BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) (5 page)

Nobody said anything. He heard the side panel door slide open behind him. Dawn getting in. She slid it shut with a thump that made him cringe.

“Here, Zak. The ibuprofen and some water.”

He opened his eyes a slit. Saw her hands floating beside his face. One held a mustard-colored canteen. The other, palm flat, offered three brownish pills. He picked the pills from her hand one at a time, opening his mouth just enough to shove them past his teeth. Then he tilted the canteen to his lips and sipped as best he could. Cold water dribbled down his beard and neck.
Damn.

“Give me two more,” he croaked. She did.

“So you wanna head back to the camp, Dr. Boggs?” Jeff’s obsequious voice.

“Mmm … First, though, I have to make a call. And I don’t want to stand around freezing outside … Head back to that doughnut shop where we were the other day.”

It took ten minutes to find the place on the other side of town. By that time the ibuprofen was starting to kick in and the throbbing had slightly receded. He got out and went inside alone. They all understood he needed privacy for his many mysterious calls.

The smell of coffee and pastries greeted him. He navigated around the line of customers waiting at the counter and made for what he knew was a single-occupancy men’s room. Fortunately, it was empty. He went in and locked the door behind him.

When he turned, he caught his image in the mirror—and sucked in a breath. It was the first time he had seen his face since yesterday. Above the beard, his right cheek was visibly swollen and a dark purple bruise spread upward and around his eye.

Great.

He pulled out his cell. Like the minibus, it represented another despised, but necessary, concession to modern technology. This one wasn’t his smartphone, though—just a cheap store-bought model, what they call a “burner phone,” which he replaced frequently, courtesy the cash supplied regularly by the man he was dialing now. A man who used similar phones for calls like these—calls that had to remain untraceable.

His old friend answered on the second
chirp.

“Are you out yet?” the man asked. No greetings or preliminaries. And, of course, they never used names.

“Yes. Thanks for posting bail,” he mumbled between his teeth. “I appreciate—”

“You are damned lucky I didn’t leave you in there! And of course I could not post bail personally. I had to have … our associate arrange it, through intermediaries. So, tell me: What in hell did you think you were accomplishing?”

He didn’t need this, not on top of the headache.

“You know what we do. We’re a direct-action group. That was an
action.
”

“And I have always supported your past ‘actions.’ Generously, as you well know. But just what kind of action was
that
supposed to be—and in broad daylight, no less?”

His teeth hurt, and he realized he was clenching them.

“People who work for companies that despoil the planet can’t claim moral immunity, just because they’re low-level employees. If they learn that
they
will be held personally accountable for the harm their companies do, then perhaps—”

“For God’s sake, a lot more is at stake than whatever a few paper-pushing clerks are doing! There are moral priorities here. We are after an entire industry that is doing tremendous environmental damage. We have to pick and choose our battles carefully. You are supposed to be a genius. Well, why didn’t you use that brain of yours?”

He closed his eyes and leaned against the door. “My people were going stir-crazy, sitting on their hands. Besides, you agreed long ago that I should have operational autonomy.”

“But
you
agreed long ago to keep me in the loop, so that we can coordinate our efforts. You seem to forget that. And you seem to forget that without my assistance years ago, you might well be rotting in a cell today.”

He hadn’t forgotten. A flood of images from a decade before, during his campaign of corporate bombings, washed through his mind:

How he’d used his physics and chemistry background and access to university labs to construct the bombs … The crazy risks he’d taken in transporting them to his targets … The composite eyewitness sketches of “the Technobomber,” as the FBI dubbed him, disguised with a hat and sunglasses, shown everywhere on TV and in the newspapers … The FBI news conferences hinting at solid leads and physical evidence … The many nerve-wracking nights lying awake, waiting for the sound of the footsteps outside his door from those coming to arrest him … And then the evening when the insane pressure finally got to him—when, in desperation, he broke down and went to the home of his old ally, to seek the help of a man whom he knew to be as ideologically driven as he … How, over bracing glasses of Jack Daniels, the man nodded sympathetically after listening to his long and rambling confession, and then rested his hand on Boggs’s shoulder and promised that he would see what he could do …

In the weeks that followed, the man worked his magic, calling in favors from well-placed friends to concoct alibis for Boggs and divert police suspicion. Next, he helped Boggs devise a plan to plant explosives and other incriminating items in the Boston apartment of an MIT chemistry grad student—an anarchist notorious for violent rhetoric, and arrested repeatedly for fomenting anti-corporate riots. It was that kid who had been arrested, indicted, tried, and convicted, despite his tearful protestations of innocence.

It was that kid who later hanged himself in his jail cell.

As Boggs remembered it all, the man on the phone maintained a pointed silence. A silence meant to underscore just how much Boggs owed him. For his help had come at a price. That price was perpetual dependency. And so, over the years, Boggs did a number of favors for him, in return. Acts that the man had to have done, but was too fastidious to do himself.

Boggs loathed being in anyone’s debt, let alone being under anyone’s control. But there was nothing he could do about it. At least, not for the time being …

The man on the phone finally spoke again, this time his tone conciliatory.

“Look, we have made a lot of progress over the years, you and I, by coordinating our activities. Right now, the media is on our side and the polls are trending our way. But this sort of juvenile, quixotic stunt could backfire and build sympathy for the other side.”

Juvenile … quixotic.
Boggs stared at his battered face in the mirror—a literal reflection of his commitment, of how much he was willing to sacrifice for his convictions. He wondered just how much his friend was willing to sacrifice. But this was not the time and place for that discussion.

He took in a slow breath. “All right. I’m sorry. I do owe you a lot. I should have warned you.”

He heard a matching sigh. “Then let’s see if we can put this behind us. Right now, I am preparing for a meeting that is relevant to the issue that mutually concerns us. You will be hearing from me.”

The man clicked off without saying goodbye.

Back in the vehicle, the rest knew better than to ask about the call. This time when he entered, he glanced in the back and noticed a few members of the core cell were missing.

“Did the others stay behind at the camp?”

Jeff flicked a nervous glance his way. “Well, as for Cobra—maybe you saw. He got bashed really hard in the mouth by that guy. Lost some teeth and stuff. It really messed him up. He’s seeing an oral surgeon today. Says he doesn’t know if and when he’ll be able to rejoin us.”

If and when.
He then recalled the giant who had been felled by the attacking man. “How about Bear?”

Uncomfortable silence for a few seconds. Then Dawn piped up.

“Bear came to only a minute before the cops arrived. You know he’s got a serious rap sheet. So he didn’t hang around. Before they started taking statements, I saw him slip away behind the building. We haven’t seen him since.”

“Okay,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “What about Michael? Rabbit?”

“Michael told me he never expected anything like
that
to happen. And Rabbit … well, you saw how scared he was when that guy came after him. They both left, too … I’m sorry, Zak.”

“Scared Rabbit!” Jeff said, chuckling. One look at Boggs and his laughter trailed off.

They all fell silent again. Jeff followed the street signs back to Route 6, crossed the Allegheny River, then headed south, back toward the forest.

“I’ve been wondering who those two were,” Boggs said at last. “The man and woman.”

“I heard somebody call him ‘Brad,’” Dawn said. “And I think someone else called the woman ‘Emmy.’”

“Naw, it was ‘Annie,’” Jeff interjected. “The lady who owns the diner said ‘Annie.’”

Boggs watched the fields and trees roll by. The pain had dulled a bit more. But his anger had not. It had been building all night.

He thought of the man and woman. Unreal how they were attacked like that, by only
two people.
So fast, too. Like a martial arts movie. And that cocky little smile on the man’s face as he stuck out his chin, taunting him.

And now, the phone call.

Juvenile, quixotic actions.

He clenched his fists in his lap.

Then another image arose in his mind. The image of the satchel he had transported here secretly and hid in the woods near the camp. He thought about the satchel … and its contents.

Right then, he knew exactly what he was going to do.

“‘Brad’ and ‘Annie,’” Dr. Zachariah Boggs murmured through his teeth.

Who are they?
Where
are they?

He would find out. And he would make them pay.

The first thing he saw as they crested a hill was the bright red top of a metal derrick poking above the trees.

“That must be the place,” Annie said, spotting it, too. “Well, this should be interesting. Thanks for inviting me along. I’m curious to see for myself what this ‘fracking’ business is all about.”

“Me, too,” Dylan said, peering ahead for the access road. “I’ve read about it. But there’s nothing like seeing things for yourself.”

“Do you think anyone from the diner will recognize us?”

“Unlikely. Those people were from their clerical office. They have no reason to come out here to the drilling site.” He spotted the entrance, put on his turn signal, then stole a quick look at her. She had ditched the longish blonde wig and returned to her short natural brunette. Her smoky gray eyes were well-hidden behind large, bronze-tinted sunglasses. “Besides, I think we’re both unrecognizable now.”

“You are—thank God. I hated that hideous beard. At least you don’t look like Erik the Red anymore. You even walked and talked differently. I don’t know how you remember to do all that, Dylan. It’s like you really become another person.”

“A skill that’s proved to be useful over the years,” he said.

“So Grant tells me.”

He turned down a hard-packed dirt access road that cut a path through the trees. They emerged into a flat, open area of several acres. It was crammed with trucks, vans, box-like containers, and pipes, all surrounding the derrick mast. It towered above the site, held upright by guy wires.

Hunter pulled the CR-V next to a group of pickup trucks and cars. Several workers in yellow hard hats and beige coveralls stood at the edge of the site watching them. One approached. He carried two hard hats under one arm, and two sets of protective goggles dangled from his other hand. They got out of the car to meet him.

“You must be the reporters,” he said. He was a slim, pale-haired guy in his early twenties.

Hunter smiled. “Dylan Hunter. I’m the reporter. This is Annie Woods. She’s just along for the tour.”

The guy didn’t smile in response. He leveled a cool glance at Annie and then back at Dylan. “I’m Will Whelan. Dan is expecting you … Oh, and you have to wear these while you’re on the pad.”

They each took a hard hat and goggles from him. Whelan turned without a further word and headed toward the site. Annie looked at Hunter, an eyebrow raised; he shrugged. They donned the gear as they followed him.

Not much seemed to be going on at the moment. About twenty workers stood around the site in small groups, chatting, smoking, and looking at them with obvious curiosity.

“They find you perversely attractive in that male get-up,” he whispered.

“That’s just psychological projection,” she replied. “
You’re
the pervert.”

They crossed the pad to what looked like a long white motor home. Whelan went to a door on its side, climbed a couple of steps and entered. They followed.

Hunter expected a rough, messy office, the kind his father used to occupy on construction sites. He was surprised to find a tidy, high-tech workspace, whose electronics compared favorably to some foreign CIA stations he’d been in. Along the length of one wall was a continuous counter, covered with laptop computers, calculators, and notepads. Four men in the company’s coveralls sat in swivel chairs along the counter, working the laptop keyboards and consulting papers. Above them, flat-screen monitors hung along the walls, displaying complicated full-color graphs and charts tracking the drilling operations. Spaced windows gave the occupants a clear view of the site.

The men all stopped what they were doing and stared at them when they entered.

A man seated at a separate counter at the far end of the van stood and approached. He wore blue jeans and a brown flannel shirt. Hunter recognized the craggy-handsome face from a news photo he had seen on his laptop last night.

“Dan Adair,” the man said in a stern baritone, nodding and extending his hand. He stood tall and erect. His sandy, gray-flecked hair and beard were trimmed short; his eyes and mouth were pressed narrow.

“Dylan Hunter,” he replied, gripping a hand that was strong and calloused. “And this is my fiancée, Annie Woods. Thanks for allowing her to accompany me.”

Adair turned to her. A smile spread. “Pleasure,” he said.

Annie turned on her own smile, one that would melt ice. “I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Adair.”

“Dan. Call me Dan … both of you.”

“Then please make it Dylan and Annie,” Hunter said. “I know that many in the media have been tough on you, Dan. So I appreciate your willingness to give us a tour and answer questions.”