BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) (41 page)

They crept among the bushes and trees in the yard and approached the door. Zak tried the handle; locked. He pulled a short crowbar from the tote bag and levered it between the frame and door while Rusty pulled steadily on the knob. The door popped open without much noise. Zak took out a small flashlight.

It turned out that they were in a workshop area at the rear of the garage. They closed the outside door behind them. Following the beam, they moved to the interior door leading into the house itself. They found it unlocked. Zak cracked it open a few inches; a hallway stretched ahead of them. They heard distant laughter.

“Ready?” Zak whispered, drawing the .38.

“Party time,” Rusty whispered back, raising the shotgun cross-body.

Zak in the lead, they moved out into the brightly lit, carpeted hallway. Tiptoed past a bathroom on the left … past an office opposite it, on the right … then past a formal living room on the left … The chatter grew louder, coming from the next room ahead, on the right.

They were ten feet from its entranceway when they heard footsteps. They stopped.

A thin, pale-haired young man emerged, turned toward them—then also stopped dead in his tracks. His mouth and eyes widened in shock.

“Zak!”
Will Whelan gasped.

Zak moved forward, raising the revolver to Will’s face. Then gave him a shove, causing him to stumble backward. Another push propelled him back into the room.

Zak entered behind him and moved to the left while Rusty followed, moving right and pointing the shotgun in a back-and-forth arc that covered the whole room.

“Don’t anybody move or say a goddamned word!” Zak shouted.

Dan Adair occupied a recliner across the room. A young, curly-haired blonde woman sat on the sofa next to an older brunette, whose coffee cup fell from her hand and splashed dark blotches onto the beige carpet at her feet.

“What the hell!” Adair roared and started to rise.

“You heard what he said!” Rusty yelled, training the shotgun on him. “Move and you’re dead!”

Adair froze in position for a few seconds, then slowly sank back into his chair.

“Zak! What the hell!” Will’s hands waved helplessly before him, like he was trying to erase a blackboard. “What’s gotten into you, man? What—”

“You
know
these men?” Adair said.

Will looked at him; his Adam’s apple bobbed; his mouth opened and closed. But he didn’t answer.

“I asked you a
question
, Will!”

Zak motioned Will toward an empty chair. “Sit down, Will.” Will obeyed meekly.

Adair stared at them both, his mouth half-open. Then understanding dawned in his eyes. His hands seized the arms of his chair and he leaned forward.

“So … it was
you
—wasn’t it, Will? Look at me. I can see it on your face!
You
planted those samples. You’ve been working with these assholes all along!”

“Will!” the older woman gasped. “You didn’t!”

Zak moved toward the women on the sofa. “Adair, I presume this one is your wife,” he said, pointing to the brunette. “The next time you open your mouth without my permission, I’ll shoot her. Do you understand me?”

Adair glared at him, saying nothing.

“I asked
you
a question, Adair.”

“I understand.”

“Good.” He shoved the revolver into his field jacket pocket, then dropped the tote bag at his feet. “Rusty, come over here and put the shotgun to his wife’s head while I tie them up. If anybody moves or says anything—pull the trigger.”

Rusty nodded, then moved behind the sofa and did as he was told. Zak opened the bag and pulled out a handful of plastic cable ties and lengths of rope. He went to Adair first.

“Stand up and put your hands behind your back.”

Adair did as he was told.

His wife’s shoulders slumped and she cried softly.

She was looking at Will.

He was at the kitchen counter stirring half-and-half into his coffee when the doorbell rang.

He checked; the clock on the stove said eight forty-three.

He set down his mug. Opened an overhead cabinet door and grabbed an easily accessible Glock 26. He carried it to the door, stood to the side, and peeked through a crack in the little opaque curtain that covered the sidelight window.

Then he jammed the Baby Glock into his trouser pocket, unbolted the door, and stood aside.

“After last night, you were the last person I expected,” he said.

She walked in and just stood there, looking uncomfortable.

“Let me take your coat.”

He helped her slip it off and he hung it on the coat tree.

“I just made some coffee,” he said, ushering her into the den.

“I’m good.”

She went to the same place on the sofa that she had occupied the previous night. He fetched his mug from the kitchen, using the opportunity to put away the Glock, then returned to the recliner. Also just like last night.

“
Deja vu
,” she said with a weak smile.

“God, I hope not.”

That generated a bigger smile. Then she became serious again.

“Grant talked to me this afternoon. He gave me some things to think about.”

“Such as?”

“Sheepdogs.”

“Good. Now you can explain that reference to me.”

She did.

He found himself studying the floorboards as she finished. He raised his eyes.

“Grant Garrett is a smart guy,” he said. They looked at each other for a moment before he added: “But I assume you didn’t drive all the way out here just to tell me that I’m a sheepdog.”

“No. It’s about us. About last night … Grant thinks I am being too hasty. He says I’m a ‘sheepdog,’ too. And that I should give the counseling more time.”

“Grant Garrett is a
very
smart guy.”

“He said that wives of soldiers and cops have to face this sort of thing every day, and somehow they learn to cope.”

“But the analogy doesn’t hold. They haven’t been through what you have, Annie. They haven’t experienced a direct violent trauma and suffered PTSD.”

“My shrink says he isn’t even sure I have full-blown PTSD. Because I’m still able to function in the world, and I’m not paralyzed by depression or anxiety. He says my reactions to a traumatic situation are pretty normal, and those are usually short-lived. He wants to try ‘exposure therapy’—get me to face the past trauma in a relaxed setting, so that I can learn how to control my feelings about it.”

“Makes sense. But for now—where does that leave us?”

“I’m not sure. I just don’t know, Dylan. I don’t know how long it might take for me to get the feelings under control. And it seems wrong to expect you to wait patiently while I am—”

The burner on the counter chirped.

“Go ahead, continue,” he prompted. “I’m listening.”

It chirped again.

“You should probably get that.”

“Whoever it is can wait.”

Another chirp.

“Dylan, after all that’s been happening, it could be some emergency. You should check.”

He sighed, got up, and went to the phone as it chirped a fourth time, then a fifth. This line was secure enough; any calls other than those from Annie and Wonk were forwarded through a spoof site and another burner. He glanced at the screen and frowned at the name and number.

“It’s Adair,” he said to her, clicking the
talk
button. “Yes, Dan?”

“Good evening, Mr. Hunter.”

He’d heard the voice just once before, at the diner, so it took him a couple of seconds to place it. Only a second more to adjust to the surprise. No way that Boggs could have gotten this phone number—unless …

He had to put him off-balance while he tried to sort things out.

“Have you found it yet, Boggs?”

“Found what?”

“Your head. You should look for it in its usual hiding place—up your ass.”

He heard two hard breaths, like snorts. Then: “You wanted to speak to Adair, right?”

“Actually, you should be flattered to know that you are my second choice for a phone chat. Of course, my first choice is anyone else. So, yes—why don’t you put him on?”

Annie rushed to his side; her hand gripped his arm. He poked the speaker button so that she could listen in.

“Dylan?” Adair’s voice, strained.

“Are you all right, Dan?”

“So far. But they’ve got us. Me, Nan, Kaitlin, and … Will.” He almost spat out the last name. “We’re tied up here in the den. He’s rigged some kind of bomb to a gas cylinder they rolled in.”

“How many of them, Dan?”

“Just two. They—” He heard a noise, then a grunt. In the background, women’s voices cried out. A different male voice, not Boggs’s, cursed and told them to shut up.

“Adair just broke one of the rules,” Boggs broke in. “He added something to the script. So he’ll have a serious headache in the morning—assuming that he lives that long.” He chuckled. “Don’t even think about it, Hunter. Calling the cops, the FBI, buying time—forget about it. If you try, I’ll kill them all before anyone can lift a finger. In fact, I’m quite willing to die tonight to make that happen.”

“In fact, I’m quite willing to assist you.”

“Shut up! I’m not going to waste time fencing with you. I called you for a reason.”

“I wouldn’t assign the word ‘reason’ to any of your motives, Boggs. But I’ll humor you. Other than send in the army of shrinks that you desperately need, what exactly do you want from me?”

“Your newspaper calls you ‘a heroic journalist.’ Well, let’s see about that. I want you to conduct an interview with me, Hunter. To be published, in full and verbatim, in the
Inquirer.
You are to show up here alone, tonight, and conduct the interview. After that, we’ll get out of here and call the cops, telling them to come and set you all free.”

“Wow, what a deal. I’m supposed to trust someone who already sent a bomb to my newspaper to try to kill me. What could possibly go wrong?”

“You may trust me or not. Regardless, if you don’t arrive by midnight, the Adairs all die. And if you don’t show up alone—or if you try to send in cops or snipers or SWAT teams—the Adairs will die. I have people watching this house from a distance. As you know, it’s perched up on a hill, exposed. So they will see any cops coming from a long way off, and alert me. Then I’ll detonate the bomb remotely. Even if we’re caught—which won’t happen—the Adairs will die in the process. And their deaths will be on your conscience, Mr. Heroic Journalist.”

“By midnight? That’s ridiculous, Boggs. It’s already after nine, and I’m in the D.C. area, over three hundred miles away.”

He heard a
tsk-tsk
. “That’s too bad. I won’t allow you to stall and give the FBI’s H.R.T. goons time to put a hostage rescue plan in place. So you have until midnight, on the dot. One second after that, Adair and his family will be scattered in tiny toasted pieces all over his showy, chemically-poisoned lawn … Or are you telling me that I should just go ahead and blow them up right now?”

“No. Wait … I can fly in. I have a private plane not far from here. It’ll take a little time to get ready, but I can be at the house in about three hours, give or take.”

“Give or take
nothing!
I said
midnight.
Not a second later. Also, know that when you get here, you
will
be thoroughly searched—and I know exactly what to look for. So don’t even dream about bringing weapons or bugging devices. Bring only your notepad.”

“I don’t take shorthand, Boggs. If you want a full, accurate interview transcript to run in the paper, I’ll need to use my microcassette recorder. It’s the usual hand-held type.”

Boggs hesitated. “All right. Just the recorder. But again: no weapons, wires, or cops.”

“I’ll be there.”

Boggs hung up on him.

“It’s a trap!”

He turned to her. “Of course it is.”

“Dylan, you can’t!”

“It’s as he says. If I don’t show up, alone, they’re dead. If the cops show, they’re dead. He’ll spot them coming, and he said it’s rigged to be set off remotely.”

“But once you’re inside, he’ll blow you up with the rest of them, anyway!”

“I know. I’ll have to play it by ear and think of something.” He looked at her. “Annie, you were right. It’s best that you stay clear of me, so you won’t get involved in—”

“But I
am
involved.”

He thought about that. Began to pace.

His watch said it was now nine eleven. Ironic.

All right. First, you need intel. Then you can figure out the right kit and resources.

He continued to pace, thinking. Feeling her watching him.

Back in the day, you could just call on the Pentagon or the Agency for all that. But now, it’s just you—and there’s no time for intel-gathering. So, how can you—

He stopped pacing.

She stood in the center of the den, a stricken, helpless look on her face.

He went over. Looked down into her eyes.

“You’re right. You
are
involved.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m having a brainstorm. I just remembered a black op I was on with a team in Afghanistan. Something similar might work here. But I’m going to need your help.”

“You want me to be involved in this?”

“Hell, no. You won’t play any operational role. We both know you can’t. But I think you
can
get me some things I’ll need.”

He took her by the arm, steered her to the interior door leading into the three-bay garage. He opened it and switched on the light. His blue Honda CR-V sat next to a black Ford panel truck and a motorcycle.

“Where are we going?”

He squeezed her arm, guiding her past the vehicles, toward the rear door.

“First, I want to show you where Vic Rostand keeps his toys.”

They reached Bay Bridge Airport just before ten o’clock. The back seat of the Honda CR-V held the gear he had selected from the small storage room under his shed.

Seeing the hidden cache for the first time had astounded her. “This is all ‘state of the art,’” she said as she looked around at the racks of weapons and shelves of electronics. “Where did you manage to get all this stuff?”

“Oh, a little bit here, a little bit there. It helps to know the right sources.”