BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) by Robert Bidinotto

off.
    “So how did it go?”
    Boggs could barely keep his teeth from chattering when he answered.
    “The first person to enter will have his head blown right off and turned into shredded wheat.” He paused to yank off the ski mask, wincing as the cloth dragged across his cheek. His hand throbbed where the cat had bitten it.
    “Personally, I hope it’s the bitch. I want the guy to survive and suffer.”

NINE
    “He reminds you of your father, doesn’t he?”
    She saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel. He kept his eyes on the road. After a few beats, he answered: “A little, I guess.”
    “I’d guess more than a little.”
    She remained quiet a moment, studying his face as he drove through Endeavor, then took East Hickory Road when it branched off to the left.
    “You miss him a lot, don’t you, Dylan.” A statement.
    He nodded almost imperceptibly.
    “A lot.”
    She put her hand on his thigh. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”
    A smile flickered on his face. “Sure you do. But it’s okay … They don’t really look at all alike. Their styles are different, too … Were. I mean …”
    She gave his thigh a squeeze. “I know what you mean.”
    “Both entrepreneurs,” he continued. “Both self-contained and independent. Both proud and confident. They would have liked each other. In fact, I told him that—sort of.” He paused, then added: “I was watching him looking at his daughter. And how he was with his wife and grandchildren. Big Mike was a lot like that, too. A great husband.” He paused again—longer. “And a great father.”
    She smiled. She adored him for his own strength and confidence and independence. But she found herself loving him more deeply at moments like these, when she sensed his deepest passions and private vulnerabilities.
    “I’m sure he was enormously proud of you, Dylan,” she said softly.
    His face appeared to tighten again, as did his hands on the wheel. He didn’t say anything.
    After a moment, he slowed the car and turned up their driveway. The headlights bounced and flashed off patches of ice, then off the windows of the Honda and the cabin.
    As always, he pulled up near the structure, then backed around parallel to the Honda, facing outward.
    “We don’t have much left in there,” he said, shutting off the ignition. “If I pack it in here now, we can head out first thing in the morning.”
    She ran her hand along his thigh. “I don’t know. Maybe we can, um, sleep in tomorrow morning, and leave for D.C. around noon.”
    He grinned at her. “Maybe we can do that.”
    He got out, came around as always to open her door for her and help her out. She tilted her face up to meet his kiss. His lips felt hot in the cold air.
    He handed her the keys. “You go on ahead. I’ll root around in the back here and bring in a bottle of wine and an opener.”
    She found herself smiling and humming to herself as she crunched over the frozen soil to the porch. The stairs creaked underfoot, and she stopped outside the screen door to fumble for the keys. She turned and held them up in the weak light, flipping through them to find the right ones—one for each lock. Finally did.
    She turned and was about to open the screen door when he called out to her.
    “Oh, and don’t forget to check the tell-tales.”
    “I did almost forget.” She opened the screen door and bent to look for the twigs. Found them undisturbed.
    “They’re fine,” she shouted back. She turned and put the bottom key in the lock. Turned it open. Fumbled around for the other key.
    He said something else, and she didn’t quite hear it. She stopped and turned. “What?”
    He stood up from behind the open rear door. “I said: Do you think our cat will need me to bring in some extra food tonight?”
    “No,” she answered. “ We might starve in the morning, but we have more than enough food for Luna!”
    She turned and bent to put the key in the deadbolt lock.
    “Mrrroww.”
    She stopped, frowning.