Deadly in New York (11 page)

Hendricks ran a hand through his close-cropped hair and sat back on the bed. Something was wrong, but what?

His old military atlas was on the desk. Absently he picked it up and began to leaf through it.

Earlier that evening, he had used it to ascertain the location of Loughros Moor, Northern Ireland.

Now he found himself irresistibly drawn to the maps of the Indian subcontinent.

Tibrikot? Ring Mo? Crystal Mountain?

Why should villages in the Himalayas suddenly be of such intense interest?

Hendricks immediately thought of Jacob Hayes. Hayes had studied there—but how could that account for his unreasonable urge to review the atlas?

He placed the Walther back on the desk. He stared at the phone. For some reason, he felt he should try to contact Hayes. It was a strong, almost overpowering urge. But it would be nearly 2
A
.
M
. in Grand Cayman.

Hayes would think he was crazy.

Feeling strange and silly, Hendricks reluctantly climbed back into bed and switched off the lamp.

He had nearly an hour before he had to get up.

And the ferry ship to Dublin rarely left on time anyway.

He decided he would call Hayes before he left for Ireland.

seventeen

New York

Hanging from the lip of the roof, Hawker did not move until he heard the footsteps pass beneath him.

Then slowly, so he would not lose his grip, he pulled his head above the tarpaper and locked his chin on the gravelly surface before bracing his elbows on the roof and hauling himself safely up.

He rolled several feet away from the precipice, then lay there for a time, breathing deeply.

He didn't fear death from a bullet. But the idea of busting his back in some Greenwich Village shithole didn't appeal to him.

Brushing the gravel off his pants, Hawker stood. The green numerals of his Seiko said it was 1:45
A
.
M
.

Strangely, strong thoughts of Jacob Montgomery Hayes suddenly coursed through his mind. Strong thoughts with strong images: Hayes, dressed in white, sitting beneath a fir tree on a mountain snowpeak.

With the thoughts came a momentary feeling of dread.

If Hawker had been a superstitious man, he might have wondered if Hayes was trying somehow to communicate with him—that's how vivid the sudden image was.

But Hawker—like Hendricks who, at that very moment, was sitting in a London hotel room studying a map of the Himalayas—wasn't a superstitious man.

And, besides, he didn't have time to think about it right now.

After making sure none of his weaponry had spilled out in his near-fall, Hawker moved on across the roof. He was looking for another fire escape so he could get back down to street level.

The building had a fire escape—but it ended abruptly at the second floor. Cursing beneath his breath, Hawker realized he was going to have to jump to yet another building.

The next building in line was in better shape. There were lights in the windows. People probably kept offices there—though it now appeared empty.

But, more important, its fire escape was in proper condition. Hawker could see it plainly in the dim light.

He backed up, took a deep breath, got a good run, and jumped.

This time, he made it without incident.

Quickly he climbed down the iron steps to the street. If anyone had heard the shooting in the Mafia headquarters, there was no sign of it. Hawker had the feeling that, if vigilante hangings were held in downtown New York, no one would make the effort to look—let alone try to stop them.

Hawker walked through the darkness of the alley and peered out onto the street.

All three floors of the Mafia headquarters were lighted now. He could see men crossing before the second-floor windows.

They had made it that high. Soon they'd gather their courage and head to the third floor—and that's when he would hit them.

Hawker trotted down the street, wary of being spotted.

The front door of the headquarters was open. There were no guards to be seen.

Hawker ducked beneath the two front windows, then swung into the doorway, the Ingram at his hip, freshly loaded and ready.

It was a broad room with bare wooden floors and long tables. There were rows of liquor bottles on the counter, and the whole place stank of cigarette smoke and sweat.

Except for the occasional shuffle of footsteps upstairs, the building was deathly quiet. Hawker guessed they must have regrouped and were moving as a team now.

He wondered how many there were.

If they made it to the third floor, it didn't matter.

Quietly he crossed the room to the stairwell. The corpse of the short, stocky man he had killed still lay on the floor where he had fallen. The man's eyes were wide and glassy, and a fecal stink oozed from the pool of blood beneath him.

Hawker stepped over the dead man and looked up the stairs. At that moment, a voice from the second floor called out, “Hey—asshole! You listening?”

For a shaky moment, Hawker thought they had spotted him. But then he realized they were trying to get him to answer from the third floor—probably to pinpoint his exact location.

Hawker said nothing.

“Look,” the voice continued, “maybe we can work out some kind of deal or something. Hey—you hear me?”

Slowly Hawker began to work his way up the stairs, the little submachine gun, with its tubular silencer, vectoring ahead of him.

Three quarters of the way up the stairs, just when Hawker thought he had it made, just when he began to grow confident he could take them by surprise, there was a stumbling, grunting noise behind him. Hawker whirled around to see a man with a revolver sprawled belly-first on the floor at the base of the stairs.

He had seen Hawker apparently and was sneaking in for the kill when he somehow tripped—probably over the corpse.

The dead man would never know it, but he had saved Hawker's life.

The man who had tripped brought the revolver quickly up to fire.

Too quickly.

The shot shattered plaster behind Hawker's head. Hawker squeezed off two careful shots, and the man's face disintegrated into a pulpy mess.

Hawker didn't have much time to enjoy the irony of it.

Footsteps pounded the floor above him, and two men swung into view at the top of the stairs. Their handguns roared in the narrow confines of the stairwell.

Hawker dropped low on the steps, hugging the wall. He had a narrow view of their heads, but it was enough.

He held the submachine gun on automatic fire, and the two faces exploded open, then disappeared like clay targets at a shooting gallery.

He could hear more voices behind him now. He swore softly under his breath.

This is exactly what he had most desperately wanted to avoid. Getting caught in a crossfire.

He had one chance, and one chance only.

He had to drive the men on the second floor to the third floor, then turn immediately and fight his way back outside.

Hawker drew the Browning automatic from beneath his jacket with his left hand and peppered the front doorway with four quick shots as the first man tried to come through.

The man screamed and spun away, holding his stomach.

Hawker punched the near-empty clip from the Ingram and slid in the last fresh clip he had.

There were still nine rounds left in the Browning, and he had thirty-two in the submachine gun.

It would have to be enough.

Hawker took a deep breath and, with a weapon in each hand, he charged up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.

There were at least seven men at the top of the stairs—probably more. The last thing they expected was for Hawker to attack. He could read the shock plainly in their faces.

He held the trigger of the Ingram down, clearing the path ahead, while squeezing off a steady stream of fire from the automatic pistol.

Two of the men jolted backward, clawing at their ruined faces. The others bolted up to the building's next level to join their remaining comrades.

It was exactly what Hawker had hoped they would do.

The Browning was empty, but there was no time to reload now. Hawker jammed it back into his shoulder holster and drew out the Randall Attack-Survival knife.

If someone jumped him from behind, he wouldn't have the opportunity to fight him off with his fists.

And there was no way they were going to take him alive.

eighteen

With both weapons ready, Hawker ran back down the stairs. At the door, he paused and peered outside. One of the Mafia goons swung around the corner, and Hawker used the Ingram to chop him down.

Hawker knelt in the doorway.

He wasn't in the safest place to touch off the Astrolite, but he had no choice.

If he took the time to fight his way down the street—assuming there was opposition—the others would wise up and follow him out.

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.”