Read BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) for Free Online

County Prison into the bitter breeze coming out of the gray northwestern sky. He shivered and turned up the collar of his thick flannel coat. But the chill couldn’t distract his attention from the throbbing ache in his head and jaw that had kept him awake all night.
    He spotted at once the minibus idling in a parking spot nearby, a plume of exhaust behind it lifting and flaring like a colt’s tail. The sight of the pollution made him feel even worse. He saw Jeff behind the wheel, Dawn in the passenger seat. She noticed him at the same time, got out and came running toward him.
    “Oh honey!” she exclaimed, opening her arms to him. “You look awful!”
    “Don’t touch me!” he growled between his teeth, not daring to open his swollen jaw. She winced and jerked back. He saw the hurt look form on her face. Noticed her own swollen lips. “Sorry,” he grunted, making a beeline for the vehicle. “I feel like I must look.”
    He walked slowly, but each step sent a jarring spike through his skull. She paced him warily, searching his face with a concerned look. “Zak, I understand … I brought the ibuprofen you asked for.”
    He nodded. Immediately wished he hadn’t. Reaching the van, he opened the passenger-side door and climbed up gingerly into the seat she had just vacated. He noticed a couple of vague shapes in the back; he didn’t bother to look and see who. He settled into the seat, feeling Dawn’s residual warmth through his jeans. He eased his head back against the headrest, released a long breath, and closed his eyes.
    Nobody said anything. He heard the side panel door slide open behind him. Dawn getting in. She slid it shut with a thump that made him cringe.
    “Here, Zak. The ibuprofen and some water.”
    He opened his eyes a slit. Saw her hands floating beside his face. One held a mustard-colored canteen. The other, palm flat, offered three brownish pills. He picked the pills from her hand one at a time, opening his mouth just enough to shove them past his teeth. Then he tilted the canteen to his lips and sipped as best he could. Cold water dribbled down his beard and neck. Damn.
    “Give me two more,” he croaked. She did.
    “So you wanna head back to the camp, Dr. Boggs?” Jeff’s obsequious voice.
    “Mmm … First, though, I have to make a call. And I don’t want to stand around freezing outside … Head back to that doughnut shop where we were the other day.”
     
    It took ten minutes to find the place on the other side of town. By that time the ibuprofen was starting to kick in and the throbbing had slightly receded. He got out and went inside alone. They all understood he needed privacy for his many mysterious calls.
    The smell of coffee and pastries greeted him. He navigated around the line of customers waiting at the counter and made for what he knew was a single-occupancy men’s room. Fortunately, it was empty. He went in and locked the door behind him.
    When he turned, he caught his image in the mirror—and sucked in a breath. It was the first time he had seen his face since yesterday. Above the beard, his right cheek was visibly swollen and a dark purple bruise spread upward and around his eye.
    Great.
    He pulled out his cell. Like the minibus, it represented another despised, but necessary, concession to modern technology. This one wasn’t his smartphone, though—just a cheap store-bought model, what they call a “burner phone,” which he replaced frequently, courtesy the cash supplied regularly by the man he was dialing now. A man who used similar phones for calls like these—calls that had to remain untraceable.
    His old friend answered on the second chirp.
    “Are you out yet?” the man asked. No greetings or preliminaries. And, of course, they never used names.
    “Yes. Thanks for posting bail,” he mumbled between his teeth. “I appreciate—”
    “You are damned lucky I didn’t leave you in there! And of course I could not post bail personally. I had to have … our