Hunter
Robert Bidinotto
PART I
“Justice is that virtue of the soul which is distributive according to desert.”
ONE
Dulles International Airport
Monday, March 17, 11:45 a.m.
Today she would finally nail the bastard.
Annie Woods watched the traitor’s cab thread through the jam of courtesy vans and pull to the curb. The right rear door opened and he emerged. She slowed her own tailing car to a crawl.
Looking edgy, the man scanned the vehicles around him. Masked only by her sunglasses, she held her breath as his gaze slid right past her. Then he leaned back inside the cab, pulled out a rolling carry-on suitcase, and slammed the door shut. He wheeled it behind him, heading into the terminal. Through the building’s soaring windows she saw him make his way to the rear of a long line of passengers snaking toward the ticket counter.
She squeezed the Agency’s Taurus in behind a departing vehicle and leaped out. She flipped open her CIA credentials and held them in her outstretched hand as she approached a young state trooper directing traffic.
“Sir, we’ve got a national-security situation here,” she said. “I’m Ann Woods, with a federal task force following a criminal suspect. He’s just entered the terminal.”
He squinted at her ID. “Nobody told me anything about this.”
At that moment, two midnight-blue Crown Vics and a black Suburban pulled up beside them. Doors flew open and nine men in dark suits spilled out, quickly assembling behind the SUV. The trooper’s mouth fell open.
“Please alert airport security,” she continued. “Tell them they’re not to interfere or approach the ticket area until we give the all-clear.”
The startled trooper nodded, then moved off, radioing it in.
Rick Groat, the FBI’s special agent in charge, trotted over. His dark brown mustache was meticulously trimmed, and his eyes gleamed with an adrenaline rush. “Where’s he now?”
She nodded toward the building. “In line at the Aeroflot counter.”
They joined the others behind the SUV. “Okay, listen up,” Groat said. “You guys”-he pointed to three agents-“go in over there on the left and hold that entrance. You two-and you also, Ms. Woods-block the other door on the right. The rest of you, follow me in here. We’ll approach him and I’ll make the arrest.”
“But he knows you, Rick,” she said. “He’ll spot you as soon as you enter. Especially if you take in a team.”
Groat frowned, clearly not happy to be challenged in front of his men. “So? We’ll have him surrounded. Where could he go?”
“That’s not the point. Remember, he’s probably armed-at least until he gets near security, when he’ll dump his weapon somewhere. But if he sees you, this could go south, fast. Maybe somebody gets hurt or taken hostage.”
“So, how would you play it?”
“Give me a second.” She went to her car, grabbed her shoulder bag from the passenger seat, then rejoined them. She drew out a curly blonde wig, pulled it over her short brown hair, then put her sunglasses back on. From their sudden smiles, she knew the transformation was striking.
“I’ve used this in investigations. I can get right next to him without being recognized, then take him down before he knows what’s happening.”
“You?”
“Why not?” She saw his uncertain look. “Look, here’s what you can do. Cover the far entrances, so he can’t escape. You stay outside this one. I’ll go in and wait until he’s left the ticket counter and heads toward the gates. I’ll radio you a ‘mark,’ then count down from ten. On ‘two,’ you come in fast, from all directions. Yell, make some noise. When he turns your way, I’ll grab him from behind-right at ‘zero.’ If we time this right, he’ll never see me coming.”
He still looked unsure.
“Remember,” she added, “come in only when I say ‘two.’ No sooner. Don’t alert him before I can reach him.”
“I don’t like it,” Groat said. “The Bureau has the lead on this arrest… Okay, you do the initial approach. But since I’m the SAC here, it’s my responsibility to make the collar and read him his rights.”
She forced herself to speak evenly. “Of course. It’s your operation.”
She shouldered her bag and headed toward the entrance. Inside, she took position behind another line. She pulled out her cell and raised it to her ear, feeling the tug of the pistol rig under her tailored jacket. “Six in position,” she whispered into her throat microphone, pretending to be chatting into the phone.
“Control copies.”
Out of the corner of her eye she kept track of her quarry.
*
James Muller was chubby, baby-faced, and fifty-three. He wore rumpled gray slacks and a wilted white shirt beneath a navy blazer. For a veteran manager in the CIA’s Office of Security-where Annie worked as an investigator-Muller’s tradecraft left much to be desired. He fidgeted, checked his watch constantly, and stole furtive glances at fellow passengers. He kept running his fingers through his lank, thinning gray-blond hair.
She watched him shuffle toward the front of his line. She tried to suppress her anger and focus only on him. But she couldn’t help thinking about the absurdities that had put Groat in charge of Muller’s arrest. The FBI, not the CIA, wielded authority over counterintelligence activities on U.S. soil. And Groat was the FBI’s chief liaison with Langley’s Counterintelligence Center.
As the security officer who first suspected, then investigated, and finally exposed Muller’s treason, Annie had worried for months about Groat’s interference. That’s why she waited until after she’d already done the critical leg-work before telling her boss about her investigation. Impressed, he’d pulled strings to allow her to remain involved to the end.
But now, it was clear that Groat intended to cut her out and hog the glory of the arrest.
*
Muller reached the front of his line, then wheeled his carry-on bag toward a waiting ticket agent.
“Six,” she whispered. “He’s at the counter. Stand by for my count.”
“Control copies. Guys, get ready!”
Her silent cell phone pressed to her ear, Annie threaded her way to the back of her line, then moved to position herself for the intercept. She reached a point between Muller and the corridor leading back to the boarding gates. He’d have to pass her here.
She set her shoulder bag on the floor and pretended now to send a text message.
And waited.
She felt a drop of sweat trickle down her back.
Felt the weight of the holster under her jacket.
In her peripheral vision, Muller took his ticket from the counter woman, grabbed his rolling bag, then turned in her direction.
“Mark,” she whispered in her throat microphone. “Ten…nine…eight…seven…six…”
“Go! Now! Now! Now!”
The sudden shout in her earpiece startled her. Then noise, to her right. She looked.
Groat was charging through the entrance alone, gun in hand.
“Freeze!” he was shouting. “Freeze! Freeze!”
She couldn’t believe it. She wheeled. Saw Muller still twenty feet behind her, staring wide-eyed at Groat. Then he whipped around, looking for someplace to run.
And spotted her looking right at him.
She dropped her cell and hurtled toward him.
He released his grip on the suitcase. His right hand clawed inside his blazer.
“Freeze! Freeze!”
Beside Muller, a young couple froze in place.
“Down! Everybody down!”
Behind him, other agents, yelling and pushing through the milling mass of passengers.
Can’t let him shoot…
She sprinted toward him as he looked down, fumbling inside his jacket.
She reached him just as his gun pulled free.
Her left hand seized that wrist and her right palm drove into his throat and she slammed against him, her momentum driving them back over his suitcase and onto the floor.