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

  BAD DEEDS

  A Dylan Hunter Thriller

  ROBERT BIDINOTTO

  Chester, Maryland

  BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller

  ROBERT BIDINOTTO

  Copyright © 2014 by Robert Bidinotto.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Published by

  Avenger Books

  P.O. Box 555

  Chester, Maryland 21619

  Kindle ebook edition: May 2014

  Published in the United States of America

  Cover design by Allen Chiu

  http://www.allenchiu.com

  Formatting and layout by Polgarus Studio

  http://www.polgarusstudio.com/

  To Cynthia,

  who encouraged and endured me

  throughout the writing—

  and to the heroes

  who develop and transform nature’s bounty

  for the good of us all

  “There exists a law, not written down anywhere but inborn in our hearts; a law which comes to us, not by training or custom or reading, but by derivation and absorption and adoption from nature itself; a law which has come to us not from theory but from practice, not by instruction but by natural intuition. I refer to the law which lays it down that, if our lives are endangered by plots or violence or armed robbers or enemies, any and every method of protecting ourselves is morally right.”

  — Marcus Tullius Cicero

  PROLOGUE

  CIA SAFE HOUSE, LINDEN, VIRGINIA

  Eleven Months Earlier—Tuesday, March 18, 10:15 a.m.

  Today he would nail the bastard.

  From his hidden position, lying prone behind a fallen log atop the hill, the sniper watched the trio of CIA vehicles pull into the driveway of the safe house. This high ridge was the only vantage point that allowed him to see who arrived. And these cars were his first confirmation that they had brought his target here. He had needed to confirm the target’s presence in the house before he started his slow, risky crawl down the slope, into his final firing position. Now he felt a wave of relief and anticipation.

  He had been lying on the ridge for over five hours. The ground beneath his stomach and legs was dry, hard, and frigid, covered with sharp brown pine cones and brittle, prickly needles. But he was used to lying motionless in uncomfortable places.

  He lowered his eye back to the rifle’s scope. He didn’t really worry that the Agency’s own protective sniper team, sited on the opposite hill about a mile to his northwest, would notice. He had the morning sun at his back, so there would be no flashes off his scope’s glass. In fact, that’s how he had spotted them, at sunrise.

  He felt a professional’s disappointment. He had expected better opposition.

  The sniper took pride in approaching missions with cool, professional detachment. He was having trouble doing that this time. In the field, trust means everything. You depend on your team for your survival. But his target had sold out his own people and gotten them killed. His type was the lowest of the low. The sniper had first-hand experience with such betrayals. Taking out this bastard would be a pleasure.

  He tracked the scope’s reticle crosshairs slowly across the landscape spread below him. Though the last traces of snow had vanished a few weeks earlier, it still looked cold and somber, even under the glaring sun. Except for the pines, the trees stood bare and skeletal. He had an unobstructed view of the rear porch. There, a security man in jeans, leather jacket, and sunglasses enjoyed a rocking chair next to the back door, the sun on his face. His jacket swung open as he stretched, revealing the straps of a shoulder rig.

  The sniper stifled the urge to yawn. He’d caught only a short nap this morning in the dreary room of a nearby motel before his watch alarm beeped him awake at 0330. He had checked out ten minutes later, so that he could arrive here before first light.

  Just after 0400, in the pre-dawn gloom, he’d taken a little-traveled road running south off Route 55. It followed a small stream back into the hills. After about a mile, his GPS told him that he was due east of the safe house. He pulled his Chevy SUV into a paved turnoff next to the creek, under a sign that posted rules for fishermen, then parked facing outward.

  There, shrouded in darkness, he’d gotten out and raised the rear hatch. Then opened the flat case that held his sniper weapon system, broken down. He expertly snapped the pieces together by feel. Slipped into his camo coveralls, cap, gloves, and boots. Strapped on the web belt that held much of his kit, including the Glock 17—a “just in case” weapon. Then the boot knife—a backup “just in case” weapon. Shoved a canteen, candy bars, and loaded magazines into various pockets and pouches. Smeared olive-colored camo paint over his face.

  Finally, he’d slung the weapon across his back and begun the tedious quarter-mile climb to the ridge line above the safe house …

  Lying here now, he mentally rehearsed his next moves. At this point, those inside would be interrogating his target. He knew from the man’s profile that he was a chain smoker. Eventually, they might allow him out onto the porch for a cigarette break. The sniper hoped that would happen within the next few hours, while the bright sun was still at his back. By early afternoon, it would no longer be in the security team’s eyes, and he’d be too exposed.

  The mil-dots on his Unertl day scope pegged the porch at nearly 1300 meters from his current position. He would need over an hour to crawl and creep down the hillside and set up a new hide, no more than 800 meters out. No way that he could make a shot reliably from farther than that.

  He’d already plotted his path through the trees, clumps of vegetation, and shallow depressions, down to a cluster of small boulders 600 meters from the house. That would be his final firing position, where he would dope the scope for the range. Then wait. If his target didn’t show today, he’d have to stay in the hide till tomorrow, maybe longer. Not a happy prospect.

  He pocketed the data book that held his scribbled notes. Then slid the forearm stock of the rifle back from the rotting log on which it rested. Positioned it cross-body, on his forearms. Prepared for the slow belly crawl to his first stop, a patch of bushes ten meters away.

  Then heard a distant voice …

  He peered down through the overhanging pine branches. The guard was standing now, alert, and two more had emerged from the back door, fanning out toward either end of the porch.

  He gently repositioned the rifle back onto the log and moved his eye to its ten-power scope. Three more figures stepped out onto the porch.

  A young, dark-haired woman in slacks and sunglasses, on the left.

  An older man in a gray suit, on the right.

  And standing between them, centered in the crosshairs …

  Muller.

  He suppressed the urge to curse aloud. This might be his only chance for a shot, and his target wasn’t in range. Not even close.

  They moved to the porch railing. The man in gray pulled something out of his suit jacket. Muller reached over and took it, raised it. Seemed to laugh. The older guy then fished something else out of his pocket that glinted in the sun. He raised it to his face, then to Muller’s, who leaned in, cupping his hands around it.

  Cigarettes. The sniper felt a twinge of hope. They’d probably bring him out here again.

  Muller turned, leaned forward, and braced his hands atop the porch railing. He raised his face toward the sun.

  Toward him.

  He ground his teeth. Damn! If only he’d had time
to fetch a longer-range weapon. Like the Sako TRG, chambered for the .338 Lapua Magnum. Or maybe—

  —a loud, sharp crack …

  For a second, he was too stunned to move. A second later, in the jiggling circle of the scope, Muller’s head exploded in a scarlet spray.

  He snapped his own head to the right, in the direction of the shot. Spotted movement two hundred meters distant, behind another fallen log. A figure in camo rolled away, the long black barrel of a rifle clearly visible. The figure scuttled behind a massive rhododendron, rose into a low crouch, then moved rapidly back into the pines.

  He stared blankly at the fleeing figure.

  They sent another shooter?

  Distant shouts from below. He stole another glance through his scope.

  The trio on the porch were down, in a heap; the security team, weapons drawn, were scattering all over the yard, their eyes scanning this hill. This ridge line …

  You have to get out of here.

  He lifted his M40 sniper rifle from the log and slid behind the thick branches of the sheltering pine tree. Then scrambled to his feet, turned, and ran. After a few yards, the ground dropped away into a steep slope. Half-skidding, half-hopping, he descended fast, back toward where he had parked the Chevy.

  He realized that his course was taking him parallel to that of the shooter. He had no time to figure things out, but knew instinctively that the man might be a threat to him, too. Transferring the M40 to his left hand, he drew the Glock with his right.

  The descent seemed to take forever, although it couldn’t have been more than three minutes. Nearing the bottom of the hill, he noticed a blur of motion in a clearing well ahead and to his left.

  The shooter, cradling a very large rifle. Hurdling a bush with the grace of a gazelle, darting among rocks and trees like a soccer star. The guy reached the roadway first, veered left, and ran.

  Heart pounding, thighs burning, he reached the pavement himself about fifteen seconds later. He glanced left. Then stopped in his tracks.

  The shooter stood perhaps seventy-five meters away, at the rear of a midnight blue SUV. It was parked on the paved berm of the road, facing back toward Route 55. The shooter yanked open the cargo door, slid his rifle inside, then began to tear off his camo. His hat went in first, revealing dark curly hair and olive paint on his face. Then his boots, then the rest of his coveralls; he wore street clothes underneath. The shooter reached inside, grabbed a pair of dark shoes, slipped them on. Slammed the door, turned …

  … and spotted him.

  They stood motionless, staring at each other.

  He realized that he still held his M40 and the Glock. Realized, too, that the shooter was wondering if he was about to use them.

  Due to the distance, he couldn’t be sure, but after a few seconds he thought he saw the man nod slightly—then, preposterously, raise a hand to give what looked like a half-wave, half-salute. The guy spun, and with a dance-like skip launched himself around the driver’s side. Within three seconds the SUV was in motion, accelerating toward the highway and escape.

  Escape …

  Looking back in the other direction, he saw the turnoff where he’d left his own car. He holstered the Glock as he ran and fumbled in a Velcro-sealed pocket for the keys. Reaching the Chevy, he dumped the M40 onto the back seat, threw a blanket over it, slammed the rear door, then slid in behind the wheel.

  A minute later he was back on 55, heading east. No pursuers in the rearview mirror, but they wouldn’t be far behind. He tore open a packet of pre-moistened towelettes with his teeth and wiped his face. It came away covered with muddy green camo paint. He’d have to clean up and change into the street clothes he’d brought along, and soon.

  In another half-minute he turned onto Route 66, the major east-west highway, then gunned it, heading toward Washington. He would get off this road in a few miles and travel the rest of the way into D.C. using a roundabout route to evade roadblocks. As he did what he could to wipe off the paint, he tried to puzzle it out.

  Why would they send a second shooter, and not tell him?

  Last night on the sat phone, his employer sounded desperate. The sniper had done plenty of contract work for this client in the past, and had long ago deduced that he worked for, or with, the Russians. So when the man mentioned the name of this target, James Harold Muller, the sniper connected the dots. He’d seen news reports yesterday about Muller being arrested as a Russian mole in the CIA. When his employer said Muller had to be taken out, fast, the sniper knew that meant: before he talks.

  Because Muller would know about the other mole in the Agency—the mole who, a year ago, temporarily hid a tracker on a CIA security vehicle. Back then, it had been the sniper’s job to follow that tracker … and it led him here, to discover the safe house.

  For the Russians, that second mole’s existence had to be kept secret, at all costs.

  He tossed another used wipe on the passenger-side floor. Something nagged at him.

  Last night he had asked his employer for a spotter or backup. The man said nobody else was available, not for several days. Well, assuming he wasn’t lying—

  Suddenly it hit him:

  Maybe his employer and the Russians didn’t know about this other shooter.

  But if so, who was he? Who sent him? Why would anyone except the Kremlin want Muller dead?

  Another thought struck him:

  Then his employer wouldn’t know who really shot Muller.

  He stared at the highway unrolling before him as he considered further implications.

  He was a man accustomed to taking calculated risks. He would take one now.

  He retrieved the encrypted Motorola satellite phone from the glove compartment. Thumbed a series of numbers, waited for a tone, then clicked in another series. After about ten seconds, he heard the familiar voice.

  “Yes? You have something to report?”

  The voice sounded anxious.

  So he really doesn’t know about the other sniper. He smiled to himself as he answered:

  “The target is down. Repeat: Target down.”

  He heard a long sigh that turned into a chuckle, then a hearty laugh. The client’s next words confirmed that his guess was right—and that his gamble had worked. He would be credited for this kill. And nobody except himself and the real shooter would ever know.

  “Very good!” the client said. “My associates will be most relieved. And most pleased about your exceptional work.”

  The man paused, then added:

  “This will be your biggest payday ever, Mr. Lasher.”

  PART I

  “Justice is truth in action.”

  —Benjamin Disraeli

  Speech, February 11, 1851

  ONE

  The cries and movements awakened him.

  He rolled to face her. In the skylight’s illumination, he could see her head jerking from side to side, facial features contorted, inarticulate sounds coming from between clenched teeth.

  Not again …

  “Annie,” he said gently, not wishing to frighten her further. “Honey … wake up.”

  Her eyes flared open, glinting wide and wild in the moonlight. Her hands stopped thrashing. She blinked, getting her bearings. Then turned, finding him. Staring at him—disbelieving.

  Then understanding …

  “Oh, Dylan!” she gasped, reaching to touch his shoulder. To make him real, he realized. “Oh, God!”

  He pulled her close to him. Her naked body, damp with sweat, trembled against his. He didn’t have to ask about the nightmare.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice weak.

  He squeezed her. Put a smile in his voice and said, “Don’t be silly. I’m the one who’s sorry. For putting you through that.”

  “It’s always so real,” she continued, her face pressed into his neck. “The blood … you on the floor … all that blood …”

  “I know,” he said, stroking her hair. Feeling like hell.

  “I�
��m afraid to go to sleep anymore … I want it to stop. But I can’t seem to get past it.” Her voice caught, a half-sob. “Dylan … I just can’t get past it …”

  “I know, love.” He didn’t know what else to say.

  He continued to stroke her hair. After a long time her trembling stopped.

  She began to stroke his back. Gently, at first. Then more insistently.

  He felt it, too.

  He pulled back, tilted her chin up with his forefinger, searched her face.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  The cat-shaped eyes, barely visible in the pre-dawn light, held something urgent. Then fierce. Unblinking, they held his as she lowered her mouth and wrapped her lips around his forefinger. Then began to suck on it. Using her tongue. Slowly. Deliberately.

  He understood. He resisted his sudden rage to possess her.

  Instead, he rolled onto his back, smoothly lifting her atop him.

  Then he placed his hands flat at his sides, pressed against the cool silk sheet.

  He let her mount him.

  Let her regain control …

  “Mrrr-eh-eh-eh …”

  The cat crouched on the tattered seat of the old stuffed chair next to the cabin window. The noise from her throat sounded like a faint, fiendish cackle. Outside, balanced on a pine branch just a few feet away, a gray squirrel stared back at her, flicking its tail in insolent challenge.

  Annie laughed. She finished buttoning her jacket, then smoothed it down over her jeans. “Dylan, your vicious jungle beast is having breakfast fantasies.”

  He came down the creaking pine stairs from the cabin’s loft wearing a black pullover sweater, jeans, and low-cut boots. Even after a month, she hadn’t adjusted to the sight of his scruffy red beard and hair; it fit the rustic setting, but not him.