by Marc Olden
The corner of Drewcolt’s mouth turned up in something close to a smile. “You can always ask him, though I don’t think you will, my lady. As for my sexual necessities, you are one until I tell you you’re not. Talon’s sexual tendencies do not interest me. He’s loyal to me and to Consolidated Communications and Electronics. That’s what counts.”
“And that’s why you’re going to kill these two men, because loyal Talon says they must die? Is that enough of a reason?”
He didn’t look at her when he answered. Raising his hand in a signal to Talon, he simply said, “Yes.”
Nodding his head once to acknowledge Drewcolt’s signal, Talon lifted his right hand in a signal of his own to the four men standing in the cold, torchlit darkness below. Turning, they disappeared into the dark shadows behind them, and seconds later reappeared dragging two naked men, both shivering with cold and fear.
Blue-lipped, the two men doubled over with shame, teeth pressed tightly together, their hands rapidly moving up and down their own bodies in a pitiful attempt to hide themselves and to keep warm.
High up on the walk, Lisa Warren turned to Drewcolt and hoarsely pleaded, “Print?”
“They betrayed me, Lisa. I trusted them, and they betrayed me. And for what? For money!”
“Isn’t that why you’re doing this—for money?”
Turning to look at her, Print Drewcolt twisted his mouth and took a deep breath, his eyes bright with arrogance; and Lisa Warren leaned away from him, terrified by the evil she saw in his face.
Looking down at the two naked men, Drewcolt spit out the words. “Abe? Abe Richards! And Jerome Abbot! You two are spies, betrayers. You passed on information about me, privileged information about me and my organization and my plans, do you hear?”
His voice weak with fear and with approaching death, the gray-haired lawyer hobbled forward on the cold cobblestones and in a hoarse voice begged, “Print, for the love of God, don’t! Don’t!”
Stepping closer to the edge, the veins in his neck knotted with tension, Drewcolt yelled, “You spied on me and reported on my plans. You even dragged my stupid servant into your intrigues, and for that he will accompany you to whatever world you go to after tonight. No one—do you hear?—no one betrays me.”
For seconds, nobody spoke. The only sounds were the flames of the torches being whipped by the wind and the soft flapping of the huge hawk’s wings. Drewcolt stared down at the two men—one gray-haired, the other lean and balding, black hairs combed sideways across his skull. Suddenly he gazed across the courtyard to where Talon and his hawk stood watching, and he yelled, “Talon!” The echo of his voice swept across the stone courtyard of the 650-year-old English castle.
Lifting his right hand again, Talon signaled the men below, who turned and disappeared into the darkness. When they appeared again, two were carrying pieces of a suit of medieval armor. A third carried a hooded hawk perched on a thick black leather glove he wore, similar to the one worn by Talon.
The fourth also carried a hooded hawk perched on his left arm. His right hand held a small yellow wicker basket.
Gloved hands holding the pieces of armor, the two men looked up at Talon, now pointing at Abe Richards. As the servant Jerome Abbot trembled and watched, his body quivering in the cold, the two men dropped the pile of antique armor at Abe Richards’ feet, and then each bent over, picked up a piece of the shiny, cold metal, and began to put it on the paunchy man.
“Please, Print,” he moaned. “Don’t do it, please don’t do it.”
Drewcolt’s eyes never left the scene below him, and when Abe Richards was entirely in the shiny silver armor, except for the helmet, the two men looked at each other, Richards shaking his head from side to side in desperate begging for his life.
Evenly, as though giving directions to a passing motorist, Print Drewcolt said, “Intrigue’s not your game, Abe. You played it and lost. You weren’t good enough, and it’s time for you to learn just how tough a league you’re in. Tell you this, though, Abe, you’re going to live longer than Mr. Abbot. The hawks can’t get you through that suit of armor, can they, Abe?” Drewcolt smiled and kept smiling as the helmet was slipped over Abe’s head, hiding his tearstained face.
Then two men, each wearing sheepskin jackets and gloves, walked Abe to the center of the courtyard, each step taken by the armor-wrapped lawyer echoing in the cobblestoned courtyard.
Jerome Abbot was shoved forward. Stumbling, he tripped, then quickly got up from his skinned hands and knees, standing on the cold cobblestones, then moving around in a small circle, weeping and moaning incoherently to himself.
The two men with hawks looked up at Talon, who nodded. Both men then took off the small black leather hoods from their hawk’s heads, each bird snapping its head up, sharp beak twisting left, then right, tiny eyes bright in the torchlight.
Talon nodded again, this time more strongly and emphatically, and the men tossed the hawks in the air, the killer birds’ huge wings flapping loudly as they climbed high into the sky, disappearing in the cold night. Smoothly reaching into his pocket, Talon took out two four-inch metal spurs, slipping them on the ankles of his huge hawk.
The spurs were designed by Talon simply to kill. Sticking out behind the short, strong legs of the hawk, they looked like knife blades. Spurs, claws, and razor-sharp beak—all powered by a killer bird speeding over sixty miles an hour.
Talon’s hawk, his personal favorite, was called Rajah and obeyed only him.
Gently lifting his arm as though waving good-bye to a friend, Talon tossed the killer hawk into the air, watching it climb high and disappear in the darkness. None of the birds could be seen now.
As Print Drewcolt stared up into the dark night. Lisa Warren gazed at the flame on a torch beside her, drawing her long coat more tightly around her. Taking a thin silver whistle from his glove. Talon blew soundlessly on it. It looked as though he had simply placed a thin piece of metal between his lips.
But there was a sound coming from him, a sound pitched so high that only the hawks and other animals could hear it. Below, in the courtyard, the four men moved quickly behind doors, slamming them shut, hurriedly closing windows, then pressing their faces against the glass to watch what was about to happen. A dog howled as though knowing someone would soon die.
Abe Richards turned slowly in a circle, armor-gloved hands clasping his helmet-encased head; then, with a small metallic sound, he dropped his hands to his side. Jerome Abbot stared at the sky, face wet with tears, his fingers clenching and unclenching into fists. Above him on the walk, Talon blew soundlessly on the whistle.
Out of the cold darkness, a black streak moving almost faster than the eye could see was on Jerome Abbot, raking silver spurs across his bare shoulders, leaving red ribbons of blood in place of pale white skin. Screaming, Abbot stumbled to the cobblestones, falling on his side, then bringing his knees up to his chest.
“Kaaaaaaaa!” The killer hawk’s loud cry erupted from its throat, then faded as it again climbed into the darkness. As Jerome Abbot lay moaning on his side, two black streaks hit him, swooping out of the darkness, as the other two hawks tore at the flesh on his thighs and legs.
Blood spurted from his body, covering the cold cobblestones near him. It was as though the hawks had devised a plan. Rajah to attack first, the other two to follow. As Jerome Abbot struggled to his feet, blood running down his back and legs, he took two steps, his mouth and eyes wide open with fear, and it was then that Rajah swooped down into his face with horrifying speed. The killer bird’s claws and spurs raked Abbot’s face, turning it into crisscrossing lines of shredded, bleeding flesh.
“Kaaaaaaa!” cried the huge bird, its eerie sound drowning out the man’s high-pitched scream of terror. As though Rajah’s cry was a signal, the other hawks dropped from the night, smashing into Abbot’s neck and back. Wildly waving his arms, spinning in a circle, his blood flying around him in a crimson spray, Abbot squealed as a spur sliced into his eye. The hawks clung to him
, their wings flapping, their claws and beaks ripping flesh, drawing blood.
Falling to his knees, Abbot crawled toward Abe Richards, now standing still in his suit of armor, desperately trying to hear what was going on behind him. Slowly Abe maneuvered himself around until he could see the bleeding man through the slits and holes of his helmet. In horror Abe looked at the bloodstained naked man whose flesh was torn and gouged and who could see out of only one eye.
Hoarsely crying, “Help me, Abe, please help me,” Abbot began crawling toward the man in the armored suit. Again all three birds attacked him, ripping at the thick meat of his buttocks, tearing it with beak, claw, and spur.
Falling to his side, Abbot rolled over on his back, and in a swift, deadly move, a hawk slashed at his exposed groin. Abbot’s scream was long and high-pitched, and Lisa Warren heard it dimly through a fog of loathing and disgust, as though it were far away. Turning her back to the courtyard, she walked to the castle wall and threw up.
Down in the courtyard, Rajah tore at Abbot’s throat, ripping and loosening the soft cartilage, striking at it again and again, his beak shiny with red blood, his white neck feathers dark with blood.
Abbot lay on his back, his body limp and unmoving. Abe Richards stiffly swung himself around, fighting hard to keep his balance in the armored suit, not wanting to watch the killer hawks attacking the body of the man he had paid to help him betray Print Drewcolt. The hawks tore at the soft parts of the dead man’s body, their heads and beaks damp with this bloody feast.
Suddenly they stopped, blood-covered heads snapping around to face Talon, intently watching them and soundlessly blowing the thin silver whistle. Waddling two short steps, Rajah spread his huge wings and flew up to Talon, circling, then landing lightly on his outstretched arm. Talon never used a hood with Rajah. The bird trusted him as though they shared a relationship special to them.
The other two birds stayed where they were, near Jerome Abbot’s body, but no longer tearing at it. Without a word from Talon, a door opened and two men came out and quickly placed small hoods back over the heads of the two hawks. Gently they guided each bird to a perch on their leather gloves and moved swiftly back into the darkness.
Through the helmet, Abe’s muffled voice continued to plead, a wordless drone, a sound affecting no one. His back was to the man coming up behind him. Wearing gloves, the man brought the small wicker basket up to Abe’s shoulder, opened the top, and reached inside.
Scooping out the scorpion, the man dropped the basket, then lifted Abe’s right arm as high in the air as it could go. In the open hole in front of the armpit, a spot where no metal protected the body, he gently pushed through the scorpion, then stepped back several feet.
Stepping from the darkness, the other men watched.
Shouting down at Abe, Drewcolt said, “A scorpion, Abe, that’s what I am, a scorpion. Try to hurt me, and I’ll sting you. No hawks for you, old friend, old friend of eighteen years. Just one small, living thing inside that suit of armor, with you. That’s how the Arabs killed the Crusaders, Abe, a thousand years ago. That’s how I’m killing you. Scorpion, Abe. Your very own.”
In a slow and horrible pantomime, Abe lifted his metal-encased hands, tapping them against his chest, the sound coming flat in the night. Then he tapped his shoulders and his thighs, all the while, turning in a circle, moving to the sound of metal on metal.
Then he stopped, and a muffled cry came from inside the helmet, as Abe Richards collapsed to his knees, both hands tapping his chest. Falling to his side, he crashed to the cobblestones and lay there. The scorpion, an extremely poisonous one chosen by Talon, had stung him twice in the stomach, and he died in less than a minute.
From behind him, Print heard Lisa softly say, “Is it over?”
Turning, he saw her staring out into the darkness surrounding Crafford Castle.
“Yes,” he said.
“Why did you want me here?”
“Because I, well, because …”
He couldn’t bring himself to say it. However, she knew, and turning from the darkness, she slowly walked toward the stairs. Breathing heavily, his eyes shining, he followed her.
For her it would be the most degrading kind of sex imaginable, joining her body with Print’s after he had watched these two killings. She couldn’t watch these things anymore. But Print needed blood lust in order to feel sexual lust. Blood inflamed him, and she had to live with that.
She also lived with the knowledge that in the entire world, there was no place she could hide from him and his awesome power. That made escape only a dream, leaving her with the nightmare of her life with him. As she left the walk and stepped down onto the worn stone passage leading inside the castle, she heard the sound of water splashing on the cobblestones, washing the blood away.
And behind her, she heard the sound of Print’s footsteps drawing nearer.
Chapter VI
AS TALON SPOKE, HE stared down at his pewter plate covered with uneaten food, while behind his high-backed chair of thick dark oak, the crackling fire in the huge fireplace punctuated his remarks. “That’s twice the same black man has known who, where, and when we were attacking. There’s no doubt he was told by someone in our organization. We’ve got blacks working for us, but we can account for all of them, thanks to our computer.”
It was three hours after the killing of Abe Richards and Jerome Abbot. Print and Talon were having a late supper alone in the great hall of Crafford Castle. The ancient hall was thirty-five feet high, fifty feet long, and thirty feet wide, with a ceiling covered by thick wooden beams. Three five-hundred-year-old Flemish tapestries worth two million dollars covered one entire wall.
Paintings by Rembrandt, Rubens, Vandyke, Gainsborough, and Reynolds hung on the other three walls, along with medieval weapons—crossbows, broadswords, spears, battle-axes, and dozens of arrows arranged in perfectly rounded circles, their arrowheads touching each other and forming a wheel.
At one end of the long wooden table, Print Drewcolt pushed back his chair, picked up a silver goblet of red wine, and walked slowly toward the fire. “There’s something you’re not telling me, Talon. I didn’t get where I am by closing my eyes to anything. I sense something. Let’s have it.”
“We caught Richards,” said Talon, digging his long, two-prong Elizabethan fork into his plate of vegetables. He ate no meat, causing talk behind his back that he wanted to avoid eating a relative, such as a snake or a rat. The talk was always behind his back. “And we caught Abbot, who we both know was a flunky, somebody who gets used by anyone who bothers to take the time. But I don’t think it ends there.”
“You questioned them yourself,” said Drewcolt. “You were convinced neither had backup in the organization. Their contact was a post-office box in New York, nothing more. It was your trap, your security awareness that came down on the two of them.”
“Yes,” said Talon softly, his quiet voice sounding almost like a snake hissing. His security duties meant handling hundreds of men worldwide for Consolidated Communications and Electronics, all of these men obeying him instantly, out of fear and respect. Yet, animals meant more to him than people, except for his closeness with Print Drewcolt.
The crueler and more vicious the animal, the better Talon got along with it. Dozens of men worked with the hawks and killer dogs guarding Crafford Castle as well as CCE installations around the world. They were tough but cautious men, afraid and quickly nervous around the hawks and dogs, ever alert to a swift murderous attack. Not Talon.
He touched these strange killers, seemingly talking to them without uttering a sound. He ruled his small deadly portion of the CCE worldwide kingdom, answering only to Print Drewcolt, a fact company vice-presidents, lawyers, accountants, and secretaries learned very fast.
“Yes.” he said. “I questioned them, and they were guilty, they deserved their punishment. By the way, I’ve made arrangements for the necessary public announcements. There’ll be a car accident and fatal burning for Abbot, and
a doctor’s certificate reading heart attack for Mr. Richards.”
Drewcolt walked away from the huge roaring fire and sat back down in his thick oak chair. “Excellent, as usual. Now, let’s get to the point. Do you feel there is another person or persons in my organization ready to betray me?”
Talon was silent. Pushing the plate away from himself, he laid the fork down beside it, saying, “I think so.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what I would do.” he said calmly. “If I wanted to stop you from interfering with the Red China-Russia gold treaty, I’d come at you from all sides.”
Print Drewcolt didn’t pretend shock or surprise. He was too good a fighter to be surprised at anything the opposition might do, and he was too hard a man to be shocked by anything. “How many?”
“I have no idea. But we’re talking about forty billion dollars in gold, the amount our secret survey shows could be taken out of China’s mines in less than two years. And we’re talking about two major powers being made to do what we want. We’re also talking about CCE, which needs that gold to keep the stock from falling to the floor. These are the things we want. It takes someone with big ideas to even think of stopping us.”
Print placed his silver goblet down on the table. “And you think that this someone with big ideas is covering himself with more than one inside man?”
“That’s what I’d do,” said Talon. “I’d cover myself with more than one inside man.” And looking at Print, he added softly, “Or woman.”
Print looked at the manicured nails of both hands, then brushed them against his floor-length black ermine robe. The robe was a copy of one once worn by Henry the Eighth and had cost Print fifty thousand dollars to have it designed and reproduced. “Woman,” he murmured. “Well, Talon, your record is excellent so far. No worldwide company in history has had the tight security we enjoy, thanks to you.”
Talon smiled his gratitude. “My work is all there is for me. CCE is my life. And if it means my life, then I’m ready to stand between you and whatever dangers I see.”
