BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) by Robert Bidinotto Page B
Authors: Robert Bidinotto
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forearm supporting and steadying his gun hand. He started around the building counterclockwise, scanning the ground ahead and the trees above and beside him with the beam of the light. He suddenly realized that he was automatically, absurdly looking for trip wires for IEDs. Old habits die hard, but they let you die old.
He reached the window on the right side of the cabin, ducked beneath it without looking inside, then continued around to the back—
—and found the smashed window pane.
Well, then. You’re not crazy.
Rather than stop, he made his way around the rest of the structure, checking out the surrounding trees. Nothing.
He returned to the broken window. What was he up against? Odds were high that it was a burglar—probably some druggie looking for cash or valuables. Though that didn’t square with the fact that the packed Honda sat unmolested. Who else, then? The odds that he could have been tracked down by some old enemy were vanishingly small. He’d covered his tracks far too well.
He gave it up. He would know soon enough. Anyone inside surely was aware of their presence now, so the element of surprise was gone. If he tried to make entry through the front door, he’d be a sitting duck for any armed intruder waiting up in the loft or in the bathroom. Same thing if he tried to go in by the side window, where he’d have to do what was done here: break a pane of glass to unlock it, then be completely exposed while he climbed in.
This window was the least-bad option. It was directly beneath the loft and tucked back in a broad corner alcove, formed by the interior wall of the cabin on one side, and a closet housing the water heater on the other. He’d have some protection from three sides and above as he entered; any assailant would have to confront him directly from the front.
He decided to use the flashlight first to try to draw the fire of anyone inside. Standing to the right side of the window, his body protected behind the thick log wall, he reached out and aimed the beam through the window, flashing it around the interior of the cabin, listening hard for any sounds of movement.
After a full minute, he drew no fire and heard no sound.
Okay. Moment of truth .
Aiming the flashlight through the broken pane, he took a quick peek at the interior before ducking back. The quick glance revealed only the boxes and bags on the middle of the cabin floor. He did this a couple more times, aiming the beam at different positions around the room. He could only see part of the bathroom.
He risked a longer look. Crouching beneath the window, he raised his head just high enough to see inside while he directed the beam methodically around the room. He could see most of it, and it looked just as he had left it. The circle of light tracked across the floor and walls and ceiling, across the front door, then across the far wall to …
He jerked the bright circle back to the front door. To something silvery just above the door. It was hard to make out at this distance … Then the beam caught a bright vertical streak extending from the shiny object down to …
“Oh Jesus,” he whispered aloud.
… He stood in the alley in Kandahar, pressed tight against the wall next to the warehouse door, and his hand reached out to the cold metal knob, then slowly turned it and pulled the creaking door open, ever so gingerly, and then there was the flash of a thousand suns …
His hand began to shake, making the circle of light wobble.
Annie … Annie almost walked through that door …
A blinding, murderous rage roiled up in him.
Just as suddenly, as inexplicably, the rage died. The shaking stopped. Everything turned cold again. Icy cold. He felt his return to his home in the cold, high place. Where he looked down at himself, detached. Aware of little things …
The faint aroma of wood smoke.
The rustling of nearby leaves in the frigid breeze.
The rough, brittle bark of the log wall scraping against his knees.
And from his
He reached the window on the right side of the cabin, ducked beneath it without looking inside, then continued around to the back—
—and found the smashed window pane.
Well, then. You’re not crazy.
Rather than stop, he made his way around the rest of the structure, checking out the surrounding trees. Nothing.
He returned to the broken window. What was he up against? Odds were high that it was a burglar—probably some druggie looking for cash or valuables. Though that didn’t square with the fact that the packed Honda sat unmolested. Who else, then? The odds that he could have been tracked down by some old enemy were vanishingly small. He’d covered his tracks far too well.
He gave it up. He would know soon enough. Anyone inside surely was aware of their presence now, so the element of surprise was gone. If he tried to make entry through the front door, he’d be a sitting duck for any armed intruder waiting up in the loft or in the bathroom. Same thing if he tried to go in by the side window, where he’d have to do what was done here: break a pane of glass to unlock it, then be completely exposed while he climbed in.
This window was the least-bad option. It was directly beneath the loft and tucked back in a broad corner alcove, formed by the interior wall of the cabin on one side, and a closet housing the water heater on the other. He’d have some protection from three sides and above as he entered; any assailant would have to confront him directly from the front.
He decided to use the flashlight first to try to draw the fire of anyone inside. Standing to the right side of the window, his body protected behind the thick log wall, he reached out and aimed the beam through the window, flashing it around the interior of the cabin, listening hard for any sounds of movement.
After a full minute, he drew no fire and heard no sound.
Okay. Moment of truth .
Aiming the flashlight through the broken pane, he took a quick peek at the interior before ducking back. The quick glance revealed only the boxes and bags on the middle of the cabin floor. He did this a couple more times, aiming the beam at different positions around the room. He could only see part of the bathroom.
He risked a longer look. Crouching beneath the window, he raised his head just high enough to see inside while he directed the beam methodically around the room. He could see most of it, and it looked just as he had left it. The circle of light tracked across the floor and walls and ceiling, across the front door, then across the far wall to …
He jerked the bright circle back to the front door. To something silvery just above the door. It was hard to make out at this distance … Then the beam caught a bright vertical streak extending from the shiny object down to …
“Oh Jesus,” he whispered aloud.
… He stood in the alley in Kandahar, pressed tight against the wall next to the warehouse door, and his hand reached out to the cold metal knob, then slowly turned it and pulled the creaking door open, ever so gingerly, and then there was the flash of a thousand suns …
His hand began to shake, making the circle of light wobble.
Annie … Annie almost walked through that door …
A blinding, murderous rage roiled up in him.
Just as suddenly, as inexplicably, the rage died. The shaking stopped. Everything turned cold again. Icy cold. He felt his return to his home in the cold, high place. Where he looked down at himself, detached. Aware of little things …
The faint aroma of wood smoke.
The rustling of nearby leaves in the frigid breeze.
The rough, brittle bark of the log wall scraping against his knees.
And from his
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