“Freeze!” he yelled.
The hall light was on, too. Two men stood before him. At the first sound of his voice, their eyes grew wide with concern and they each swung their hand guns toward him.
Just as quickly, their faces relaxed.
“How nice of you to call,” Hendricks, the butler, said in a deadpan dry voice.
Jacob Montgomery Hayes wasn’t smiling. “We got one of them, Hawk. Hendricks planted a little room-to-room listening system, just in case they got past you. They got in through the coal bin and came up through the basement.”
“A simple precaution,” said Hendricks. “But effective. Unfortunately, two of the nasty buggers got away.”
“Two got away?” said Hawker, surprised.
Through the front door, Megan Parnell came running. The grim look on her face changed immediately to a smile when she saw the three men standing in the hall.
“Ah, I’m so glad,” she said in her soft Irish lilt. “You’re not dead, are you?”
“A searing bit of insight, young lady,” observed Hendricks. It was the first time Hawker had ever seen him smile.
She hesitated, then fell into Hawker’s arms, hugging him warmly. “They got one of them, Megan. They said two got away. Come on, I want you to take a quick look at the body.”
“And then what, James?”
“And then we go after the other two.”
Hendricks and Hayes had shot the man as he came through the study door. Two clean shots: one in the face; another high and to the right of the breastbone.
There was no doubt he was dead.
A window at the far wall was shattered, and a line of splintered wood at eye level behind the desk told them that fire had been exchanged. But probably fearing an even worse trap, the other two had fled before their job was done.
“Is it Galway or Phelan?” Hawker demanded.
“Neither,” she said. “I’ve never seen him before.”
Through the broken window came the high buzz of a small outboard being started. Hayes gave Hawker a questioning look.
“They came in by boat,” Hawker said. “A cruiser most of the way, then probably paddled to shore in a skiff. We need a boat, Jacob. Give me anything that will float, and I’ll go after them.”
“We’ll go after them,” Megan insisted. She was no longer smiling.
“We keep a crash launch in the boat house,” Hendricks sputtered. “The engine’s in proper order, but it’s on davits, and I hardly think—”
“Let’s go!” Hawker called, already running. “And Jacob—if we’re not back in an hour, get some help.”
The “crash launch” was a thirteen-foot Boston Whaler with a forty-horsepower Johnson engine. It was a stubby projectile on davits beneath the roof of the boat house.
A steady northeast wind swept across Lake Michigan. It blew thigh-high breakers into the pilings, then sprayed them over the dock.
Hawker’s pants became soaked while he wasted a long minute hunting for a hand crank to lower the boat into the water. Finally, he realized the davits worked off an electric motor. A moment later, he found the switch. The little boat settled itself on the black chop, lifting and rising like a duck.
“Wait until I get her started before you loosen the lines,” Hawker yelled above the noise of the waves.
The Johnson fired to life, sputtered, then stalled. Forcing himself to remain calm, Hawker pumped the fuel-flow ball on the gas line. He pushed the starter key in to choke it, then tried again.
The engine roared and held.
“Jump in!”
Unclamping the bow cable, Megan stepped on as Hawker steered them out of the boat house. Lake Michigan was so rough that waves immediately broke over the bow. Hawker turned and pulled out the two scupper plugs so the boat could drain.
“Megan,” he called, “you’d better sit back here with me. You’ll get beaten to death up there. I’ve got to get her on plane, or we’re going to swamp.”
The woman moved nimbly over the center seat and edged in close to Hawker. She was trembling.
“Cold?” he asked.
“No,” she said with a nervous laugh. “Scared.”
Hawker put his arm around her and touched his lips to her smooth cheek. “No matter what happens,” he said into her ear, “I want you to remember something. I love you, Megan.”
Her eyes searched his in the darkness. “And I love you, James,” she whispered. “Someday, you will know how much—I promise.”
As he kissed her lips, she turned quickly away. “Not now,” she said. “Later. Later, we’ll talk.”
“More than talk—and I’m going to hold you to it,” said Hawker as he slid the Colt Commando into her arms. “Now, have a look through the night-vision scope. Scan the water. Slowly. What do you see?”
“The boat!” she exclaimed. “No, two boats! A wee tiny one, and a bigger one farther out.”
“Which way?”
She began to wave her free hand, directing him. Hawker caught her arm. “The bow of the boat is at twelve o’clock,” he said. “Just to port is eleven o’clock. Just to starboard is one o’clock. That’s the way you’re going to have to direct me.”
“Halfway between twelve o’clock and one o’clock!”
“Twelve-thirty it is. Hold on!”
Hawker buried the throttle forward, and the Whaler dolphined out of the water, then settled on plane. Hawker quartered the waves as best he could, but every breaker still slammed against the hull with the impact of a sledgehammer.
“Let me know if we’re gaining on them, Megan.”
“I … I can’t see anything! We’re banging around too much—wait a minute! I just saw them. They’re about halfway to the cruiser!”
“We’ve got to get there before they do. They can’t hear us while their outboard is running, and they probably won’t be able to see us—unless they have a scope like ours. If they do, we’re sitting ducks.”
The woman was still struggling to keep her eye pressed against the scope. “James, we’re going to catch them. We’re getting so close … should we be this close?”
Immediately, Hawker backed off on the throttle. He took the Colt Commando from her and looked through the Star-Tron.
He could see the cruiser, maybe half a mile away. It was a silhouette rolling on black water. Maybe forty feet long. A cabin that swept clear to the stern deck. A fly bridge atop the superstructure. It showed no lights.
It took him longer to find the skiff. He was shocked at how close they were. Another two or three minutes of running, and the Whaler would have run right over them.
The skiff was a tiny painter with a small sea gull-sized kicker. Two hulking figures sat hunched in the boat. They were having a hell of a time fighting their way through the choppy water.
As close as they were, Hawker could just barely hear the droning bee-whine of the engine.
For that, he was glad.
The wind and waves were doing a good job of covering sound.
Quickly, Hawker calculated the best way to get the cruiser between them and the little painter.
He jammed the throttle forward, and the Whaler jumped onto plane, throwing a curtain of water over them.
Hawker ran for about five minutes, taking seas flush off the starboard beam, then cut suddenly northeast. The smacking of hull against waves rattled their teeth as he ran directly into the wind.
When he could see the cruiser directly off the Whaler’s beam, he veered southeast toward the anchored yacht. It still showed no lights, but that didn’t mean it was unattended. Fifty yards away, Hawker throttled the Whaler back as they idled toward the dark hulk before them.
“Keep your weapon ready,” he ordered Megan as he brought the Whaler alongside. “At the first sign of any movement, don’t hesitate. Open fire.”
“With pleasure,” she said in a tone Hawker had never heard from her before.
The seas rolled past the cruiser, doing their best to smash the two fiberglass hulls together. Alternately punchi
ng ahead and backing off on the throttle, Hawker finally put them close enough to tie the Whaler’s bowline off on the cruiser’s beam cleat.
He pulled himself up onto the deck of the boat. He motioned for Megan to wait as he made a quick trip through the cabin, his automatic rifle ready.
When he was sure there was no one else aboard the boat, he helped the woman up and pulled her along into the control station of the deck salon. Hawker found the toggle switches that he hoped would give power to the deck lights.
“When they get here, don’t open fire until I say,” Hawker whispered. “I want a chance to talk to them, if I can.”
“They didn’t give my sister a chance, James!” she snapped nervously.
Hawker squeezed her arm tenderly. “Relax,” he said. “It’s almost over.”
The high-pitched whine of the little outboard drew closer and closer. There was a dull thud as the painter smacked against the stern of the yacht. Hawker’s hand grew tight on the Colt Commando as he heard the sound of men’s voices.
Then they pulled themselves over the transom: two burly, hulking shapes arguing in thick Irish accents.
In one swift motion, Hawker flipped on the deck lights and charged them with the brutal-looking automatic poised at their heads.
“Freeze!” he yelled. “Don’t move an inch, or you’re dead!”
As the two men swung around in surprise, Hawker took one more confident step toward them, then stopped.
The shock moved through him like a cold, cold wind. It roared in his ears, and made him feel strangely dizzy.
The linebacker-sized man with the feral eyes and flaming red hair had to be Thomas Galway, the vicious leader of Bas Gan Sagart.
Hawker didn’t have to speculate on the identity of the other man. Although his brain refused to believe it, there was no doubt who it was.
He looked wet and weary and vaguely embarrassed.
“Good evening, James,” said Jimmy O’Neil. “Shall we drop our weapons, James?” He looked at Galway. “Yes, Thomas. I think he wants us to drop our weapons.” His eyes returned to Hawker, and he smiled. “It’s just what a good policeman would do, James.”
sixteen
“Jimmy,” whispered Megan in disbelief. “But you … you were—”
“Dead?” he offered. “Not true, dear Megan. I’m sorry.” His laugh was a mixture of sheepishness and disgust. “And I’m becoming increasingly sorry.”
“But how?” Hawker demanded. “How in the hell did you get out of that fire? Someone damn well died that night, O’Neil—”
“It was the much-deserving Padraic Phelan,” O’Neil said. “You see, my friend Galway here, Phelan, and a vanload of their goons came by the Ennisfree that night. I considered it quite fortunate that only I heard them come to the door. You and Megan were talking, you see.” He looked at the brooding Galway, who stood drenched on the heaving deck. “Going to do a bit of firebombing, weren’t you, Thomas?” O’Neil said.
“Shut up, Jimmy!” he barked. “Don’t be saying another word to these two, damn it.”
“But it’s over, Thomas. Can’t you see that?” He turned back to Hawker. “I went out into the street to meet them, James. That’s why I hurried away so suddenly. Phelan was the supposed explosives ‘expert’ for the job that night, and he had built the bomb inside a briefcase. When I went outside to meet them, Phelan insisted he needed a drink. Against my direct orders, he made a quick trip into the bar for a bottle.” O’Neil smiled. “Through more great good fortune, he carried the briefcase with him. I don’t know what happened. None of us knew. Maybe he dropped the damn briefcase. In any case, Phelan was obviously not the explosives expert he pretended to be, because the bomb went off while he was inside. An accident, you see?
“I quickly saw that it was the perfect opportunity for me to go underground. A ‘dead’ Jimmy O’Neil could do a great deal more for the cause then a live, high-profile Jimmy O’Neil—in Chicago, anyway.”
“You were working with Bas Gan Sagart all along!” Megan shouted.
“For the cause, dear Megan. Don’t you understand?” O’Neil’s fists clenched, and for a moment the old fire Hawker remembered so well returned to his eyes. “For once, I had the chance to make a lot of money for the cause. More money than we ever dreamed of—and damn it, I took that chance!”
“But they tried to kill you, too—that night at your house,” Hawker insisted, still unwilling to believe that his close friend had involved himself with such scum.
O’Neil chuckled wearily. “Those were two of Thomas’s goons, James. They followed you from Beckerman’s place. My name was on that little note in case they got into trouble and needed a safe house. But the dumb bastards didn’t know me from Adam. They were just two more of Thomas’s trained killers.” He gave Galway an evil, uneven grin. “Isn’t that true, Thomas? Of course. You see, Megan, only my share of the money went to the IRA. But Thomas is a greedy little bastard—aren’t you, Thomas?”
O’Neil looked at Hawker. “I’ve been a fool, James. A fool right along. And I’m glad you’ve caught us. I deserve whatever sentence the courts choose to give me—and they will, because I’m going to tell them everything.” He winked playfully at Thomas Galway, who was scowling. “Be quite a story, won’t it, Thomas, lad? I’ll get a long stay in the pen, but you”—O’Neil laughed—“but you’ll get the bloody chair!”
“Will I?” Galway yelled with a maniacal gleam in his eye. He touched his back pocket, and the stocky, snub-barreled revolver appeared in his hand so quickly, Hawker didn’t have time to move. Galway backhanded O’Neil with the butt of the weapon, then Hawker saw the barrel spout fire.
In the same instant, there was a jarring impact against his right arm. The slug knocked Hawker to the ground and sent his Colt Commando spinning. Through the first wave of pain and shock, Hawker watched Megan launch herself at Galway like a tigress. She landed on his right shoulder, clawing at his face and neck. Her fingers found his left eye.
He gave a tortured scream as she dug his eye away from his face. O’Neil got shakily to his feet and drew back his fist as if to hit Galway.
But the revolver exploded again, and O’Neil tumbled backward, his head spouting blood.
Hawker rolled toward his automatic weapon. He grasped it in his left hand and whirled just in time to see Galway dig the revolver into Megan’s chest and fire. She screamed once and collapsed onto the deck.
“You bastard!” Hawker heard some distant voice yell, a voice that was his own. He fought his way to his feet and brought the Commando to bear on Galway’s throat.
Just before Hawker fired, there was a microsecond of great clarity, as if in slow motion. And in that second, it seemed he could see it all, as if from above—the four of them on the heaving cruiser as Lake Michigan swept past, black and cold. Jimmy O’Neil, his best friend who had forfeited that which he held most sacred for the beloved cause—his honor. Megan Parnell, the passionate celibate of haunting beauty, who never lost her curious air of nobility. Even now. As she lay dying.
And Thomas Galway. In that microsecond before Hawker fired, it seemed he could see Galway most clearly of all. The long, matted red hair. The vicious look of the hunted animal on his face. The furrows of blood Megan’s nails had plowed through his cheek, and the dangling eyeball she had dug from its socket.
As Galway brought the revolver up to shoot him a second time, Hawker’s left fist squeezed the trigger of the Colt Commando.
Galway jolted backward, his body jerking in spasms as the heavy-caliber slugs poured through it.
Still holding the trigger down, Hawker walked toward Galway. The hatred was like a madness in him now. Galway’s body was like a receptacle through which to pour his anger.
When the Colt’s twenty-round clip was empty, Hawker smashed the weapon down onto the bloodied corpse, then knelt quickly beside Megan Parnell.
He felt her dark sweater soaked with blood as he cradled her in his arms.
“Megan,” Hawker w
hispered, his voice a weak sob in the whistle of wind. Megan …
Her eyes fluttered open and focused slowly on him. Her mouth formed a weak smile. “James? Oh, thank God you’re not hurt. I thought he killed you.”
“He’s dead, Megan. Galway and—and Jimmy, too. It’s just us now, Megan. You’ve completed your mission.”
Her muscles contracted with a spasm of pain as she reached up and traced the outline of his lips with her index finger. “Am I dying, James?”
“No,” he lied, his voice choking.
Her smile broadened. “It’s such a bad liar, you are. But it doesn’t matter, for I’m dying with the first peace I’ve known in a very long time. I’m only sorry to be leaving you.”
Hawker hugged her close. “Don’t talk,” he whispered. “The boat has to have a VHF radio. I’m going to call for a Coast Guard helicopter—”
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Please don’t leave me.” Her breathing was heavier now, and Hawker could see that she had to struggle to keep her eyes open. “I want to spend these last moments with you, for I’ve loved you for so very long, though you didn’t even know it—”
“I knew, Megan. I knew.”
“But you couldn’t have known, James. For I’ve loved you since I heard the stories about your family on me own mother’s knee. Direct descendants of Cuchulain, the great warrior legend of Ulster, they said you were.” Her sweet laughter became a choking cough.
“For God’s sake, don’t talk, Megan,” he pleaded.
“But I must, James,” she whispered. “I must tell you why I feel the way I do. The stories were so lovely to hear, you see. The stories about your handsome, dashing father who broke a hundred hearts, and then took revenge on the Orangemen who murdered his entire family but one. You, James. Don’t you see? Don’t you understand why my love for you—”
Hawker kissed her lips tenderly, trying to force her to stop talking, to stop wasting precious time—and her own fading energy.
Even so, she continued. “… why my love for you could not be the way you wanted it to be—yes, and the way I wanted it to be?”
Her blue eyes grew alive and warm as she pulled his head toward hers for a final, dry kiss. And the next words she spoke were to echo in Hawker’s head for the endless trip back to shore, and the endless years to come.
Chicago Assault Page 11
