Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

She closed her eyes again, gritting her teeth.

Heard the cell phone.

Her eyes snapped open.

He looked at where it lay, flashing on the floor. “What’s this? A holiday well-wisher? Well, he or she will keep, too.”

Then she knew who it was.

It chirped a second time.

Only chance…

“You really should answer that, you know.”

He raised a brow. “And why should I do that, love?”

“Don’t you want to talk to the man who’s coming right now to kill you?”

Third chirp.

He looked amused. “And just who might that be?”

“Dylan Hunter.”

Fourth chirp.

A sneer twisted across his face.

“Do tell.”

Fifth chirp.

He reached down an ape-like arm for the phone.

Bethesda, Maryland

Thursday, December 25, 12:06 a.m.

Fifth chirp.

He was shaking, now.

I’m too late…

A soft click.

“Ho, ho, ho!” said the low, unmistakable voice. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Hunter!”

He reached out a hand to steady himself against the desk.

“This is the great Dylan Hunter, isn’t it?”

The name.

It reminded him of who he was.

He straightened. Went into his cold mission mode.

First, gather intel.

“Oh, excuse me. I must have misdialed. I was trying to reach a human being.”

Wulfe laughed.

“Well played, Mr. Hunter! I thought the sound of my voice on this lady’s phone would shock you to your core. But you sound so blase about it.”

He’s a sociopath. So manipulate his inflated ego. Keep him talking.

“You don’t surprise me at all, Wulfe. You’re entirely predictable. And that’s a fatal flaw.”

Pause.

“Oh really?” A tiny edge in the voice. “The little lady here seems to be under the delusion that you’re going to rescue her and her friend, and then somehow kill me.”

They’re still alive.

He grabbed his car keys, ran to the apartment door.

“You should have believed her, Wulfe. The little lady is right.”

Moved outside, into the hallway.

“My, my! Such bravado from a mere journalist.”

Not the elevator-the cell signal will cut out.

“A journalist deals only in facts, Wulfe. You’re as good as dead.”

He pushed through the emergency door, then hit the stairs, trying to keep his footsteps as quiet as possible while he flew down, two steps at a time.

Eighth floor…

“You know, you’re beginning to irritate me, Mr. Hunter. Perhaps as punishment for your disrespect, I’ll let you listen in while I begin having a bit of fun with Annie and Susie.”

Seventh floor…

Hasn’t started to torture them yet.

“Sorry, Wulfe. That’s just not going to happen.”

Sixth floor…

“You don’t think so? Well, then, just keep listening. I’ll put it on speakerphone for you.”

Fifth floor…

“Then you’re about as stupid as I figured.”

“Me, stupid?” Angry now. “Who’s really the stupid one, Mr. Hunter?”

Fourth floor…

“After all, you’re wherever you are, while I’m here with your two lovely friends…”

Third floor…

“And so, Mr. Hunter, much as I’m enjoying our friendly banter, I think I should return to my Christmas party and guests.”

You’ll never make it in time. Neither will the cops.

Second floor…

“Let me start with Annie…”

Have to stop him right now.

“Well, it’s going to be a very brief party, Wulfe.”

“You’re bluffing. I can hear the stress in your voice.”

Watch your breathing…

First floor…

“Not at all, moron. I figure you’ve got-oh, maybe five minutes.”

Pause.

“And how do you figure that, Mr. Hunter?”

Basement.

Thighs on fire, he shoved open the stairwell door, ran into the underground parking garage. Pushed his legs to move faster, toward the BMW.

“Because I know where you are, Wulfe.”

Pause.

“So where am I?”

He reached the car.

“Why, you’re at the Copeland residence, of course.”

Silence.

He unlocked the door, slid inside.

“Isn’t that right, Wulfe?”

Silence.

He closed the door quietly. Inserted the key into the ignition.

Don’t turn it over yet. He’ll hear.

“So, you really don’t want to start anything that you can’t finish, Wulfe. In fact, I think that if you don’t leave those ladies and run for it, you’ll be in handcuffs in…oh, let’s make that about four-and-a-half minutes, now.”

Silence.

“Unless I get to you first, that is. Don’t you remember what I promised you, Wulfe?”

Pause.

“All right, Mr. Hunter. I’ll be leaving now. But I do believe I still have enough time to take the lovely ladies with me.”

The phone went dead.

He turned the key and gunned the engine.

Tysons Corner, Virginia

Thursday, December 25, 12:11 a.m.

She watched him raise her cell phone above his head, then smash it to the floor. Pieces bounced in every direction.

He looked at her, his face a mask of cold fury.

He grabbed a large kitchen knife from the coffee table. Rushed to Susie and slashed through the bonds at her feet, freeing her legs. Then he grabbed her by the waist and lifted, raising her entire body so that her arms, with her hands still tied together behind her, cleared the back of the chair. He set her down on the seat again and began to slap her.

“Time to wake up, Susie… There’s my good girl.”

She began to moan, then struggled to hold herself upright.

He left her and moved quickly to Annie. Standing to the side of the chair so that she couldn’t kick him, he severed the bindings on her feet. Then the one around her midsection.

He returned to Susie, grabbed her by the hair, and dragged her out of the chair, over to where he had dumped the contents of Annie’s purse. Reached down and pawed through the mess until he found her car keys. Grabbed some of the cut-up ties.

Then stood and pressed the long edge of the knife to Susie’s throat.

“Now, Annie, you’re going to stand up and clear your hands from the back of the chair, just as I did for Susie. And then we’re all going upstairs, very fast, and out to your car. And if you try to run or resist or slow me down, I will cut her goddamned head off.”

12:11 a.m.

His custom BMW 7 Series High Security sedan surged out of the garage entrance.

He cut the wheel hard right, playing the gears and brakes as he had been trained in the Agency’s “crash and burn” courses over the years. Glancing to his left to make sure there was no traffic, he darted out onto Wisconsin, ripping another right.

He hit the buttons that lit up the blue-and-white strobes in the grill and rear windows and set off the police siren. Then punched it, accelerating up to Norfolk. Braking hard and working the wheel, he forced the heavy rear end of the armored car to skid around on the wet pavement so that it was sideways in the intersection, facing left.

Flooring it, he pushed it down Norfolk, whipping past the side streets with barely a glance, hoping his lights and siren would stop anyone from getting in his path.

Downshift, brake…hard left onto St. Elmo’s. Punch it again. Cross Old Georgetown.

Flying now down Wilson Lane…the high-performance V-12 engine climbing in seconds to eighty, ninety, one hundred…barreling right through stop signs and lights toward River Road and then the Beltway…

Verbal command to activate the onboard communication system… State the memorized phone number…

“Cronin,” said the familiar voice in the dash speaker.

“This is Hunter. Adrian Wulfe has kidnapped Annie Woods and Susanne Copeland at the Copeland home.” He gave the address. “Get the locals there, fast. I mean now, Cronin. ” He cut it off before the cop could utter a word.