BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) (43 page)

“You’d better pick it up, Hunter. You have just nineteen minutes.”

“Come on! I can’t risk getting caught speeding.”

“That’s
your
problem.”

He hung up.

Hunter waited, his car idling, watching the dashboard clock. He knew he could make the rest of the distance in two to three minutes. He had to let the time run out as close to midnight as he dared.

He waited easily, because he was trained and much practiced in the art of waiting. And he felt relaxed, because he had once again entered that cold, high place.

Almost no traffic went past. No cops, fortunately. He had a local map out on the passenger seat, just in case; his cover story would be that he was trying to figure out how much further he had to go to reach Franklin, Pennsylvania.

He also kept scanning the sky—at least the narrow tunnel of it that was visible overhead, between the trees on either side of the road. He saw no lights, heard no sound from an approaching chopper. Probably a good thing: If he couldn’t, neither could Boggs and his people …

She felt the vibration of the chopper through her entire body. She tried to ignore it, tried to steady her nerves.

She glanced at the back of the pilot’s head. “Ken”—which probably was a cover name, like her own, “Karen”—manned the controls calmly, with effortless precision. She knew that as a SOAR vet, he was among the best. Nobody could get her there faster or more reliably.

He was a handsome guy—blond crew cut, chiseled features, trim physique, cocky smile. Handsome … and randy. When he helped her board, he had put his hands on her hips quite unnecessarily. While handing over the night vision goggles he’d fetched for her, he invited her to ride beside him in the empty co-pilot seat.

She declined politely, taking a seat behind him and setting her backpack on the floor. She put on the headset so she could talk to him and to Grant.

“So Karen, tell me: Is this your first night mission?” Ken asked through the headset as he revved the rotors back up to speed.

“Not hardly.”

“Your people must really put you officers through your paces. I mean, you’re in really great shape, Karen. I can tell.”

She didn’t answer.

“Just wondering … Are you married?”

She closed her eyes and let out a long, slow breath.

“Listen, loverboy: Let’s get something straight. I’m being graded on this training mission. And frankly, I’m also supposed to grade
you.
Your job is to get me to our LZ in one piece, and in record time—before 2400 hours. And to do anything else I ask of you. Got that?”

“Sorry. Got it.”

From that point on, he was all business, though she wondered at times if some of his sudden maneuvers weren’t just a wee bit too abrupt—including their stomach-churning takeoff and sudden veer northwest. Some guys just can’t take rejection …

After Garrett shepherded them through the restricted airspace, Ken canceled instrument flight rules and squawked VFR, so they were no longer identified by radar. The air below 4,000 feet stayed choppy, so he popped up to 5,500 and held the course steady as an arrow.

Forty-five minutes into the flight she asked, “How’s our time?”

“With the wind and drag, we’re running a few minutes behind. I’m going to try to juice the RPMs to 105 percent and see if I can coax another knot or two out of her.”

“Thanks. Anything you can do.”

At 2347 hours Hunter called Boggs again.

“Yes?”

“I’m just about five minutes away.”

“You believe in cutting it close, don’t you?”

“I’ll be there. You’ll see my lights in just a few minutes.”

He clicked off. Then tugged off his boots. He reached into the back seat, grabbed a pair of loafers, and slipped them on.

At 2351 he put the Forester into motion. Driving slowly, he made the left onto Higgins Hill Road. He kept his high beams on and took his time mounting the hill. He figured they’d be able to see him coming.

Cresting the hill, he scanned the area around him, looking for possible hiding places for a sniper. He noticed a ridge line rising sharply behind the houses to his right, opposite Adair’s. That’s where
he
would set up.

It was 2353 when he turned into Adair’s driveway. He drove deliberately up the long switchback pavement to the top, then pulled up in front of the house.

To avoid being spotted or heard, they had to make the approach from the west. So the chopper raced up the far shore of the Allegheny River. Annie’s stomach lurched again as Ken made the sharp banking turn, then dived toward the river surface.

“Two minutes out,” he called back to her over his shoulder.

“Roger that.”

She had ditched the chopper’s headset and replaced it with an earpiece receiver and clip-on mic from Dylan’s cache. She’d pulled on the NVGs, keeping the goggles up for the moment; the chin strap held the rig firmly in place. She’d jammed the compact Beretta from Dylan’s car into the deep zipper pocket of her leather jacket; its weight rested on her thigh.

The all-important backpack sat on the floor between her knees.

Once more, she visualized what lay ahead. She’d hit the ground at 2355. Then cross the highway. Then start up that long hill. Through the woods. In the dark. But she’d have night vision, and Grant would be guiding her, using the Predator’s cameras and sensors.

She only hoped that Dylan could buy her enough time …

“One minute out. Get ready.”

“Ready,” she called back.

Hunter checked the time again. 2354 hours.

Adair’s front door was wide open. A guy he didn’t recognize stood in the bright rectangle, holding a shotgun.

He lowered the driver’s window. Cold air gushed in. With it, he caught a faint, familiar thumping noise in the distance, somewhere back down the hill.

He left the car idling to mask the sound. He opened his door. Got out cautiously. Raised his hands overhead.

“All right!” he called out. “You see? I’m here.”

He needed to keep talking, keep them distracted. And waste time. He started walking toward the front door.

“You want to search me?”

“Stay right there!” the guy shouted, shouldering and aiming the gun. He looked middle-aged and wiry. He glanced behind him and said something. Probably asking his boss what to do.

“Hey, take it easy! Watch where you’re pointing that thing. Where the hell is Boggs?” He raised his voice. “Boggs—I’m here! I kept my word, didn’t I?”

Boggs appeared in the doorway, nudging the guy aside and pressing the barrel of his shotgun toward the floor. He had a revolver in his own hand, but held it down along the side of his thigh.

“Lower your hands!” he said in a harsh whisper. “We don’t want the neighbors to see this.”

Hunter obeyed slowly, killing another few seconds. He still heard faint thumping fading in and out.

“Okay, Boggs. I’ll do whatever you say. Just don’t hurt anyone. I’ve kept my end of the deal, and now—”

“Shut up! Go shut off your car. Then get back here.”

“Okay, okay!” he said, trying to look scared. Still facing them, he walked backward toward the Forester. “Calm down. No need to—” He deliberately bumped into the open door, slamming it shut. “You’re making me nervous with those guns.” Never taking his eyes off Boggs, he groped blindly for the door handle. “All I can say is, the family had better be all right.” His hand finally found the door handle. He opened it, but remained standing outside while bent over and reached in for the ignition key. He made a show of not being able to stretch far enough. He stood again.

“Would you please
hurry up?
”

He no longer heard the chopper. He slid inside and turned off the ignition. The dashboard clock now said 11:56.

He got out. Closed the door. Gripped the keys in his hand and walked toward the pair in the doorway. He moved warily, as if he was scared. Warily, so that he could walk slowly and keep most of his weight on the balls of his feet, rather than his heels.

“I’m coming.”

Following instructions radioed by Garett, Ken had swooped the Bell 429 into the landing zone “blacked out”; he used night vision goggles, forward-looking infrared radar, and 3-D mapping systems to see the site in the dark. He set down the small copter fast but smoothly in the LZ: a field surrounded by trees, just across Route 62 from its intersection with Higgins Hill Road.

“Good luck, Karen,” he shouted back at her.

She unbuckled her seatbelt and grabbed the door handle next to her.

“Thanks. You did great, Ken.”

He flashed a thumb’s up and a grin, barely visible in the darkened cabin.

She opened the door into a blast of rotor wash and noise. Though the rotor tips had been swept back for noise reduction, she winced, knowing that even the somewhat muted sound would carry a long way at night.

She grabbed the camouflaged backpack and cradled it in her arms. Bent low, she stepped out onto the landing skid, then slammed the door behind her. She flipped the goggles down over her eyes. The inky landscape around her instantly became visible, glowing phosphorescent green.

She hopped down into tall grass whipped violently by the rotors. Hugging the backpack to her body, she plunged through the weeds toward the highway. Behind her, the engine pitch rose, and as she ran she heard the chopper lift over the trees, to head back west across the river and away from the house.

She halted on the pavement of the deserted highway and shouldered the twenty-five-pound backpack. Glancing up into the weirdly lit night sky, she tried in vain to spot the circling Predator.

“Nightstalker to base,” she whispered into her lapel mic. “Leaving LZ. Repeat, leaving LZ. Do you copy?”

After a few seconds, Grant’s voice:

“Loud and clear. We’re watching you from the bird. Remember, the sat uplink will add a few seconds’ delay to our commo.”

“Copy that,” she said, trotting the rest of the way across the road, into the trees on the other side.

Immediately she confronted an almost impenetrable thicket.

“Damn it! This stuff is so dense I can barely move!”

“We’ll guide you,” Grant replied. “Head left about ten yards. You should pick up a path heading up the hill.”

She pushed her way through the tangle of branches, trying to shield her goggles.

“Roger that,” she said.

She was already breathing hard.

Hunter followed them into the foyer. They raised their weapons immediately after he entered, and Boggs slammed the door shut behind him and locked it.

“Now get your hands back up,” he said, motioning with his handgun.

Smith & Wesson .38 snub revolver, six-shot …

He obeyed.

“All right. Toss me those keys.”

He did as he was told. Boggs dropped them onto a small table just inside the entrance.

Well, there goes Plan A: the radio packet transmitter in the key fob …

Boggs nodded to his partner. “Search him for weapons, anything suspicious.”

“I only have my cell and the recorder. And my wallet.”

“Shut up.”

The partner handed the shotgun to Boggs. It was a Stoeger Condor Outback, over/under. No way to tell whether it held slugs or shot. He hoped he wouldn’t have to find out.

The guy approached him and patted him down, retrieving the items he’d mentioned. As the man squatted, the leather sheath of a hunting knife protruded from under his flannel jacket, hanging from his belt. Hunter thought about it for a few seconds. But it was mostly covered by the jacket—and Hunter was covered by the shotgun. Even if Boggs was a lousy shot, it would be hard for him to miss at this range, especially if it was carrying buckshot loads.

“This is everything.” The partner fetched the items to Boggs, who swapped the shotgun for them. He pocketed the wallet, then dropped the cell to the floor and crushed it underfoot. He bent to examine the pieces for hidden bugs, also pulling out the battery and SIM card. Predictable.

Then he repeated the process with the recorder. Also predictable.

While Boggs pawed through the fragments, Hunter said, “I must say, I am deeply disappointed in you, Zachariah. I am so shocked to discover that the ‘interview’ was just a ploy, a cynical ruse to get me here.”

Boggs glanced up from his kneeling position, smirking. “And like the moron you are, you fell for it.”

“Tell me, Zachariah: Don’t you ever brush your teeth? Or is that just another unnatural practice of our corrupt civilization?”

Boggs lost the smirk and stood. Hunter hoped that he would come over to slap him—and give him a chance to take him out. Instead, the man reached into his field jacket pocket and came out with a small squarish device with an antenna. He flipped a switch on its top and handed it to his partner.

Bug detector. Good thing I didn’t activate that key fob after all …

“I’ll take the shotgun again and watch him, while you scan him for any hidden transmitters.”

The partner didn’t seem very bright. Still, he did a thorough job, head to toe. The bug detector didn’t beep. Boggs relaxed visibly.

“All right. Follow me into the den … Rusty, you stay behind him and blast him if he tries anything funny. Don’t let him get too close to you.”

“Hi there, Rusty. Say, do you have any idea what you’re doing with that weapon?”

The man scowled and patted the barrel. “I been hunting game since I was a kid. You keep being a smart-ass, you’ll be chewing a mouthful of double-o.”

Buckshot, then. Not good. But good to know …

As they marched down the hall in single file, Hunter almost had to laugh at their amateur stupidity. If Rusty fired the shotgun in this narrow space, chances were that Boggs, in the line of fire, would get hit, too. He weighed the odds of making a move now. But behind him, Rusty kept his distance.

He entered the room after Boggs, and took it all in at a sweeping glance.

They had dragged in five chairs from the dining room. Four were occupied by the Adair family, arranged in a semicircle around the coffee table. Their wrists and ankles were bound to the chair arms and legs. They stared at him, eyes wide with terror.