Hunter: A Thriller Read Online Free PDF Page A

“One guy signed in as ‘R. Lasher’ at a cheap motel about ten miles east. The other guy registered in the Hampton Inn right off 66 near Front Royal, under the name ‘B.J. Stoddard.’ We ran both names through the databases. Nothing.”
    “Annie—did you want to say something?”
    Garrett, looking at her; he must have seen her react. Everyone else turned to her.
    “I—I’m not sure. Something in what Agent Sully said. But I can’t put my finger on it.... Let me think about it.”
    “Maybe these were just guys cheating on their wives,” the FBI boss interjected. “Maybe not. We’re interviewing the hotel night staffs to see if we can get useful descriptions or leads.”
    The meeting didn’t last long after that. After agreeing on an action plan and defining responsibilities, everyone got up and began to filter out.
    Garrett caught up with Annie. “Let’s talk,” he said.
    *
    In his spacious seventh-floor office, they sat in big club chairs around a small mahogany coffee table, sipping from water bottles they’d brought back from the conference room. She detected the faint aroma of cigarettes—a Langley no-no.
    “This stinks,” Garrett said eventually, staring at the carpet.
    “Sure does,” she said, suppressing a smile.
    “I don’t mean Muller selling us out. Or even getting whacked before he talked to us. I mean, how he was killed. It doesn’t add up.” He glanced up at her. “Look—would you rat me out if I smoked?”
    She laughed and shook her head.
    “Thanks.” He went to his desk, fetched a blockish, battery-operated ventilation gadget from a drawer, got it purring, set it on the coffee table. Then fired up one of his Luckies . The smoke drifted toward the contraption. He looked at her. “A toymaker buddy down in DS&T put this thing together for me.”
    “Nice to know the right people.”
    He sat back. “Let’s start with the gun.”
    “What about it?”
    “The Barrett 99 is American manufacture. So is the .416 ammo. More significantly, that cartridge is uniquely suitable for very-long-distance sniping—I think even better than the .50 caliber.” He flicked a look at her. “Don’t ask me how I know this.”
    “I won’t. But what’s the significance?”
    “One: The Barrett isn’t the Kremlin’s sniper weapon of choice. It’s only been around three years—not enough time for the Russkies to become really proficient with it, anyway. They train their people on the Dragunov SVD and the SV-98. Good enough weapons out to about six hundred meters or so. But our shooter nailed Muller through the face at twice that distance.”
    He inhaled, leaned forward, blew a stream of smoke toward his humming little machine.
    “Two: Russian snipers also tend to operate in teams, not as lone shooters. Almost everybody else does these days, too. The idea of a lone-wolf sniper, especially on an op this important, bothers me.
    “Three: There’s the business of knowing wherewe’d be taking Muller. Annie, let me tell you, we’ve worked damned hard to keep the Linden site secret. Only a few people in the Agency, top people, and a handful of case officers and interrogators, knew about it. If Muller did find out about it and told Moscow its location, then it isn’t logical that he showed no hesitation about going there. Knowing they’d want to silence him, wouldn’t he have insisted on going someplace else?”
    “Makes sense.”
    “So we can probably rule that out. Four, and finally: I have to disagree with The Boss. I just can’t imagine our people could have been tailed transporting Muller there, not without picking up the surveillance.”
    “You’re right. OS protective teams are just too good for that.” She paused a moment. “So then, exactly what are you saying?”
    He leaned forward, tapped some ashes into a navy-blue Agency mug.
    “I’m not entirely sure. Except that this just doesn’t smell like a Russian hit.”
    She put down her water bottle. “Then who?”
    “Damned if I