WINNER TAKES ALL: A Dylan Hunter Justice Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers Book 3)

by Robert Bidinotto

  “I have been giving the matter a great deal of thought. An associate and I have developed a general plan. I shall be able to supply you with the contacts and resources you will require. I do not believe you will have to be involved directly in the actual . . . events. In fact, it is best that you keep your distance from the operational side. I see your role as the planner and coordinator.”

  “These contacts of yours . . . are you sure we can trust them?”

  He had to smile at that.

  “We have worked together for decades.”

  NINETEEN

  “Okay. Now try a three-shot group,” she heard Dylan say.

  Squinting through the amber lenses of her protective glasses, Annie settled the front sight of her .40 caliber Glock 27 onto the center of the hanging paper target, a man-shaped silhouette ten yards down the firing lane. She made sure her double-handed grip was right, thumbs pointed along the barrel toward the target. She moved her right forefinger from its position alongside the trigger guard and onto the trigger. Then she fired three shots, each about two seconds apart.

  “Your shot grouping is good and tight,” he said from his position behind her in the firing lane. “But pulled to the right of center, and low. I think you may be instinctively tightening your grip just as you fire. Keep your grip pressure nice and steady. Move only your trigger finger. Okay, try three more.”

  She did.

  “There you go. All in the red. I officially pronounce the target dead.”

  She chuckled and placed the gun on the table, pointing down range, then turned to him. “Okay, cowboy. Top that.”

  He smiled. “Let’s make a wager. If I win, I get to have sex with you later.”

  “And if I win?”

  “Then you get to have sex with me.”

  “Gee, how perfectly fair.”

  They swapped positions and she took the small pair of binoculars from him. The acrid smell of gunpowder and the bursts of gunfire from the surrounding lanes filled the air.

  Dylan adjusted his protective electronic ear muffs. Then, smiling back at her, he sent the suspended target out to twenty-five yards. He picked up his own gun from a basket on the table—a Sig-Sauer P228 in 9 mm. Maintaining an upright, fully forward-facing stance, he raised the pistol and immediately fired five times—so rapidly it almost sounded like an automatic weapon. She raised the binoculars.

  A starburst perforated the red center of the target.

  He placed the Sig back on the table, then turned to her, an eyebrow arched.

  “How did I do?” he asked innocently.

  “Show-off.”

  “Now, don’t be a sore loser.”

  “That depends on how gentle you are tonight.”

  He gave her his lopsided grin and shrugged. “You know me.”

  “Some days, I’m not so sure.”

  Dylan made a habit of going to the indoor range in Upper Marlboro, Maryland, at least once a week. She had not accompanied him since last fall. But with Lasher somewhere out there, she knew she couldn’t afford to be rusty.

  They spent about forty-five minutes practicing, making everything second-nature, until she felt confident she could hit what she aimed at. For his part, Dylan focused on rapid, single-handed firing, switching hands.

  2

  They were outside in the light drizzle and heading to his Ford van in the lot when he heard the ping of a forwarded text message on his phone.

  Inside the van, he paused to read the text.

  “You’re smiling,” she prompted, dabbing her dark damp hair with a towel from the back.

  “It’s an invitation from Roger Helm’s office. He’s reserved two tickets for me at the CNN ‘town hall’ next weekend. It’s not a formal debate, so it’s limited to only the three leading candidates in the polls—him, Spencer, and Waller.”

  “Obviously, he likes you. You must have impressed him.”

  “I guess so. It’s awfully nice of him. If I go, I may be the only member of the media there except for CNN folks. I could get a scoop or two.” He thought about it for a moment. “And of course Lasher won’t expect me to show up there, either. Even if he spots me on TV in the crowd, he couldn’t get close with all the Secret Service. Or have time to get there and plan anything. So it’s safe.”

  “Two tickets, huh?”

  “Come on, Annie. It’s out of the question. We can’t be seen together in public.”

  “I know. But who says we have to sit together? I’d love to attend. One of those guys is going to be our next president. Pretty please?” She batted her eyes at him and stroked her hand up his thigh.

  He laughed. “Well, I’ll check with Helm’s office on Monday and see if it’s assigned seating. If not, I suppose we could sit apart. Pretend to be total strangers.”

  “If I’m by myself, maybe some handsome Secret Service agent will hit on me.”

  “I’m afraid they’ll all be preoccupied.”

  She moved her hand higher. “You think so?”

  “Okay. Maybe not that preoccupied.” He leaned over and kissed her.

  Then sat back behind the wheel, staring ahead.

  “Why aren’t we moving?”

  “I know how upset you have been about hiding our engagement and postponing our wedding.”

  “I still am. Dylan, I hate this.”

  “Me too. I’ve been thinking how unfair this is to you.” He watched her face. “I think we should at least tell your father that we’re engaged.”

  Her expression brightened. “You do?”

  “I do. Because we are going to be married, sooner or later. Besides, like Susie, he’ll notice your ring and ask questions. And he’ll need time to process it. He has to hate my guts for what I did to him and his foundation.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve talked to him. He doesn’t hate you, Dylan. He’s not that kind of man. And after all, he knows you saved my life. He’s just . . . very conflicted about that. It’s hard for him to accept that the man who publicly humiliated him also rescued his daughter from a killer that his own foundation helped set free.”

  “Well, if we meet him—together—maybe we can help him get past it.”

  She lit up at that. “I’d love that. He’s on the West Coast for the next couple of weeks on business. I’ll see if we can set it up when he returns.”

  “Great.” He started the car. “Now it’s time to hurry home.”

  “Why the hurry?”

  He flicked a glance at her.

  “Remember? I won our wager.”

  3

  Trammel rolled off her, gasping for breath. The tiles of the kitchen floor were cold and hard against his naked back. He remained still, eyes closed, waiting for his racing pulse to slow.

  “What I like . . . about you . . . Emmalee . . . is your utter lack of . . . sexual inhibitions.”

  He heard her giggle beside him. He turned to face her.

  She lay on her back, too, her own eyes closed, face flushed, blonde hair disheveled, heartbeat pulsing rapidly at her throat. Her full lips were touched by a slight smile and a dollop of whipped cream. His gaze traveled down over her bare breasts, rising and falling like sea swells.

  After a moment he sat up. She looked at him now through half-closed lids, arms stretched to either side and tied at the wrists to the legs of two kitchen chairs. The discarded can of whipped cream lay on the floor nearby.

  “So . . . are you going to leave me here all night?” She pouted and squirmed on the floor.

  “Of course not, my dear. What would the maid think?” He leaned over to untie her.

  She laughed. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe she’d like to find me here like this. She’s kind of cute.” Holding his eyes, her tongue slowly traced along her lower lip, finding the remnant of cream.

  “So. You like girls, too?”

  Another giggle. “What’s not to like . . . What about you, dear? Ever tried a threesome?”

  Trammel saw his opening.

  “Once, years ago. I fou
nd the physics to be a trifle complicated. But I gather you have been . . . more adventurous.”

  “If you only knew.” Untied, she sat up, rubbing her wrists.

  He rose and held out his hand.

  “Tell me.”

  The conversation continued during their shower, and afterward, as they lounged in bathrobes on the sofa in her living room, sipping wine. Lit only by the shimmering red glow from the fireplace, she regaled him with tales of her sexual escapades. His questions encouraged her to become increasingly graphic and explicit, confirming to him that she was an exhibitionist.

  “Ash enjoyed watching you with other men, then.”

  “Oh God, yes. It turned him on like crazy.”

  “I can see why,” he said, running his hand inside her bathrobe.

  “Mmmm.” Her eyes closed and her head fell back against his shoulder. He nibbled her ear while his hand kept moving.

  “You men are all alike,” she sighed. “You fantasize about seeing your woman have sex with other people.”

  “I confess, I would enjoy watching you with another man. But only if I could control the situation.”

  It got her attention, as he knew it would. Her eyes grew wide and bright.

  “Really? You would do that?”

  “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

  She threw back her head and laughed. He kissed her exposed throat. Then he raised his eyes and smiled.

  “In fact, I happen to know that a very important man is interested in you. And I suspect you would be interested in him, too.”

  “Who?”

  He looked away. “On second thought, I had better not say. I could get him into serious trouble.”

  “Avery! Who?”

  He hesitated a few seconds more, then sighed.

  “All right, if you insist. Senator Carl Spencer.”

  Her mouth fell open. “No! Not really!”

  “Yes, really. He told me he thinks you are ‘hot.’ I am quoting. And I know for a fact that he likes to play around. His wife knows that, but they seem to have an arrangement about it. Just as you and Ash did.”

  “Oh. My. God! Carl Spencer?”

  “You are making me jealous, Emmalee,” he chuckled.

  “No, no—don’t be silly. I could never get seriously involved with a married man running for president.” She sounded as if she were trying to convince herself.

  “Or remain seriously involved should he win.”

  She nodded. “Right.”

  “Still, for now, I might be able to arrange an adventure . . . If you would like that.”

  “Yeah . . . I would like that.”

  “Well, we shall have to act soon, before he wins the nomination and gets Secret Service protection. That will make access virtually impossible.”

  She continued to nod; her eyes seemed glazed in the firelight. He knew she was fantasizing about being in bed with a second candidate for president. Another empowering sexual trophy for her.

  And another one for Carl Spencer.

  He found himself smiling. This will be too easy.

  4

  The next morning, he phoned Spencer from his study, calling the private number he had been given.

  “Are you alone?” he asked when the senator greeted him.

  “Yes, Avery. Jill is out at some Sunday brunch with friends. What’s up?”

  “I have a personal favor to ask, Carl. It is about Emmalee Conn.”

  “Ash’s widow?”

  “Yes. I have spoken with her on several occasions since the memorial service. As you know, Ash’s green-energy investments took a terrible hit this past month. That, in addition to his death, left Emmalee in rather desperate financial straits. Their home was damaged in the explosion, but in any case, she has no way to make the mortgage payments, let alone repairs. So I leased an apartment for her here at the Watergate.”

  “That’s extraordinarily generous of you, Avery.”

  Trammel found his hand toying with the watch in his pocket. He pulled it out and set it on the desktop. Its scratched silver surface gleamed dully under the chandelier.

  “I am happy I can afford such gestures. But that still leaves the poor woman without means. And terribly embarrassed by her situation. You know how it is in this town.”

  “Yeah. It’s all about image.”

  As you know too well, Carl. “Indeed. So she is desperate to generate an independent income. I would hire her in an instant, but my local office is fully staffed. However, I thought of you. As you ramp up your campaign staff, you might have a place for a well-connected Washington woman with strong social and communication skills—perhaps in your press office, or doing event planning.”

  “I . . . well, sure, Avery. I’ll be happy to look into the possibilities. It sounds like she could be a great fit.”

  “I have no doubt you will find uses for her considerable talents.”

  “Yeah. Absolutely. Tell her I’ll be delighted to meet her.”

  I have no doubt. “Wonderful. Thank you so much, Carl. I also think hiring the widow of your former rival would do wonders for your image, too. A sort of posthumous benediction from Ash—a passing of the torch, as it were.”

  “I see your point . . . yes. Have her contact my office Monday morning to set up an appointment.”half

  Trammel spun the old pocket watch with his forefinger. It hissed softly across the polished surface of the desk.

  “About that. I mentioned how humiliated she feels about her situation. She confided to me that she would prefer no one know she has been reduced to desperate job-hunting. So, perhaps a private meeting with you would be best.”

  “Oh . . . of course. I understand. That would be better for us.”

  “Us.” You are a pathetically obvious creature, Carl. “I own a small apartment on I Street near Union Station, which I maintain for discreet business meetings and out-of-town guests. As it is so close to the Capitol, perhaps it would be convenient for you to meet there?”

  “That sounds perfect!”

  It was all that Trammel could do to keep from bursting out laughing.

  “I know how busy you are, Carl, but she told me her schedule is open this week. Is there any way—”

  “Certainly, Avery! I’ll be happy to make time. The sooner the better . . . because we’re hiring right now. Let me go check my calendar.”

  Avery Trammel picked up the old watch. The hands beneath its cracked crystal face had stopped moving years ago, forever freezing the most decisive moment of his life.

  It had taken him decades of obsessive planning and action to reach this point, when everything he had fantasized about since that fateful moment would at last come to fruition. He felt suddenly like the director of some monumental film—the defining work of his career. He had invested every waking moment of his lifetime diligently, tediously acquiring and assembling the countless complicated elements of the production, all in service of a script he himself had authored long ago.

  Now, his final bit players were taking the stage. Soon, on his command of action, each would perform his assigned role in the masterpiece . . .

  In his epic of revenge.

  TWENTY

  The contact supplied by Trammel lived in a two-story apartment building on a quiet, tree-lined cul-de-sac, just off Route 50 in the heart of Fairfax, Virginia. The families in the tidy, modest brick homes across the street had no idea that the big, bearded bear of a man they often spotted smoking on his second-floor balcony was an international terrorist known as “the Chechen.”

  Lasher sat across from him at the man’s cheap kitchen table, nursing his second bottle of beer, while the Chechen guzzled down his fifth. The man’s beard had the consistency of steel wool and, like his eyes, was the color of soot. Those eyes, glassy from the beer, were deep-set under thick brows, and his face glistened with a sheen of sweat. The pungent odor of sweat and beer brought Lasher back to his Ranger days over in the Sandbox.

  Trammel had provided only the s
ketchiest information about the guy: Ali Shishani, age 34, born in Chechnya, combat experience with weapons and explosives. Trammel gave the impression he knew nothing more. Lasher didn’t like it. Shishani was a cipher to him, and totally unvetted, as far as he was concerned. Yet this guy was supposed to provide a team and the material to do the job. So far, all he knew was that he looked like a thug with a drinking problem. He’d have to do his own vetting, now, and if he didn’t get the right answers, he’d tell Trammel to go find somebody else to run the op.

  “Ali, my friend,” he said, forcing a grin, “how much were you told about this job?”

  The Chechen burped loudly and set down the empty bottle amid the growing thicket on the tabletop.

  “I am told this is big operation. Like nothing here since 9/11,” he said in a thickly accented growl. “You give me plan; my job is assemble and run team, and handle supply and logistics.”

  Lasher decided to go fishing.

  “This is a very high-risk operation, Ali. Can you trust your contact?”

  “With my life. We work together long time.”

  “That’s good to hear. But the people arranging this operation on my side want to be sure you’re experienced enough to handle something this big.”

  Shishani rested a huge, hairy, scarred fist on the table, jostling aside a couple of bottles.

  “Let me tell you something, pretty boy. I got much experience.”

  Lasher clenched his teeth over the insult. “Can you be more specific? They’d like to know something about your background.”

  Shishani glared at him, his head weaving a bit unsteadily. He was obviously weighing how much he should reveal. Lasher figured flattery might loosen his tongue.

  “Look, Ali, it’s not me who needs reassurance. It’s the people who hired me. I can see for myself you’ve ‘been there, done that.’”

  A slow, yellow grin split the middle of the black beard, like a quarter moon in the night sky.

  “Yeah. I ‘been there, done that.’ I ‘done that’ lots.”

  “I can only imagine, my friend. How the hell did you get involved in this sort of work, anyway? You must have started pretty young.”