Chicago Assault (16 page)

He killed because it made him feel good.

Now killing was his job. His craft, as he liked to think of it. And he had risen very quickly to the top of his field.

He was rare among assassins because he killed intelligently and without mercy. He planned every step of a job meticulously, from his first advance to his final escape.

Renard liked to think that, whatever difficulties a job presented, he had the ingenuity and the intellect to complete it as quietly and discreetly as possible.

Time was rarely a consideration. If an assassination took weeks to set up and effect, then Renard invested weeks. Once he'd worked for a month as an elevator operator before he found the perfect opportunity to make his hit. But his insistence on a perfect kill each and every time had paid great dividends.

Even the Russians had shown their admiration for his work through intermediaries, querying to see if he might be interested in handling a few of their contracts. He had told the intermediary that he considered their interest a great honor and, yes, of course, he would be pleased to work for them.

The assassin took a deep breath and moved soundlessly to within five feet of the window. Hawker hadn't stirred. He still sat beside the lamp, with the book propped up in front of him.

Against the window shade, Hawker's silhouette was unmistakable: the square jaw; hair medium length and mussed; the broken, boxer's nose.

For a moment, Renard considered going inside to do it. He would enjoy it more, doing it face to face. There was more intimacy in that. And, if Hawker was asleep, that would be even better because he could take his time.

But what if he wasn't asleep? What then?

In his entire life, Renard had never feared any man because he knew he held ultimate hole card—he wasn't afraid to kill.

But there was something in James Hawker's face that troubled him. Perhaps even scared him. Hawker had piercing gray-blue eyes that said more than he wasn't afraid to kill. James Hawker's eyes also said he wasn't afraid to die.

It was the one quality Renard lacked.

He decided not to take the chance of confronting Hawker face to face.

Quietly and deliberately, Renard lifted the Colt Detective in both hands to steady the unbalanced weight of the silencer. He brought the fixed sights to bear on Hawker's right temple, then cocked back the hammer.

He held the revolver in place for a full minute, enjoying the sudden godlike power he wielded. When his chest began to heave and his heart began to race high in his throat, he knew it was time. Lovingly, Renard squeezed the trigger.

The little Colt thudded, jumping in his hand. The window shattered as a chunk of cranium exploded from the silhouetted head, and Hawker slumped forward, knocking the book and table lamp into darkness.

For James Hawker, it was the final darkness.

Death.

two

Renard exhaled deeply, trembling.

He stood outside Hawker's window for a moment, feeling the warmth move through him like a wave. His toes clawed spasmodically within his shoes.

Finally he tapped a Players cigarette out and lighted it. It had been a clean shot. A little high on the temple, perhaps. The window glass had probably caused a slight change in the bullet's trajectory. But not enough to make any difference.

It had been a clean kill, professionally done. No thrashing and moaning afterward. No time to scream for help.

Hawker never knew what hit him—and that's the only thing Renard regretted.

It would have been nice if he could have looked into Hawker's eyes before he killed him. It would have been much better if he could have looked into his eyes.

When Renard had finished his cigarette, he snuffed it out and jammed the butt into his pocket before he moved on toward the other cabanas to kill Jacob Montgomery Hayes and Hendricks, the Englishman.

Renard decided he wouldn't have to be as careful with these two. With them, he could make it last longer, and enjoy it more.

Afterward, he would escape to Cayman Brac in the boat that Fister Corporation had waiting for him. From there, a company plane would fly him to Miami.

It was an easy job—except for the bugs and the heat. Almost too easy. Renard began to plan the two days he would spend in Miami as he walked toward Hayes's cabana.

He would dine at a good restaurant and flash enough hundred-dollar bills to make the headwaiter jump to light his cigarettes.

Then maybe take in a few races at Hialeah. The corporation had a bookmaker there who would reward him with some winners—as long as he unloaded them on some other bookie.

The corporation was funny about money. They paid royally up front, but they did not like an employee making it through the back door. Renard knew that better than most—it was his job to kill those who tried.

Hayes and Hendricks were in separate cabanas, side by side beneath coconut palms. The orange moon made the coral sand glow like gold along the beach.

Renard walked carefully along the sea's edge, staying in the shadows of the tree line.

Both cabins were dark. Hayes and Hendricks were asleep.

Automatically, Renard tightened the silencer down as he approached the front door of Hayes's cabana and tested the knob.

It wasn't locked, and the door swung open. Renard raised the Colt Detective to fire, then flipped on the overhead light.

The room was empty. The bed was still made.

What is happening? he wondered in French.

As he turned to walk quickly to the next cabana, something whistled out of the darkness and clubbed the gun from his hand. In the same instant, two figures appeared in front of him: the stocky figure of Hayes and the lanky, somber Englishman, Hendricks.

“Renard—catch!” said a voice, and Renard was aware of something tumbling through the moonlight toward his face. He got his hands up just in time to knock it away. In the light from the room, he could see that they had thrown a fish at him; a funny-looking, colorful fish with bright fanlike spines. Renard jerked back involuntarily, kicking at the thing.

“Hey, god damn it, what is the big idea—”

He stopped in midsentence and suddenly grabbed his right hand. Renard looked at the two men, his eyes growing wide. “This fish has stung me or something … stings like hell!”

Jacob Montgomery Hayes, who, along with being one of the world's richest men, was also a respected amateur biologist, watched patiently as the blood drained from the assassin's face.

Renard's breathing was already becoming labored.

Calmly Hayes peeled off the heavy rubber gloves he had used to protect his own hands. “You've had a very unlucky holiday, Mr. Renard,” he said easily. “You went out for a walk on the beach this evening and made the silly mistake of picking up a scorpionfish—or, at least, that's what the authorities will think.”

“M-monsieur!” Renard stammered, still wringing his hands as if he might somehow be able to scrape the sting away. “The pain is very bad! I will require medical attention if … this … this …”

The assassin's face contorted as his body heaved with flooding pain.

“A doctor wouldn't help, I'm afraid, Mr. Renard,” Hayes continued calmly. “There's no known antidote for the sting of a scorpionfish. Ah, from the look on your face, I'd judge the poison is already into your bloodstream. Quite painful, is it? Yes, I've read that it is. Soon you'll begin to experience nausea. Then vomiting. Probably convulsions, too—before you die.”

Renard took two painful steps toward Hayes and Hendricks, his hands outstretched. “Please …” he sobbed, “you must help me … can't stand it … I did not want to kill your friend. They made me; the organization made me. Please … please … I don't want to die … God,
the pain!”

Renard buckled over, clutching his stomach in agony as Hayes allowed himself a thin smile. “I know your record, Renard, and I know the kind of mercy you've shown others. But you have us wrong if you think this is some kind of revenge for the murder of James Hawker.” Hayes turned and looked into the darkness. “Is it, James?”

James Hawker stepped out of the shadows of a massive bayonet plant, holstering his customized .45 ACP. “I've got to hand it to you, Jacob,” said Hawker as he stood over the writhing figure of Renard. “I think you've just staged the perfect murder.”

“The credit goes to Hendricks,” Hayes said simply. He looked at his butler and old friend. “One of your tricks from the old days in British Intelligence, right, Hank?”

“Quite, sir,” the Englishman said without emotion. “Of course, the plaster bust of James was something less than innovative. But the business with the fish has its novel aspects. The lads at M-5 HQ dreamed it up. Seemed silly at the time—not many scorpionfish around in Verdun or Berlin, you know. But it's actually quite useful in these climes. Unfortunately, though, it's not failsafe.”

“Why's that?” demanded Hawker.

Hendricks sniffed. “The sting of a scorpionfish is fatal in about ninety percent of cases where medical attention is not available. Death is likely, but not guaranteed.”

Renard was lost in a series of wracking convulsions now. Hawker pocketed the Colt Detective and grabbed the collar of the assassin's coat. “I'm going to do the world a favor and drag this French lunatic down to the water. That ought to finish him.” He looked at Hayes. “Maybe you ought to bring that nasty little fish of yours along, Jacob. We don't want to leave it too far from the body. Everything else has been taken care of, right?”

“Right, James. Hendricks found the tapes in Renard's room. He took those and nothing else. I've told Samuel McCoy, the manager, we'll be flying out tonight. From here, we'll be flying to Grand Cayman where you'll let me off.”

“Why Grand Cayman?”

“There were two reasons for my coming to the islands—” A light smile crossed his lips. “—aside from the bonefishing, I mean. One, I wanted to show you just how professional and how thorough the Fister Corporation is. I think Renard amply demonstrated that. He tailed you from the moment I put you on the case—and I have no idea how they found out we were interested in their New York scam.

“Two, since the late sixties, Grand Cayman has become one of the great tax havens of the western world. There are four hundred nineteen banks on Grand Cayman, and all just as tight-lipped as any bank Switzerland has to offer. If you want to hide illegal earnings, or set up dupe corporations, Grand Cayman is the place to do it. Fister Corporation is both registered and licensed in Grand Cayman, so if I'm to do my job—”

“I'll still not even sure what
my
job is,” Hawker interrupted.

Hayes smiled. “You will, Hawk. I'll tell you all about it tonight on the plane. Believe me, I didn't call you down here just to fly fish for bones.”

Renard had settled into a series of convulsions, followed by a moaning catatonia. Hawker dragged him through the sand and dropped him facedown into the water. The assassin choked violently, then looked up through a haze of pain. His eyes seemed to focus, then refocus on Hawker's face.

“But you are … you are
dead,”
Renard hissed.

James Hawker turned and didn't look back.

“Let's not spread it around, Renard,” he said. “You're the only one who knows.”

three

The plane Jacob Hayes kept in the Caymans was a three-engine Trislander he had outfitted with bunks and a tiny kitchenette for long trips. The flight from Little Cayman to Grand Cayman, however, took less than an hour, so the three men sat forward.

Hendricks flew the plane, so his boss, Hayes, could be free to explain the mission to Hawker.

It was Hawker's fourth mission under the alliance he and Hayes had formed. The premise of the alliance was that crime in the United States was raging out of control. Conventional police forces had their hands tied by ridiculous laws that protected the criminal and said, in effect, to hell with the victims. Hayes looked upon the law enforcement/judicial system as a symptom of social softness. And, as a biologist, he knew that when any species lost the instinct to justly protect itself, that species condemned itself to extinction.

Hawker, who had been Chicago's most decorated cop before he resigned out of disgust, had seen too many good arrests thrown out of court on legal technicalities not to agree.

So, the alliance had been formed. Hayes, a multibillionaire, would provide the funding. Hawker would provide the skills and firepower. Their goal: to go wherever they were needed to teach people how to fight for themselves.

Under the alliance, Hawker had collided head on with revolutionaries in Florida, savage street gangs in L.A., and I.R.A. renegades in Chicago.

Now he was ready for his fourth mission.

More than ready.

As they flew over the
Mar Caribe
—the Caribbean Sea—Hawker reflected on the months of inactivity he had suffered beneath the winter skies of Chicago. He had stayed in shape all right. His daily workout of calisthenics and running would have tested a Spartan, and he maintained his boyhood habit of boxing at the old Bridgeport gym. To improve his computer pirating skills, he had even taken an advanced programing course at the Chicago campus of the University of Illinois.

Even so, the inactivity had taken its toll.

He had felt listless, even depressed. He couldn't help thinking about the I.R.A. mission and the sister he had never met until moments before she died.

He had no trouble keeping off body fat, but in that last month of inactivity, he could almost feel his fighting instincts growing soft from neglect.

So now he had a mission again, and it felt good.

Damn good.

He sat behind Hendricks, who handled the controls of the sleek Trislander stoically and professionally. Hawker was anxious for Hayes to begin, but he made a point not to show his eagerness.

Hayes would get around to it when he was ready. Hayes had a reason for everything he did. Like Hawker, he was a methodical man. In their three days together on Little Cayman, Hayes had been uncommunicative. On the first day, wading the flats for bonefish, Hayes had told him briefly that he had ordered Hawker to New York for a reason, and from New York to the islands for a reason.