BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) by Robert Bidinotto Read Free Book Online

on his turn signal, then stole a quick look at her. She had ditched the longish blonde wig and returned to her short natural brunette. Her smoky gray eyes were well-hidden behind large, bronze-tinted sunglasses. “Besides, I think we’re both unrecognizable now.”
    “You are—thank God. I hated that hideous beard. At least you don’t look like Erik the Red anymore. You even walked and talked differently. I don’t know how you remember to do all that, Dylan. It’s like you really become another person.”
    “A skill that’s proved to be useful over the years,” he said.
    “So Grant tells me.”
    He turned down a hard-packed dirt access road that cut a path through the trees. They emerged into a flat, open area of several acres. It was crammed with trucks, vans, box-like containers, and pipes, all surrounding the derrick mast. It towered above the site, held upright by guy wires.
    Hunter pulled the CR-V next to a group of pickup trucks and cars. Several workers in yellow hard hats and beige coveralls stood at the edge of the site watching them. One approached. He carried two hard hats under one arm, and two sets of protective goggles dangled from his other hand. They got out of the car to meet him.
    “You must be the reporters,” he said. He was a slim, pale-haired guy in his early twenties.
    Hunter smiled. “Dylan Hunter. I’m the reporter. This is Annie Woods. She’s just along for the tour.”
    The guy didn’t smile in response. He leveled a cool glance at Annie and then back at Dylan. “I’m Will Whelan. Dan is expecting you … Oh, and you have to wear these while you’re on the pad.”
    They each took a hard hat and goggles from him. Whelan turned without a further word and headed toward the site. Annie looked at Hunter, an eyebrow raised; he shrugged. They donned the gear as they followed him.
    Not much seemed to be going on at the moment. About twenty workers stood around the site in small groups, chatting, smoking, and looking at them with obvious curiosity.
    “They find you perversely attractive in that male get-up,” he whispered.
    “That’s just psychological projection,” she replied. “ You’re the pervert.”
    They crossed the pad to what looked like a long white motor home. Whelan went to a door on its side, climbed a couple of steps and entered. They followed.
    Hunter expected a rough, messy office, the kind his father used to occupy on construction sites. He was surprised to find a tidy, high-tech workspace, whose electronics compared favorably to some foreign CIA stations he’d been in. Along the length of one wall was a continuous counter, covered with laptop computers, calculators, and notepads. Four men in the company’s coveralls sat in swivel chairs along the counter, working the laptop keyboards and consulting papers. Above them, flat-screen monitors hung along the walls, displaying complicated full-color graphs and charts tracking the drilling operations. Spaced windows gave the occupants a clear view of the site.
    The men all stopped what they were doing and stared at them when they entered.
    A man seated at a separate counter at the far end of the van stood and approached. He wore blue jeans and a brown flannel shirt. Hunter recognized the craggy-handsome face from a news photo he had seen on his laptop last night.
    “Dan Adair,” the man said in a stern baritone, nodding and extending his hand. He stood tall and erect. His sandy, gray-flecked hair and beard were trimmed short; his eyes and mouth were pressed narrow.
    “Dylan Hunter,” he replied, gripping a hand that was strong and calloused. “And this is my fiancée, Annie Woods. Thanks for allowing her to accompany me.”
    Adair turned to her. A smile spread. “Pleasure,” he said.
    Annie turned on her own smile, one that would melt ice. “I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Adair.”
    “Dan. Call me Dan … both of you.”
    “Then please make it Dylan and Annie,” Hunter said. “I know that many in the media