Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

She knew she was trembling visibly now, and hated herself for it. She didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. But she couldn’t help it.

“Do you keep this door locked?”

She shook her head.

“Silly girl. All right, you’re going to disarm your home alarm when we go inside. Open the door, then stand right there.”

She did. He shoved her unexpectedly, causing her to stumble and fall to her knees. He dumped Susie on the floor next to her, then grabbed her by the hair, putting the knife to her throat.

“Get up… Now where is the alarm?”

“Over there.”

He marched her to the keypad on the wall. Her legs were like rubber, her arms like lead. She’d never be able to move fast enough to disarm him now.

“Key in the code.”

She raised her eyes and hand to the alarm box. And stopped.

The alarm was already off.

Her pulse began to pound.

“What’s the matter?”

“I must have forgotten to set it,” she said, her voice quavering.

He laughed. “You really are stupid. Don’t you know there are dangerous men prowling the neighborhood?”

*

Flipping lights on as they went, he nudged them along from behind with his body, his knife never leaving Annie’s throat. Their perfume excited him almost as much as their fear. Still, as he passed the kitchen, he was suddenly aware that he hadn’t eaten all day.

“All this running around has worked up my appetite,” he murmured in the redhead’s ear. “So before we celebrate the holiday, let’s grab a bite, shall we?”

He pushed them inside. It was bright, modern, spacious. White cabinets with small-paned glass doors hung over marble countertops. Bowls, a carving set, and a container of large kitchen utensils sat on an island with a butcher block top. On the opposite end of the kitchen was a breakfast area with a small rectangular table and high-backed chairs.

“All right, let’s seat you ladies here at the table. Annie, please help Susie into her chair… Now, pull her arms behind it, like before, and tie this around her wrists.” He reached into his pocket and tossed her one of Arthur’s ties that he had brought with him.

When she finished, he pushed her to the facing chair at the table. From behind, he dropped another tie onto her lap. “Put one end around your left wrist, and tie it tightly… Okay, now put both hands behind the back of the chair.”

Still behind her, the knife at her throat, he used his free hand to tie her wrists together. It was hard, but he managed. Then stepped around in front of her.

“There. You’re not going anywhere.” He looked at the other one. “Oh dear, it looks as if Susie has passed out again. Poor thing must be as starved as I am. Well, time to see what’s in the fridge.”

He crossed the room toward the refrigerator, dropping his knife on the island. It landed beside a newspaper resting there. He glanced at it in passing, then did a double-take and stopped.

The Hunter article about the MacLean Foundation.

Annoyed, he picked it up and shook it at the brunette bitch.

“A big fan of Mr. Hunter, aren’t you?”

She smiled. “Want to know why?” Her eyes turned toward the hallway.

*

He stepped into the kitchen, quiet as a panther.

Stopped between Wulfe and the women.

“You want me to autograph that for you, Wulfe?”

It stunned him. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said softly.

“You are,” Hunter said.

The cocky bastard seemed to be unarmed, too. Incredible.

Wulfe snatched up his knife from the counter. Then grabbed a carving knife.

I’ll skin that smirk right off his face.

“I’m going to enjoy this, Mr. Hunter.”

“No you’re not.”

*

She knew that he was in the house, from the instant she saw that the alarm was off. She’d shown him how to do that when he had stayed here, weeks before. And she knew then that he would lie in wait for the right moment, when Wulfe no longer hovered near them with the knife.

She saw him make his move when the monster went toward the fridge: saw first his spectral shadow slide across the wall and floor of the hallway, then watched how he glided in noiselessly, like some dark ghost-a ghost loosed years ago to haunt and hunt faraway enemies in stinking alleys and high-mountain deserts.

She saw him wink at her, then turn to face this new enemy: a malignant Goliath who had shattered lives here, in the homeland he’d so deeply loved and gallantly defended. She saw him for what he always had been: a shadow soldier, performing unsung a sacred duty that had been abdicated by those hired and sworn to perform it.

She knew then that, whatever happened now, he had always deserved her trust and loyalty. And she was honored to have lived to have his love, if only for weeks-and if only for a few minutes more.

“I love you, Dylan Hunter,” she said.

He did not turn; he continued to face the monster across the room; but he seemed to stand taller, and she heard him reply:

“I love you, Annie Woods.”

*

He watched the slow sneer form on the Target’s face across the kitchen.

“Oh-silly me! I should have known,” the Target said. He swung out his gorilla arms in wide circles, loosening his shoulders, the blades glinting beneath the lights. “So you’ve come to rescue your lady love. Mr. Hunter, you’ve just doubled my pleasure.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts.”

He was no longer distracted by fear or fury. He had climbed to that cold Olympian summit, the place where he always went at these moments, where he could look down at the Target with chill, clinical detachment.

The Target stood beside the island, grinning arrogantly, whirling the knives before him in a blinding fog of motion, trying to reduce him to cringing, terrified paralysis.

But he had analyzed this Target’s vulnerabilities, and he knew how to strike them. For his apparent strengths-his menacing size, his intimidating bravado, his lust to overpower-masked the pathetic reality. Like all sociopaths, this one had an eggshell ego. Like those bullies so long ago, on the playground of his childhood, this Target’s unquenchable craving for power over others was a measure of his utter sense of impotence. His desperate quest to demonstrate his power to himself and others was proof that he didn’t have it.

Hunter had that knowledge. And it was his first weapon.

“Are you having fun way over there, Mr. Wulfe?” he mocked.

He watched the arrogant grin erode into an angry grimace. Wulfe stepped out in front of the island, moving the knives around more deliberately, his feet sliding into patterns and then setting into a stance that revealed martial arts training.

Good to know.

Time to employ his other weapon. A weapon he had mastered.

Deception.

Don’t reveal your own martial arts expertise. Let him think you’re no threat.

Hunter took a step forward. Stood casually, hands down at his sides.

He saw the Target’s faint smile in response. He’s thinking, This will be too easy.

Now goad him some more.

“You’re boring me, Mr. Wulfe.”

Saw the anger blaze in his eyes.

Now, combine mockery with deception.

Hunter turned to the side, swinging his right arm behind him.

“See? I’ll fight you with one arm behind my back.”

Watched the anger in the eyes boil over into rage, uncontrollable-and uncontrolled.

The Target lunged toward him, technique forgotten, one knife drawn back to deliver a spear thrust, the other raised to slash down on him.

Deception.

In one motion, Hunter drew the combat knife from its sheath on the belt at his back, leaped to the right to avoid the onrushing Target, and slashed down on the spearing forearm.

That knife fell from the Target’s nerveless fingers.