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

the cold. The other part was the unsettling, nagging doubt that she still was not fully part of his world. And maybe never would be.

SEVEN
    From the campsite, a dog-eared map steered them through the narrow, winding dirt roads—first west, then south to an intersection where they picked up East Hickory Road. The dying light of the sky clothed the surrounding trees in shrouds of deep shadows. After a few minutes, Rusty hit the brakes, and the old truck shimmied as it slowed.
    “That must have been it. That little dirt path back there.”
    Boggs peered ahead and pointed. “Okay, turn around at that wide spot near the little bridge.”
    They saw no traffic on the isolated road, so Rusty took his time executing a K-turn. They came back north slowly, and Boggs told Rusty to kill the headlights and hug the narrow berm at the side of the road. They continued rolling past the break in the trees that marked the rutted driveway. After about twenty more yards, he had Rusty pull off onto a patch of scrubby grass and dead leaves.
    “All right, let me go over it a last time.” Boggs said. “You stay here with your lights off and your walkie-talkie on. I’ll go in on foot and check out the place. If no one is home, I’ll signal you, get inside, and rig the bomb. If you see them coming home, warn me and I’ll get out of there, then circle back here through the woods.”
    “Got it,” Rusty answered. “Just like what we did at that animal research lab in Michigan.”
    Boggs remembered. When was that—five years ago? He had to smile. “You’re only bringing that up to remind me again how I almost got caught by that rent-a-cop.”
    “And you would’ve—except for me.” Rusty's grin flashed faintly in the shadows. “I sure did save your skinny ass that night.”
    “You won’t ever let me forget that, will you?” In truth, Rusty Nash had earned his trust years ago. Only one other ally had worked with him longer—or knew as many of his secrets.
    Boggs hoisted the heavy black-canvas satchel from the floor to his lap. It contained the necessary tools and accessories, along with the pipe bombs and detonators. He turned up the collar of his Army field jacket, whose pockets were useful for actions like this one. Tugged his gloves tight. Pulled the black ski mask down over his face.
    “Don’t go blow yourself up, now,” Rusty said, rapping him lightly on the shoulder.
    “You know better than that.”
    He opened the door and slid out. Closed it quietly behind him. He paused a moment, staring down the dark path that led back into the trees. Aware of the weight of the bag in his hand. Aware of the wool scratching the tender flesh of his bruised cheek.
    Aware of the familiar rush of energy and excitement.
    It never got old.
     
    The crystal chandelier reflected off the dining room window like a spray of fireworks. A wood fire blazed and crackled in the large, pass-through fireplace, sharing its heat with the living room.
    Dylan and Annie sat across the table from Adair and his wife. Nan Adair was a petite brunette in her mid-forties. She explained that, like her husband, she had been widowed for several years when “Danny” stopped by the Tionesta real estate office where she worked, trying to learn who owned the mineral rights to some local land.
    “That was four years ago,” she said, looking at him. Their eyes told the rest of the story.
    “Good thing she was a realtor,” Adair said, winking at her. “She got us one hell of a deal on this place.”
    “Yes, I can see that you only married her for mercenary reasons,” Annie said, and they all laughed.
    At the end of the table near the fireplace their other guest attacked a thick slab of rare steak. For someone with such a prominent reputation in his profession, Dr. Adam Silva was surprisingly young. A graduate of the University of Maryland program in toxicology, he looked to be barely in his early forties.
    “A few other people, including my daughter and her family,