Deadly in New York

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Deadly in New York

Randy Wayne White writing as Carl Ramm

one

Little Cayman Island, British West Indies

The assassin who had followed James Hawker from New York to Miami, from Miami to this tiny Caribbean island south of Cuba, stood outside the row of seaside cabanas in the darkness.

He pulled back his cotton worsted leisure jacket and drew the .38 Colt Detective from its holster. The two-inch barrel had been machined for a sound arrester. The silencer was cool in his hands as he screwed it into place.

He waited a full minute before he moved again.

A fresh wind drifted off the reef, and the tropic moon was a gaseous orange above the line of coconut palms.

The assassin, whose name was Renard, moved closer to the cabanas. Sand spilled into his Gucci loafers, and mosquitoes began to find him in a whining haze.

Renard cursed softly, thinking to himself as he watched James Hawker's silhouette in the cabana window. Summer was no time to be in the tropics. Too many bugs. Wilting heat. And it was not unlikely there were snakes, too.

Renard shuddered. Snakes revolted him—as did, in fact, this entire island. He couldn't keep a crease in his slacks because of the humidity. There was no such thing as room service, because there wasn't a hotel on the whole irritating chunk of sand. Just stone and wood cabins. A resort camp, they called it. Pirate's Point, Little Cayman Island, British West Indies.

He had spent three days there watching Hawker.

He'd done everything properly, too. Just as he always did. Renard was a fanatic about the proprieties of his craft. After a workmanlike job of tailing Hawker to the tropics, he had bugged his room, along with the rooms of that older fellow named Hayes and his surly British butler.

And he had heard just enough to convince him that his employers in New York were correct. Hayes had plans to stick his nose into the business of Fister Corporation. And that simply couldn't be tolerated—not that Renard cared much about Fister Corporation. It was his employer, nothing more. Just as Dubois Ltd. of London occasionally employed him, as did the Galtchen firm of Munich and, once, even the Union Corse of France. Of course, now he did most of his work for Fister Corporation, or the Unione Siciliano.

It made no difference to Renard who paid him. But the proprieties of the craft required a certain loyalty to one's employer.

So, now they all would die, the three of them.

It was easy. Almost too easy. Except for the heat. And the bugs. And this god-damn island. Nothing to do but scuba dive and fish.

Renard had no interest in such things. He had tried scuba diving once. On the clear reef off Bloody Bay. It had been a group dive, with Hawker, Hayes, the butler, and three or four other guests of the resort. It had amused Renard to think that he would soon be killing the three men he accompanied side by side, underwater.

He could have, in fact, killed them then. But there were all those irritating fish down there to worry about. And, of course, the other guests of the resort might see him.

It wouldn't have been a very professional job.

And no matter how distasteful he found the surroundings, he would still do the very best job he could.

Later, though, his return to Miami would be pleasant, Renard thought as he waited. He liked Miami—in the winter.

Since he had established himself with the organization, he had been able to afford to go to Miami for a few weeks every winter. He always took a lady with him. Something attractive, something to complement his own good looks. Like that blonde last winter. Britta? Yes, Britta. Tall blonde with legs a mile long and spectacular mammary development. She was the one with the fake furs and the bright-red lipstick and enough paste diamonds to open her own five-and-ten. They had had some laughs. Won big on the horses at Hialeah, then blew it all—and more—on the dogs in Biscayne.

But when the money was gone, Britta had started getting bitchy. Whining all the time. Sitting in their hotel room polishing her nails, belting down martinis and chainsmoking. Then she started getting unpleasant about that problem he had in bed, laughing at him. She had made the mistake of turning his inabilities against him like a weapon.

Renard's finger twitched nervously on the trigger of the Colt as he thought about it.

The woman had gotten exactly what she deserved. Who in the hell was she to call him a faggot? He didn't accept that kind of talk from anyone—especially a 42nd Street whore.

So he had killed her. Damn right, he had killed her. He had punched her infuriating face to pulp, then gone to work on her throat until he was sure she would never call him another name. Ever.

As Renard relived the hooker's death, his breathing became shallow and the muscles of his face went slack.

He had a hard, dark, bullfighter's face and a thin moustache.

After a time, his eyes fluttered open and his breathing returned to normal. Deep inside, Renard felt the warm, good glow he always felt after he had killed.

It was a feeling better than any other, better than drugs or booze.

When he was younger, that feeling had frightened him. Like after that cat he had played with … then tortured … then beheaded in secret, way back when he was twelve; just him and the cat in that alleyway near their flat outside Versailles.

Or when he was in his teens and found himself driving alone in his old Fiat, far beyond Paris, and he had seen that horse all by itself in the pasture, looking sleepy in the light of the full moon.

It had frightened him because who in his right mind would butcher a cat or slit a horse's throat just for the hell of it?

It wasn't until much later in his life that he admitted to himself why he did it. It wasn't until he had already eliminated a few people and the organization had hired him and treated him with respect because he was very, very good at what he did.

It was only then that Renard finally admitted to himself that he killed for one reason, and one reason only.

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.