Florida Firefight (11 page)

“So who killed the Colombian?”

Logan's eyes burrowed into Hawker's. “Didn't you? The way you planted the knife was pretty slick. You're no amateur, Hawker. I figure you're just trying to protect your cover—and I don't even want to guess why. But you're more than just the new owner of the Tarpon Inn.”

“And you were more than just a cook in the Marines.”

“That's right. I was a
very good
cook in the Marines. So let's drop it, huh? I don't know who killed that greasy bastard, but I'd like to thank him.”

“And I don't suppose you've been slipping out at night, watching the Colombians from the mangroves in Chatham Harbor?”

Logan stopped and jammed his fists on his hips. “Look, Hawker, I like you. And I appreciate what you're trying to do for the people in this town. So let's cut the bullshit, huh? I don't want any part of your cops-and-robbers games. I've had a stomach full of that crap. I just want to cook, okay? Let's leave it at that. I'm just a cook.”

“Not tonight, you're not,” Hawker said softly. “Tonight you're more than a cook.”

“And just what in the hell do you mean by that—”

“I need your help, that's what I mean. I'll show you.”

Hawker was surprised to see lights on in the Tarpon Inn bar. Graeme Mellor was still up. He wondered if someone had called and told him about the murder of Sandy Rand.

He led Logan down the drive to his flamingo-pink cottage. Birds were making their first tentative morning sounds. They rattled in the dark trees.

Hawker stopped at the Monte Carlo. “I saw two Colombians messing with my car tonight. They had the hood up.”

Logan's knees cracked and popped as he squatted at the grille. He looked at it without touching it. “You have a flashlight?” Hawker went into his cottage and produced a flashlight.

“Did they close the hood like they were trying to be particularly careful?”

“Quiet. But not that careful.”

“Do you have a wife and kids—people who need you around?” Logan's hand was under the grille, looking for the hood latch.

Hawker smiled. “No.”

“Good.” Logan swung the hood open. Both men exhaled loudly. They had been holding their breath.

“It's a pretty simple device,” said Logan.

In the white beam of the flashlight, Hawker could see two sticks of dynamite joined by electrician's tape. Two lengths of copper wire ran to something in the engine.

“It's an ignition bomb,” Logan continued. “The wire runs to the solenoid, then back to that blasting cap taped to the dynamite. Starting the car both provides the current and completes the circuit.”

“I thought you were a cook.”

“In the Marines they blew up bad cooks. I had to learn about these things.”

“Boom,” whispered Hawker.

“
Ka
-boom,” Logan said. “Two sticks of dynamite, remember? You want me to take it off?”

“Unless you're in the market for a Monte Carlo. I'll sell it right now. Cheap.”

“Get some wire cutters.”

“I'll get the wire cutters if you'll help me when you're done. I don't like people planting bombs in my car.”

“Oh? You never struck me as the fussy sort.”

“The car has sentimental value. I've leased it for almost two months.”

Hawker turned to go into his cottage. Logan called after him, “Thanks for killing that Colombian, Hawker.”

“Thank
you
for killing the Colombian, Logan,” Hawker said over his shoulder.

Hawker and Logan removed the ignition bomb. Hawker wrapped it in canvas, and the two of them headed for the airstrip.

It was 4:13
A.M.

They could see two guards in the fluorescent glare of the Chatham Harbor warehouse. One sat with his legs over the dock. The other leaned on his rifle, bored.

Moored at the deep-water quay was an oceangoing yacht. It must have been a hundred feet long. It had a white hull with blue superstructure. There were Boston Whalers on davits, bow and stern, covered with canvas.

The stern of the vessel read:
Demonio Del Mar, Bogotá
.

Hawker had never seen the yacht before. Buck Hamilton had described it to him. It made Hawker wonder why the Colombians had chosen this as their night for revenge. Why would they risk a retaliatory strike—not to mention trouble with the law—while Medelli, their leader, was in town? It didn't make any sense. Hawker wondered if it had all been a personal vendetta carried out by Pedro Cartagena and a few of his friends.

But Medelli wouldn't like one of his men being killed. And he would like even less what Hawker and Logan were about to do.

“Do you know the guy who owns that boat?”

Logan shook his head. “Can't say I've had the pleasure.”

“Let's give him a warm welcome.”

“Did he have anything to do with killing Sandy?”

“He had a lot to do with it—but indirectly.”

“Let's make it
real
warm.”

They skirted the harbor, staying low. Hawker led the way. The field trips with Dr. Winnie Tiger had been a big help. They waded across a shallow creek and weaved their way through underbrush. Hawker threw himself to the ground belly first. The airstrip arrowed away before them. Newly mown, it smelled of grass.

The red and green landing lights were off, and January stars glimmered above the field.

There was only one plane: a three-engine Trislander. It rested on the far side of the airstrip. It looked big enough to carry fourteen or fifteen people.

There were two more guards near the plane. They carried long guns: automatics.

They paced opposite sides of the runway, their weapons slung over their shoulders.

“Shit,” whispered Logan. “Looks like we're not going to be able to plant our little surprise.”

“Maybe you ought to look the other way,” Hawker whispered back.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means if we somehow get arrested, you'd be in better shape if you could honestly tell them you don't know a damn thing about what I'm about to do.”

Hawker disappeared through the trees before Logan had a chance to reply.

He made his way parallel to the runway, moving silently through the palmetto cover. The one thing he had going in his favor was that the guards patrolled in opposite directions rather than marching side by side.

As the guard closest to him walked east, Hawker went west.

At the base of the runway was a decrepit-looking tank truck. They probably used it for fuel. Hawker waited until the guard was at the farthest point from him, then sprinted to the cover of the truck.

He'd left his Gerber with the corpse, so he'd have to improvise. He figured he could club the guard closest to him, then rush the other before he had a chance to react.

As the first guard drew near, Hawker stepped out and cracked the man's head open with the Ingram. The blow would have knocked most men unconscious. But the guard wasn't most men. He screamed out a warning before Hawker kicked his mouth closed.

The clatter of automatic-weapons fire sounded from across the field. The dirt near Hawker erupted in a series of explosions. Hawker dove, rolled and came up shooting. The silencer made the Ingram sound like a series of soft, thudding drumbeats.

Thirty yards away the guard jolted three feet into the air before landing back first on the asphalt runway.

Hawker waved Logan in.

Logan was surprisingly calm. “Not bad,” he said. “You shoot pretty good.”

“Never mind about that. Get to work on the plane.”

“You really think they're going to try to fly that thing after they've found their two guards dead?”

“By the time I get done, they will. I'm going to make it look like they got in a fight and killed each other. They're a damn violent bunch, and they don't always save aggression for enemies.”

“Good trick.”

“Spend time as a Chicago cop and you learn a lot of good tricks. But my tricks aren't going to help us unless you get your ass in gear.”

When Hawker was done staging the corpses, he maintained battle-ready, the Ingram on his hip, while the big Vietnam vet worked. It didn't take Logan long.

Even so, it was nearly dawn before they headed back.

They moved quietly through the thickets of Brazilian pepper and mangrove that edged both sides of the airstrip. They worked their way out to the main road that connected Mahogany Key with the mainland, then walked nonchalantly back to town.

Mosquitoes found them, whining. The sulfur stink of the mangroves was strong on the dark morning wind.

“I'm not going to get arrested for this, am I?”

Hawker said, “You tell me.”

“I'm just a cook.”

“So I've heard.”

Logan looked at him strangely, then shrugged as if there was no understanding Hawker. He said, “Well, I don't care if I do. It's time we stood up to those assholes.”

“Did you go the night Buck Hamilton led his raid on Chatham Harbor?”

“That was before I moved here. I've only been at the lodge for six, seven months.”

“I'm sorry about Sandy.” Hawker meant it.

The big man lowered his head, remembering. “Me too. I guess maybe I loved her. Funny how you find out the really important things too late.”

“God likes his little jokes.”

“Tell me the truth now, Hawker. Are you some kind of secret agent or something?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing, Logan.”

“You know something, Hawker?”

“What's that?”

“Sometimes you really talk weird.”

Logan lived in a little stilt shack near the bay. Hawker left him there, then walked to Winnie Tiger's cottage. He had promised her he would get back as soon as he could. There was a light on in the living room. He could see her through the window. She was reading. He tapped softly on the screen door, but it startled her anyway.

She pulled open the door and fell into his arms. “God, I thought you'd never get here.”

He held her tight against him, her head under his chin. He could smell the shampoo odor of her hair, and her skin was warm through his sweater. She wore only a long football jersey, number 37. She tilted her head, and he looked deeply into her dark Indian eyes. “I didn't want to be alone,” she whispered. “You were gone so long … I was worried about you. They'll come after you next … oh, James, they'll try to kill you next …”

“They've already tried to kill me.”

Her eyes widened.

“They rigged my car with a bomb.”

“But how did you know? What did you do with it?”

She kept brushing his neck with her lips as she talked. Hawker had his face buried in her hair. Imperceptibly, her back arched, holding the heat of her thighs against his leg.

Hawker felt his abdomen draw tense with wanting. She held his chin in her hand for a moment, eyes suddenly glassy. Her face had flushed, and her lips were moist and swollen. “The bomb,” she whispered. “What did you do with … with … with the bomb?”

Hawker found her lips with his, kissing her gently. His hand slid up the soft curvature of ribs and over the full, pointed weight of her breasts. She trembled as if suddenly chilled, and moaned softly.

“Oh, God,” she said. “Oh, God …”

“Winnie … listen to me. It may be better if we stop right here and go our own ways, because—”

Grinning vampishly, she grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled his lips hard against hers, her mouth open, hips pressing. Her breath was hot and sweet, and she was shaking. “Oh, James, I want you now. Now. Please, now …”

He lifted her into his arms, kissing her, and carried her to the bedroom. In a strange way he could understand what she was feeling. Seeing the brutalized body of Sandy Rand had been one kind of ultimate reality. There was now the need to cleanse the horror with another reality, a reality equally basic and primal, like an affirmation of life.

Hawker remembered something he'd read about the almost irresistible urge to copulate in London bomb shelters during the German air-raid blitzes.

“I want the light on,” she said. “I want to see you naked—again.”

At the bed, she stood and pulled the sweater over his head. She traced a vertical line down his chest with her tongue, then slid his jeans away as he pulled the football jersey off her. Her breasts were heavy and firm above bikini panties, with nipples long and erect on the dark expanse of areola.

Her smile was dreamy. “You look better than I remembered.”

“And you look even better than I imagined.”

She looked at him, eyes wide with mock concern. “My God, man, do you have a permit for that thing?”

“It's not even registered.”

“You look like a signpost.”

“Need directions, lady?”

She slid to her knees, kissing him. “Urn … I guess I better read the label, huh? They're usually … on … the back …”

Hawker's hands clenched into fists; his eyes closed. When he could stand it no longer, he swung her onto the bed and stripped her panties away. She was breathing heavily, as if she had just run a long distance. Her hips arched rhythmically, open to him, and moist.

“Now,” she gasped. “Please, James, I can't wait any longer. Please, now …”

He touched his tongue to her dark pubic hair, smiling. She smelled warm and sweet. “My turn to read the label,” he whispered.

She shuddered. “Oh, I can't stand it …
yes
… please, take me …
yes
… inside me, please, please, please … God, what a cruel smile you have, you
bastard!
”

“Label's got to be here somewhere,” said James Hawker, his voice muffled. “Just want to see what I'm getting into …”

Hawker awoke to the distant propeller rumble of an airplane starting, and then the bullwhip
ker-wack
and thunder of an explosion.