Hunter: A Thriller (7 page)

ALEXANDRIA
,
VIRGINIA
Saturday, September 6, 11:27 p.m.

The bearded man parked his nondescript old Chevy Metro hatchback on a side street just a couple of blocks from the Braddock Road Metro Station. Then he settled in for what would likely be several hours of surveillance outside the target’s place.

The Chevy was cramped and uncomfortable, even with the seat pushed back. But so was the motel room he’d stayed in down on Route 1 the night before. The stained, peeling wallpaper, once beige, looked as if it had acquired a case of jaundice over the decades. The cheap nightstands and bathroom sink were
criss
-crossed with brown scars from unattended cigarettes, and he had to work under the light of the room’s single functional lamp. One glance in the bathroom convinced him to pass on taking a shower, just as a look at the carpet convinced him to keep his sneakers on.

He’d had no choice, really. He needed a base nearby to run this op, but it had to be the sort of place where he could pay cash and not have to show a credit card or his New York driver’s license. It was out of the question to let the clerk see the name Shane Michael Stone—however unlikely it was that anyone would track him to a place like that. So he peeled off fifty-five bucks for two nights and signed in, using an alias that appealed to his sense of irony.

It had been very late when he arrived at the motel. But rather than get some sleep, he spent the remaining hours before dawn conducting a recon of this neighborhood. When he returned to his room, he covered the stained bed cover with newspapers before lying down fully dressed. He woke in the late afternoon, grabbed a bite at a Wendy’s up the highway, then returned to the motel to check his gear and mentally walk through the plan, which included contingency options at every stage.

After that, he dressed for the job with clothes from one of the two duffle bags delivered by the van from
Maryland
. Then he looked himself over in the cracked, full-length mirror barely attached to the bathroom door.

Scruffy-looking guy. Ragged red hair and beard, oversized blue pullover sweater, baggy jeans, Orioles baseball cap. Where he was headed, he’d fit right in.

As always, he was ultra-careful about leaving any prints behind. Before he left the room for the last time, he wiped down the place. Which was more than he could say for the cleaning staff, such as it was. He also carefully folded the newspapers covering the bed and took them with him…

He’d picked this place to park because it faced the street spur that extended straight back into the courtyard of the project, where it dead-ended a short distance away at a parking lot. That was the only route in, and from here he had a clear view of everyone who entered or left. It was a pretty safe spot, too. Though the cops patrolled regularly, his car was off the main street they mainly used, and it was shadowed from the nearest street light by a tree. In addition, the one upgrade he’d given the Chevy was extra-dark tinted windows. Even the cops were unlikely to spot him sitting inside.

Last night, the target had returned home to the projects with another guy about three a.m. They’d entered the courtyard in a battered silver Honda Civic, pulled into the lot and parked. He watched them through the latest thing in monocular night-vision scopes: the
Xenonics
SuperVision
Digital Viewing System. When the pair emerged from the car about fifty yards away and stood chatting, he was able to zoom in and identify his target in a black-and-white, high-definition image. After a few minutes, they did a fist-bumping thing and parted company. He watched the guy unlock and enter a door in a brick row house on the right, not far from the street entrance to the complex.

Tonight, a bit earlier, he’d walked past the complex entrance and didn’t see the target’s car parked in the lot. This being a Saturday night, he figured he was in for another long wait. But now, just before midnight, he watched the Civic turn into the cul-de-sac and head back into an empty parking space. He picked up the
SuperVision
scope from his passenger seat and confirmed that the driver was his man. This time the target was alone; he crossed in the direction of the door to his apartment unit and disappeared inside.

He checked his watch. Decided to give it two hours.

Settled back in his seat and waited.

*

At two a.m. he reached into a blue gym bag on the passenger side floor. Pulled out a black
Sig
Sauer P229 with a threaded barrel. From a side pocket of the bag he drew an
Impuls
IIA sound suppressor. Screwed it onto the end of the barrel.

He checked the magazine once again. It held thirteen 147-grain Remington Golden Saber
hollowpoints
—a subsonic round that would further reduce the noise of a gunshot. Then he replaced the gun in the gym bag. He put on his baseball cap. Tugged the brim down over his eyes. Pulled on a pair of black latex gloves.

He exited the car, carrying the gym bag and leaving the driver’s side door unlocked. He crossed the deserted main street in front of him, making sure no cop cars were in sight. He knew from his previous recon there were no security cameras to worry about, but he kept his head down to shade his face from the street lights.

He looked around the courtyard as he stepped quietly into the silent cul-de-sac. The shabby buildings were featureless three-story brick. Only a couple of lighted windows gave evidence that anyone lived here.

The buildings on his left were divided into tiny yards by three-foot metal fences—public housing’s illusion of private property. A maze of clotheslines strung across these barren plots, competing for space with plastic chairs, plastic toys, and plastic 55-gallon garbage cans, which stood at parade rest along the curb.

The buildings on his right were different. They were very narrow brick row houses. Their small front yards were set off from the street by a brick wall. It was four feet high, with narrow openings for sidewalks that led back to each building entrance. He scanned the walls of the buildings; no windows were lit.

When he reached the third opening in the wall, he entered the yard and walked without hesitation to the door. He reached into the gym bag and withdrew what looked like a hand-held electric drill. Illuminated from behind by a street light, he perused the locks. One was on the doorknob; the other, in the door itself, would be a dead bolt. Standard stuff, no big deal. He selected one of the metal picks he’d taped to the top of the device and pushed it into the barrel. Then he inserted the pick into the doorknob lock and pulled the trigger, keeping his other hand wrapped around the knob to minimize rattling. There was a low whirring noise as the electronic pick vibrated at high speed, moving the tumblers in the lock. In a few seconds, the knob turned freely in his hand.

He waited. No response from inside the house. No barking dog, no creaking stairs, no lights. His previous recon gave no indication of a dog or someone living with the target, but you never know.

He selected another pick and repeated the process on the deadbolt. This time when he turned the knob and pushed, the door cracked open.

He paused to listen for another full minute. Nothing.

He returned the electronic lock pick to the bag, but when his right hand emerged this time, it held the Sig. He reached in with his left and pulled out the night-vision scope. Flipped it on.

Leaving the gym bag outside, he slowly swung open the door, applying upward pressure on the knob to minimize squeaking from the hinges.

*

He was a rock star and everyone was cheering and he screamed into the mike and leaped around the stage naked between the bass and lead guitars and the lights were flashing on his face and now he was playing the lead guitar greasy fast licks up and down the frets and everyone was chanting his name now he was the drummer and hot chicks ripping off their clothes around him and the lights flashing in his eyes the girls dancing naked in the lights and calling his name they were saying hello William grabbing his arm William hello William wake up lights flashing in his eyes William...

“Hello, William.”

Light flashing into his closed eyes. Somebody had his arm in an iron grip. Then jerked him over roughly, onto his back.

“Huh?” He blinked, dazzled by the light in his eyes.

“Back to the land of the living. At least, for about another minute.”

He felt a jolt of panic.

“Who the hell are you?” he yelled, trying to see the face behind the blinding flashlight.

Without warning, a hand shot forward, grabbed his hair and yanked hard, pulling him up to a sitting position.

His hair was released but a split second later a tremendous blow crashed across his face, snapping his head to the side. He found himself on his back again, everything spinning, his left cheek and jaw numb.

“Let me introduce myself. I’m a messenger, William,” the voice said softly. “Just a fellow here to deliver a message from some people you know.”

The blinding light moved away from his eyes, darted around the walls of the dark room. He heard movement.

“Hell you
talkin
’ ’bout, man?” he mumbled, fiery pain now burning his cheek and mouth.

The overhead light to his room flared to life.

He squinted. Next to the light switch at the door, a bearded guy in a baseball cap. Black gloves. Sticking a thin flashlight into his belt.

“I’m a messenger from your victims, William.”

He sat up, rubbing his jaw. “
Whaddya
mean? Don’t know ’bout any—”

“Susanne Copeland.” The voice was low, quiet, coldly matter-of-fact.

He felt something drop inside his stomach.

The man moved toward him. “How could you forget Susanne, William?”

He shuddered, suddenly unable to speak.

“And then there’s Arthur Copeland.” The man stopped at the foot of the bed. Looked down at him.

Something in his hand, down along his leg.

William Bracey shuddered.

“I’m also here to deliver a message from Yoshiro Takahashi. Oh, I see you remember him, too. Yet you told the court you weren’t even there. Tell me something, William: What do you suppose Mr. Takahashi was feeling when you pointed your .357 magnum at him?”

“
I didn’t!”

“You’re lying, William.”

The man leaned over him and raised his hand.

A gun with a long, fat barrel.

“No! I didn’t—”

“You did.” The man glanced down. Shook his head. “And you just peed your pants, William.”

“Please!” he whispered, staring into the black hole of the sound suppressor. “Honest to God no I didn’t I didn’t—”

“And now the one-word message from your victims, William:
Goodbye
.”

Bright light flashed in his eyes again.

Just once.

*

He stood with the gun in his hand, barrel pointing toward the floor.

Stared at the skinny young punk on the rumpled bed. A pool of crimson expanded in a circle around his shattered skull.

He watched the glassy expression fix in William Bracey’s eyes.

He felt drained. He didn’t enjoy taking a human life. Never had. Even though it was his business.

But sometimes, there is no other way.

He listened once more. Silence. Turned out the light, pulled aside the window shade, looked outside. No lights. No movement. He cleared his weapon, shoved the magazine into his back pocket. Unscrewed the suppressor, stuck it into his front pocket. Jammed the
Sig
into his belt behind his back. Pulled his sweater down over it.