Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

Nobody ratted him out for it: He knew it was a matter of honor that the Spics would want to settle it themselves. So he was ready when three of them, also big guys, came for him the next day. It happened down in the laundry room, where he worked sorting clothes. He wasn’t as nice about it that time. He left them barely alive, two of them with their own shivs sticking out of their guts. The third would never again walk without crutches or see out of his left eye.

Under questioning later, none of the eyewitnesses breathed a word about who had done it. Not after they saw what he could do. Not after he told them-with that little twisted smile that he had perfected in his youth-just what would happen to them if they did. Of course, he himself had no difficulty lying persuasively to the warden or staff. He could pass a polygraph with ease, and had. He’d once overheard his whore mother tell some John that her brat Addie could lie to God and get away with it. He smiled at the memory: It had been the only clever thing the bitch had ever said in her life.

He stretched and shook his ape-like arms, loosening the tight muscles.

So, from the beginning, things had been at least tolerable here. Not that he wanted to be here, of course. He wanted out. After all, he had plans. But, for the time being, whenever he told somebody to do something, they did it. Nobody had said no to Adrian Wulfe for decades.

At least, nobody did and lived.

Plans… He knew that the first things to do when he was free would be to settle some accounts. The call last night from Valenti had especially cheered him. That kid, at least, was reliable-not like the cokehead, Bracey. All impulse, no self-discipline. Little wonder that he’d gotten himself shot. From the story in the paper, there was little doubt he’d tried to stiff someone on a deal. On the other hand, with Jay-Jay, he’d picked well. The kid had come through for him again, this time with the information he needed about the two women.

He remembered every word they’d said to him. Remembered how, with Frankfurt there, he had to just sit there and smile and take it.

He closed his eyes, let his imagination run. First thing when he got out of here, it would be payback time. Especially with that arrogant Woods bitch. But damn, she was hot. She was going to be such fun…

An image intruded. The guy who’d come after him, out in the hallway. He’d gotten the man’s name easily enough from a guard who owed him, and he immediately recognized it as the name of the reporter who wrote about him in the Inquirer. But Valenti couldn’t find an address or much of anything else about him. Like this Hunter was a ghost or something, the kid said.

Strange. And why did this guy have such a hard-on about getting him, anyway? He recalled the guy’s eyes and voice. Both ice-cold, not at all frightened. How he moved: fast, smooth. No, not one of the usual pencil-neck reporters you run into.

He raised his hands before his face, opened and closed them. They were big, veined mitts, calloused and hardened from years of hard dojo training.

When he got out of here, he’d have to figure out a way to find him, too. After all, the man had threatened him. And in the presence of witnesses. That would never do.

Nobody threatened Adrian Wulfe and lived.

Tuesday, September 9, 12:45 p.m.

The dented old Chevy van bore the logo of Sorkin Cleaning Services. It was parked on a street in a quiet residential area, across from the entrance to a big, ornate, three-story Victorian sited on a spacious grassy lot. A small plate on the front door of the house, almost invisible to passers-by, bore the name Youth Horizons.

From behind the tinted glass of the van’s rear windows, the bearded man watched his target emerge from the house. The young guy had dark, curly hair and a thin wispy mustache. He walked up the sidewalk to a black Mustang that had pulled up a few minutes earlier. The driver, a skinny blond kid, tossed a cigarette out his window as his buddy got in on the passenger side. He’d left his radio on, thumping out rap music loud enough to be felt even here, in a closed van.

The man was back behind the wheel of the van as the Mustang’s driver revved his engine a few times, then screeched out of his parking space, laying down some rubber.

He eased the van ahead, made a quick U-turn in a driveway, then followed the Mustang. He kept his distance, staying back just far enough so that they wouldn’t spot him. But with the noise and wild gesturing he could see inside the car, he could have probably sat in their back seat without being noticed.

Alexandria, Virginia

Tuesday, September 9, 7:30 p.m.

“Come on, man. You go.”

Stretched out on the threadbare sofa, Johnny Valenti tried to ignore his friend. He couldn’t take his eyes off the pay-per-view porn. The two babes getting it on were really putting him in the mood for when Jamie and Vicki would show up in just another half hour.

“You hard of hearing, Jay-Jay?” Keith Janiels demanded. Valenti was dimly aware of the sound of the refrigerator closing, then steps approaching. He glanced up and saw his friend, beer in hand, walk to the end table, pick up the remote, then click it off.

“Hey! What the hell!”

“Screw you, Jay-Jay. I got the pizza last time.”

“Look, you have the car, and I’m paying. So you go get it.” Valenti shoved his hands into the pocket of his jeans, emerged with a crumpled twenty, tossed it onto the coffee table. “Come on, dickhead, they’ll be here soon.”

Janiels cursed, grabbed the bill, and headed toward the door. His baggy, ripped-up jeans hung almost off his ass. “We shoulda just had it delivered.”

“You know they don’t deliver in this neighborhood.”

“Well, leave me a few beers, will you?” Janiels grabbed his worn leather jacket from a chair and left, banging the apartment door behind him.

“Jerk-off,” Valenti said, reaching for the remote to click the porn back on. Then he noticed the coffee table was covered with crumbs and empty snack bags. His eyes drifted around the room, taking in the dirty clothes, beer cans, and butts scattered everywhere. Didn’t he ever clean this dump? Christ, what are the girls gonna think?

He sighed and rolled off the sofa to his feet. He’d better tidy up a bit. Women were funny about stuff like that. No point in wrecking their mood.

He was cramming a handful of trash into the heaping garbage can in the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink when he heard the knocking.

It had only been a couple of minutes. Goddamned Keith probably forgot his keys again. “Yeah, hang on.” He wiped off his hands on the sides of his jeans as he went to the door. “Lock yourself out again, moron?”

He opened it and found himself staring into the eyes of a bearded stranger.

Before he could react, the guy snapped a fast kick into his gut. As he buckled forward, there was another blur and something banged into his skull.

His next memory was feeling his face being slapped, over and over, hard, stinging blows. His eyes flickered open on the face of the bearded dude, hovering just inches above his face. He now found himself on the floor. His head and abdomen hurt so damned much that his body shook with spasms and he couldn’t breathe or speak. The guy was saying something to him, words he couldn’t put together.

Then the guy got up, leaving him curled on the floor, gasping and quivering. Eventually, the spinning slowed and the dude’s words began to come together. He wore a baseball cap and some kind of gray, cover-all uniform.

And he pointed a black handgun right at his head.

“You with me now, Jay-Jay? Did you hear a word I said?”

He could only grunt and shake his head, which made it hurt worse.