Hunter: A Thriller (41 page)

“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....

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.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” the spymaster added, gesturing toward the surroundings.

“So you found me.”

“Nope. She called me. Lucky thing, too, because of how close by we are. Another minute or two and you’d have been room temperature.”

Then he remembered. “Annie! Is she okay?”

He raised a hand. “Fine, fine. Take it easy. From what she told me, you saved her neck, just in time. And Susanne’s, too.”

He closed his eyes.

“They’re down the hall a ways. Under sedation. They’ve apparently been through hell, but they’ll be okay.... What Annie told me before they put her under, though—it’s pretty damned incredible. Even for you.”

“You know it all, then.”

“Probably not. But enough.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “So why in hell did you get mixed up in all this vigilante stuff?”

Hunter turned away, his gaze fixing on the ceiling.

“I never intended to. It just happened. When I bugged out after the plastic surgery and went to ground, I figured I’d just resurface as somebody else, and try to live a normal life.”

“You? Normal?”

“Okay. As normal as I can be. But then I heard about Arthur Copeland and his wife.”

He stopped. His eyes rested on the drip bag next to the bed. He had trouble getting the rest out.

“I owed that man, Grant. I owed him everything. He gave me this face. A chance at a new life. So when I heard that the animals that attacked them had been set free—”

He turned back to him. “I just couldn’t let it go. I couldn’t walk away.”

Something softened in Garrett’s face. “You never could.”

He shut his eyes again. The two of them were quiet for a while. He listened to the faint sound of voices somewhere out in the hall. He felt the tightness of the wrap around his thigh under the sheets. Felt the heavy bandage on his left forearm. The dull aches in other places that he didn’t know had been hurt.

“Seeing as how I just saved your sorry ass again,” Garrett said, “I’d like to know a few things. If you don’t mind, that is.”

“Fire away.”

“I know you’ve got reasons, lots of reasons, to be pissed at the Agency.”

“Whatever gave you that idea.”

“So. You took out Muller, right?”

“Of course.”

“Of course.” Garrett paused. Then: “Are you willing to let it go at that?”

He thought about it. About everything he’d been through. About what they allowed to happen to him. About the betrayals, at the highest levels.

Then he thought about what he had now. And about what might be ahead for him.

“I’ll let it go.”

Garrett got up, stood over him. Extended his hand.

“Then so will we.”

He looked up at his old boss, took the hand, and shook it.

Garrett didn’t release it. “Matt, I know this is a stupid question. You wouldn’t think of coming back and working for us, again, would you?”

“You’re right. It’s a stupid question.”

“Then how about working directly for me?”

He smiled. “That’s not a stupid question. And thank you, Grant. But no.”

Garrett looked sad. “You know, son, there are many days that I envy you.”

“Don’t. I’m glad you’re there. You’re holding it all together, Grant. I shudder to think of how bad things would get if you weren’t.”

Garrett coughed.

“Still smoking?”

Garrett shrugged.

“Please stop.”

Garrett shrugged again. “I’ll check on you later. You’ll be here for a bit. Not too long, maybe a week. But you’ve been busted up pretty badly, and they have to put you back together again. Don’t worry, it’s on the Company’s tab.”

He picked up his overcoat from the other chair. “Don’t run off again, Matt. You won’t have to do that anymore. Promise?”

He smiled again. “I promise.” Then added: “Grant?”

“Yes?”

“Call me Dylan.”

They looked at each other. A moment passed.

Grant Garrett smiled. Actually smiled.

“See you later, Dylan Hunter.”

Then turned and left.

He shut his eyes again.

*

Felt something.

Someone lifting the sheets from his body. He opened his eyes.

She was climbing into the bed with him.

He seized her, and she him.

They clung to each other and looked into each other’s eyes.

Then, like her, he began to tremble.

Then, like her—and for the first time since his father died—he cried.

*

The morning sun had moved, leaving only a soft afterglow in the window. It framed her as she sat in the chair next to his bed. She held his right hand in both of hers, neither of them wanting to let go. After a while, she said:

“My father visited me here this morning.”

He knew they had to face this together. “Yes?”

“This was even harder for him, you know. He almost lost me. To somebody from one of his own programs. The guilt over this is almost killing him.”

He could only listen.

“I tried to calm him down. We talked a long time. He’s not sure what he’s going to do, now. But I know there will be big changes in the foundation. For one thing, what he saw on the screen at the Christmas party...it really opened his eyes about
Frankfurt
. That, and now
Wulfe
. He told me that he was going to call
Frankfurt
today and fire him.”

“On Christmas Day?”

“He said he couldn’t do it fast enough. Then he’s going to cut off funding of
Frankfurt
’s programs and others like it. He doesn’t want to be responsible for any more things like...what happened.”

“I’m glad.”

“I suggested that maybe he could direct money toward victims of crime, instead. Groups such as Vigilance for Victims. He liked that.”

“That’s a great idea.” He paused. “Annie?”

“Yes?”