BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) (37 page)

After a moment, he pulled up his mask. The icy breeze bit at his hot cheeks and forehead and made his eyes water. He blinked to clear them, then crabbed along the deck toward the stern. Reaching that end of the cabin, he slipped off the backpack, opened a pouch on the side, drew out a screwdriver, then attacked the locked cabin door. He was inside in five seconds.

He checked his diver’s watch. 0053 hours. Then he unzipped the backpack and went to work.

A rippling
flash
against his closed eyelids, then two loud
bangs
, jolted Gavin Lockwood awake. He felt Selena jerk beside him.

“Jesus!” she croaked. “What was
that?”

“Damned if I know! It sounded like an explosion!” He glanced at the bedside clock. 1:25 a.m.

What the hell?

Then saw light dancing on the curtains.

He tore off the covers and rolled out of bed. Stumbled across the room to the window.

He had to grab the frame to steady himself.

“Oh dear
God!”

Beneath him flames and smoke were pouring from the cabin of
Sundancer
, sparking and flickering off the ripples of the river
.

“Gavin! What?”

He felt-heard her rush to his side. Then gasp.

“Ohhhh … Oh no!”

He turned to her, heart pounding. She was biting her fist.

“Call 911!” He shouted. “Get the fire department out here!”

He ran to the wall, clawed for the light switch. Then looked around wildly for something to put on. She was naked, too, scrambling for the bedside phone.

Lockwood dashed into the walk-in closet, yanked a pair of trousers off a hanger, then onto himself. He jammed his bare feet into a pair of loafers, then snatched a suit jacket, sending its wooden hanger and matching trousers flopping to the floor. He emerged to hear Selena whimpering
“Come on … come ON!”
into the phone. He pushed his naked arms into the sleeves while he rushed down the stairs to the kitchen, where a fire extinguisher rested somewhere in the pantry.

Back across the water, Hunter stood in the trees near the marina, wrapped again in the overcoat. His gear was back in the duffle at his feet. He pressed a compact pair of binoculars to his eyes with one hand; in the other hand was the cell phone he’d just used to set off the charge.

He watched orange flames spread across the deck of the cutter, then lick up the masts. Slowly, inexorably, the boat began to sink forward, where the hull had been breached.

He shifted the binoculars toward the house. Saw a figure slip-sliding down the slope, landing on his ass, then bouncing up and continuing a frantic zig-zag course to the wooden stairs that led down to the pier. As the figure ran toward the flaming boat, he could see that it was a man carrying something. Then he was at the stern, and even from this distance the flames revealed the horrified face of Gavin Lockwood, a fire extinguisher in his hands. He stopped. Dropped the extinguisher. Then bent forward at the waist, seizing his head in his hands.

Hunter moved the binoculars back to the cutter. Watched, emotions torn, as its graceful bow slowly settled beneath the inky surface of the river.

He raised the binoculars up the main mast. In the last flickers of flame before the river extinguished them, he could make out the little black flag he’d hoisted—the one with the skull and crossbones.

The second one was even trickier.

Due east of Dulles International Airport in Herndon, Virginia, lies a business park known as Dulles Corner. Incongruously, a well-maintained baseball field lies on its western edge.

He had found it online, again through satellite imagery. Given its placement, Hunter had no idea who used the field. Or cared. But it was sited just a few thousand feet from his next target.

At 0310 hours he reached the business park by means of the Dulles Toll Road, found his way onto Sunrise Valley Drive, then continued to where it intersected Dulles View Drive. Deceptive name: a short, quiet residential street whose view of Dulles Airport was blocked by a line of trees. The street led him past an apartment complex directly across from the ball field. Okay, that explained the ball field.

He hung a right into the driveway that led to a small parking lot on the third-base side. It was empty. He killed the lights and rolled on to the western end of the lot. Backed in right next to the trees. Killed the engine.

Nobody around. Even if they were, it would be almost impossible to spot him back here.

He got out and stretched. The dark overcoat now covered jeans and a sweatshirt. He’d changed out of the diving suit in the restroom of a Denny’s, where he’d sucked down hot coffee.

He was dog-tired from the events of the day.

He had to push thoughts of her from his mind.

He went around to the trunk and unlocked it. Reaching into the well, he hoisted out several items, one at a time. He quickly assembled them on the ground. Then carefully lifted the ungainly contraption and carried it out into a grassy area alongside the ball field. No lights out here, as he’d hoped. He set it down, flipped several switches on it, stood back, and watched it shiver and buzz to life.

It was almost as noisy as a lawnmower. That wouldn’t leave him much time before someone looked out a window, wondering what the hell was going on. He ran back to the car, to the laptop that he’d left running on the passenger seat. With the door still open, he bent over and keyed in the first command.

Out in the field, the small helicopter drone rose straight up into the air, hoisted by three propellers. He watched it wobble a little in the invisible wind eddies before he turned back to the laptop. The computer was connected to a powerful radio transmitter, and the receiver on the drone was highly sensitive. The setup had cost a small fortune, and consisted of state-of-the-art parts from widely scattered manufacturers. From his CIA days, he knew which ones did contract work for the Agency. With his credentials, money, and a good pretext, it wasn’t hard to get what he needed.

Last week he had flown his Cessna into Dulles in order to get the precise GPS coordinates of his target. Those were programmed into the drone’s GPS. All he had to do now was get it up to the proper altitude and turn it loose. But he had a joystick attached to the laptop, too, for when he needed to intervene manually.

He tapped in a new elevation of three hundred feet, to clear any possible obstacles, followed by the program code. His eyes followed his machine as it soared west, right over the treetops.

One of the switches he’d flipped had activated the tiny ball-shaped video camera on the underside of the drone. He could make it swivel around with his touch pad, and did so now. He followed the flight path on the screen. It zipped quickly over Sully Road, which paralleled the east side of the airport, then crested another line of trees. As it emerged over the airfield, he immediately brought it down to an altitude of seventy-five feet.

The radio scanner on his dash was tuned to the tower, and it stayed quiet. No air traffic coming or going, so no risk that the drone would hit any plane. He let it continue on its way. He tilted up the camera lens so that he could see exactly where it was headed. The drone crossed a couple of hundred meters of open field, then a runway, then a tarmac. Then approached a group of planes parked on the tarmac and the grass in front of a general aviation hangar.

He had to make sure the area was clear of people, so he took over with the joystick and made the drone do a quick loop. No one in front of the general aviation hangar. No one anywhere near his target, which sat off by itself.

He swung the little aircraft around again, zooming the lens to confirm the number on the plane. That was it, all right. He swerved the drone around to the jet’s nose, slowed its speed, and keyed another command. The camera, now tilting downward, revealed the object that he had just released, plunging to the tarmac in front of the plane.

Perfect.

Pulling back on the joystick, he gained altitude again. What happened next would require a lot of acceleration and momentum. At three hundred feet, he disengaged the joystick and let the program do its thing.

He watched as the camera dived straight down toward the rapidly growing image of Avery Trammel’s Gulfstream 200.

Then the screen went dark.

He straightened, took a step back from the car.

Heard a sharp distant crack.

“Did you see that?” came a shout over the scanner.

He shut down the laptop. Went back and closed the trunk. Heard a louder, secondary explosion. Glanced up, saw billowing coils of orange-glowing smoke churning above the trees to the west. Sliding into the cushioning comfort of the heated driver’s seat, he heard a siren begin to wail in the distance.

He closed the door against the outside noise. Pressed his skull back into the soft headrest. Shut his eyes for a few seconds.

Two tricky ops in one night. Not bad. The next wouldn’t be tricky at all. Because it was already in motion and didn’t need his further involvement.

He was yawning as he emerged from the business park onto the Dulles Toll Road, heading back toward D.C. He would return to the Bethesda apartment tonight, feed Luna, catch a little sleep.

It would be fun later today to check in on their recorded calls and emails.

Especially after they found out that their properties were no longer insured.

To Joe Moretti, it made no goddamn sense how rich people could blow through their cash like this.

As his demo crew moved in the heavy equipment, he stood smoking at the edge of the lake, looking back at the summer cottage. It was gorgeous, not a goddamn thing wrong with it. Cedar shingle siding, slate roof, big enclosed sun porch. Hell, he would give his right ball for a house like this. And this was only the dude’s
summer
home.

And now the asshole wanted it demolished. To make space for some cold “contemporary” piece of crap, instead.

He cleared his throat and spat. Took another drag, shaking his head. Some people just had way too much money. But no values. They couldn’t appreciate nothing.

He caught motion out of the corner of his eye and turned.

Smoky Scanlon walked up. It was his second day back on the job after he went out with a concussion. That fight a couple weeks back, where several of Joe’s guys got the shit kicked out of them. Everybody was closed-mouthed about it when he asked. When he pushed it, Lou Russo called and told him to butt out.

Okay. Not his business. But he was glad the boss’s nephew got his ass kicked. Joe had known for a long time the prick wanted his steward job. But apparently Smoky had screwed up something royally and was now on Uncle Lou’s shit list.

“Yeah?” Joe demanded before Smoky could speak.

“Uh … I was just inside the place.” The big blond jerk hooked a thumb in the direction of the cottage. “There’s, like, all kinds of valuables in there. Furniture and TVs and clothes. It doesn’t make sense. You sure about this?”

“
Yes
, I’m sure about this. The guy first hired Ambrose’s outfit to do this job; but they got hung up somewhere else this week. So we got lucky and inherited it. The guy came out here himself yesterday, in his fancy Beemer, and he showed me
exactly
what we were supposed to do.” He tapped a wad of papers sticking out of his coat pocket. “Here’s the signed work order, and all the demo permits and paperwork that Ambrose already arranged with the city.”

“But—”

Joe cut him off.

“Listen: This is about a divorce. All that shit in there belongs to his ex. She moved out on him and his kids for some other dude, and she abandoned it all. Now the sight of the house and her stuff makes him sick. He can’t stand the idea of sorting through it. So he’s paying us time-and-a-half to bring it all down before noon … Hey, I see what you’re thinking—and
no
, you
can’t
take away any of that stuff. I asked him, and he made that clear. He said he’d be out here checking on our progress this morning. So he could show up any time, and I don’t want him finding that crap in your car. Got that? Now stop second-guessing me, and get your ass to work.”

He watched Smoky skulk off toward the dozer. Worthless piece of shit. Only here because of his uncle.

He flipped the spent butt into the lake. Well, he’d be damned if he’d let the punk take
his
job. He just needed to impress Russo more. He’d start this morning, by making sure he did everything out here exactly the way the guy’s work order said.

The excavator began to rumble toward the cottage, its arm rising.

Then afterward, he’d ask the owner to put in a good word for him with Russo. That would carry a
lot
of weight. After all, the owner was the boss of the goddamn EPA.

Diane Baer signed for the overnight package, then looked up and smiled at the delivery man.

“Thanks, Tom. It’s nice to see you again. I see you got a nice tan. I hope you and your wife enjoyed the cruise.”

“Sure did,” Tom answered. “Thanks for recommending that line. The food and service was everything you said it would be. We liked St. John’s especially … Well, gotta run. Probably see you again tomorrow.”

“I hope so. Take care.”

The brown-paper-wrapped package, bearing the words “URGENT/PERSONAL,” was addressed to Mr. Sloan. The return address said “A. CONN,” with the address of the Senate Office Building. It was all handwritten in green ink.

She was surprised at the informality; no official stamps and labels. But she knew the senator was a friend of Mr. Sloan. She remembered him from his recent visit here, with all those other people. It had been such a big deal, and everyone was so excited when he walked in. He even took time to shake hands with her, then all the rest of the staff. Such a friendly man. You could see why he was so successful in politics. It had been an exciting day for them all.

The mood in the office today was anything but. It had been bad the past few weeks, but yesterday it had gotten much worse. She didn’t understand much about markets or follow the news much, but everybody in the office was whispering about how the stock price had collapsed in one day to just a quarter of its value—how the company was now in danger.