Hunter dh-1 Page 33

  The Target stood beside the island, grinning arrogantly, whirling the knives before him in a blinding fog of motion, trying to reduce him to cringing, terrified paralysis.

  But he had analyzed this Target’s vulnerabilities, and he knew how to strike them. For his apparent strengths-his menacing size, his intimidating bravado, his lust to overpower-masked the pathetic reality. Like all sociopaths, this one had an eggshell ego. Like those bullies so long ago, on the playground of his childhood, this Target’s unquenchable craving for power over others was a measure of his utter sense of impotence. His desperate quest to demonstrate his power to himself and others was proof that he didn’t have it.

  Hunter had that knowledge. And it was his first weapon.

  “Are you having fun way over there, Mr. Wulfe?” he mocked.

  He watched the arrogant grin erode into an angry grimace. Wulfe stepped out in front of the island, moving the knives around more deliberately, his feet sliding into patterns and then setting into a stance that revealed martial arts training.

  Good to know.

  Time to employ his other weapon. A weapon he had mastered.

  Deception.

  Don’t reveal your own martial arts expertise. Let him think you’re no threat.

  Hunter took a step forward. Stood casually, hands down at his sides.

  He saw the Target’s faint smile in response. He’s thinking, This will be too easy.

  Now goad him some more.

  “You’re boring me, Mr. Wulfe.”

  Saw the anger blaze in his eyes.

  Now, combine mockery with deception.

  Hunter turned to the side, swinging his right arm behind him.

  “See? I’ll fight you with one arm behind my back.”

  Watched the anger in the eyes boil over into rage, uncontrollable-and uncontrolled.

  The Target lunged toward him, technique forgotten, one knife drawn back to deliver a spear thrust, the other raised to slash down on him.

  Deception.

  In one motion, Hunter drew the combat knife from its sheath on the belt at his back, leaped to the right to avoid the onrushing Target, and slashed down on the spearing forearm.

  That knife fell from the Target’s nerveless fingers.

  Hunter turned to press the attack from behind, but the Target’s own combat reflexes took over, and he spun to face him again.

  Now positioned between Hunter and the women.

  Not good.

  Deception.

  Hunter feinted his own lunge, forcing the surprised Target to recoil a step, but instead he leaped to his side, then two quick steps past him toward the women, then pivoting to face him.

  Again between them and the Target.

  Mock him. Goad him. Use details from his file…

  “What’s the matter, Addie,” he said. “Did I give you a boo-boo?”

  The Target glanced at his left sleeve, shock in his eyes. A slash across the red flannel was turning a deeper shade, and crimson drops fell from the tips of fingers that now dangled uselessly.

  Then his eyes narrowed. He danced back into the center of the room, retreating.

  “Again, Mr. Hunter, well played. I believe I underestimated you. As I did your little whore there,” he said, nodding toward Annie. “But you will find that I never make the same mistake twice.”

  Hunter knew that he’d lost the initial advantage of surprise. But now the Target was injured and his confidence rattled.

  Time to finish this.

  He danced out to meet him.

  They moved from side to side, warily now, jockeying for position and advantage, looking for openings and mistakes to exploit.

  Goad him some more.

  “Does Addie want Mommy to come kiss his boo-boo and make it better?”

  Watched the anger flare.

  But then die. Saw the Target’s eyes grow cold.

  Sociopath or not, he had been well-trained. That training was now in control.

  He realized he’d lost a psychological weapon, too.

  Now it was just a matter of skill. And determination.

  He flipped his knife from his right hand to his left, feinted a thrust and snapped it back.

  The Target slashed at it, hitting empty air.

  He’d hoped for that, and lunged in again, stabbing the tip toward the Target’s exposed chest.

  Then everything went wrong.

  The Target had anticipated too. Astonishingly quick, he hopped back onto his left foot and leaned away from the blade while snapping a cobra-fast kick with his right, into his left forearm.

  Into the still-healing tendons from the dog bite.

  The combat knife sailed across the room, clattering off the wall and onto the floor.

  He was now exposed, wide open to the Target’s blade.

  “Dylan!”

  The natural impulse was to jump back. But in an instant calculation born of years of combat training and experience-and before the Target could straighten and recover his two-footed balance, then move in for the kill-he continued his forward momentum instead, rushing into him, seizing him and propelling him backward into a crashing impact against the island. Their bodies fell onto its top, spilling everything onto the floor.

  His body was now pressed down upon the Target’s atop the island, their faces inches apart, eye to eye. He looked down into the blank gray depths, sensing fear.

  Then something else.

  Suddenly he felt searing pain in his left thigh. His breath left him as the agony coursed through him. A look of triumph blazed in the Target’s eyes.

  He had to stop a second thrust.

  He snapped his forehead down hard, a stunning blow against the bridge of the the Target’s nose. Then again, a crunching smash against his mouth.

  Then pushed back, feeling the blade tear out of his leg.

  “Dylan!”

  Someone’s voice again, far away.

  He heard the Target’s bellows of pain but he was dealing with his own. He hopped back, mostly on his right leg, empty-handed, needing to play for time, now, trying to recover his advantage.

  Then felt the pulsing in his left thigh, the hot spurts soaking the inside of his jeans, and he knew that time was one thing he wouldn’t have.

  He looked up. All the deadly kitchen utensils were scattered around the island, behind the Target.

  Who raised himself from the top of the island, his useless left hand pawing at his nose and mouth. His nose was bleeding profusely, his lips a crushed pulp. He spat a bloody mess and Hunter heard the rattle of teeth hitting the floor.

  Hunter’s left leg and hand were out of commission.

  His right hand was empty.

  Only one good leg.

  And he started to feel dizzy.

  “Dylan!” Another scream.

  Annie…

  What could he do?

  Do what you know best.

  Deception.

  He staggered back, hopping on his right leg, leaving a trail of blood from his left along the floor. Then stopped. Stood there, tottering. A crimson puddle formed on the floor around his left foot.

  He looked at the Target. Saw his eyes follow the smear of blood from the island, across the polished wood floor, to the rapidly growing pool at his feet.

  Then Hunter’s left leg buckled beneath him, and he sagged to the floor.

  He was sitting, now. Only his upper body and right knee remained upright. He leaned against the raised thigh, his right hand clasping his ankle to keep from falling over.

  He was getting dizzier. He knew he was bleeding out.

  He raised his head.

  He saw that the Target knew it, too. He leaned back against the island on unsteady legs, but his bloodied mouth bore a twisted grin.

  Waiting now for him to bleed to death.

  Goad him.

  “You should see what I did to you, you puke,” Hunter said. “I really did a number on that ugly face of yours.”

  Saw the grin vanish.

/>   Hurry…

  “What’s the matter, you pussy? Afraid to finish me? I figured you were going to kick the crap out of me.”

  The Target’s eyes, so long dead, came to life. Even across the room, he could see the towering rage building in them.

  “Dylan!”

  “Where are your balls, Wulfe?”

  The Target approached him, now, stumbling, still half-stunned, with one immobilized arm, but on two powerful legs and with a long knife in his perfectly good right hand. Coming to finish him.

  Deception.

  “So go ahead, you worthless piece of shit. Come and stomp me.”

  “Dylan! Dylan!”

  Hunter clung to the cold, high place.

  Hurry…

  The Target loomed above him. His face was a ghastly red mask. Savage hatred burned in the once-dead eyes. He paused, weaving slightly.

  “Stomp you?” his voice rumbled. “It will be a pleasure.”

  He raised a heavy boot to crush his skull.

  Just before it reached its apex, Hunter swept up his left arm, batting the foot outward-

  – while his right hand shot up and slammed the smaller combat knife from his ankle sheath into the man’s groin.

  *

  Adrian Wulfe felt a giant spike of incredible pain shoot from his groin upward and outward, a shockwave that reverberated jarringly throughout his entire body. He screamed, an endless scream, dropping the knife, his hands clawing madly below his waist, trying to find the source of the red-hot spike, trying to make it stop, anything to make it stop and he was up on his toes, staggering backward away from the man, away from the source of that pain and he was about to fall…

  *

  With a last surge of adrenalin, Hunter pushed himself off the floor. He stood, feeling nothing now, watching the strange figure dancing frantically in front of him, then making mincing little steps backward.

  He reeled toward that figure, the Target, his Target, the beast who had taken Annie, and now he would put an end to him because he was no longer on that high cold Olympus anymore, he was right down there in some savage place, a place where suppressed rage and controlled violence were now unleashed to rule…

  He followed that retreating figure on legs that seemed unreliable, that seemed mired in mud, hurtling through fog, someone yelling his name, eyes on the Target…

  And now he caught the Target and was pushing him back, once again bending him backward over that island countertop, collapsing onto him, staring into that mangled face. And then he remembered what he had just done, and he lifted himself enough to see the hilt protruding and blood pouring around it, and then he looked into those eyes, those hateful, bulging, agony-filled eyes, and recalled something else…

  “Remember what I promised, Wulfe?” he heard someone’s rasping voice. “I said this face would be the last thing you ever saw. Look at it while you die, Wulfe.”

  Then he gripped him by the shoulders and roaring with his final burst of unleashed rage, he smashed upward with his right knee, driving the hilt all the way into the Target’s body.

  Watched the Target’s eyes snap open impossibly wide, then roll back somewhere into his skull.

  Felt the body beneath him grow limp.

  He pushed away and staggered and fell onto his back.

  Raised his head. Watched the Target slowly slide off the island, down onto his knees, then face forward onto the floor.

  The Target’s head landed on a newspaper. A red stain began to spread over it.

  Then everything started to fade…

  *

  “Dylan!… Dylan!… Wake up goddamn you wake up Dylan!”

  He knew that voice.

  Oh yes. Annie. Where are you, Annie?

  “Dylan!”

  Something clicked somewhere far down in his brain.

  He tried to say her name. Couldn’t.

  Knew that somehow he had to find her.

  Couldn’t let her go.

  Opened his eyes.

  A ceiling. Spinning around.

  “Dylan! Please, Dylan!”

  He rolled onto his side. His head was swaying, as if disconnected from his shoulders. He tried to see where the voice was coming from.

  Oh. There she is. Way over there. How did you get way over there?

  “Dylan. Darling, you have to come to me. You have to crawl to me.”

  Of course, Annie. Just let me rest here a minute…

  “Dylan!” A scream. “Wake up! Now crawl over here. Hurry, Dylan!”

  Okay, Annie. I love you, you know…

  He clawed his hands along the floor. It was so slippery. What is that, blood? Yes, I remember. Annie, I’m coming…

  Saw the wooden boards under him moving. One at a time.

  “That’s it, my love… Yes, keep coming… You’re getting closer now.”

  So hard… Why is this so hard… No energy… Everything so numb…

  “Don’t stop! That’s right… You’re almost here… Dylan… Listen. Do you see that knife there beside you? The knife, Dylan! Bring me the knife!”

  What knife? Oh, there it is. I’m trying, Annie…

  “There! You have the knife. Now bring it to me, Dylan.”

  Everything so crazy. Light one minute, dark the next. Maybe when I get to Annie we can sleep…

  “Okay, Dylan darling, I need you to do one more thing. Just one more, okay?”

  There you are. You’re so beautiful. One more thing.

  “Take the knife, Dylan. See, behind the chair? My hands are tied. I need you to cut that thing off my hands. Do it, Dylan… Do it now!”

  Yes, I see it. I’ll try, Annie… It’s so hard, though…

  “I feel it, Dylan, keep going, you’re doing fine, just keep cutting!”

  Everything swimming. Knife. Back and forth. So hard.

  He watched the funny piece of cloth part just as he lost his grip on the knife.

  Then it was dark.

  Then he felt himself being rolled over.

  A face over his.

  Hello, Annie.

  He closed his eyes again.

  Something pressing on his leg, squeezing.

  Poking into his jeans pocket.

  Somebody talking.

  Grant! Shut up and listen to me…

  Grant.

  I know that name…

  FORTY

  Falls Church, Virginia

  Thursday, December 25, 1:58 a.m.

  Ed Cronin didn’t often see this much blood at a crime scene.

  The metallic smell of it hung thick in the air. Before long, he knew, it would have a slightly rancid edge, before they cleaned it up. The CSI boys and photographer were having trouble navigating it while working over the body.

  He stood once again in the hallway entrance, just to survey the scene and try to get a sense of what had gone down.

  Somebody had called it in to the locals about 1:20 a.m., anonymously, and when the first black-and-whites arrived, it was just like the Copeland place: front door open, tire tracks everywhere, but nobody home.

  Except the stiff. He could tell it was Wulfe.

  He couldn’t read the newspaper underneath the guy’s head, but he had little doubt it was related to the vigilantes.

  When he got here about ten minutes ago, the neighbors huddled outside the tape told him what they’d seen. Just a couple minutes past one, flashing lights and car engine noise woke them up. They looked out and saw three black SUVs and an orange-and-white ambulance with its strobes going. Their neighbor, Annie Woods, was standing at the front door of her house, wearing what looked like a gown, and she was waving frantically at them. About a dozen people spilled out of the cars and ran inside while the EMTs followed with a couple of stretchers.

  Then, barely a minute later, about six of them came charging out with one of the stretchers and somebody on it. They carried it, not rolled it, very fast over to the back of the ambulance. One of the people was Annie, and she looked like she was running barefoot through
the snow alongside the stretcher. Then the other stretcher came out, just as fast, with somebody else on it, and they brought that to the ambulance, too. Then they moved aside and one of them slapped the side of the ambulance and they heard him yelling Go! Go! Go!

  Then they jumped in two of the SUVs and hauled ass out of there, following the ambulance. About one-fifteen, two guys came out of the house with a bunch of stuff in their hands-no telling what-and got into the last SUV. Then they sped away, too.

  What the hell is going on here?

  Annie Woods.

  Wulfe.

  Then who was on the stretcher?

  Susanne Copeland?

  Who else?

  And those SUVs-what is that all about?

  Watching his steps, he went over to one of the CSIs who was kneeling over the body.

  “All that blood. Looks like whoever did this really butchered him,” he said.

  The tech looked up, glanced back at the pool and smear across the floor. “That blood’s not from this guy. He’s mashed up and bleeding, all right, but not leaking that bad.”

  Whose, then? Copeland? Jesus, I hope not. The poor woman.

  Then he remembered the dog.

  Blood from one of the vigilantes?

  “Make sure to get plenty of samples, then.”

  “Let’s not do that,” said a voice behind him.

  In the entranceway, Marty Abrams was standing next to some tall, older guy in a gray suit.

  He went over to them.

  “What are you talking about, Marty? And who’s this?”

  The guy had steel-gray hair to match his suit, and a hard face. He held up credentials.

  Cronin looked close. Felt something turn over inside of him.

  “Grant Garrett,” the man said. “Please come out to my car. We’ve got to talk.”

  Walter Reed Medical Center Bethesda, Maryland

  Thursday, December 25, 10:09 a.m.

  The first thing he was conscious of was the familiar smells of antiseptics and bandages. Then the familiar feeling of pain, all over his body.

  Then he opened his eyes on the equally familiar sight of a hospital room.

  “Hello, Matt,” said a gravelly voice. Also familiar.

  He turned his head and saw Garrett, legs crossed, fingers entwined across his middle, sitting in a chair next to the window.