Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

“Remember what I promised, Wulfe?” he heard someone’s rasping voice. “I said this face would be the last thing you ever saw. Look at it while you die, Wulfe.”

Then he gripped him by the shoulders and roaring with his final burst of unleashed rage, he smashed upward with his right knee, driving the hilt all the way into the Target’s body.

Watched the Target’s eyes snap open impossibly wide, then roll back somewhere into his skull.

Felt the body beneath him grow limp.

He pushed away and staggered and fell onto his back.

Raised his head. Watched the Target slowly slide off the island, down onto his knees, then face forward onto the floor.

The Target’s head landed on a newspaper. A red stain began to spread over it.

Then everything started to fade…

*

“Dylan!… Dylan!… Wake up goddamn you wake up Dylan!”

He knew that voice.

Oh yes. Annie. Where are you, Annie?

“Dylan!”

Something clicked somewhere far down in his brain.

He tried to say her name. Couldn’t.

Knew that somehow he had to find her.

Couldn’t let her go.

Opened his eyes.

A ceiling. Spinning around.

“Dylan! Please, Dylan!”

He rolled onto his side. His head was swaying, as if disconnected from his shoulders. He tried to see where the voice was coming from.

Oh. There she is. Way over there. How did you get way over there?

“Dylan. Darling, you have to come to me. You have to crawl to me.”

Of course, Annie. Just let me rest here a minute…

“Dylan!” A scream. “Wake up! Now crawl over here. Hurry, Dylan!”

Okay, Annie. I love you, you know…

He clawed his hands along the floor. It was so slippery. What is that, blood? Yes, I remember. Annie, I’m coming…

Saw the wooden boards under him moving. One at a time.

“That’s it, my love… Yes, keep coming… You’re getting closer now.”

So hard… Why is this so hard… No energy… Everything so numb…

“Don’t stop! That’s right… You’re almost here… Dylan… Listen. Do you see that knife there beside you? The knife, Dylan! Bring me the knife!”

What knife? Oh, there it is. I’m trying, Annie…

“There! You have the knife. Now bring it to me, Dylan.”

Everything so crazy. Light one minute, dark the next. Maybe when I get to Annie we can sleep…

“Okay, Dylan darling, I need you to do one more thing. Just one more, okay?”

There you are. You’re so beautiful. One more thing.

“Take the knife, Dylan. See, behind the chair? My hands are tied. I need you to cut that thing off my hands. Do it, Dylan… Do it now!”

Yes, I see it. I’ll try, Annie… It’s so hard, though…

“I feel it, Dylan, keep going, you’re doing fine, just keep cutting!”

Everything swimming. Knife. Back and forth. So hard.

He watched the funny piece of cloth part just as he lost his grip on the knife.

Then it was dark.

Then he felt himself being rolled over.

A face over his.

Hello, Annie.

He closed his eyes again.

Something pressing on his leg, squeezing.

Poking into his jeans pocket.

Somebody talking.

Grant! Shut up and listen to me…

Grant.

I know that name…

Falls Church, Virginia

Thursday, December 25, 1:58 a.m.

Ed Cronin didn’t often see this much blood at a crime scene.

The metallic smell of it hung thick in the air. Before long, he knew, it would have a slightly rancid edge, before they cleaned it up. The CSI boys and photographer were having trouble navigating it while working over the body.

He stood once again in the hallway entrance, just to survey the scene and try to get a sense of what had gone down.

Somebody had called it in to the locals about 1:20 a.m., anonymously, and when the first black-and-whites arrived, it was just like the Copeland place: front door open, tire tracks everywhere, but nobody home.

Except the stiff. He could tell it was Wulfe.

He couldn’t read the newspaper underneath the guy’s head, but he had little doubt it was related to the vigilantes.

When he got here about ten minutes ago, the neighbors huddled outside the tape told him what they’d seen. Just a couple minutes past one, flashing lights and car engine noise woke them up. They looked out and saw three black SUVs and an orange-and-white ambulance with its strobes going. Their neighbor, Annie Woods, was standing at the front door of her house, wearing what looked like a gown, and she was waving frantically at them. About a dozen people spilled out of the cars and ran inside while the EMTs followed with a couple of stretchers.

Then, barely a minute later, about six of them came charging out with one of the stretchers and somebody on it. They carried it, not rolled it, very fast over to the back of the ambulance. One of the people was Annie, and she looked like she was running barefoot through the snow alongside the stretcher. Then the other stretcher came out, just as fast, with somebody else on it, and they brought that to the ambulance, too. Then they moved aside and one of them slapped the side of the ambulance and they heard him yelling Go! Go! Go!

Then they jumped in two of the SUVs and hauled ass out of there, following the ambulance. About one-fifteen, two guys came out of the house with a bunch of stuff in their hands-no telling what-and got into the last SUV. Then they sped away, too.

What the hell is going on here?

Annie Woods.

Wulfe.

Then who was on the stretcher?

Susanne Copeland?

Who else?

And those SUVs-what is that all about?

Watching his steps, he went over to one of the CSIs who was kneeling over the body.

“All that blood. Looks like whoever did this really butchered him,” he said.

The tech looked up, glanced back at the pool and smear across the floor. “That blood’s not from this guy. He’s mashed up and bleeding, all right, but not leaking that bad.”

Whose, then? Copeland? Jesus, I hope not. The poor woman.

Then he remembered the dog.

Blood from one of the vigilantes?

“Make sure to get plenty of samples, then.”

“Let’s not do that,” said a voice behind him.

In the entranceway, Marty Abrams was standing next to some tall, older guy in a gray suit.

He went over to them.

“What are you talking about, Marty? And who’s this?”

The guy had steel-gray hair to match his suit, and a hard face. He held up credentials.

Cronin looked close. Felt something turn over inside of him.

“Grant Garrett,” the man said. “Please come out to my car. We’ve got to talk.”

Walter Reed Medical Center Bethesda, Maryland

Thursday, December 25, 10:09 a.m.

The first thing he was conscious of was the familiar smells of antiseptics and bandages. Then the familiar feeling of pain, all over his body.

Then he opened his eyes on the equally familiar sight of a hospital room.

“Hello, Matt,” said a gravelly voice. Also familiar.

He turned his head and saw Garrett, legs crossed, fingers entwined across his middle, sitting in a chair next to the window.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” the spymaster added, gesturing toward the surroundings.

“So you found me.”

“Nope. She called me. Lucky thing, too, because of how close by we are. Another minute or two and you’d have been room temperature.”

Then he remembered. “Annie! Is she okay?”

He raised a hand. “Fine, fine. Take it easy. From what she told me, you saved her neck, just in time. And Susanne’s, too.”

He closed his eyes.

“They’re down the hall a ways. Under sedation. They’ve apparently been through hell, but they’ll be okay… What Annie told me before they put her under, though-it’s pretty damned incredible. Even for you.”