Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

He turned to her, eyes twinkling.

“Second most stunning woman I’ve ever met.”

Bethesda, Maryland

Friday, October 3, 8:07 p.m.

He parked the Forester in a reserved spot in the apartment’s underground garage. Then he went around to help her out and carried her suitcase to one of the elevators, where they ascended to the ninth floor of the tower.

“Welcome to my secret lair,” he said, pushing open the door to his apartment.

She stepped inside and wandered into the living room. “Nice digs, Mr. Hunter. Nice furniture.” She looked at the walls, ran her hand over a piece of classical sculpture on a bookcase. “Fine taste in art.” She went to stand at the sliding window to the balcony, her back to him. “Beautiful view.”

“Beautiful view from here, too.”

She turned and made a face. “You’re bad.”

“This is news?”

She looked at the floor. “Oh, my! What have we here?”

“The other woman in my life. Annie, meet Luna.”

The cat approached her one cautious step at a time, sniffing the air.

“Well, hello, Luna.” She bent over and extended a hand. The cat leaned forward, took a whiff of her fingertips, then proceeded confidently beneath her palm. Annie stroked her and the cat responded by rubbing against her legs.

“Dylan, I figured you as more of a dog guy than a cat guy.”

“I like dogs, but they’re too damned much work. Especially in an apartment.”

“I suppose you also identify with cats because they like their independence.”

He stifled the urge to smile. “There’s that.”

“Okay, I consider myself warned. So, who takes care of your baby when you aren’t here?”

“I pay a neighbor kid to stop by and do that, and to water the plants.”

She picked up the cat and scratched her head. Luna closed her eyes appreciatively.

“Now that was quick bonding. You’ve passed the pet test.”

“And if I didn’t, are you saying that you’d dump me for this cat?”

“In a heartbeat. She doesn’t cost as much to feed.”

Hyattsville, Maryland

Wednesday, October 22, 8:40 p.m.

Too easy.

That was the thing. Car break-ins here were just too damned easy. That’s why Tomas Cardenas and Manuel Maldonado liked working the parking lot at the Mall at Prince Georges.

That’s what he concluded after watching the pair for the past two evenings. He’d remained hidden in his car, studying them through the SuperVision scope to get a sense of their methods and physical capabilities. Cardenas, a tall, rail-thin ex-con, covered the lot methodically with his squat, beefy partner. Maldonado was a cholo in the same Mexican gang and, like Cardenas, a stone-cold killer.

They showed up each night about eight-twenty, arriving from the Prince Georges Metro station across the highway. They carried empty duffle bags over their shoulders. They wandered into the parking lot, well beyond the useful range of the security cameras, and hid among the vehicles until the patrolling guards cruised past. Then they systematically checked the parked cars until they found ones with shopping bags or nice electronics. One guy would stand watch while the other broke in. Along with store purchases, they pulled out stereos, GPS devices, and any other valuables, dumping the loot into the duffle bags. When the bags were loaded, they left on foot. The whole process took just over half an hour.

The first night, he trailed them from the lot back to the pedestrian bridge that crossed over the East-West Highway and into the Metro station. At that hour, with few people around, he hung back, so they wouldn’t spot him. He knew where they were headed-back to their apartments in the projects, just one Metro stop away. He’d scoped out that location previously; no good. Too many residents up all night.

The takedown would be easier here. Not easy. But easier.

Tonight, his vantage point was the second floor of the stairwell-and-elevator structure that brought shoppers up onto the pedestrian bridge-the same one the two gangsters had crossed to get here from the Metro. From this perch, he used the scope to keep an eye on them as they worked the lot.

This was where he’d intercept them when they returned.

Standing isolated at the edge of the parking lot, the drab concrete structure was like a small military blockhouse. Its walls were covered with grimy beige ceramic tiles, meant to resist graffiti; its floors were pimpled with dried wads of chewing gum and streaked with urine stains that ran from the corners. The passenger elevator was out of service, forcing anyone brave enough to enter at this hour to climb the narrow stairwell. The stairs were enclosed on both sides with thick wire mesh, which also extended out across the footbridge.

Like being trapped in a cage. A perfect spot for a predator to stalk his prey.

Somebody had trashed the stairwell security camera. Bad for public safety, but one less thing for him to worry about. He’d also taken care of the lights, so that he could remain in shadows. And he’d changed his appearance, too. The cops were looking for the bearded, red-haired guy from the Alexandria courthouse. But the rare person walking past him now saw a clean-shaven blond guy in a gray raincoat and black gloves, leaning against the wall and blathering into his cell phone about some meeting in New York.

Like the previous missions, this one had its own challenges. His chief target was Cardenas, not Maldonado, but he’d have to subdue both. He’d left his vehicle not far away, as close as he could park to this structure. Plan A was to incapacitate Maldonado and leave him here, then force Cardenas to the car at gunpoint. Plan B was to kill Maldonado on the spot, if necessary, then proceed with Plan A. Plan C was a contingency if everything went south; it had some basic elements worked out, then required a lot of improvising.

But absolutely no hesitation. That’s why, before every mission, he liked to recall the criminal history of the perp. To put himself in the proper frame of mind.

Since his early teens, Tomas Ernesto Cardenas had belonged to a Mexican crime gang. At seventeen, he was charged with conspiracy to commit first-degree murder in the shooting death of a sixteen-year-old during a drug dispute. The charges were dropped a month later. The next year, Cardenas pled guilty to a firearms charge and was sentenced to a five-year prison term. But the judge suspended four years and nine months, giving him just five years of probation. Over the next two years, he was charged three times with probation violations. Yet despite the insistence of his probation officer, he was never sent back to prison.

He raised the SuperVision scope and studied the guy again. Six-three, skinny, baggy low-slung jeans, hooded sports jersey. Furtive eyes, darting around like a rat’s. If the bastard had gone to prison, he wouldn’t have been free to participate with an accomplice in that drive-by gang shooting five years ago.

The night when one of his stray bullets took the life of George Banacek’s boy, Tommy.

Now, the legal system’s revolving door had spun again, dumping Cardenas and Orlando Ramirez Navarro-his partner that fatal night-back onto the streets. An advocacy group appealed the manslaughter convictions of Cardenas and Navarro on grounds that the lead detective was “prejudiced,” based on a record of past ethnic slurs against Mexican-Americans. The detective’s testimony had been critical in getting the convictions. Now, the pair was free once more, pending a new trial.

He took a last long look at Cardenas. Then tucked the scope into a deep inner pocket of the raincoat.

He was more than ready.

*

Just before nine, he checked his watch again. This is when they’d quit the past two nights. He glanced outside and, sure enough, they were headed his way.