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

by Robert Bidinotto

  He knew that the coming hours would be torture.

  For a while, he was able to postpone much of that torture, because they served the salad and wine almost immediately after Father John’s blessing, and the room filled with the distracting buzz of conversation. He felt disembodied. He knew it was his duty to be courteous and friendly toward all these people, who only wanted to show how much they thought of him. He was able to nod, forcing smiles and laughs at words that refused to register in his consciousness. Sitting beside him, Jack kept looking up at him. “Way to go, Dad!” he said at one point. Cronin looked down at his son’s face, exuding pride without inhibition or restraint. It made him feel hollow. But he put an arm around him and squeezed him.

  He managed to eat about half his meal. People stopping over to share their well-wishing didn’t seem to notice anything inappropriate about his reactions or words. Nobody except Ellen. He had trouble looking at her. He knew her eyes were penetrating his phony smiles and empty words, and from his peripheral vision he could see the undercurrent of worry on her face.

  He was reaching for the wine bottle when she placed a hand on his sleeve and leaned close.

  “You’ve already had two.”

  He pulled his hand back from the bottle.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked softly.

  He shrugged. “All this . . . it’s a little much. Hard to process.”

  “Try to relax and enjoy it.”

  Of course he couldn’t. And it got worse when the after-dinner speeches began.

  Some weren’t bad. An elderly uncle shared funny tales of what a brat he’d been as a kid. An old college pal recounted some of his hijinks from those days, and teased him and Ellen about Ed’s period of “sowing wild oats.” But it got harder when his fellow officers began to relate their personal impressions and praise him.

  It got worse when Father John stood at the mic.

  “Most of you know Ed Cronin as ‘the cop’s cop.’ Just knowing what he does for a living—or hearing his colorful language, for which he’s spent ample time visiting me in the Confessional”—everyone, even Cronin, laughed—“you might never guess this man is also a true son of the Church. I have had the pleasure of knowing Ed and his lovely wife Ellen for ten years. Their children were baptized in St. Michael’s. He sits beside them in the pews every Sunday his job allows. He is a long-time member of our Holy Name Society. And he volunteers to mentor troubled kids.

  “That’s a part of Ed not everyone sees. But I do. I can tell you he is one of those rare, precious people who lives his faith. In a profession that turns so many into cynics, underneath Ed’s tough exterior lies the pure heart of an idealist—a man whose moral principles are woven through the fabric of his being. A more honest and honorable man you will never meet. I am proud to be his priest, but prouder still to be his friend. Ed, you have earned this evening’s honors. Thank you for your service to this community, to your family, and to your God.”

  As Father John came over to embrace him, Cronin knew he had more sins to confess to him.

  Then the chief, who was emcee, rose again.

  “Ed, you should know that this evening was your partner’s idea. The guy in the department who knows you best thought you deserved a tribute. Now he’s going to tell you why. Ladies and gentlemen—Detective Paul Erskine.”

  Paul hauled his hefty frame out of his chair and hearty applause followed him to the microphone.

  “Folks, you’ve all been here a while, so I don’t want to take more than a minute or so of your time. I have lots of stories I could tell, but instead, I want to focus on why I thought we should do this.” He pointed to Cronin. “This guy—”

  He stopped. His lips worked. It was obvious he was choking up. He swallowed, grimaced in self-reproach, then went on.

  “This guy, Ed Cronin, has been my personal role model. And you need to know why. I’ve been his partner going on eight years, now. Like Father John said, it’s really easy for us on the job to get cynical. Especially with what we see every day. It seems you can’t trust anyone or anything anymore. But this is one guy you can trust. In all the time I’ve known him and worked with him, I’ve never seen Ed do or say anything dishonest. Not once. You can trust his word. You can trust him to act on what he believes . . . You know, the word ‘integrity,’ it’s only a word to most people. Noise. It doesn’t mean anything. But this guy—he’s the walking definition of integrity. That’s why for me, for everybody here, he’s ‘the cop’s cop.’ Thank you, my friend.”

  Somehow, Cronin found the strength to rise and meet his partner when he walked over to him. They hugged each other tightly under the roar of the applause.

  “Paul,” he whispered, “you shouldn’t have done this.”

  “You deserve it, buddy.”

  “No I don’t.”

  Erskine pushed him back, grinning and blinking his eyes rapidly.

  “Bullshit you don’t!”

  The chief settled everyone down.

  “Before we make a special presentation, I was told one more person would like to say something. Folks, I’d like to introduce Ed and Ellen’s son, Jack.”

  Beside him, his grinning kid bounced to his feet. To yet another wave of applause, he marched quickly to the microphone. The chief had to angle it down for him.

  “I just want to say, my dad might be a great cop and everything. But to me he’s a great father. I’m so proud of him, because he’s everything I want to be.” Beaming, he looked over at Cronin. “Dad—you’re my hero, and I love you.”

  It was too much.

  Cronin had to cover his eyes with his hands. He felt Ellen’s warm arm around his shaking shoulders and sensed she was crying, too, and she was saying, It’s okay, it’s okay, and then he felt Jack’s arm around him, too, and in the agony of the cheers and clapping he clutched them to him tightly, and wondered how his soul would survive this.

  2

  The Ford E-series van he kept at the Connors Point house was loaded with toys. Items from the arms cache under his tool shed. Other items that couldn’t fit down there, and that he kept in the garage attic. He didn’t know what he was going to need. But he knew the opposition would be formidable, and he had worked out a plan for the op.

  Knowing full well that the best plan never survives its first moment of encounter with the enemy.

  As always, he’d have to improvise along the way.

  He drove reasonably, keeping to the speed limit. It would be his last day of freedom if a traffic cop pulled him over.

  Coming up to the Capital Beltway just after six p.m., his burner chirped. He’d risked keeping it on in case Julia sent him any more text messages. But glancing at the screen, he saw the numerical signature that identified a caller he didn’t expect right now.

  “Yes?” he said, not identifying himself.

  Garrett replied, “Stay calm and don’t say anything. Your lady . . . she’s been shot.”

  The impact of the word almost caused him to swerve off Route 50.

  “Listen, it’s okay, she’ll be fine, don’t worry—one shot, it just grazed along her forearm and into her shoulder, missed the bones and anything vital. She did lose blood and we treated her at the scene and hospital for shock, but—”

  “How? Who did it? Was it—”

  “No! Not him—stop talking, don’t say anything more. Not on this line.”

  He fought down the wave of panic, then realized he had accelerated. He took his foot off the gas.

  Hold it together . . .

  “She’s being treated at the usual place for you two. They ought to name the wing after you. I’ve arranged for you to be passed right through the gate and security to her room; just show your ID. How far away are you?”

  He calculated, knowing he had to stay below the speed limit.

  “Without any traffic tie-ups, twenty minutes, give or take.”

  “As I say, she’s fine. So don’t drive like a maniac. Oh, and one more thing.”

  “What?”<
br />
  “Before you see her, you and I need to talk. And that is not a request.”

  “You need to know something.”

  Garrett stood in a little waiting area just down the hallway from her room.

  “I’m listening.”

  “She told me about your breakup. Don’t say it’s none of my damned business, because what happened tonight has now officially made it my business.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His cold stony features and tone matched the ice in his eyes.

  “Dylan, what she did was goddamned crazy. Certifiably nuts. She tracked the mole to a meet with his handler, then went in after them, alone. She violated my direct order to wait for me and backup to arrive. No way she had to do that. We were only a few minutes out. She could have waited. Hell, if niceties mattered, she could have turned over what she had to the FBI. But she didn’t. She’s taking crazy risks now. Want to know why?”

  He shrugged.

  “Because of you. Because without you, she doesn’t feel like she has much of anything to live for.”

  Hunter moved to a nearby window. Stared out into the near-darkness.

  “Look, about the breakup—I get it,” Garrett went on. “You want to protect her. You don’t think you’d have a future, you think it’s your responsibility to shield her from whatever she’ll face with you. You think if you let her go, she’ll eventually find someone else and have a happy life. At least, maybe a longer one.

  “But here’s what you don’t get. That’s not what she wants. She wants you. For God’s sake, don’t ask me why. I’ve never understood women. But she does.”

  Garrett walked over and stood behind him. Hunter saw his reflection, dark gray, in the glass.

  “Son, you want to go play vigilante, that’s fine. And believe it or not, she’s fine with that, too. She told me. But just accept something. Even if you leave the girl, you’ll never be able to protect her, anyway. Because without you, she’s empty. She’ll stop caring about what happens to her, because she’ll think she has no future. She’ll start taking foolish chances, like tonight. Which will make her worthless to the Agency. Worse, I think she’ll just lose interest in life.”

  Atop a distant electronic tower, a red warning light flashed in the gloom. Hunter drew a slow breath.

  “Sounds like she’s damned if I’m with her, and damned if I’m not.”

  Garrett’s reflection put its hands on its hips.

  “Then for God’s sake, man, stay with her. At least make her happy. Give her something to live for.”

  Hunter said nothing. He just stared at the red blinking light.

  “One more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “If you are really going to go through with this vigilante nonsense, and you want to accomplish anything by it, you’ll never be able to do it without her. Because deep down, you’re the same as she is. Without her, you won’t have anything much to live for, either. You’ll only have your anger. I know that about you, Dylan. When you’re angry, you take stupid risks. You need something more. Something to live for. Something that will make you want to get back home alive.”

  The reflection moved close. Raised its hand.

  He felt its weight on his shoulder.

  “Son, Annie is the only thing in your life that will keep you sane. And maybe alive.”

  He sighed.

  “At least for a little while longer.”

  3

  The bandages began above her left wrist and grew thicker around the shoulder. On the right side of the bed, an IV drip bag hung on a metal rack behind her head, and a clear plastic tube snaked into the back of her right wrist. Her hair was an unruly mess on the pillow. Her eyes were half-closed, from the shock and the painkillers.

  She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life.

  He sat on the left side of her bed. She rested that hand on his big palm.

  It felt too smooth, too cool. She looked too pale.

  But she was smiling now.

  “So. Do you think he’s right about us?” she said.

  Fishing, he knew. It made him smile, too.

  “If he weren’t such a good spymaster, he’d be the world’s greatest shrink.”

  “Maybe he’s the world’s best spymaster because he’s the world’s greatest shrink.”

  They sat in silence, growing comfortable with each other again.

  “Well,” he said, “if the old man is right about us, maybe I should take back the things I said to you last time.” His thumb ran over the engagement ring.

  She closed her eyes.

  “So, you mean you don’t want to take it back?”

  “Nah. I guess you can keep the silly thing.” He raised his big left hand, wiggled the pinky. “Besides, it would never even fit the little finger on this catcher’s mitt.”

  She opened her eyes and laughed.

  Then he stood, leaned over her, and they kissed again.

  His phone chirped. He checked the screen.

  Read the text message from Julia.

  “What’s that about?”

  He told her.

  “Then you’d better go.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t have to.”

  Her eyes no longer looked quite so sleepy.

  “Yes you do,” she said. “You have to finish this.”

  He stood there, bent over her face.

  “I suppose I do.”

  “Then what are you waiting for, Dylan Hunter?”

  “Another kiss, Annie Woods.”

  He got it. Then straightened.

  “See you tomorrow.”

  She smiled.

  “I know.”

  Garrett stood at the window. It was his turn to stare into the blank darkness. He saw Hunter’s reflection in the glass and turned.

  “So, how did it go?”

  Hunter told him.

  Garrett grunted—his all-purpose substitute for pleasure.

  “I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”

  “It wouldn’t have happened without you, Grant. I owe you . . . again.”

  “Oh, I suspect you two would have come to your senses soon enough.”

  “I have a bit of unfinished business,” Hunter said. “You’ll read about it in the Inquirer tomorrow.”

  Garrett grunted again. “Lasher.”

  “And Trammel.”

  He raised a brow. “Oh. Of course, I didn’t hear that.”

  “Of course. I didn’t say that.”

  “And you plan to go out there alone.”

  “There’s no choice. You know that.”

  Garrett’s gaze returned to the window.

  “You do realize if terrorism in Washington and the hit on Helm is tied to the Russians, we’ll all be staring World War Three in the face. That is unacceptable.”

  “True. And unless he’s stopped, right now, Trammel disappears. He’ll take his billions and go live like a king in some mansion on the Riviera. That is unacceptable, too.”

  Garrett faced him. “Entirely unacceptable.”

  “Just wait for my call later, after I’m clear. I think you’ll want to get out there, do some housekeeping before anyone else arrives. Make it look like something else.”

  “I’ll do that. I may call on the assistance of a few retired guys who owe me.”

  The wintry eyes narrowed.

  “Watch your six, Dylan.”

  Hunter flicked a glance back toward her room.

  “I have good reason to do that, Grant.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  From the elevation of his solarium, Avery Trammel gazed out across the rear lawn, watching the last sliver of the sun sink behind the trees beyond the borders of his estate.

  A poignant moment—likely the last night he would spend here. For years, it had been his private castle and sanctuary, the site of so many grand events and so much important work. But after tomorrow, when their afternoon flight left from Dulles for London, he would have to seek another home els
ewhere. Given the grandeur of this one, he would take plenty of time to vet and select one. Whatever he chose had to be this estate’s equal, at the least, if not its superior.

  He checked the time. Eight twenty. It would be dark soon. Lasher had told him what to expect. Which meant that, within a few hours, another of his problems would be solved.

  He watched two of his guards out there, patrolling the grounds—two of the five he kept on staff. For an estate this large, that was more than justified—in fact, barely adequate. Sokolov, who had secured them for him, had given assurances that, as former officers in Russia’s military forces, these men were first-rate professionals. With Lasher, that would make six present tonight. Their combined skills, experience, and arms would be more than sufficient to deal with that faux reporter.

  When Lasher arrived in the afternoon to tell him of the man’s threats, he was at first incredulous. After all, Hunter had been present here, had seen his security team, had to know there would be electronic security measures, too. The man had to be deranged to imagine he could simply come in here and harm him.

  He had summoned and informed the team, ordering them to be especially alert. His only concern was the bickering among them, which arose when Lasher insisted on being put in charge of security for the evening. It was clear he was not popular with the others. Probably because he was not Russian. Probably because he was so condescending to them, too.

  It did not matter. Lasher had personal experience with Hunter the others lacked, and so was best suited to anticipating what he might do.

  The sun had now disappeared behind the tree line, leaving only its residual golden glow. It reminded him he still had considerable packing to do. The next priority would be the items from the safe in his office. They would be added to the other critical items he had brought from the apartment desk. For security, these had to be the last items to be transported into the car in the morning. Each piece of luggage, obtained for him by Sokolov, had a special compartment that had repeatedly foiled electronic inspection. The Center was ingenious about such things. But because he had chartered a private jet for this trip, he would not have to worry about luggage inspections, anyway.