BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) (4 page)

At that instant the other two—
Jeff and Michael—
came running from around the side of the building. They skidded to a halt as they took in the scene. They exchanged looks, then backed off.

“Come and join the party, fellas,” said Annie, smiling sweetly as she tapped the ax handle against the side of the van.

The woman huddled over the unconscious man on the ground, sobbing, her long tangle of curly red hair hanging down like a shroud into his face. “Zak!” she cried. “Zak!” She glared up at Annie, revealing a thin, malnourished face. Hatred burned through her tears, and she pointed a bony finger at Hunter. “He killed Zak!”

Annie rolled her eyes. “No he didn’t.” She dropped the handle and went over to check out the prostrate man. Unexpectedly, the woman launched herself at Annie, howling unintelligibly, trying to claw at her face. Annie dodged, batted her hands aside, then responded with a swift, sweeping backhand that rocked the woman onto her heels. She stumbled back, her hands covering her mouth. When they came away, her lips were bleeding.

Denny and Ed came down from the porch and trotted over. Denny’s broad grin revealed a gap between his yellowed front teeth.

“Holy shit! Where the hell you two learn to fight like that?”

Before Hunter could respond, Sherry walked over with Corrine and Helen in tow. “Amy just got the cops on the line. They’ll be here in about ten minutes.”

He and Annie exchanged a look. Things were going sideways. They had to get out of there.

“Look, folks—we’re finishing our vacation. We can’t afford to get stuck here filing police reports and going to court.” He lowered his voice. “Besides, these nutjobs might wind up suing
us
for assault. So we’ll be on our way. Please do us a big favor and keep our names out of this?”

“Hey, we owe ya,” Sherry said. She looked around at the others. “Far as we’re concerned, you ’n’ Annie were never here, Brad.”

He winced at the mention of their names, while the others smiled and nodded.

Hunter turned to Ed. “You, Helen, and Corrine are the only witnesses to any actual crimes they committed. You can press charges for what they did to your office.”

Ed rubbed his chin. “To tell the truth, I didn’t get a good look at them there. Did either of you?” The two women shook their heads. “See, we were too busy getting away.” He nodded at Zak, still lying unconscious near the van. “That man—he’s the only one I know I saw for sure. He was the first one who came in the door.”

Hunter nodded. “Okay. You might be able to prosecute this ‘Zak’ guy, and he seems to be their leader. That should keep them out of your hair for a while.”

“He doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere till the cops show up,” Ed said. “Neither does that big one you laid out. Okay, let’s move that hippie van, and you two can be on your way.”

“I’ll go get our coats,” Annie said, trotting toward the restaurant.

“You think you can manage these people when we leave?” Hunter asked.

“Ha,” said Denny. He picked up an ax handle and handed it to Ed. “You didn’t leave many for us to manage.” He brandished his carving knife at the stragglers hanging back in the distance. “Ain’t that right, fellas?”

They buckled into the Camry and he backed out carefully to avoid those still lying on the ground. Then he paused the car at the edge of the parking lot.

He noticed that she was trembling, just a little, now that it was over.

“You were great, Miss Forrest.”

“You too, Mr. Flynn.” Her hand was balled into a fist on her lap.

He put his hand on hers. “See? I told you not to worry.”

She nodded. “That big guy … he …”

“… made you think of Wulfe. I know. But Wulfe knew what he was doing. This guy was a moron. No threat at all … Are you all right, now?”

She sighed and nodded again.

He moved his hand to her thigh. “Want to head back to the cabin?”

She stared at him, then burst out laughing. It broke her tension, as he knew it would.

“You’re incorrigible! But I’m still hungry. Remember?”

“Oh. That.”

“Yes.
That.
And if you expect to get laid again this month, you’d better get me to a decent restaurant in Oil City in the next half-hour.”

“In that case, you’ll be eating in twenty minutes.”

The music was pleasant … familiar.

Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini …

She blinked, waking up. Found herself snuggled against his warmth under the down comforter, her bare left leg draped over his, fingers on the curve of his chest, cheek resting on his solid upper arm.

His face lay on the pillow next to hers. Clean-shaven now. Hair back to dark brown. The skylight above their bed revealed the hazel glint of his eyes, watching her.

A smile played at his lips. “Nice to wake up to Rachmaninoff,” he said softly.

Then it registered.
Cell phone …

She rolled off him and groped the nightstand for her phone. Found it.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Annie.” The familiar gravelly voice of her boss, the Deputy Director of the CIA’s Directorate of Clandestine Services. “Hope I’m not waking you.”

She met Dylan’s inquiring look and said, “No, Grant, it’s quite all right.” She pushed the button to put their conversation on speakerphone. “We were up late … packing.” Dylan raised a brow at her. She nudged him with her foot.

“Sorry to bother you, but I only had a minute this morning to try to catch you,” he went on. “I wanted to see if you could get back to the office on Saturday instead of Monday. Some situations have come up that can’t wait through the weekend.”

“That won’t be a problem. We’re driving back early on Friday.”

“Good. I look forward to seeing you again. We’ve missed you around here, Annie. Have you enjoyed your month of R&R in the woods?”

“It’s been great. We both love it out here. Very relaxing—until yesterday. I’ll have to tell you all about it.”

“So, how’s our boy? That knife wound healing?”

“Almost completely. He’s right here. We’re on speaker.”

“Hi, Matt. How are you feeling?”

“Matt Malone can’t come to the phone right now; but if you’d like to leave a message—”

“Sorry.
Dylan.
” He coughed.

“Dylan Hunter is doing just fine, thank you. But it sounds as if Grant Garrett is at death’s door.”

“Ha. I wouldn’t give my enemies the satisfaction. Glad to hear the leg is better. That knife wound was nasty. But you always were a quick healer.”

“I owe it all to clean living.”

Garrett grunted, his shorthand for laughter. “Well, I’m eager to see both of you when you get back. Maybe we can have dinner in a few days. You have any plans?”

“Only today and tomorrow, before we head back,” Dylan replied, sitting up and stretching. The comforter fell away, revealing the taut muscles of his chest and stomach. And more than a few scars. “I’ve owed the editor of the
Inquirer
a fresh story for weeks. So I’m going to poke a bit into something nasty that’s going on up here. It could be nothing, but the locals think there may be some kind of Washington connection.”

“Be careful, okay?”

“It’s not like that, Grant. It’s just a newspaper story.”

“I seem to recall that your latest hospital stay started out as ‘just a newspaper story.’ You remember—the one that almost got you and Annie killed on Christmas Day.”

Dylan laughed, keeping his eyes on hers. “Fear not. The only danger this story poses is that it may bore me to death.”

“Things never stay boring around a sheepdog like you.”

“A what?”

Garrett coughed again. “I’ll explain the reference another time. Gotta go.”

And just like that, he was gone.

She sat up next to him, hugging the comforter around her. “He’s right, you know.”

“Right about what?”

She raised her eyes to the cabin’s exposed ceiling rafters. Near the overhead skylight of the loft she noticed the faint, glistening tracery of a spider web.

“Every situation you get involved in starts out looking simple and safe. But you just keep poking and probing and pushing. And suddenly, you’re tangled up in something complicated and violent and dangerous.”

He smiled. Reached a big hand and gently ruffled her hair.

“Come on, Annie. You saw them. Burnt-out derelicts of the Sixties. All of them together couldn’t even take the two of us.”

“It’s not only them. You think there may be a Washington connection.”

“I’m just speculating, because that guy Denny was speculating. And anyway, what are we talking about? Just some legal feud over natural-gas drilling—”

“—that already turned violent yesterday.” Before he could reply, she continued. “Dylan, the things you get mixed up in—they
always
seem to escalate into violence. Grant told me it happened all the time when you were with the Agency. He said he always worried about you when he sent you off on clandestine missions.”

“That was years ago.”

“It wasn’t even a year ago that you shot James Muller at the safe house.”

He looked away. “That was personal.”

“And then you went after Wulfe and his pals for attacking Arthur and Susie. That was personal, too—right?”

He turned back to face her. “They were three vicious sociopaths on the loose. Somebody had to stop them.”

“But you didn’t end it with just them. You expanded that into a one-man vigilante crusade. And—as Grant said—it damn near got us both killed.”

He sighed. “Come on, that’s not quite fair. Wulfe planned to come after you and Susie, regardless. My actions didn’t provoke him. Besides, this situation is completely different, Annie. What do we have here? A pathetic band of anemic vegans. Maybe a few fat Washington lawyers and bureaucrats. How could investigating them possibly escalate into anything dangerous?”

“It’s not them, Dylan. It’s you.
You
escalate things.”

She stopped, resting a hand on his arm. When she spoke again, she tried to keep her voice soft.

“Darling … It’s not just your history at the Agency. I’ve lived around you for a few months, now. And I’ve seen the things—the scary things—you do. I saw it again yesterday. At the diner. I watched how you reacted when those three terrified people rushed in. It was like a switch flipped on inside you. Your eyes went cold and narrow. And when the gang showed up, you sent everyone else back into the kitchen. But you seemed
eager
for a confrontation. You were going to go out, unarmed, and attack all of them—
alone
. You instantly, automatically escalated to violence.”

He remained silent, watching her.

“I’m not like you, Dylan. Okay, sure, I’ve had training. I can defend myself if I have to—like at the diner. I do what I
have
to do. But it scared me to death. I’m just not used to that sort of thing.”

She paused; he didn’t respond, so she went on.

“When I joined the Agency, just out of college, it all seemed so romantic and exciting.
The CIA!
I was going to be a spy and run off around the world, on daring missions for my country. But after I finished my training at the Farm, I knew that wasn’t for me. I’d just married Frank, and I wanted to stay near him. So I decided that I didn’t want to be in Operations. Instead, I put in for a posting at Langley. I applied to the Office of Security. And I’ve stayed here, stateside, ever since … Dylan, I haven’t been on ops out in the field, like you. I haven’t experienced all the nasty things that you have. Or done the nasty things that I know you’ve done. I’ve never had to kill anyone. I haven’t had violence and bloodshed as part of my daily life … So, when I saw—”

She shuddered.

“Dylan … I can’t stop seeing you fighting Adrian Wulfe in my kitchen. Stabbing each other with those knives … and you bleeding, so much, all over the floor, and crawling to me …”

She stopped, realizing that she was digging her nails into his forearm.

She watched him take a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Then he slid closer and drew her into his strong arms, blanket and all. He held her close, resting his chin on her head. She felt his breath stir her hair.

“Love,” he said quietly, “all I’m planning to do is interview a few people. That’s all. No confrontations. No fights. No violence. No blood on the floor.” He gave her a little squeeze. “I promise.”

She leaned back. Looked up into his eyes and ran her hand along his pale, smooth-shaven cheek. Along the thin plastic-surgery scar at his jawline.

“I almost lost you,” she whispered. “I couldn’t bear that.”

He gave her that lopsided grin. Stroked her hair. “You’re never going to lose me.”

Boggs emerged from the back entrance of the Warren County Prison into the bitter breeze coming out of the gray northwestern sky. He shivered and turned up the collar of his thick flannel coat. But the chill couldn’t distract his attention from the throbbing ache in his head and jaw that had kept him awake all night.

He spotted at once the minibus idling in a parking spot nearby, a plume of exhaust behind it lifting and flaring like a colt’s tail. The sight of the pollution made him feel even worse. He saw Jeff behind the wheel, Dawn in the passenger seat. She noticed him at the same time, got out and came running toward him.

“Oh honey!” she exclaimed, opening her arms to him. “You look awful!”

“Don’t touch me!” he growled between his teeth, not daring to open his swollen jaw. She winced and jerked back. He saw the hurt look form on her face. Noticed her own swollen lips. “Sorry,” he grunted, making a beeline for the vehicle. “I feel like I must look.”

He walked slowly, but each step sent a jarring spike through his skull. She paced him warily, searching his face with a concerned look. “Zak, I understand … I brought the ibuprofen you asked for.”

He nodded. Immediately wished he hadn’t. Reaching the van, he opened the passenger-side door and climbed up gingerly into the seat she had just vacated. He noticed a couple of vague shapes in the back; he didn’t bother to look and see who. He settled into the seat, feeling Dawn’s residual warmth through his jeans. He eased his head back against the headrest, released a long breath, and closed his eyes.