BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) (45 page)

“You’re still about a third of a mile out. But you have time. You can make it.”

His voice—calm … reassuring.

Her legs felt like rubber. She staggered, almost fell … recovered.

A third of a mile … uphill. It might as well be a hundred miles.

Dylan …

She thought of his face … his cocky grin.

She sucked in deep breaths, put her head down, and drove sheer will into her aching legs, forcing them to continue.

“You know, I don’t get it,
Zachariah.
”

“Get what?”

“Why give us any chance at all to live?”

“Because if you do, you will write about it—and my story will spread to millions. In that case, I doubt that Adair or many of his kind will dare continue their current destructive careers. But if you don’t live—” He shrugged. “No loss.”

It was lame, an obvious lie. Boggs had already said he rigged the bomb to be set off remotely, too. If the timed detonator didn’t explode, he would just trigger it with a phone call. But he played along, buying more time.

“So, you’re giving us planet-rapers a fifty/fifty chance to live.”

Boggs chuckled. “Oh, I’d say the odds are far less than that. You see, I’ve read your articles, Hunter. And I understand you. Like me, you see the world in black and white. Of course, your notions of what is black and what is white are opposite mine. But knowing that, I can predict exactly what you’re going to do.” He pointed at the twin-button device. “So that’s why I’ve given you a black-or-white choice—and wired it accordingly.”

He smirked again; his sharp yellow teeth reminded Hunter of a rodent.

“Well, it’s time I leave you to ponder your symbolic choice. Will you identify your moral values with white, or with black? Normally, you would choose white. But knowing that’s the
predictable
choice, maybe you’ll choose black, instead. Then again—have I
anticipated
that you’ll try to fool me, and pick black? Maddening, isn’t it?”

“No—just mad.” Hunter shook his head and laughed at him. “You know, you sound remarkably like the character Vizzini in
The Princess Bride.”

“I’m not familiar with the reference.”

“He invented a similar game of wits. It didn’t work out very well for him, though. And there’s a good reason why this one won’t work out any better for you.”

Boggs couldn’t resist. “And what’s that?”

“You both think you’re much smarter than others—and much smarter than you are. You share the psychological affliction of terminal arrogance. And that’s why
you
are so predictable,
Zachariah.”

Boggs was irritated and it showed.

“Well, then, Hunter—let’s see if you are smart enough to predict how
my
mind works.” He reached toward the bomb switch.

“What ‘mind’? You’re a narcissistic lunatic. A nihilistic sociopath.”

The words stopped the man’s hand.

“Look at you standing there, Boggs,” he went on. “You’re
enjoying
this. Which proves my point. All your environmentalist blather is just a rationalization—a narrative that you recite to yourself, so that you don’t have to face your
real
motive. Which is that you
like
to kill. Gives you a sense of
power
, doesn’t it? Face it: You’re nothing but a skinny little misanthropic loser who loves destruction.”

Hunter didn’t know why his words affected the man so much. Boggs stormed over to him and slapped his face. Then twice. And again.

The killer stood over him, shaking; his eyes seemed to be focused somewhere else. Then he blinked and returned to the here and now.

“Zak …
pleeeease!”
Will’s voice was a pig-like squeal. “Don’t leave me here!”

Boggs looked at Whelan blankly. “You said you were willing to sacrifice for our cause.”

“But I did everything you asked! I don’t deserve this!”

“You worthless piece of shit!” Adair snapped. “You’re the only one here who
does
deserve this!”

Boggs moved to Adair. He smiled down at him—then spat in his face.

He turned and clicked the switch atop the bomb. A small plastic window on the casing lit up, displaying a digital countdown.

4:00 … 3:59 … 3:58 …

“The clock is now ticking, Hunter. You now have less than four minutes to guess and second-guess yourself—to death.”

“Nightstalker, did you hear that? You’ve got about … three and a half minutes, now.”

A tangle of tall brush had overgrown the path, slowing her progress. As she forced her way through, thin branches whipped at her face, knocking the NVGs askew and snagging her backpack. Enraged, she lowered her head and with a low growling noise powered forward. She broke through to the other side suddenly, momentum and the unexpected loss of resistance pitching her forward to the ground.

She pushed herself to her feet. Her heart was pounding, her breathing labored, and she was soaked with sweat beneath her leather jacket and jeans. Her thighs and calves were on fire, and through the goggles the green world around her seemed to darken and brighten.

“Nightstalker, do you copy? Why did you stop? Are you all right?”

She stumbled forward on unsteady legs, weaving up the slope.

“Copy … proceeding,” she panted.

“Tango Two is in position on the ridge near his vehicle. Tango One has just left the residence and moved east, a few feet into the treeline.”

“Roger … that …”

She couldn’t catch her breath. Her heart felt as if it were going to burst. She began to feel faint … disembodied. Her field of vision narrowed to a tunnel. She saw only the faint outline of the track ahead, a path leading toward the top of the hill.

She had to make it to the top of the hill …

“Three minutes, Hunter.”

Boggs’s voice, taunting him from the cell phone on the coffee table.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Heroic Journalist? Can’t you make up your mind? I see four frightened people around you. They are depending on you, you know.”

Hunter glanced at the camera across the room. Then at the Adairs.

Nan, trembling violently, had twisted away from the sight of the bomb. Will slumped forward, his body wracked with sobs and loud moans. Kaitlin’s eyes were fixed into the distance. “My babies,” she was whispering. “My babies …” Hunter followed her gaze to a photo on the wall—a family shot of her on a beach with her husband and two children.

Adair sat in silence. His haunted eyes moved back and forth between Hunter’s face and the digital clock on the bomb. His eyes were telling Hunter that they all were at the mercy of whatever decision he made …

“Two-and-a-half minutes, now.” He heard a faint chuckle. “You’re running out of time, Hunter.”

Don’t let him distract you. Think …

He thought about the Technobomber cases, about the M.O. in the various bombings. Most were letter or package bombs, triggered by release of pressure on a switch when they were opened. But two had been set off remotely, by cell phone.

He thought of the more recent bombings. CarboNot: another mail bomb, set off by release of a pressure switch. The bomb in the cabin: a trigger-switch device. The one that killed Silva: cell-phone activated …

He looked at the cell phone on the coffee table.

At the cell-phone-operated videocamera across the room.

At the twin-button electrical switch at his hand.

Then back at the digital clock on the side of the time bomb, three feet away.

2:15 … 2:14 … 2:13 …

Time bomb?

His eyes returned to the two buttons. His index finger hovered above them …

“Only two more minutes, Hunter!”

Boggs’s voice in her ear sounded distant now. She had pushed so hard she knew she was in danger of passing out. She tried to concentrate, to focus on following that faint green path into the glowing green tunnel ahead of her. Her throat and lungs ached. She pushed one foot after the other, her legs leaden.

“Nightstalker—you’re still too far away. Why are you walking? You’ve got to move faster!”

That’s not Boggs, she thought … that’s Grant …

“The tangos are positioned on the east and south sides of the house. You’ll be coming in behind its northwest corner. They shouldn’t spot you. But you have to move a lot faster. Do you read? You have to run, now.”

Run now, she thought.

Her heavy legs continued to walk.

He stared at the timer, only vaguely aware of commotion around him.

And it hit him.

Boggs had never used a timer in his previous bombings. Only cell phones or electrical switches.

He had a cell-activated detonator inside this bomb, as a backup.

But—a backup to
what?
To a time bomb?

He considered the black and white buttons beneath his fingertips. Pondered the psychology of the fanatic who devised this “game” …

“Ninety seconds, Hunter. I see that the ladies are praying. Will you be the answer to their prayers?”

A sociopath. A sadist who enjoys inflicting physical
and
psychological suffering …

“Eighty seconds. I’m sorry, ladies. It seems that Hunter doesn’t want to even try to save you.”

… a narcissist who needs to believe he’s smarter than everyone else … who enjoys
symbolically
outsmarting everyone …

“Seventy seconds. What are you waiting for, Hunter?”

… goading him to press one of the buttons, black or white …

Black or white.
Suddenly, he remembered Boggs’s email to the
Inquirer
.

“
You believe in a black-and-white morality … you and I both make binary moral choices … That makes you predictable—and that is your Achilles’s heel …”

Black or white … a binary choice … a
predictable
binary choice …

Hunter sat back. Looked up into the camera. Grinned.

Moved his hand away from the buttons.

“What are you smiling about? Just one minute more and you’ll die and kill all your friends, Dylan Hunter.”

She heard the name in her earpiece … then immediately saw him, saw him crawling across the floor to her, crawling to her covered in his own blood, never stopping, refusing to stop because he was coming to save her …

“… Nightstalker, I said: Do you copy? You have to run! Annie—
run!”

Suddenly there was only one all-consuming thought:

You have to run to Dylan …

She found herself stumbling forward, then trotting, then running again, running up the path. The green tunnel before her began to widen and the pain in her lungs faded and the weight of her legs lightened. The path began to level out and she saw bright light ahead through the trees and an opening at the end of the path, an opening that grew with every stride …

“Copy!” she heard herself whisper.

“Thirty seconds, Hunter! Why are you just sitting there, laughing? Are you crazy?”

She saw a yard at the end of the trail before her, fifty meters ahead.

“Fifteen seconds! Aren’t you going to do anything?”

She pushed ahead with everything she had. Her lungs felt like they were tearing.

“Ten … nine … just eight seconds, Hunter! … seven …”

She burst from the tree line into the yard.

Then saw that the house was another hundred meters distant.

“Grant,” she gasped, “I won’t make it in time!”

But she continued to run, run as fast as she could, knowing that she had failed him, knowing that he was about to die, her only hope now that the blast that killed him would take her, too …

The whole family was screaming at him.

“It will be okay,” he said quietly, his eyes never straying from the camera lens.

“… five … four …”

“Pick one! Just pick one!” Adair shouted, straining at his bonds.
“Do something!”

Dylan continued to grin. “I am.”

“… two … one …”

Their shrieking stopped and they closed their eyes.

“… zero!”

Nothing happened.

Five more seconds passed.

He turned to them, still smiling as they opened their eyes in disbelief.

“I told you it would be okay.”

“I told you it would be okay.”

Dylan’s voice—instead of the blast.

She slowed and stopped. Stood paralyzed, fifty meters from the house, gasping for air, not understanding.

“Annie! Keep moving!” Grant shouted in her ear.

Then she realized that he was still in danger. She started to run again.

Adair’s face was white and his eyes were riveted on the bomb, uncomprehending.

“It’s all right, Dan,” Hunter said softly. He turned back to the camera and raised his voice. “Well,
Zachariah:
Didn’t I say you’re really not as smart as you think you are?”

“You think you outsmarted me? Well, let me disabuse you of—”

Hunter cut him off. “Do you want to know how I figured it out?”

“Not rea—”

“It was very simple.” He chuckled. “Because your mind isn’t particularly subtle. In fact, you’re stupidly predictable. It goes back to that letter you sent to me at the newspaper. You stupidly revealed the clue to your psychology, right there. Care to know what the stupid clue was?”

“You haven’t won! Right now—”

“You were boasting that you had me all figured out, that
I
was predictable. You said, ‘You’re like me. You’ll always make a binary choice.’ Well, that was your stupid blunder
.
‘You’ll always make a binary choice.’ So, what did you do? You designed a trap that depended on me acting
predictably:
predictably making
some
binary choice.
Any
choice. Because
either
choice, black or white, would have set off the bomb—right,
Doctor
Boggs?”

He paused to waste a few more precious seconds. He heard Boggs take a breath, but before he could speak, Hunter pressed on.

“I’ve seen a few bombs in my time,
Doctor
Boggs
.
You wouldn’t know that, of course. But I had reason to believe that this one isn’t a time bomb at all. You see, I’ve studied your M.O.,
Doctor
, and you always used either cell phone or electrical switch detonation. This button gadget is a just a simple electrical switch. It’s rigged to set off the bomb at the press of a button—
either
button. Isn’t that right,
Doctor?”