on speakerphone for you.”
Fifth floor....
“Then you’re about as stupid as I figured.”
“Me, stupid?” Angry now. “Who’s really the stupid one, Mr. Hunter?”
“After all, you’re wherever you are, while I’m here with your two lovely friends....”
Third floor....
“And so, Mr. Hunter, much as I’m enjoying our friendly banter, I think I should return to my Christmas party and guests.”
You’ll never make it in time. Neither will the cops.
Second floor....
“Let me start with Annie....”
Have to stop him right now.
“Well, it’s going to be a very brief party, Wulfe.”
“You’re bluffing. I can hear the stress in your voice.”
Watch your breathing....
First floor....
“Not at all, moron. I figure you’ve got—oh, maybe five minutes.”
Pause.
“And how do you figure that, Mr. Hunter?”
Basement.
Thighs on fire, he shoved open the stairwell door, ran into the underground parking garage. Pushed his legs to move faster, toward the BMW.
“Because I know where you are, Wulfe.”
Pause.
“So where am I?”
He reached the car.
“Why, you’re at the Copeland residence, of course.”
Silence.
He unlocked the door, slid inside.
“Isn’t that right, Wulfe?”
Silence.
He closed the door quietly. Inserted the key into the ignition.
Don’t turn it over yet. He’ll hear.
“So, you really don’t want to start anything that you can’t finish, Wulfe. In fact, I think that if you don’t leave those ladies and run for it, you’ll be in handcuffs in...oh, let’s make that about four-and-a-half minutes, now.”
Silence.
“Unless I get to you first, that is. Don’t you remember what I promised you, Wulfe?”
Pause.
“All right, Mr. Hunter. I’ll be leaving now. But I do believe I still have enough time to take the lovely ladies with me.”
The phone went dead.
He turned the key and gunned the engine.
TYSONS CORNER, VIRGINIA
Thursday, December 25, 12:11 a.m.
She watched him raise her cell phone above his head, then smash it to the floor. Pieces bounced in every direction.
He looked at her, his face a mask of cold fury.
He grabbed a large kitchen knife from the coffee table. Rushed to Susie and slashed through the bonds at her feet, freeing her legs. Then he grabbed her by the waist and lifted, raising her entire body so that her arms, with her hands still tied together behind her, cleared the back of the chair. He set her down on the seat again and began to slap her.
“Time to wake up, Susie.... There’s my good girl.”
She began to moan, then struggled to hold herself upright.
He left her and moved quickly to Annie. Standing to the side of the chair so that she couldn’t kick him, he severed the bindings on her feet. Then the one around her midsection.
He returned to Susie, grabbed her by the hair, and dragged her out of the chair, over to where he had dumped the contents of Annie’s purse. Reached down and pawed through the mess until he found her car keys. Grabbed some of the cut-up ties.
Then stood and pressed the long edge of the knife to Susie’s throat.
“Now, Annie, you’re going to stand up and clear your hands from the back of the chair, just as I did for Susie. And then we’re all going upstairs, very fast, and out to your car. And if you try to run or resist or slow me down, I will cut her goddamned head off.”
12:11 a.m.
His custom BMW 7 Series High Security sedan surged out of the garage entrance.
He cut the wheel hard right, playing the gears and brakes as he had been trained in the Agency’s “crash and burn” courses over the years. Glancing to his left to make sure there was no traffic, he darted out onto Wisconsin, ripping another right.
He hit the buttons that lit up the blue-and-white strobes in the grill and rear windows and set off the police siren. Then punched it, accelerating up to Norfolk. Braking hard and working the wheel, he forced the heavy rear end of the armored car to skid around on the wet pavement so that it was sideways in the intersection, facing left.
Flooring it, he pushed it down Norfolk, whipping past the side streets with barely a glance, hoping his lights and siren would stop anyone from getting in his path.
Downshift, brake...hard left onto St. Elmo’s. Punch it again. Cross Old Georgetown.
Flying now down Wilson Lane...the high-performance V-12 engine climbing in seconds to eighty, ninety, one hundred...barreling right through stop signs and lights toward River Road and then the Beltway....
Verbal command to activate the onboard communication system.... State the memorized phone number....
“Cronin,” said the familiar voice in the dash speaker.
“This is Hunter. Adrian Wulfe has kidnapped Annie Woods and Susanne Copeland at the Copeland home.” He gave the address. “Get the locals there, fast. I mean now, Cronin.” He cut it off before the cop could utter a word.
12:16 a.m.
He forced her to drive.
Her hands and feet were free, now, but useless to her. He sat behind her in the back seat, belted in securely with a shoulder strap. But he ordered her to keep hers off. If she tried to crash the car, he’d survive. She might not.
And Susie definitely would not. He held her across his lap, on her back, face up, with the knife lying across her throat. Susie’s eyes were squeezed tight. Her lips were moving. Praying....
They were only three minutes from Susie’s house when she saw the first of the police lights up ahead, blue-and-white flashers growing as they raced toward her.
“Keep driving straight and steady. Let them go past. No tricks—or Susie’s head will be sitting beside you in the passenger seat.”
The lights sped toward her, seeming to get faster by the second. The car drew abreast, and the high-pitched squeal of its siren died off octaves lower as it blew by.
“Good girl.”
If she were alone, she would have crashed the car anyway. Suicide would be infinitely preferable to whatever he might do to her. But she had no right to make that decision for her friend.
And maybe they could still get out of this.
Dylan....
He’d survived governments and their hit teams. He’d stymied the combined investigative talents of scores of police agencies. He’d bested cold-blooded killers, both armed and bare-handed.
And he was coming for her.
She glanced into the rearview mirror. Wulfe was staring at her, unblinking—a dead, blank, malignant stare, like that of a snake.
She stared back at him.
“He is going to kill you, you know.”
He lifted one of Susie’s hands, now untied. Tapped it with the tip of the blade. “One more word, and Susie will lose this thumb.”
She turned her eyes back to the road.
*
After another minute, she made a right onto 694, heading southeast toward the destination he had ordered. She approached the Capital Beltway and passed over it.
“I don’t want us to take any side trips, my dear. Show me what the GPS tells us to do.”
She came to an intersection and stopped at the light. She flipped on the GPS.
“I’ll program the most direct route.” She hit the right buttons. “Okay, there are the instructions. See for yourself.”
The screen displayed printed instructions to stay on Route 694 all the way into Falls Church.
He leaned forward and looked.
“Good. Just keep going straight.”
She continued down 694. They reached the second traffic light within thirty seconds. After a minute, she proceeded. In another half-minute they stopped again at the intersection of Route 123.
She had programmed the most direct route.
Not the fastest.
12:18 a.m.
; Lights flashing, siren blaring, the powerful car raced down the Capital Beltway at well over one hundred miles per hour. He glanced at the dashboard clock and said, “Redial previous number.”
“Cronin here.”
“Me again. What do you know?”
“I’m on my way there now. Just got a call from the Fairfax County P.D. They and the staties are on scene. They would’ve waited for SWAT, but the front door was wide open, so they chanced it and went in. It’s empty. Looks like they just missed them.”
He didn’t say anything.
“They couldn’t have gotten far, though. And it looks like he dumped the car he stole from his sister at the scene. Copeland’s is in the garage. So he’s got a fresh set of wheels, maybe whatever Ms. Woods was driving. Do you know what her car is?”
“Yes.” He told him.
“Okay, we’ll put out an alert. Copeland’s place is real close to the Beltway, and my guess is they’re on it and trying to get out of the area.”
“Right.”
“Sorry, Hunter.”
He cut off the call. Downshifted and braked hard, pulling off the road.
Annie’s car.
He popped the trunk, ran back there and grabbed his bug-out bag and a laptop computer. Slammed it and jumped back inside. Opened the laptop on the passenger seat, hit the “on” button.
While it was powering up, he popped the stick into gear and hit the gas, kicking a spray of slush behind him as he fishtailed back onto the highway.
He wished he kept a gun in this car.
12:24 a.m.
“Goddammit, I’ve never seen so many red lights,” he thundered. “Isn’t there a better way?”
“This is the way I always go home from Susie’s. It’s the most direct—almost straight to my door. You can see it on the GPS. Everything else takes you out of the way.”
The light changed, and she moved forward, staying in the speed limit.
“Two lanes. Twenty-five, thirty-five miles per hour, the whole way. Couldn’t we get on a thruway?”