Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

It couldn’t be.

It couldn’t be.

But then everything else began to tumble into place.

Matt Malone, CIA master of assassination and disguise…and of surveillance detection.

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.

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?”