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

  He moved to the window and stood there in silhouette, hands on hips, looking down upon the hunched lump of black-and-white fur. The cat didn’t move or acknowledge his presence.

  “Eh-eh-eh-eh …”

  He smiled. “Dream on, Luna. Without claws, you wouldn’t last ten minutes out there.”

  “Why did you have her de-clawed?” she asked.

  “I didn’t. They had already done that at the pet store where I rescued her.”

  The word choice made her smile. “You seem to be in the habit of rescuing maidens in distress.”

  He shuffled toward her, affecting an exaggerated limp. “And look at the terrible price I paid for my chivalry,” he said, drawing her into his arms.

  She laughed as he rubbed his beard against her neck, tickling her. “You fake. We hiked five miles yesterday, and I could barely keep up with you. And you were certainly rambunctious enough in bed this morning. I’d say your battle wounds have pretty much healed.”

  “True. Now the brave knight collects his reward.” His lips moved lightly against her throat.

  “Cut that out. Luna isn’t the only lady here with breakfast fantasies. Grab your coat.”

  He sighed and straightened. “You fail to appreciate male priorities.”

  “I appreciated your priorities just a few hours ago, mister. Now let’s go, before they stop serving.”

  “My priorities?” He flashed that crooked little grin she adored.

  They emerged from the fire-warmed cabin into the still, frigid air of the February morning. She drew the soft fur of her jacket collar up around her cheeks. Weak light from the morning sun filtered through the surrounding stands of pines and hemlocks.

  She stood aside while he double-locked the door. He wore his long dark leather coat, but was hatless and gloveless. His eyes narrowed against the cold and little clouds of breath escaped through his lips as he bent to set his “tell-tales”—two unobtrusive twigs that would indicate if anyone entered the cabin during their absence.

  He turned away and let the spring-pulled outer screen door bang shut. Startled, a cardinal chirped and streaked across the clearing, like a scarlet flare. They stepped down from the porch. She caught the faint scent of wood smoke. She took his arm and pressed against him, matching his stride. In the quiet of the forest, the crunch of their boots was the only sound.

  Ice crystals had formed overnight on the windows and dark-blue hood of his Honda CR-V. It was half-crammed with household items they packed the evening before, so they took her Camry instead. He helped her into the passenger seat, then went around and got behind the wheel. They sat a moment while the car idled and the defroster cleared the windshield.

  The Camry bounced over the frozen ruts of the long dirt drive and Dylan turned south onto East Hickory Road. After a short distance, the car crossed the little bridge over the ice-covered Hickory Creek. A couple of minutes later, they reached Route 666 and rolled west, past the wood-framed houses of the northwestern Pennsylvania village of Endeavor.

  “Annie, I know you’re tired of the diner. Are you sure you don’t want to head down to Oil City? A lot more choices, and we can be there in half an hour.”

  “No. I’ll pass out if I don’t get something into me in the next ten minutes.”

  He flashed that little smile again. “Seems you worked up an appetite this morning, Annie Woods.”

  She laughed in spite of herself. “If it weren’t for that, Dylan Hunter, I swear I would’ve gained twenty pounds this past month.”

  “Sex and hikes in the Allegheny National Forest. Could there be a more satisfying weight-control regimen? But remember, Annie dear, up here it’s not Dylan Hunter; it’s ‘Brad Flynn.’ You slipped up yesterday in that country store.”

  “Yes, Brad dear. And you remember that up here it’s ‘Annie Forrest.’ And nice as this past month has been, Mr. Flynn, my body must get back to D.C. and some real food. It’s endured all the burgers and fries it can tolerate.”

  “Believe me, Miss Forrest, saving your exquisite body is my highest priority.”

  “So, it’s only my body you care about.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “I figured … As for me, it will be a relief when you finally get rid of that steel-wool beard and ketchup-colored hair. I want my tall, dark, and handsome guy back.”

  “Just as I want my hot, slinky brunette.” He glanced over and brushed her wig with the back of his big hand. “Although, to be frank, I think this blonde is better in bed.”

  She had to laugh. She marveled at how he could always make her laugh. She could barely remember the nightmare now.

  They turned south onto Route 62, where it hugged the Allegheny River. In less than half a mile, past some archery and wilderness outfitter shops, the diner came into view on the right, just a couple hundred feet from the riverbank.

  The exterior reminded her of the Alamo, but in gray vertical planks instead of adobe. The front wall rose in several squared-off steps toward a peak in the middle. A long narrow porch with a wooden railing ran the length of the building. The sign above it said “Whitetail Diner” in carved letters; a painted image of a buck bounded over the name.

  A few cars were in the gravel lot. He pulled into an open slot in front of the entrance. Annie waited while he got out and came around to open her door for her. She loved his little romantic gestures. They had fallen into these customs automatically, from their first days together. She took his arm again and he led her up the steps.

  Warmth and the smell of pine smoke greeted them. So did Sherry Byczek, the stocky, middle-aged blonde behind the counter, who was pouring coffee for a male customer.

  “Hey there, Brad ’n’ Annie,” she called out in her husky smoker’s voice. “I thought you’d already left for Jersey.”

  “Hi, Sherry,” Annie answered. “No, not yet. Thursday, or perhaps Friday.”

  “Jersey?” the man at the counter chimed in, smiling broadly. “I was born there!” He was in his forties, sandy-haired and unshaven. He wore a green-and-orange plaid shirt and a black baseball cap with a gold letter “P” on the front.

  Dylan headed over toward the counter; she noticed how he put on the slight limp again. “Oh? Where abouts?”

  “Trenton,” the guy said. “But we moved here when I was still a kid. How ’bout you?”

  “Just outside of Princeton.” He stuck out his hand. “Brad Flynn.”

  “Denny Beck,” the guy replied, shaking hands.

  Dylan turned and motioned her over. “And this is my fiancée, Ann Forrest.” She saw the twinkle in his eyes.

  She approached Denny, extending her hand and a smile. “Call me Annie.”

  He eyed her up and down. “Fiancée, huh? You’re one lucky guy, Brad.”

  “Don’t I know it.” He winked at the man.

  Sherry gestured with the coffee pot. “You two grab a table, I’ll be right over.”

  Dylan led the way toward the welcoming heat of the big stone fireplace, steering them past a table where a white-haired elderly couple smiled up at them. On the varnished knotty pine walls above the mantelpiece hung the mounted trophies of Sherry’s late husband, George: four antlered deer heads surrounding that of a large black bear, its teeth bared in eternal menace. To add to the atmosphere, a variety of antique farm tools and hunting-and-fishing items hung on the walls to either side of the fireplace.

  He selected an empty table that would seat four. Like the others, it was covered with a red-checkered vinyl tablecloth. He dragged out a chair with his boot, shrugged off his leather coat, and dumped it onto the seat. Then, ignoring her, he slid into another chair and immediately began to browse the menu.

  Astonished, she remained standing beside her own chair for a few awkward seconds. Then she got it. Amused, she unbuttoned her jacket, folded it neatly atop his coat, then pulled out her own chair and sat.

  “I gather Brad Flynn isn’t the chivalrous type,” she whispered.

  “Brad is way too macho. Like Denny
. See him watching us? He expects Brad to show his little lady who’s the boss in this relationship.”

  “‘Little lady,’ huh? Have I told Brad lately just how much I want to dump him and get back to my charming, well-mannered boyfriend in Washington?”

  “About ten minutes ago, I recall.”

  “So, what’d you finally do with that bear you shot?” Sherry asked Denny while she scooped up some silverware and napkins for them.

  “Had the head mounted on the wall in our living room. Tucker’s Taxidermy up in Warren, they did a real nice job. The skin—it’s a nice, thick fur blanket in our bedroom, now.” He rotated his stool to face their table. “Hey Brad—you do any huntin’?”

  Dylan looked up from the menu. “Used to. Deer, mostly. Did I just hear Sherry say you bagged a bear?”

  Denny beamed. “I sure did. You know where Yellow Hammer Road goes off 666?

  “Sure.”

  “You go all the way up Yellow Hammer to 209, then keep going to where it turns into Forest Service Road. You park there and hike on in, and down near Otter Creek you’ll find lots of bear. I nailed a five-hundred pounder a few months back.”

  “That must have been a thrill.”

  “You better believe. Hell of a thing for us to haul it outta there, though, let me tell you. I had to borrow my brother’s F-350, and bring along—”

  He was interrupted by a sudden commotion. At the entrance, a man stood holding the door open for two women, who hurried inside. None wore coats or gloves.

  They all looked scared.

  TWO

  Annie noticed that Dylan had already pushed back from the table and was poised to leap to his feet.

  The man, in dress shirt and tie over slacks and wing-tip shoes, moved quickly toward the counter. “Sherry, I need you to call the state police.”

  She dumped the silverware on the counter with a clatter. “What? You okay?”

  Denny slid off his stool and intercepted him. “What the hell happened, Ed?”

  “WildJustice,” the man said. “A bunch of them just stormed into our office and started smashing things with clubs. Lucky for us we were in the back on coffee break when they came in. We didn’t have time to grab our cell phones or do anything except run out the back to my car. Lucky I had my keys in my pants pocket. We got out of there fast. But in the mirror I saw one of them run out to the road and watch us drive off.” He glanced back at the door. “I’m afraid they may come after us.”

  One of the women, a young redhead in her twenties, hugged her bare arms around her body and stood at the front window. “I don’t see them. Maybe they decided not to follow.”

  Annie watched as Dylan got up and approached the man.

  “Excuse me. What’s ‘WildJustice’?”

  “You know—that environmental gang,” the other woman interjected. A thin brunette in her fifties, she stood trembling, one hand on the back of a chair to steady herself. “The paper calls them ‘ecoterrorists.’”

  “Sons of bitches,” Denny said. “They spike our trees, wreck construction equipment. Set fire to sawmills—the one up in Kane last fall. Cost my brother-in-law his job. Tree-hugger bastards are tryin’ to put us all outta work.”

  “And now they’re after fracking companies. Like ours,” Ed said. “They cornered a couple of our workers out on a drilling pad a couple of days ago and roughed them up. One of them needed stitches … Helen, please get away from the window! You don’t want them to see you.”

  Annie stood and walked over to the older brunette. She put a hand on the woman’s quivering arm. “Why don’t you sit down and tell us what’s going on.”

  The trio looked at each other and moved to a table. Dylan, Annie, and Denny pulled up extra chairs; Dylan’s faced the door. As they were settling in, Sherry emerged from the kitchen and came over. Annie saw the worry on her face.

  “Cops are all tied up with a big truck accident in Tidioute. Say they’ll be down here soon as they can. It may be half an hour, though.”

  “Great,” Ed said. “I hope they don’t spot my car. I parked around the far end of the building.”

  “Why don’t we start with some introductions,” Dylan suggested.

  They went through the formalities quickly. Ed Gerardi was manager of an Adair Energy clerical office, three miles south. The younger woman, Helen Stutts, and the older one, Corrine Ringwald, were staff. Adair, Ed explained, was a natural gas exploration-and-development company.

  “It’s bad enough with the EPA threatening to shut us down with a fracking moratorium,” Ed said. “Now we have to deal with these nutcases, too. Over a hundred of them arrived here last week. From all over the country. A lot of them came in on a chartered bus. They’re camping out in the forest somewhere.”

  Sherry frowned. “How can those hippies afford to charter a bus?”

  “Buddy of mine manages the doughnut shop up in Warren,” Denny said. “A few days ago, a bunch of ’em wandered in. Says he overheard one of ’em say, ‘Don’t worry, chow down—our sponsor in Washington is picking up the tab.’”

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “What the man told me, Ed.” Denny rested a gnarly fist on the table. “I figure it’s CarboNot. They’re in Washington, right? They probably paid for them buses, too. I bet they’re all in this together—CarboNot, EPA, WildJustice—all of ’em.

  “I’m sorry,” Dylan said. “I haven’t been following the news for a while. What is ‘CarboNot’?” Annie could tell from Dylan’s eyes that his interest was intensifying.

  “It’s that big ‘green energy’ outfit that’s working with the EPA to target us and stop fracking. They’ve been—” Ed’s voice trailed off. His eyes widened. “Oh God …”

  They followed his gaze to the window. An old, garishly painted VW minibus was slowing on the highway. It lurched into a tight turn and rumbled into the lot, swinging broadside behind the parked cars. Blocking them in.

  She heard the chair beside her scrape the floor.

  Dylan stood.

  Hunter cursed himself silently for leaving his Sig Sauer and boot knife locked up in the cabin. But just for a second. Regret was a distraction.

  Distractions got you killed.

  The first time he ate here he had inventoried the decorative implements hanging on the wall. Trout net. Fishing rod. Two-man crosscut saw. Broken wagon wheel. Ancient Winchester. Horse bridle. Canoe oar. Kid’s sled. Sledgehammer, but with a visibly cracked handle. Except for the oar, nothing handy in a fight. And all bolted securely to the wall.

  The useful items would be in the kitchen.

  The side panel of the van bore a big white peace sign against a swirling backdrop of psychedelic flowers. Now it slid open and the occupants began to jump out.

  “Okay, everyone, listen up.”

  They all looked up at him, fear on their faces. Except for Annie: She rose to her feet, eyes wide and riveted on the front door. She could take care of herself physically—but emotionally? Ed looked like he wouldn’t be worth a damn in a fight, but Denny might be okay. He recalled the beefy young ex-Marine who sometimes served as part-time cook.

  “Sherry, is Fred working today?”

  “No. Just Amy’s in the kitchen.”

  The first two guys out of the van looked to be in their twenties. They separated and moved toward the opposite ends of the building. He knew they’d circle around to block the rear exit.

  “All right. Everyone into the kitchen. Sherry, run ahead and lock the back door.” As they all got to their feet, he turned to assist the terrified elderly pair at the next table while he continued to call out instructions. “Corrine, call the cops again; tell them it’s an emergency and to hurry.”

  He looked back at the window. A huge bald guy was squeezing out of the van, and the whole thing rocked when he stepped down.

  Annie turned to him. He saw what was in her eyes.

  “Annie, Denny, Ed—grab the biggest carving knives back there, one in each hand. If they come in, you wave t
hem around”—he held her eyes—“and use them if you have to.”

  Hunter turned and gently directed the frail old couple toward the kitchen. Then he strode toward the front door.

  He heard steps behind him and glanced over his shoulder.

  She was following.

  “Annie, get back in the kitchen.”

  “Like hell I will,” she said. Her face was pale, but her expression resolute. “I’m not letting you go out there alone.”

  He didn’t have time to argue. As he approached the front window he saw that seven more people, five of them males, had piled out of the minibus to join the big guy. Ten in all, counting the two heading behind the building. Three brandished ax handles, though not the bald giant. They gathered around a skinny, dark-bearded man who was talking and gesturing.

  So he was their leader. Organizing the assault.

  Hunter reached the door. Then paused, hand on the knob.

  She stepped beside him. “So, how do we play this?”

  He looked down at her. She looked small and vulnerable. But from their workouts in the Bethesda dojo, he knew better. He saw steely determination in her gray cat’s eyes.

  “Rule number one: Never let your enemy attack first. Especially if you’re outnumbered.”

  She nodded. “Element of surprise.”

  “I’ll take out the big guy and the ones with the ax handles. Can you keep a few of them busy?”

  “Got your six, Dylan Hunter.” She hesitated, then added: “Please be careful.”

  He smiled, leaned over, and kissed her forehead. “Don’t worry about me. They’re amateurs. Ready?”

  She released a breath. “Let’s go.”

  In one motion he flung open the door and shot through it, leaping from the porch. He had darted halfway past their own parked Camry before the gang could react to the noise.

  His first target of opportunity was a kid in a hooded parka with his back turned to him. The kid held an ax handle resting casually over his shoulder. He just started to turn when Hunter reached him, yanked the handle from his grasp, and kicked the back of the kid’s right knee. Not pausing to watch him fall, he continued to rush right at Baldy.