Waiting only long enough to make sure no one had followed him down the stairs, Hawker slid the knapsack off his shoulder and found the electronic detonator. He flipped up the safety lid and paused before hitting the transmitter button.
“Have a nice flight, boys,” he said out loud as he pressed the red square.
The device hummed … was momentarily silent … then a deafening roar shook the entire building.
The force of the explosion knocked Hawker to the ground. Plaster rained down on him followed by a massive ball of heat and smoke that came tumbling across the room from the stairwell.
Hawker expected to hear screams of pain and calls for help.
But there were none.
There was only a strange and eerie silence as the last of the debris clattered to the earth.
The Astrolite had done its job well.
Hawker got quickly to his feet and brushed himself off.
He had to hurry now.
New Yorkers might be able to ignore gunshots, but no one could ignore an explosion of that magnitude. Even though the waterfront was comprised mostly of old and deserted industrial buildings, someone somewhere had to be calling the police at that very moment—if they hadn’t been called already.
Hawker stepped out onto the sidewalk, surveying the street.
It was oddly deserted and quiet. There wasn’t much time for conservative movement now. Hawker took one more look down the street, then set out toward his van at a weary trot.
“Freeze, asshole!”
The voice came from behind him and to his right. In midstride, Hawker turned and dropped to his belly on the pavement, and waved the Ingram in the general direction of the voice.
The submachine gun sputtered twice, then was silent.
It was empty.
Hawker could see the figure coming at him: a short, thin man wearing the kind of hat you see in old gangster movies.
A lance of orange flame jumped from his hand, and the asphalt exploded just to the left of Hawker. Hawker rolled as still another slug smacked into the street beside him.
Hawker realized with a cold resolve that he had no chance against the man.
He was dead, would be dead within a matter of seconds … unless he could somehow throw the Randall knife with enough force to knock his attacker unconscious.
It was his only chance, because there was no way he would have time to get into his knapsack and draw the Cobra crossbow.
But it wasn’t likely. In fact, it was damn near impossible. The man stood in the shadows of the alley about forty yards away. A long throw. And the moment he stood, the man would chop him down with the revolver.
Still, he had no choice. Hawker wasn’t about to die on his belly. On the street. At the hand of some goon with fried eggs for brains.
When Hawker leaped to his feet, a number of things happened almost simultaneously.
Hawker took the Randall by the blade and cocked back his arm. The knife was heavy and cold—nearly a pound of handmade stainless and carbon steel fighting knife.
The goon in the alley, realizing this was his chance at a kill shot, steadied his revolver in both hands and brought the front ramp sights to bear on Hawker’s chest.
From somewhere behind Hawker, three deafening shots rang out—the line of fire so close that Hawker felt the vacuum impact of the slugs passing his ear.
The goon in the alley was knocked backward as if jerked by a hawser line, and the revolver tumbled high into the air as the man collapsed, dead.
It all transpired so quickly that Hawker didn’t know what exactly in the hell had happened.
He swung around, still holding the Randall.
A square, heavyset figure stepped out from behind the unmarked squad car newly parked at the curb. The streetlight caught his face.
“Callis!” Hawker whispered beneath his breath.
Detective Lieutenant Scott Callis holstered his .357 as he approached. He stopped an arm’s length away. He looked at Hawker with dark eyes of disbelief, then looked at what had once been the headquarters of the most notorious gang of drug addicts and killers in New York.
The roof of the building had been blown almost completely off. The upper walls had collapsed. The windows blinked with the bright-orange flicker of a spreading fire.
Callis gave a soft whistle and looked back at Hawker. “Jesus Christ,” he said in a low voice. “You really did it, didn’t you?”
“Thanks,” Hawker said, his composure regained. “You saved my life, Callis. I won’t forget it.”
The cop didn’t seem to hear. He seemed in awe of the destruction before him.
“How many were there? How many did you kill?”
Hawker used a weary hand to wipe the blood from the cuts on his face.
The salt on his hand made his face sting.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I lost track.”
Callis whistled again. “Flaherty was right. You’re not a man. You’re a machine. A fucking killing machine.”
Hawker started to say something, but Callis interrupted. “Don’t worry, Hawk. These guys weren’t up for any good citizenship awards, believe me. And tonight you probably saved three lives for every one you took.”
“You think it will soften Blake Fister’s operation any?” Hawker asked, studying the ruins of the headquarters.
“I don’t know. I doubt it. There’s a lot of Blake Fister to go around.” Callis slapped Hawker on the shoulder. There was a new urgency in his voice. “Look, you’ve got to get out of here. That explosion was reported about five minutes ago—I heard the call go out over the radio.”
“Yeah? How did you get here so fast?”
Callis smiled. “I tried to get you at your apartment all evening. Finally I decided this might be your night for the big hit. But you’ve got to get moving. Now. We can write this mess off as a gang war—as long as you’re not around to take the blame.”
Wearily Hawker adjusted the canvas pack on his shoulder and headed for his van.
He stopped and turned suddenly. “Callis? Why were you trying to get in touch with me tonight?”
The detective suddenly looked uncomfortable. “I was hoping it could wait until morning. You look like you could use some sleep.”
“I’m not much for waiting.”
Once more, Callis looked at the wreckage. “So I see,” he said wryly. “Okay, I’ll tell you. It’s about that friend of yours.”
“Flaherty? The Irish cop out in L.A.?”
“No, the other one. The guy you told me about. Hayes. Jacob Hayes.”
Hawker suddenly remembered the sense of dread he had felt only a few minutes before—the strange anxiety about Hayes. “Yeah? What about Jake?”
“It came in over the I.C.I.C. wire late this afternoon. From Grand Cayman. He’s been missing for the last couple of days. They found blood in his house down there and there are signs of a struggle. They think he’s been kidnapped—or worse.”
Hawker nodded, his face showing no expression. “Thanks, Callis. For everything.” He turned and began to walk toward his van.
“Hawk. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to check with the airlines tonight, and if there’s no plane out, I’m going to get a few hours sleep. I’ll be on Grand Cayman tomorrow.”
“If there’s anything I can do—”
“I know, Lieutenant,” said James Hawker. “And I appreciate it.”
nineteen
The assassin arrived outside Hawker’s apartment just after one.
Lights were on inside the apartment, but Hawker’s van was not parked at the curb.
He was not yet home.
But the woman who lived downstairs was.
Renard stood in the shadows of the tenement across the street, watching.
She was up unusually late. Renard wondered if there was a reason. Perhaps she had a visitor. A man staying the night, perhaps.
The assassin hoped not.
He stood outside the brownsto
ne house for a long time, waiting.
So this is what it is all about, he thought, considering the chain of dark German homes. The corporation wanted to buy all of this property, but the corporation’s methods had caused James Hawker and his friends to interfere.
Soon they would realize that they had stumbled onto something much, much bigger. And far more dangerous—if they hadn’t realized it already.
Not that Renard cared. He cared nothing for his employers or for their business goals.
He cared only for the deed. His craft. His art.
The drama of killing.
This kill, especially.
Hawker and his friends had come all too close to eliminating him on Little Cayman Island. Even now, remembering the agonizing pain he had suffered that night caused a slow cold fury to build in him.
Renard would now make James Hawker pay. But Hawker’s death would be no crime of passion. No. That was unprofessional.
Renard had planned his murder completely and carefully. Even the best in his business would admire the masterly touches.
More important, he had forced himself to wait for the perfect moment. It had to be at a time when he and Hawker were alone. He wanted to see the suffering on Hawker’s face. He wanted to hear his pleas for mercy.
A clean shot with a revolver was no longer good enough. Indeed, twice already Renard had had opportunities to shoot Hawker.
But he had passed them by. He had passed them by because this was now more than a contract killing. James Hawker had become an obsession. And Renard was going to make his death last just as long as he could.
As Renard thought about it he felt the warm, precoition stir of stomach and abdomen.
It was a pleasurable fantasy, and Renard used it to pass the time.
Finally the woman crossed the scrim of windows into the living room. She pulled the shades, and the living-room lights went out. The hallway light came on, and then what Renard assumed was the bathroom light.
Soon all the lights went out.
Renard snuffed out the cigarette he was smoking and pushed the remains into his pocket.
He waited a full fifteen minutes before walking across the street to the brownstone.
It was 2:48 A.M.
He stopped at the stairs and listened carefully. It wouldn’t do for the woman to see him. But no sound came from inside her flat.
Sure that all was well, Renard continued up the stairs. The stairs were old and creaky, so he took them slowly. His one fear was that Hawker would return before he got into the apartment and had a chance to hide himself away.
Three quarters up the stairs, increasingly confident he would make it to the apartment undiscovered, Renard began to take the steps more quickly—and that’s when his foot snagged on the piano wire Hawker had planted there.
The assassin stumbled forward and landed hard on the edge of the steps. Then he slid belly-first down the stairs.
Lights flashed on below, and a beautiful blond woman peered out.
“Mr. Hawker?” she asked, squinting into the darkness. “Is that you?”
Still lying on his stomach, Renard tried to match his voice to Hawker’s. “Yeah,” he said in a soft, husky imitation of Hawker. “Sorry about all the racket. Guess I had a few too many tonight.”
“And after that speech you made about being a light drinker,” the woman said sarcastically. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, fine,” answered Renard, purposely keeping his back to the woman. “I’ll be okay.”
“Well, you’re probably in no condition to remember, but I’m going to tell you anyway. You have an important message from some corporation in Chicago. Hayes Corporation? Yes, that’s it. They couldn’t get you, so they contacted me through the realtor. You’re supposed to call them immediately. No matter what time it is.”
“Chicago? Right away,” said the assassin. “I’ll call them right now.”
The woman hesitated, a strange expression on her face. She stepped back to close her door, but then looked out again. “Are you sure you’re not hurt, Mr. Hawker? You sound awfully strange. I think perhaps I should have a look at you.”
Brigitte Mildemar pulled her nightgown tightly around her neck, switched on the outside porch light—then froze.
“You’re not … you’re not James Hawker,” she whispered. “My God … you’re …”
Renard stood and faced the woman. There was a light smile on his face. As he began to walk toward the woman, he said, “I brought a present for your friend Mr. Hawker. Such a nice little present. But not nearly so nice as the present I have for you, beautiful lady.”
The woman’s face showed surprise and then shock as the assassin stopped at the bottom of the stairs and pushed back his glasses.
Then Brigitte Mildemar’s lovely mouth contorted into the harsh, taut lines of a terrified scream.…
twenty
Hawker pulled up outside the old brownstone house on Rhinestrauss at three minutes before three in the morning.
He was surprised to see the lights in Brigitte Mildemar’s apartment still on.
It troubled him. He had met the woman only briefly, but the impression she gave was strong and sure. There was nothing about her that suggested the insomniac neurotic.
Hawker switched on the van’s interior lights and loaded the Browning automatic’s spent clip with fresh 9mm cartridges.
He locked the van and walked to the stairs, holding the pistol in his right hand.
Brigitte’s shades were drawn, and the door was shut.
Hawker wondered why the porch light was on. Was she waiting up for him for some reason?
Hawker hesitated, then tapped on the door. There was no immediate response, so he knocked louder.
He listened intently at the window and heard nothing.
Maybe she was out. Yes, that would explain the lights. She was probably out on a date.
Hawker holstered the Browning and walked up the stairs. He unlocked his door and went inside. He put the tea kettle on to boil and opened a bottle of beer to drink while the water heated. Wearily he slipped out of the shoulder holster and laid the weapon on the lamp table beside his bed before calling the airlines.
The first flight to Miami was at 9:15 A.M.
Almost relieved that he would be forced to get a few hours sleep, Hawker began to prepare for bed. But something was troubling him. Hawker couldn’t quite put his finger on what.
Did it have something to do with the sudden, overwhelming thoughts about Jake Hayes he had had during the firefight with the Mafia goons? he wondered. He knew Hayes to be a pragmatic and hard-nosed scientist and businessman. But he was also aware that Hayes had traveled the high and private roads of the mind, the ancient roads of kensho and satori. Hayes had never talked about it. But Hawker had read enough to know that telepathic powers were widely associated with people who had studied the eastern philosophies—though Hawker himself was a cynic about such things.
Perhaps that was what was troubling him. Hawker reasoned. Maybe Hayes had been trying to tell him of his own abduction. Unbelievable as it seemed, maybe Hayes was trying to get a message through to him.
On an impulse. Hawker found his address book and dialed the hotel where Hendricks was staying in London.
A bored desk clerk, sounding as if he were stationed on Mars, said Sir Halton had just checked out.
Frustrated, Hawker slammed down the phone.
Hawker grabbed his beer and gulped down half the bottle at one pull. Out in the little kitchen, the tea kettle was beginning to make its first tentative whistling noises. Hawker carried the beer with him while he made his tea. An herb tea. Emperor’s Choice. There was something in the face of the man on the tea box that reminded him of Hayes. Some glint of wry wisdom.
Hawker finished the beer, added a glob of honey to the steaming tea, then carried it into the bathroom.
He put down the lid of the stool and sat to take off his shoes. He took off one shoe, then the other—and that’s when i
t hit him. It was the association between shoes and steps.
The wire he had drawn across the steps to his apartment: It was gone. Someone had tripped over it hard enough to knock it down. Maybe that’s why Brigitte’s lights were still on. Maybe she had come up to leave a message for him, tripped over the wire, and fallen over the railing.
Swearing at his own diabolical cleverness, Hawker ran outside. He leaned over the railing, squinting into the darkness below.
Nothing. No body.
Hawker found the step he had wired. The wire had been snapped clean away.
What in the hell had happened? Had she fallen, hurt herself, and crawled back into her apartment?
Or maybe she wasn’t the one who had fallen.…
Without hesitation, Hawker drew the Randall knife he still wore on his calf and bolted down the steps.
He tried to look into Brigitte Mildemar’s apartment through a crack in the shades.
Nothing.
Hawker banged on the door.
No answer.
He tried the handle. Locked.
Forsaking any thoughts of how foolish he would feel if Brigitte was out on a date, Hawker stepped back and slammed against the door with his shoulder. The door didn’t open, but the impact shattered the window glass. Hawker reached through and unlocked it from inside, then swung the door open.
He stood in the doorway, knife drawn.
The apartment was a neater, tidier replica of Hawker’s. The door opened into the little kitchen. She had placed a vase of flowers on the kitchen table. The vase had been knocked over, shattered. Flowers were strewn about the tile floor.
Yellow flowers.
The table had been shoved against the refrigerator, and two chairs were overturned.
A torn blouse lay in a heap on the floor with the flowers.
A white blouse.
The same blouse she had worn, buttoned so primly, that same afternoon.
There was a smear of blood on the blouse.
“Brigitte!” Hawker called hoarsely. “Brigitte!”
No answer.
Hawker moved smoothly through the kitchen, the Attack-Survival knife vectoring ahead of him. He found the wall switch, and the living-room lights flashed on.
A whimpering sound brought his head swinging toward the hallway which led to the bedroom.
Deadly in New York Page 9
