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

have been tough on you, Dan. So I appreciate your willingness to give us a tour and answer questions.”
    “Tell you the truth, before I returned the call to your secretary in Washington to schedule this meeting, I did a bit of homework about you. I read a few of your pieces online, and what people say about you. You don’t seem afraid to be politically incorrect or make waves.”
    Annie directed a glance Dylan’s way. “As I know, only too well.”
    “Most important to me, though, is you have a Washington media platform. Our industry can’t get its story out in that town. All the other papers there are in bed with our enemies. Yours seems to be the exception. And if I haven’t misjudged you, maybe you are, too. At least I hope you’ll give us a fair shake.”
    “Dan, I promise only to take this story wherever the facts lead.”
    Adair chuckled. “Well. If that’s the case, then I don’t have a goddamned thing to worry about. Let me show you around … Will, I’m expecting a call. Could you hold the fort?”
    Whelan didn’t look at him or answer, but slid into the swivel chair Adair had vacated. Adair grabbed a worn buckskin jacket from a hook on the wall and led them back outside.
    Hunter offered Annie his arm as she stepped down from the van.
    “‘ Fiancée,’ huh?” she whispered, looking mischievous.
    He shrugged. “Just maintaining our cover.”
    She poked him in the ribs with her elbow.
     
    The dismal morning overcast had broken up, leaving tattered gray streamers in the ice-blue sky. Shafts of sunlight stabbed here and there through the trees, glittering off the crusty ice and patches of open water on Queen Creek.
    The WildJustice campsite spread out along the bank of the stream, which meandered through the remote center of the Allegheny Forest. Dozens of tents of various sizes, shapes, and colors dotted the landscape. From the dirt access road on the hillside above, they looked like bright, ungainly flowers scattered under the dark hemlocks and pines. A community tent, big, rectangular, and bright yellow, stood in an open area; it served as the central gathering place for meetings and nightly entertainment. Nearby, a broad fire pit still smoldered from last night’s bonfire.
    One side of the large tent was tied open. For several minutes nearly a hundred people wandered in, ready to hear what their leader had to say. Most remained standing, shifting on their feet and rubbing their cold hands. Some, not knowing how long the meeting might last, sprawled on cloth folding chairs or nylon sleeping bags that they brought from their own tents.
    Zachariah Boggs stood with Dawn Ferine at the opposite wall, waiting patiently while the stragglers entered and the murmur of conversations died down. His eyes roamed from face to face, passing instant judgments born of long experience.
    Most were young, in their twenties and thirties, though some were gray and old enough to have attended Woodstock. Their appearances and dress ran from L.L. Bean to organic farm to urban grunge. Many, he knew, had come here for little more than the adventure of role-playing—to become “green revolutionaries” for a week or two. They would carry home tales to impress their timid, more conventional friends, stories to prove their environmental commitment and moral superiority. He was glad that he wouldn’t see most of them again.
    Others, though, were sincere in their love of nature, righteous in their indignation about environmental degradation. The thought caused his eyes to move instinctively to Dawn’s. She looked up at him just as she had the first time, seven years ago: with the unconditional, irresistible adoration of a devoted acolyte, a woman willing to follow him anywhere. Yes, those others were like Dawn: peaceful, passionate followers.
    But not true soldiers. Vital to the cause, of course. But lacking the philosophic rigor, the unswerving focus, the sheer emotional toughness to do everything necessary. His eyes swept