Bethesda, Maryland
Thursday, December 25, 12:06 a.m.
Fifth chirp.
He was shaking, now.
I’m too late…
A soft click.
“Ho, ho, ho!” said the low, unmistakable voice. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Hunter!”
He reached out a hand to steady himself against the desk.
“This is the great Dylan Hunter, isn’t it?”
The name.
It reminded him of who he was.
He straightened. Went into his cold mission mode.
First, gather intel.
“Oh, excuse me. I must have misdialed. I was trying to reach a human being.”
Wulfe laughed.
“Well played, Mr. Hunter! I thought the sound of my voice on this lady’s phone would shock you to your core. But you sound so blase about it.”
He’s a sociopath. So manipulate his inflated ego. Keep him talking.
“You don’t surprise me at all, Wulfe. You’re entirely predictable. And that’s a fatal flaw.”
Pause.
“Oh really?” A tiny edge in the voice. “The little lady here seems to be under the delusion that you’re going to rescue her and her friend, and then somehow kill me.”
They’re still alive.
He grabbed his car keys, ran to the apartment door.
“You should have believed her, Wulfe. The little lady is right.”
Moved outside, into the hallway.
“My, my! Such bravado from a mere journalist.”
Not the elevator-the cell signal will cut out.
“A journalist deals only in facts, Wulfe. You’re as good as dead.”
He pushed through the emergency door, then hit the stairs, trying to keep his footsteps as quiet as possible while he flew down, two steps at a time.
Eighth floor…
“You know, you’re beginning to irritate me, Mr. Hunter. Perhaps as punishment for your disrespect, I’ll let you listen in while I begin having a bit of fun with Annie and Susie.”
Seventh floor…
Hasn’t started to torture them yet.
“Sorry, Wulfe. That’s just not going to happen.”
Sixth floor…
“You don’t think so? Well, then, just keep listening. I’ll put it on speakerphone for you.”
Fifth floor…
“Then you’re about as stupid as I figured.”
“Me, stupid?” Angry now. “Who’s really the stupid one, Mr. Hunter?”
Fourth floor…
“After all, you’re wherever you are, while I’m here with your two lovely friends…”
Third floor…
“And so, Mr. Hunter, much as I’m enjoying our friendly banter, I think I should return to my Christmas party and guests.”
You’ll never make it in time. Neither will the cops.
Second floor…
“Let me start with Annie…”
Have to stop him right now.
“Well, it’s going to be a very brief party, Wulfe.”
“You’re bluffing. I can hear the stress in your voice.”
Watch your breathing…
First floor…
“Not at all, moron. I figure you’ve got-oh, maybe five minutes.”
Pause.
“And how do you figure that, Mr. Hunter?”
Basement.
Thighs on fire, he shoved open the stairwell door, ran into the underground parking garage. Pushed his legs to move faster, toward the BMW.
“Because I know where you are, Wulfe.”
Pause.
“So where am I?”
He reached the car.
“Why, you’re at the Copeland residence, of course.”
Silence.
He unlocked the door, slid inside.
“Isn’t that right, Wulfe?”
Silence.
He closed the door quietly. Inserted the key into the ignition.
Don’t turn it over yet. He’ll hear.
“So, you really don’t want to start anything that you can’t finish, Wulfe. In fact, I think that if you don’t leave those ladies and run for it, you’ll be in handcuffs in…oh, let’s make that about four-and-a-half minutes, now.”
Silence.
“Unless I get to you first, that is. Don’t you remember what I promised you, Wulfe?”
Pause.
“All right, Mr. Hunter. I’ll be leaving now. But I do believe I still have enough time to take the lovely ladies with me.”
The phone went dead.
He turned the key and gunned the engine.
Tysons Corner, Virginia
Thursday, December 25, 12:11 a.m.
She watched him raise her cell phone above his head, then smash it to the floor. Pieces bounced in every direction.
He looked at her, his face a mask of cold fury.
He grabbed a large kitchen knife from the coffee table. Rushed to Susie and slashed through the bonds at her feet, freeing her legs. Then he grabbed her by the waist and lifted, raising her entire body so that her arms, with her hands still tied together behind her, cleared the back of the chair. He set her down on the seat again and began to slap her.
“Time to wake up, Susie… There’s my good girl.”
She began to moan, then struggled to hold herself upright.
He left her and moved quickly to Annie. Standing to the side of the chair so that she couldn’t kick him, he severed the bindings on her feet. Then the one around her midsection.
He returned to Susie, grabbed her by the hair, and dragged her out of the chair, over to where he had dumped the contents of Annie’s purse. Reached down and pawed through the mess until he found her car keys. Grabbed some of the cut-up ties.
Then stood and pressed the long edge of the knife to Susie’s throat.
“Now, Annie, you’re going to stand up and clear your hands from the back of the chair, just as I did for Susie. And then we’re all going upstairs, very fast, and out to your car. And if you try to run or resist or slow me down, I will cut her goddamned head off.”
12:11 a.m.
His custom BMW 7 Series High Security sedan surged out of the garage entrance.
He cut the wheel hard right, playing the gears and brakes as he had been trained in the Agency’s “crash and burn” courses over the years. Glancing to his left to make sure there was no traffic, he darted out onto Wisconsin, ripping another right.
He hit the buttons that lit up the blue-and-white strobes in the grill and rear windows and set off the police siren. Then punched it, accelerating up to Norfolk. Braking hard and working the wheel, he forced the heavy rear end of the armored car to skid around on the wet pavement so that it was sideways in the intersection, facing left.
Flooring it, he pushed it down Norfolk, whipping past the side streets with barely a glance, hoping his lights and siren would stop anyone from getting in his path.
Downshift, brake…hard left onto St. Elmo’s. Punch it again. Cross Old Georgetown.
Flying now down Wilson Lane…the high-performance V-12 engine climbing in seconds to eighty, ninety, one hundred…barreling right through stop signs and lights toward River Road and then the Beltway…
Verbal command to activate the onboard communication system… State the memorized phone number…
“Cronin,” said the familiar voice in the dash speaker.
“This is Hunter. Adrian Wulfe has kidnapped Annie Woods and Susanne Copeland at the Copeland home.” He gave the address. “Get the locals there, fast. I mean now, Cronin. ” He cut it off before the cop could utter a word.
12:16 a.m.
He forced her to drive.
Her hands and feet were free, now, but useless to her. He sat behind her in the back seat, belted in securely with a shoulder strap. But he ordered her to keep hers off. If she tried to crash the car, he’d survive. She might not.
And Susie definitely would not. He held her across his lap, on her back, face up, with the knife lying across her throat. Susie’s eyes were squeezed tight. Her lips were moving. Praying…
They were only three minutes from Susie’s house when she saw the first of the police lights up ahead, blue-and-white flashers growing as they raced toward her.
“Keep driving straight and steady. Let them go past. No tricks-or Susie’s head will be sitting beside you in the passenger seat.”
The lights sped toward her, seeming to get faster by the second. The car drew abreast, and the high-pitched squeal of its siren died off octaves lower as it blew by.
“Good girl.”
If she were alone, she would have crashed the car anyway. Suicide would be infinitely preferable to whatever he might do to her. But she had no right to make that decision for her friend.
And maybe they could still get out of this.
Dylan…
He’d survived governments and their hit teams. He’d stymied the combined investigative talents of scores of police agencies. He’d bested cold-blooded killers, both armed and bare-handed.
And he was coming for her.
She glanced into the rearview mirror. Wulfe was staring at her, unblinking-a dead, blank, malignant stare, like that of a snake.
She stared back at him.
“He is going to kill you, you know.”
He lifted one of Susie’s hands, now untied. Tapped it with the tip of the blade. “One more word, and Susie will lose this thumb.”
She turned her eyes back to the road.
*
After another minute, she made a right onto 694, heading southeast toward the destination he had ordered. She approached the Capital Beltway and passed over it.
“I don’t want us to take any side trips, my dear. Show me what the GPS tells us to do.”
She came to an intersection and stopped at the light. She flipped on the GPS.
“I’ll program the most direct route.” She hit the right buttons. “Okay, there are the instructions. See for yourself.”
The screen displayed printed instructions to stay on Route 694 all the way into Falls Church.
He leaned forward and looked.
“Good. Just keep going straight.”
She continued down 694. They reached the second traffic light within thirty seconds. After a minute, she proceeded. In another half-minute they stopped again at the intersection of Route 123.
She had programmed the most direct route.
Not the fastest.
12:18 a.m.
Lights flashing, siren blaring, the powerful car raced down the Capital Beltway at well over one hundred miles per hour. He glanced at the dashboard clock and said, “Redial previous number.”
“Cronin here.”
“Me again. What do you know?”
“I’m on my way there now. Just got a call from the Fairfax County P.D. They and the staties are on scene. They would’ve waited for SWAT, but the front door was wide open, so they chanced it and went in. It’s empty. Looks like they just missed them.”
He didn’t say anything.
“They couldn’t have gotten far, though. And it looks like he dumped the car he stole from his sister at the scene. Copeland’s is in the garage. So he’s got a fresh set of wheels, maybe whatever Ms. Woods was driving. Do you know what her car is?”
“Yes.” He told him.
“Okay, we’ll put out an alert. Copeland’s place is real close to the Beltway, and my guess is they’re on it and trying to get out of the area.”
“Right.”
“Sorry, Hunter.”
He cut off the call. Downshifted and braked hard, pulling off the road.
Annie’s car.
He popped the trunk, ran back there and grabbed his bug-out bag and a laptop computer. Slammed it and jumped back inside. Opened the laptop on the passenger seat, hit the “on” button.
While it was powering up, he popped the stick into gear and hit the gas, kicking a spray of slush behind him as he fishtailed back onto the highway.
He wished he kept a gun in this car.
12:24 a.m.
“Goddammit, I’ve never seen so many red lights,” he thundered. “Isn’t there a better way?”
“This is the way I always go home from Susie’s. It’s the most direct-almost straight to my door. You can see it on the GPS. Everything else takes you out of the way.”
The light changed, and she moved forward, staying in the speed limit.
“Two lanes. Twenty-five, thirty-five miles per hour, the whole way. Couldn’t we get on a thruway?”
“You know he called the cops. The big highways are the first places they’ll be looking.”
She cast a quick look in the mirror. His face now looked strained. She noticed the red streak on his cheek where she grazed him with her elbow.
She glanced again at the digital clock.
I’m trying to buy you time, Dylan.
But how could he possibly know where they were going? It was the last place anyone would dream to look.
She gripped the wheel tightly. Saw a sign for a curve in the road ahead, marked for twenty-five miles per hour.
Took her foot off the gas.
12:25 a.m.
He was doing over one twenty-five, zig-zagging through the rare vehicles he overtook, passing them as if they were parked.
He couldn’t bring in the cops, not now. If they got involved, Wulfe would use the women as hostages, then kill them if things went south.
He had to do this his way.
His eyes darted from the highway to the laptop as the program loaded. Then, using his forefinger, he tapped in the numerical code for the device. Hit “Enter.”
On the screen, a flashing red dot appeared on the map.
There you are…
He watched the dot heading southeast on 694. But to where? His eyes tracked ahead, moving down the line on the map.
Why, you devious son of a bitch.
He estimated the distance, did a quick mental calculation of comparative speeds.
He accelerated even more, heading south toward the Dulles Toll Road. A four-lane highway, with no traffic lights, running parallel to 694.
He glanced at the dashboard clock.
It was going to be close…
12:34 a.m.
“All right. Pull the car into the garage.”
She reached for the button on the visor that opened her garage door. It rose slowly and the inner lights came on. She looked up the expanse of the driveway. In her headlights, the snow on the ground was unmarked by any tire or footprints.
She began to tremble again.
You’ll have to find a way out of this yourself.
She eased the car into the garage.
“Now, lower the garage door.”
She did as she was told.
“Shut off the car, and toss the keys to me. Gently, please. Remember that this knife is right on her pretty neck… Put your hands on the steering wheel where I can see them, and keep them there.”
In the mirror, she saw him lift Susie to a sitting position on his lap. Her eyes were vacant. She was like a rag doll in his arms. He hauled her out of the passenger side.
“Now, get out of the car… Put your hands on your head and walk to the house door.”
Her legs were wobbly and she stumbled as she approached the door. Her eyes searched for anything nearby that she could grab and use as a weapon.
“Stop there. Now, understand something, my dear,” he said, as if reading her mind. “You surprised me back at Susie’s. I won’t be surprised again. I see that you’ve trained in martial arts. But don’t even dream of it. I have fourth- and fifth-degree black belts in several of them and competed as a mixed martial artist for a while. Retired undefeated.”
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.
Hunter turned to press the attack from behind, but the Target’s own combat reflexes took over, and he spun to face him again.
Now positioned between Hunter and the women.
Not good.
Deception.
Hunter feinted his own lunge, forcing the surprised Target to recoil a step, but instead he leaped to his side, then two quick steps past him toward the women, then pivoting to face him.
Again between them and the Target.
Mock him. Goad him. Use details from his file…
“What’s the matter, Addie,” he said. “Did I give you a boo-boo?”
The Target glanced at his left sleeve, shock in his eyes. A slash across the red flannel was turning a deeper shade, and crimson drops fell from the tips of fingers that now dangled uselessly.
Then his eyes narrowed. He danced back into the center of the room, retreating.
“Again, Mr. Hunter, well played. I believe I underestimated you. As I did your little whore there,” he said, nodding toward Annie. “But you will find that I never make the same mistake twice.”
Hunter knew that he’d lost the initial advantage of surprise. But now the Target was injured and his confidence rattled.
Time to finish this.
He danced out to meet him.
They moved from side to side, warily now, jockeying for position and advantage, looking for openings and mistakes to exploit.
Goad him some more.
“Does Addie want Mommy to come kiss his boo-boo and make it better?”
Watched the anger flare.
But then die. Saw the Target’s eyes grow cold.
Sociopath or not, he had been well-trained. That training was now in control.
He realized he’d lost a psychological weapon, too.
Now it was just a matter of skill. And determination.
He flipped his knife from his right hand to his left, feinted a thrust and snapped it back.
The Target slashed at it, hitting empty air.
He’d hoped for that, and lunged in again, stabbing the tip toward the Target’s exposed chest.
Then everything went wrong.
The Target had anticipated too. Astonishingly quick, he hopped back onto his left foot and leaned away from the blade while snapping a cobra-fast kick with his right, into his left forearm.
Into the still-healing tendons from the dog bite.
The combat knife sailed across the room, clattering off the wall and onto the floor.
He was now exposed, wide open to the Target’s blade.
“Dylan!”
The natural impulse was to jump back. But in an instant calculation born of years of combat training and experience-and before the Target could straighten and recover his two-footed balance, then move in for the kill-he continued his forward momentum instead, rushing into him, seizing him and propelling him backward into a crashing impact against the island. Their bodies fell onto its top, spilling everything onto the floor.
His body was now pressed down upon the Target’s atop the island, their faces inches apart, eye to eye. He looked down into the blank gray depths, sensing fear.
Then something else.
Suddenly he felt searing pain in his left thigh. His breath left him as the agony coursed through him. A look of triumph blazed in the Target’s eyes.
He had to stop a second thrust.
He snapped his forehead down hard, a stunning blow against the bridge of the the Target’s nose. Then again, a crunching smash against his mouth.
Then pushed back, feeling the blade tear out of his leg.
“Dylan!”
Someone’s voice again, far away.
He heard the Target’s bellows of pain but he was dealing with his own. He hopped back, mostly on his right leg, empty-handed, needing to play for time, now, trying to recover his advantage.
Then felt the pulsing in his left thigh, the hot spurts soaking the inside of his jeans, and he knew that time was one thing he wouldn’t have.
He looked up. All the deadly kitchen utensils were scattered around the island, behind the Target.
Who raised himself from the top of the island, his useless left hand pawing at his nose and mouth. His nose was bleeding profusely, his lips a crushed pulp. He spat a bloody mess and Hunter heard the rattle of teeth hitting the floor.
Hunter’s left leg and hand were out of commission.
His right hand was empty.
Only one good leg.
And he started to feel dizzy.
“Dylan!” Another scream.
Annie…
What could he do?
Do what you know best.
Deception.
He staggered back, hopping on his right leg, leaving a trail of blood from his left along the floor. Then stopped. Stood there, tottering. A crimson puddle formed on the floor around his left foot.
He looked at the Target. Saw his eyes follow the smear of blood from the island, across the polished wood floor, to the rapidly growing pool at his feet.
Then Hunter’s left leg buckled beneath him, and he sagged to the floor.
He was sitting, now. Only his upper body and right knee remained upright. He leaned against the raised thigh, his right hand clasping his ankle to keep from falling over.
He was getting dizzier. He knew he was bleeding out.
He raised his head.
He saw that the Target knew it, too. He leaned back against the island on unsteady legs, but his bloodied mouth bore a twisted grin.
Waiting now for him to bleed to death.
Goad him.
“You should see what I did to you, you puke,” Hunter said. “I really did a number on that ugly face of yours.”
Saw the grin vanish.
Hurry…
“What’s the matter, you pussy? Afraid to finish me? I figured you were going to kick the crap out of me.”
The Target’s eyes, so long dead, came to life. Even across the room, he could see the towering rage building in them.
“Dylan!”
“Where are your balls, Wulfe?”
The Target approached him, now, stumbling, still half-stunned, with one immobilized arm, but on two powerful legs and with a long knife in his perfectly good right hand. Coming to finish him.
Deception.
“So go ahead, you worthless piece of shit. Come and stomp me.”
“Dylan! Dylan!”
Hunter clung to the cold, high place.
Hurry…
The Target loomed above him. His face was a ghastly red mask. Savage hatred burned in the once-dead eyes. He paused, weaving slightly.
“Stomp you?” his voice rumbled. “It will be a pleasure.”
He raised a heavy boot to crush his skull.
Just before it reached its apex, Hunter swept up his left arm, batting the foot outward-
– while his right hand shot up and slammed the smaller combat knife from his ankle sheath into the man’s groin.
*
Adrian Wulfe felt a giant spike of incredible pain shoot from his groin upward and outward, a shockwave that reverberated jarringly throughout his entire body. He screamed, an endless scream, dropping the knife, his hands clawing madly below his waist, trying to find the source of the red-hot spike, trying to make it stop, anything to make it stop and he was up on his toes, staggering backward away from the man, away from the source of that pain and he was about to fall…
*
With a last surge of adrenalin, Hunter pushed himself off the floor. He stood, feeling nothing now, watching the strange figure dancing frantically in front of him, then making mincing little steps backward.
He reeled toward that figure, the Target, his Target, the beast who had taken Annie, and now he would put an end to him because he was no longer on that high cold Olympus anymore, he was right down there in some savage place, a place where suppressed rage and controlled violence were now unleashed to rule…
He followed that retreating figure on legs that seemed unreliable, that seemed mired in mud, hurtling through fog, someone yelling his name, eyes on the Target…
And now he caught the Target and was pushing him back, once again bending him backward over that island countertop, collapsing onto him, staring into that mangled face. And then he remembered what he had just done, and he lifted himself enough to see the hilt protruding and blood pouring around it, and then he looked into those eyes, those hateful, bulging, agony-filled eyes, and recalled something else…
“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…