Hunter dh-1 Read online

Matt Malone, idealist…who had plastic surgery…who left his old identity behind…living now under a false identity…seeking justice…

  “You still there? Ms. Woods?”

  Arthur Copeland rebuilds Matt Malone’s face…

  Her pulse was hammering.

  Dylan Hunter-with a rebuilt face and a new identity-shows up at Arthur Copeland’s funeral…

  She stared at the photo of the dark-haired man. Began to shake.

  No-God no!

  She felt a crushing weight on her chest, making it hard to breathe.

  Matt Malone…Dylan Hunter…

  You’ve been hunting your own lover!

  “Annie! Is anything wrong?”

  “I…have to go…”

  She clicked off the phone. It fell from her shaking hand to her desk.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Falls Church, Virginia

  Saturday, December 20, 4:25 p.m.

  The sight of her lingerie in the overnight bag caused her to shudder.

  She had to stop packing and sit on her bed, trying once again to settle her nerves.

  Since yesterday, the fear had come upon her in sudden waves. It prevented her from sleeping last night, until she finally took a pill that relaxed her enough for a fitful few hours of semi-consciousness.

  Throughout the day, though, the thought of facing him again terrified her. All the facts, all the logical inferences she could draw from them, told her that Matt Malone, CIA assassin, had become Dylan Hunter, leader of a team of vigilantes.

  But those same facts-and mistaken logical inferences drawn from them-had led her and Garrett astray for the past six months. The same facts and erroneous inferences had propelled them into futile manhunts for imaginary Russian moles and military snipers.

  Well, were her inferences any more valid this time? Everything she felt, everything she knew, told her that she was right about this. But did she really know everything?

  Before she would say anything to Garrett or Cronin, she needed proof. Iron-clad proof. She could not destroy Dylan’s life because of some terrible mistake or misinterpretation.

  She ran her hand over the smooth fabric of the bed’s comforter.

  Nor could she destroy their relationship because of some tragic error.

  So she had to face him tonight. Had to pretend to him that she had resolved her doubts and fears. Had to play-act long enough to get the proof she needed. Or evidence that would exonerate him, once and for all.

  She stood again, started to zip the bag. But stopped once more at the sight of the lingerie.

  How could she possibly get through the next twenty-four hours? She would have to sleep with him. Lie in the arms of a possible assassin that she had sworn to bring to justice. Allow herself to be touched by the hands of a possible killer hunted by the police.

  How could she do that?

  She entered the bathroom. Ran cold water over a face cloth. Pressed it to her eyes and cheeks. Let the chill dampness penetrate her skin.

  Eyes shut, she thought of the man in the photo. The man named Matt Malone. Of his idealism and bravery. Of the obscene betrayals and the horrific trauma he had endured, and that had fueled his desire for retribution. Of his rebirth under the skilled, caring hands of Arthur Copeland.

  Then, she thought of what it had to be like for him to learn that a trio of sadistic savages had destroyed the man who saved him.

  And what of the man she knew only as Dylan Hunter?

  All right, suppose he was Malone, resurrected. Suppose he had taken on the role of a vigilante, retaliating against those monsters in order to avenge the ruined lives of people like Arthur and Susie. And against other monsters, on behalf of Kate Higgins and George Banacek.

  How could she blame him?

  She removed the cloth from her face. In the mirror, her eyes were tired, gray, desolate.

  No, that wasn’t the question. The real question was: How could she betray him?

  After all, if she were honest with herself, that’s what she was planning to do. She was a government security officer. She had sworn an oath to abide by and to protect the nation’s laws. To shield a killer from the reach of the law would dishonor that pledge.

  Now, she had to choose.

  She could betray the law that she had vowed to uphold, and end her career.

  Or she could betray the man she loved, and end their relationship.

  But she could no longer remain loyal to both.

  She tossed the cloth onto the sink. Began to gather the last of her toiletries.

  It would be so much easier if only she had some valid reason to hate him, a motive strong enough to tip the balance, to commit her to stopping him. Then, turning him in would not be a betrayal. It would not be fraud this time, either. It would be an act of loyalty.

  But what reason could turn her against the man she loved?

  Unbidden, an image arose in her mind.

  Her father’s face.

  She remembered the night at his home, not so long ago. Remembered how he had responded to her anger with his patient, deep, gentle faith. Recalled the hurt in his eyes at her harsh parting words.

  Then she remembered the news conference. Remembered how Dylan had stalked up the aisle, his face cold, his accusations merciless. Recalled the look of shocked vulnerability on Dad’s face…

  She looked again into her reflected eyes in the mirror. Saw a measure of resolve return.

  Then she strode back to her overnight bag, tossed in the rest of the items, and tugged the zipper closed.

  She would spend the weekend with him. She would sleep with him. She would force herself to do these things, in order to learn the truth.

  And if, at last, she found him to be responsible for these crimes, then she would turn him in to the authorities.

  Yes, he might have his high ideals and principles.

  But she had hers.

  Bethesda, Maryland

  Saturday, December 20, 6:20 p.m.

  She had managed to hold onto her sense of cool control during the drive over, during the elevator ride to his floor, during the walk down the hallway to his door. As she rang his doorbell, she reminded herself of her father and of her oath.

  The door opened on his face. The thick dark curly hair, the cleft chin, the green-brown eyes. The eyes looked hard, for just an instant, then softened. That funny little twisted smile formed on his lips.

  “Hi, you.”

  She felt her resolution soften, felt herself smiling.

  “Hi, you.”

  He lay his big hand on her arm, guided her inside, closed the door. He lifted the overnight bag from her shoulder, set it down on the floor. They stood in the tiny foyer, looking at each other, not touching. She felt the tension build between them.

  He raised his hand to her chin. Gently tilted it up, leaned down and kissed her.

  It was like the first time, the night of their first date, outside her door. She felt his strong arm move around her, felt herself leaning back under the pressure of his lips, felt her arms rise to grip his powerful shoulders, felt everything else falling away. She was molded to his body, responding helplessly, her knowledge and will obliterated.

  He pulled back first, his face hovering just above hers. He stroked her hair with the back of his hand and stared, unblinking and serious, into her eyes.

  “We’re going to get through this, Annie Woods.”

  The words, so unexpected, so right. She had to blink rapidly to keep from crying. “I hope so, Dylan,” she whispered.

  He held her at arm’s length, looked her up and down. “Better than I remembered.”

  She laughed in spite of herself, relieved to release the tension without tears. Then she did the same to him, taking in his sports jacket, cord slacks, and short boots, all deep tan. “You look great, too. Are we going somewhere?”

  “We always seem to do better when the evening begins with a good dinner,” he said. “I’ve got seven o’clock reservations at a nice little French bistro.”
<
br />   “Do I get to change first?”

  His eyes roamed her body again. He shook his head. “You’ll do.”

  *

  Though the place was jammed, their table was set apart in an alcove filled with hanging plants. The wall was exposed brick and adorned with an Impressionist landscape. They ate meats baked in puffed pastries and shared a good bottle of Cabernet Franc.

  She felt surprisingly relaxed. Looking at him study the painting in the candlelight, she couldn’t make her suspicions real. Garrett and Kessler had led her to believe that Matt Malone was a tragic victim of circumstances. But the man before her was their confident master. His light-hearted gaiety, his serene self-assurance…this was not a brooding, damaged soul, striking out in blind, bitter anger.

  He turned to her. Then grinned. “Still trying to figure me out, I see.”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “To me.”

  “I’ll have to remember that.” She searched his face. “I’m just wondering how you got to be you.”

  He sipped his wine, not breaking eye contact. Then: “Long story.”

  “We have the weekend.”

  He put down the wine. “So, what specifically do you want to know?”

  “In my experience, most men are cynics. You’re not. You don’t seem to have a cynical bone in your body. You’re an idealist.”

  “My idealism does get tested, from time to time. As I’m sure you know.” He paused, his expression now serious. “Because you’re an idealist, too, Annie Woods.”

  She tried not to show a reaction. “Maybe. But this is about you, Dylan. I know that justice means everything to you. What interests me is why. How did that develop?”

  “Maybe it’s not something that develops. Maybe it’s something that people have, but lose.”

  “That sounds clever, but I’m not sure I understand.”

  He gestured toward their fellow diners. “See all these people? How many of them start out their lives as cynics? How many of them, as little kids under five years old, have no dreams or ideals? How many identify with the bad guys?”

  “Okay. I get that.”

  “But by the time they’re in their teens, a lot of them have. They’ve already given up. Why? Face it, idealism is hard. It’s hard to adhere to some standard. Selling out is so much easier.”

  “Then you’re saying that a cynic is just a coward?”

  “Yes. But so are a lot of those fake ‘idealists’ out there, who turn their cowardice into virtues.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His eyes rested on the chandelier above their table; they flashed in its light. “Annie, it’s not easy to live with yourself when you sell out. When you give in, just to ‘belong,’ just to ‘keep the peace,’ ‘not make waves,’ ‘go along to get along,’ and all the other common euphemisms for cowardice. Because that’s what it is. Cowardice. And at some level, the person doing that knows that he’s a coward. And he feels guilty.”

  “So, cynics are guilty cowards, then.”

  “Which is why they need to rationalize. They even make virtues out of ‘humility’ and ‘turning the other cheek’ and ‘loving everybody.’ Why? Because it alleviates their guilt. It’s much nicer to pretend to yourself that your passivity makes you a saint, rather than just another gutless puke who won’t take a stand for what’s right.”

  She tried to mask her discomfort. “Don’t you think some people who preach such things are sincere, though? Not cowards, but true idealists?”

  “I don’t doubt it. But it’s like I said to you once before: Those types become enablers. Foolish enablers of evil, whether they intend to or not.”

  “Let’s get back to you. When did justice become so important to you?”

  He remained silent a moment, as if he were weighing something.

  “All right. I’ve never told this to anyone. When I was about ten or eleven, I was on the playground at school. I saw this gang of kids in a circle, hollering, and I went over to see what was going on. A couple of bigger kids, bullies, were picking on this smaller boy, Joe. No teachers were around, and the others were just egging the bullies on. I liked Joe. He was nerdy, but smart and funny. Anyway, he was terrified and crying and-” He stopped. “I just couldn’t walk away.”

  “You got involved?”

  “At first, I just told them to stop. Then the pair turned on me. They were a lot bigger than me. One of them grabbed me, ripped the pocket of my shirt. I looked down at that, and I saw red. So I just swung at him, bashed him on the cheek. Then they started to hit back. We really started going at it. All the kids started yelling and cheering. For a minute, every time they hit me, I just got angrier.

  “But then I tasted blood in my mouth. My blood. It was like somebody flipped a switch. I wasn’t enraged anymore. I just turned icy cold. I became like a machine. After that, nothing they did to me hurt at all. I didn’t feel anything.”

  His gaze was fixed somewhere far away. “I just pounded them, knocked both of them down, first one, then the other. Then I jumped on them, kept pounding until they screamed for me to stop. I grabbed both of them by the hair, turned their bloody faces toward Joe, and told them to apologize. They apologized.”

  He blinked, coming back to the present. “But I wasn’t done. I stood up and turned on one of the kids who’d been mocking Joe, and I demanded that he apologize, too. He looked scared to death and did. Then I faced down all the rest of them. Hell, it was a yard full of kids. I said, ‘Who wants to be next?’ There was dead silence, except for the two kids wailing on the ground. I pointed at them and said, ‘Any one of the rest of you ever bothers Joe again, that’s what will happen to you.’ And then I took him by the arm and led him away.”

  She saw the imprint of the memory etched on his face as he raised his glass again.

  “You went after the bullies,” she said. “And then you confronted their enablers, too.”

  The glass paused at his lips.

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way before,” he said. “But yes. I suppose that’s true.”

  “That day changed you,” she said softly.

  He placed the glass on the table and nodded slowly. “It was kind of a turning point. A moment of self-definition.” He suddenly looked at her. Smiled, breaking his reverie. “Okay. Now, it’s my turn to ask a question.”

  “Oh. Well, okay, fair is fair, I suppose.”

  “Trust.”

  She licked her lips. “What about it?”

  “What happened, Annie?”

  She drew a long breath. “Actually, I had a conversation not long ago about that. Somebody close to me pointed out that I’d been betrayed twice. The first time, when my mother left my father and me to run off with another man. The second time, when I caught my ex screwing another woman.”

  “I’m sorry. How long were you married?”

  “Since July 2002.” She suddenly felt the need to unburden herself. “Frank was a commercial pilot. I met him at a hotel during a business trip, not long after 9-11. There was instant chemistry. And my dad liked him and insisted on throwing a big wedding in Georgetown. After the honeymoon, we resumed our careers. He traveled a lot, of course, and I was pretty wrapped up in my work, too. But we made the most of our time together. Or thought we did.”

  “Until when?”

  “Until last year. When I accidentally found the emails from his babe in Denver.” She paused to take a sip of wine, moisten her lips. “Ergo, my trust issues. Just so that you know, I’m officially divorced. Since January.”

  “You had mentioned your mother on our first date. I didn’t know about your husband.”

  “I didn’t want to bring it up, then. I figured it might scare you off.”

  He covered her hand with his. “I’m still here, Annie.”

  She looked at his hand on hers. “Me too.”

  *

  They were both a bit tipsy when they arrived back at the apartment. She could not completely relax and sensed that he could not, e
ither. There was still a slight wariness, a dull edge of caution, in their interaction. She could not suppress her awareness of her suspicions about him; but neither could she suppress her knowledge of his motives, of the reasons that may have turned him into an outlaw.

  Inside the door, he drew her into his arms again. Her mouth responding to his, she felt as if she were spinning dangerously, deliriously, deliciously out of control. She was overpowered by it, by the restored feeling of oneness with him, by the sheer power of him and how it possessed her. For a fleeting instant, she knew that the danger that he represented only added to her intoxication, and to the intensity of the passionate tension between them.

  If everything would only freeze in place, right here, right now. If only it would go on forever this way…

  They stumbled, laughing, toward the bedroom, toward the waiting bed. She tugged off his jacket and dumped it on the floor. Then he pulled her to the bed and sat on it, facing her. Holding her eyes, he undid the buttons at her throat, then down the front of her blouse. He slid the straps of her bra down her arms, then reached behind her to release it. As it fell, he buried his face between her breasts.

  But she pushed him back, then held up her hand to stop him. With deliberate slowness, she unbuttoned his shirt. She ran her flat palms over the hair of his chest, up to his shoulders, then down his arms to free his sleeves-

  – and exposed the bandage wrapping his left arm.

  *

  In an instant, he saw her half-closed eyes snap open, her half-parted lips widen in a gasp. Saw the shock as she gazed at his arm.

  He had to cover it, give her the excuse he had prepared.

  “Don’t worry about that. It’s nothing. I just had a run-in last week with a friend’s pet poodle.”

  The shock didn’t vanish as her eyes turned to his. For a moment, she didn’t speak. Then: “You say a dog did this?”

  He tried to keep the smile fixed in place. “A poodle. If you count them as real dogs.”

  But she didn’t smile. He watched closely as something faded in her eyes.

  She knows.

  *

  Their love-making had a frantic quality, he thought, as if both of them were trying desperately to convince themselves that what they knew could not be true.