BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) (51 page)

Grant Garrett’s small security detail held positions around the plaza below the Memorial, and one stood beneath the Ionic columns of the portico. Hunter felt their eyes on him as he approached their boss. He stopped at the water’s edge a few feet away, sharing the view.

Garrett didn’t acknowledge his presence by looking at him. He took the cigarette from his lips, exhaled a stream of smoke through his nostrils, and began to speak.

“So. Are you done tilting at windmills, Mr. Quixote?”

Hunter forced himself not to smile. “‘Windmills.’ Nice. You must have stayed awake all night thinking up that one … Here. I brought you a present.” He held out the plastic bag he’d been carrying.

Garrett raised a brow. “Bribe?”

“It can’t be a bribe if I give it to you after the fact. A thank-you present.”

Garrett took the bag and looked inside. “Wow. That was fast. Did you fly your speedy little plane all the way to Havana today to fetch these?”

“No. I just know people who know people.”

“Thanks. I can’t wait.”

Hunter studied the ripples in the water. “You wanted to see me. About last night, I assume.”

“You assume correctly.” Garrett took a long drag on the short cigarette butt and started to pitch it into the water. Then thought better of it, ground it against the heel of his shoe, and dropped the crushed stub into the bag with the cigars. Then looked Hunter in the eye.

“I want you to know that I can’t do things like this for you anymore.”

“I know, Grant. I never expected you to.”

Garrett resumed staring into the distance. “This time was for Annie as much as for you.”

“I know that, too.”

“I could rationalize what I did, as an emergency response to an imminent act of domestic terrorism. But you and I both know that would be complete bullshit. I probably broke a hundred laws.”

“I shouldn’t have put you in that position.”

“I’m not trying to be sanctimonious. Breaking laws is nothing new for me, of course. I’ve broken thousands over the years. But what you did last night—that went too far … It
was
you who took out Conn—right?”

“Of course … Gee, I hope you’re not wearing a body wire, or I’m in deep doo-doo.”

Garrett snorted. “Only if I wanted to share the cell with you … Seriously—you
do
realize you went too far last night.”

“I did?”

“You murdered a United States senator. A presidential candidate, no less.”

“Now, now—be fair: He hadn’t even announced, yet.”

“That’s not very funny, Dylan.”

“People keep telling me that. I need to work on my comic timing.”

Garrett sighed.

“You crossed a line, son. I can’t be a party to that sort of thing. Okay, yes—I gather that he conspired with Boggs in several of his murders. So he deserved it. I get that. But he needed to be arrested and prosecuted for it. Not blown up in a residential neighborhood. This is Washington, not Baghdad or Kabul.”

Hunter faced him.

“All right. Then tell me how he could have been successfully prosecuted, Grant. No, really—please tell me. There was no physical evidence against him. Only the word of a terrorist and his emotionally unstable girlfriend, against that of a popular U.S. senator. I have some emails and taped phone calls—all illegally obtained—that suggested he was a hypocritical slime ball. But not a killer. So, there is no evidence he participated in those murders. None. The same thing goes even for his lesser crimes.

“Grant, you say that I should have waited for him to be arrested or prosecuted, when we both know that would never have happened. Here’s the bottom line: Ashton Conn was about to get away with multiple murders. He also was about to make millions by looting scores, maybe hundreds of people. And the scariest thing of all? That same man stood on the brink of becoming our next president. That means
your
boss
, Grant. Prosecute him? How? The law was impotent to stop him. Nobody else was even trying to stop him. So, I did. Now, please explain to me why what I did was wrong.”

Garrett looked down into the dark depths of the water.

“I have no good answer to that. I don’t know what we’re supposed to do when the political process becomes this corrupt. I just don’t know what people like us are supposed to do anymore.”

He put a hand on Hunter’s shoulder.

“I can’t pass judgment against you, Dylan. I don’t know what to tell you to do, or not do, in these situations. The only thing I
can
tell you is: I can’t be a part of it anymore. I won’t try to stop you, or get anyone else to stop you. But I can’t protect you, either. You’re on your own, my friend.”

Then Garrett smiled—actually smiled.

“But I guess you’re used to that.”

Hunter clasped his arm and grinned in return.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Garrett said. “I’ve got a present for you, too. Do you mind taking a little walk, over to where my car is waiting?”

They strolled past the Memorial and behind it, out to the Jersey barriers lining East Basin Drive. His black armored SUV sat nestled in a small pull-off area, with a security man standing beside it.

Garrett walked to the rear, pulled open the door, and motioned him over.

Hunter looked inside. His mouth fell open.

“Grant, you have got to be kidding.”

“Why?” His steel-gray eyes danced impishly. “Don’t you like the symbolism?”

It was dark when he pulled the Ford van into his driveway on Connor’s Point. He parked beside her Camry. Then fetched the box from the passenger side and carried it up the front steps. Setting it down at his feet, he unlocked and opened the door, then brought it inside. He hung up his coat, left the box in the foyer, and walked down the hall.

“Annie?”

“In here, Vic.”

Chuckling, he went into the den. He found her curled up with a book in the recliner next to the fire. A glass of white wine perched on a tray table nearby. She wore a dark green sweater over black jeans; her bare feet were drawn up under her. She kept her nose in the book, pretending not to notice him.

“Already I am taken for granted,” he said. “Aren’t you supposed to greet me at the door, stark naked, and throw yourself into my arms?”

She frowned, not looking up. “Mmm … just give me one more minute. I’m almost finished with this chapter.”

He stomped across the room, grabbed the book and tossed it onto the floor. Then picked her up and crushed her against him as she squealed and he laughed. Within seconds they were no longer laughing. Not breaking the kiss, he carried her to the sofa and held her on his lap.

“So you
did
miss me, then,” he murmured into her ear.

She stroked his hair. “Little bit, I suppose.”

He searched her face. “How did you sleep last night?”

The gray cat’s eyes were calm.

“Like a baby.”

He kissed her again.

She pushed away, alarmed. “What’s that noise?”

“Come and see.”

They got up and he led her by the hand into the foyer, over to the cardboard box, watching her eyes.

“Oh!”

She reached down and lifted the whimpering little puppy out of the box. It was a bundle of soft, fluffy, honey-colored fur, with a snow-white chest and legs.

“Oh, Dylan!” She pressed its face to her cheek. “Dylan, she’s absolutely
adorable!”

“It’s a ‘he,’ not a ‘she.’ Between you and Luna, I have enough estrogen in my life.”

“Where did you get him?”

“I didn’t. Grant did. He thought it was an appropriate gift.”

“Appropriate?”

“Sure. It’s a Sheltie.”

“What’s that?”

“A sheepdog.”

She began to giggle—then laugh. She laughed so hard and so long that tears came. Pressed to her face, the puppy turned and began to lick her wet cheeks. That made her laugh even more, and so did he.

They brought the pup into the den and put him down on the floor. He waddled around, sniffing things, his little claws making scratching noises on the bare hardwood.

“We have to give him a name,” she said.

“Grant thinks we should call him ‘Cyrano.’”

She laughed again. “I wonder why.”

They held hands, enjoying the spectacle of the little dog clambering around the room. After a moment she asked, “So why is he giving
us
a present? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

“He said to tell you that it was an early wedding present.”

She looked at him. He could tell that she was trying to suppress a smile.

“Oh, he did, did he? Well, we’ll just have to see about that.”

Hours later, they lay in each other’s arms in the darkness. His head was pressed against her breast. He heard the slowing of her heartbeat and breathing. He heard the sleeping puppy stir and squeak in his box across the bedroom floor. He heard the clock ticking on the dresser.

He turned to kiss the warm hollow between the soft curves of her breasts. Then traced his lips up her skin, to her neck, leaving light kisses that made her sigh and squirm a little. He rested his head on the pillow next to hers. Ran his fingers through the short, tangled curls of her hair. Inhaled the scent of her perfume and skin. Felt her fingers caressing his shoulder.

“I love you, Annie Woods,” he said softly.

“I love you, Dylan Hunter,” she whispered.

Gently, he disengaged from her and rolled away. His hand searched the nightstand. Then he moved back to her. He found her left hand.

Opened it, and pressed the ring into it.

He heard the sudden intake of her breath.

“Put it back on,” he said gently. “Please.”

She began to tremble. “Oh, Dylan …”

“Remember what I told you, months ago? The only word that is forbidden when we are in bed together is ‘no.’”

She began to laugh softly. Then snuggled close, the full length of her naked body pressed to his.

The kiss lasted a long time. When it ended, she began to caress his face. He raised his hand and covered hers.

Felt the ring on her finger.

Dylan Hunter closed his eyes.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Ten Days Later—March 16, 1600 Hours

Finally.

Standing at the balcony of the street-level shopping arcade, he pretended to read the
Post
and sip coffee. Out of the corner of his eye he watched his target in the lower food court.

Dylan Hunter was buying a bagel and a cup of coffee from one of the little eateries down there.

He felt a surge of adrenaline.

Certainly his client would be elated. After losing Hunter outside the EPA, it had taken weeks to locate him again. His client hadn’t been happy about the delay. Nor was
he
happy about getting chewed out constantly for his supposed lack of professionalism and skill.

But now, at last, he had eyes on the reporter again. And this time, he wasn’t going to let him get away.

He still didn’t know where the guy lived. Nor had he, or anyone else, been able to find out a damned thing about his background, nothing that went back more than three years. It was obvious now that “Dylan Hunter” was a fake name. A pen name, writers called it; but after all his inquiries, he wondered if it might be something more than that.

From a secretary at the
Inquirer
, he’d learned that Dylan Hunter had a monthly rental arrangement with the “virtual office” company on the tenth floor of this office building on Connecticut. It served as his mail drop and phone answering service. It also was the only place anyone
knew
the guy visited occasionally, for rare business appointments.

That was all he had learned, so he had to do this the hard way. He spent two long, boring weeks here, watching and waiting. It wasn’t easy, because there were so many ways Hunter could enter and leave. Multiple entrances. An underground parking garage, where he could drive in, then take an elevator, unseen, right up to the offices. Several nearby entrances to the Farragut North Metro stop. You really needed a team for this kind of surveillance. But the client had said no—said that it would be too conspicuous.

Of course the goddamned client wasn’t a pro, and he didn’t realize that it was just as conspicuous for the same man to be seen hanging around an area for days on end. So, he had to change his routes and appearance constantly, often several times per day. He would hang out in the lower food court, hoping the guy would stop by for a snack or pass through the access door to the parking garage. After a while, to avoid suspicion, he would go to the men’s room and change into a different look. Then go hang around the shops and boutiques in the street-level arcade. He spent plenty of cash there, buying crap he didn’t need, just to maintain his cover.

But today, he finally got lucky.

He watched Hunter collect his change from the clerk and head toward the escalator. He immediately moved away from the balcony and walked over to a store window in the busy lobby. He pretended to study the suits on the mannequins while he watched the reflections in the glass. He saw his target reach the top of the escalator, then turn toward the revolving doors and head out to the street.

He gave Hunter a five-second lead, then followed.

Hunter picked up the tail the second he turned away from the clerk. Big blond guy, crew-cut, newspaper and paper cup, loitering near the escalator on the street-level balcony above him. Then moving away the instant that Hunter reached the escalator.

As he rode up, he considered how to handle this. Given what had been happening lately, he didn’t want to take any chances. He decided to lose the guy.

So he walked out of the building nonchalantly, turned right, and strolled south on Connecticut toward K, munching his bagel and sipping his coffee. He knew the guy would be behind him, so he didn’t bother looking back and tipping him off.

At K, he stood in the middle of a mob of rush-hour office workers, waiting for the light. He crossed east, reaching the bustling area in front of the Metro entrance. He paused there a few seconds, making a show of looking at the escalator, then his watch. Instead of going in, he dumped his empty coffee cup into a trash can, then continued down the sidewalk. He paused outside the nearby Starbucks, then went inside.