BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) (2 page)

Why would they send a second shooter, and not tell him?

Last night on the sat phone, his employer sounded desperate. The sniper had done plenty of contract work for this client in the past, and had long ago deduced that he worked for, or with, the Russians. So when the man mentioned the name of this target, James Harold Muller, the sniper connected the dots. He’d seen news reports yesterday about Muller being arrested as a Russian mole in the CIA. When his employer said Muller had to be taken out,
fast
, the sniper knew that meant:
before he talks.

Because Muller would know about the
other
mole in the Agency—the mole who, a year ago, temporarily hid a tracker on a CIA security vehicle. Back then, it had been the sniper’s job to follow that tracker … and it led him here, to discover the safe house.

For the Russians, that second mole’s existence had to be kept secret, at all costs.

He tossed another used wipe on the passenger-side floor. Something nagged at him.

Last night he had asked his employer for a spotter or backup. The man said nobody else was available, not for several days. Well, assuming he wasn’t lying—

Suddenly it hit him:

Maybe his employer and the Russians didn’t know about this other shooter.

But if so, who was he? Who sent him? Why would anyone except the Kremlin want Muller dead?

Another thought struck him:

Then his employer wouldn’t know who really shot Muller.

He stared at the highway unrolling before him as he considered further implications.

He was a man accustomed to taking calculated risks. He would take one now.

He retrieved the encrypted Motorola satellite phone from the glove compartment. Thumbed a series of numbers, waited for a tone, then clicked in another series. After about ten seconds, he heard the familiar voice.

“Yes? You have something to report?”

The voice sounded anxious.

So he really
doesn’t
know about the other sniper. He smiled to himself as he answered:

“The target is down. Repeat: Target down.”

He heard a long sigh that turned into a chuckle, then a hearty laugh. The client’s next words confirmed that his guess was right—and that his gamble had worked.
He
would be credited for this kill. And nobody except himself and the real shooter would ever know.

“Very good!” the client said. “My associates will be most relieved. And most pleased about your exceptional work.”

The man paused, then added:

“This will be your biggest payday ever, Mr. Lasher.”

The cries and movements awakened him.

He rolled to face her. In the skylight’s illumination, he could see her head jerking from side to side, facial features contorted, inarticulate sounds coming from between clenched teeth.

Not again …

“Annie,” he said gently, not wishing to frighten her further. “Honey … wake up.”

Her eyes flared open, glinting wide and wild in the moonlight. Her hands stopped thrashing. She blinked, getting her bearings. Then turned, finding him. Staring at him—disbelieving.

Then understanding …

“Oh, Dylan!” she gasped, reaching to touch his shoulder. To make him real, he realized. “Oh, God!”

He pulled her close to him. Her naked body, damp with sweat, trembled against his. He didn’t have to ask about the nightmare.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice weak.

He squeezed her. Put a smile in his voice and said, “Don’t be silly. I’m the one who’s sorry. For putting you through that.”

“It’s always so real,” she continued, her face pressed into his neck. “The blood … you on the floor … all that blood …”

“I know,” he said, stroking her hair. Feeling like hell.

“I’m afraid to go to sleep anymore … I want it to stop. But I can’t seem to get past it.” Her voice caught, a half-sob. “Dylan … I just can’t get past it …”

“I know, love.” He didn’t know what else to say.

He continued to stroke her hair. After a long time her trembling stopped.

She began to stroke his back. Gently, at first. Then more insistently.

He felt it, too.

He pulled back, tilted her chin up with his forefinger, searched her face.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

The cat-shaped eyes, barely visible in the pre-dawn light, held something urgent. Then fierce. Unblinking, they held his as she lowered her mouth and wrapped her lips around his forefinger. Then began to suck on it. Using her tongue. Slowly. Deliberately.

He understood. He resisted his sudden rage to possess her.

Instead, he rolled onto his back, smoothly lifting her atop him.

Then he placed his hands flat at his sides, pressed against the cool silk sheet.

He let her mount him.

Let her regain control …

“Mrrr-eh-eh-eh …”

The cat crouched on the tattered seat of the old stuffed chair next to the cabin window. The noise from her throat sounded like a faint, fiendish cackle. Outside, balanced on a pine branch just a few feet away, a gray squirrel stared back at her, flicking its tail in insolent challenge.

Annie laughed. She finished buttoning her jacket, then smoothed it down over her jeans. “Dylan, your vicious jungle beast is having breakfast fantasies.”

He came down the creaking pine stairs from the cabin’s loft wearing a black pullover sweater, jeans, and low-cut boots. Even after a month, she hadn’t adjusted to the sight of his scruffy red beard and hair; it fit the rustic setting, but not him.

He moved to the window and stood there in silhouette, hands on hips, looking down upon the hunched lump of black-and-white fur. The cat didn’t move or acknowledge his presence.

“Eh-eh-eh-eh …
”

He smiled. “Dream on, Luna. Without claws, you wouldn’t last ten minutes out there.”

“Why did you have her de-clawed?” she asked.

“I didn’t. They had already done that at the pet store where I rescued her.”

The word choice made her smile. “You seem to be in the habit of rescuing maidens in distress.”

He shuffled toward her, affecting an exaggerated limp. “And look at the terrible price I paid for my chivalry,” he said, drawing her into his arms.

She laughed as he rubbed his beard against her neck, tickling her. “You fake. We hiked five miles yesterday, and I could barely keep up with you. And you were certainly rambunctious enough in bed this morning. I’d say your battle wounds have pretty much healed.”

“True. Now the brave knight collects his reward.” His lips moved lightly against her throat.

“Cut that out. Luna isn’t the only lady here with breakfast fantasies. Grab your coat.”

He sighed and straightened. “You fail to appreciate male priorities.”

“I appreciated your priorities just a few hours ago, mister. Now let’s go, before they stop serving.”

“
My
priorities?” He flashed that crooked little grin she adored.

They emerged from the fire-warmed cabin into the still, frigid air of the February morning. She drew the soft fur of her jacket collar up around her cheeks. Weak light from the morning sun filtered through the surrounding stands of pines and hemlocks.

She stood aside while he double-locked the door. He wore his long dark leather coat, but was hatless and gloveless. His eyes narrowed against the cold and little clouds of breath escaped through his lips as he bent to set his “tell-tales”—two unobtrusive twigs that would indicate if anyone entered the cabin during their absence.

He turned away and let the spring-pulled outer screen door bang shut. Startled, a cardinal chirped and streaked across the clearing, like a scarlet flare. They stepped down from the porch. She caught the faint scent of wood smoke. She took his arm and pressed against him, matching his stride. In the quiet of the forest, the crunch of their boots was the only sound.

Ice crystals had formed overnight on the windows and dark-blue hood of his Honda CR-V. It was half-crammed with household items they packed the evening before, so they took her Camry instead. He helped her into the passenger seat, then went around and got behind the wheel. They sat a moment while the car idled and the defroster cleared the windshield.

The Camry bounced over the frozen ruts of the long dirt drive and Dylan turned south onto East Hickory Road. After a short distance, the car crossed the little bridge over the ice-covered Hickory Creek. A couple of minutes later, they reached Route 666 and rolled west, past the wood-framed houses of the northwestern Pennsylvania village of Endeavor.

“Annie, I know you’re tired of the diner. Are you sure you don’t want to head down to Oil City? A lot more choices, and we can be there in half an hour.”

“No. I’ll pass out if I don’t get something into me in the next ten minutes.”

He flashed that little smile again. “Seems you worked up an appetite this morning, Annie Woods.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “If it weren’t for
that
, Dylan Hunter, I swear I would’ve gained twenty pounds this past month.”

“Sex and hikes in the Allegheny National Forest. Could there be a more satisfying weight-control regimen? But remember, Annie dear, up here it’s not Dylan Hunter; it’s ‘Brad Flynn.’ You slipped up yesterday in that country store.”

“Yes, Brad dear
.
And
you
remember that up here it’s ‘Annie
Forrest
.’ And nice as this past month has been, Mr. Flynn, my body must get back to D.C. and some real food. It’s endured all the burgers and fries it can tolerate.”

“Believe me, Miss Forrest, saving your exquisite body is my highest priority.”

“So, it’s only my body you care about.”

“Pretty much.”

“I figured … As for me, it will be a relief when you finally get rid of that steel-wool beard and ketchup-colored hair. I want my tall, dark, and handsome guy back.”

“Just as I want my hot, slinky brunette.” He glanced over and brushed her wig with the back of his big hand. “Although, to be frank, I think this blonde is better in bed.”

She had to laugh. She marveled at how he could always make her laugh. She could barely remember the nightmare now.

They turned south onto Route 62, where it hugged the Allegheny River. In less than half a mile, past some archery and wilderness outfitter shops, the diner came into view on the right, just a couple hundred feet from the riverbank.

The exterior reminded her of the Alamo, but in gray vertical planks instead of adobe. The front wall rose in several squared-off steps toward a peak in the middle. A long narrow porch with a wooden railing ran the length of the building. The sign above it said “Whitetail Diner” in carved letters; a painted image of a buck bounded over the name.

A few cars were in the gravel lot. He pulled into an open slot in front of the entrance. Annie waited while he got out and came around to open her door for her. She loved his little romantic gestures. They had fallen into these customs automatically, from their first days together. She took his arm again and he led her up the steps.

Warmth and the smell of pine smoke greeted them. So did Sherry Byczek, the stocky, middle-aged blonde behind the counter, who was pouring coffee for a male customer.

“Hey there, Brad ’n’ Annie,” she called out in her husky smoker’s voice. “I thought you’d already left for Jersey.”

“Hi, Sherry,” Annie answered. “No, not yet. Thursday, or perhaps Friday.”

“Jersey?” the man at the counter chimed in, smiling broadly. “I was born there!” He was in his forties, sandy-haired and unshaven. He wore a green-and-orange plaid shirt and a black baseball cap with a gold letter “P” on the front.

Dylan headed over toward the counter; she noticed how he put on the slight limp again. “Oh? Where abouts?”

“Trenton,” the guy said. “But we moved here when I was still a kid. How ’bout you?”

“Just outside of Princeton.” He stuck out his hand. “Brad Flynn.”

“Denny Beck,” the guy replied, shaking hands.

Dylan turned and motioned her over. “And this is my fiancée, Ann Forrest.” She saw the twinkle in his eyes.

She approached Denny, extending her hand and a smile. “Call me Annie.”

He eyed her up and down. “Fiancée, huh? You’re one lucky guy, Brad.”

“Don’t I know it.” He winked at the man.

Sherry gestured with the coffee pot. “You two grab a table, I’ll be right over.”

Dylan led the way toward the welcoming heat of the big stone fireplace, steering them past a table where a white-haired elderly couple smiled up at them. On the varnished knotty pine walls above the mantelpiece hung the mounted trophies of Sherry’s late husband, George: four antlered deer heads surrounding that of a large black bear, its teeth bared in eternal menace. To add to the atmosphere, a variety of antique farm tools and hunting-and-fishing items hung on the walls to either side of the fireplace.

He selected an empty table that would seat four. Like the others, it was covered with a red-checkered vinyl tablecloth. He dragged out a chair with his boot, shrugged off his leather coat, and dumped it onto the seat. Then, ignoring her, he slid into another chair and immediately began to browse the menu.

Astonished, she remained standing beside her own chair for a few awkward seconds. Then she got it. Amused, she unbuttoned her jacket, folded it neatly atop his coat, then pulled out her own chair and sat.

“I gather Brad Flynn isn’t the chivalrous type,” she whispered.

“Brad is way too
macho
. Like Denny. See him watching us? He expects Brad to show his little lady who’s the boss in this relationship.”

“‘Little lady,’ huh? Have I told Brad lately just how much I want to dump him and get back to my charming, well-mannered boyfriend in Washington?”

“About ten minutes ago, I recall.”

“So, what’d you finally do with that bear you shot?” Sherry asked Denny while she scooped up some silverware and napkins for them.

“Had the head mounted on the wall in our living room. Tucker’s Taxidermy up in Warren, they did a real nice job. The skin—it’s a nice, thick fur blanket in our bedroom, now.” He rotated his stool to face their table. “Hey Brad—you do any huntin’?”