Houston Attack (10 page)

The guard jumped quickly to his feet at full attention.

“Good evening, Mr. Williams!” the guard greeted formally.

A gigantic man stepped onto the porch. Hawker could see him plainly in the light from the front window. He wore a gray Stetson hat and a dark western-cut suit. Dwarfed in his right hand was the glowing eye of a long Presidente cigar. The man had a hog-size face, all eyes and jowls, which wore a pinched, surly expression. His nose, positioned oddly close to his eyes, was potato-shaped and, at some time in the past, had been knocked off center. The sideburns that bristled from beneath the Stetson were sandy-colored, professionally styled.

Hawker guessed Skate Williams to be in his early sixties.

“At ease, sergeant.” The man put the cigar in his mouth and patted his mountainous stomach as if he had just finished a good meal. “Did Roy Dalton show up?”

“Been here all evening, sir. He's over at Ranch Number Three.”

“What about Quirt Evans?”

“Rode in about thirty minutes ago.”

“Good. And the trucks?”

“Over with Dalton, waiting to be loaded on your orders, sir.”

The wooden deck of the porch creaked beneath the man's weight as he walked toward the steps. “Get on the horn and tell them I'll be a little late.” There was an obscene edge to his snicker. “The doctor tells me our little
señorita
is just about healed.”

The guard allowed himself a smile. “Yes, sir. Very good, sir. I'll tell them you're still at dinner and will be there in … about an hour?”

The big man grinned. “Good man, sergeant. Yeah, an hour ought to just about do it.” His laugh was phlegmy. “The doctor says this girl is still a virgin.”

Hawker ducked into the bushes as Skate Williams rumbled past. He could feel the anger move through him in a surge of adrenaline. He felt the strong urge to step out in front of the man and cut him in two with the Colt Commando.

There could be only one
“señorita”
on the ranch who fit the implied description.

Cristoba de Abella.

Because of the bullet wound, she had been put under a doctor's care, and now she was sufficiently healed for Skate Williams to use as his toy.

Hawker forced his anger under control as he watched the big man waddle past.

There was no place for anger on a mission such as this. There were too many unknown factors to go rushing in, guns blazing.

No, taking Skate Williams apart called for patience and professionalism instead of anger.

For now, anyway.

Keeping a safe distance, Hawker tailed the giant Texan.

He had waited by the porch only long enough to plant a two-fisted chunk of plastic explosives under the foundation of the house. After inserting the detonator, he had crept off after Williams.

Williams followed a brick path around the garage. There was a moment of suspense as he hesitated and seemed to realize that a guard was no longer posted there.

But then he moved on, the smell of his big cigar overpowering the smell of rain in the wind.

A hundred yards behind the main house were a half-dozen long bunkhouse-type buildings. As they drew closer, Hawker could see that Williams housed at least part of his security force there.

Guards stood at attention in the parade yard in front of each barracks. For an uncomfortable moment, Hawker thought Williams was going to lead him right through the parade ground.

But he turned abruptly through a high maze of shrubs, and once again Hawker felt the urge to jump the man here; to fight him hand-to-hand and kill him. There was reason enough: Williams bought, sold, and enslaved human beings; he lived by no laws save his own; he acquired land and mineral rights through force and intimidation, preying on people as innocent as Sancho Rigera—people who wanted nothing more than to live and raise their families.

And once again Hawker fought off the urge.

There was still too much he needed to know. What was this “shipment” he had heard about? And why were there trucks waiting at this mysterious Ranch #3, Williams's experimental farm?

Staying a safe thirty yards away, Hawker crept along behind.

Hidden away in a secluded copse was a small white cottage. A porch light was on, and Hawker noted that there were bars on the windows. A guard stood outside. As Williams approached, the guard snapped to attention.

“Is the girl awake?” Skate Williams asked, not even bothering to return the salute.

“I wouldn't know, sir. She's been very quiet.”

“How long ago did the doctor leave?”

“Two hours, maybe.”

Williams nodded. “Look, private, I want you to report to Ranch Number Three.”

“But, sir, my superior told me that under no circumstances was I to leave this post—”

Williams grabbed the man by the collar so quickly that it surprised even Hawker. He shook the smaller soldier the way a terrier might shake a rat.
“I'm
your superior, you dumb little shit. And you'll do exactly as I say!”

“Yes, sir!” the guard shouted mechanically. “Right away, sir!”

Williams released him and then turned to watch as the guard hustled off toward the brick path. As he hurried away, Williams dropped his cigar on the floor of the porch and ground it out with the heel of his boot. With a glance over his shoulder he took out a ring of keys, unlocked the door, and went inside.

Hawker wanted to follow. But he couldn't. Not right away, because the guard was coming straight at him.

The vigilante forced his way into the bushes. His left foot caught on a root and he fell backward. The Colt Commando snagged itself in the thicket and hung by its sling above him.

“Who goes there?” the guard challenged in a half-whisper.

Hawker slowly reached for the assault rifle overhead. The noise the branches made when he moved seemed deafening, and he stopped.

“Hey? Who's in there?”

In front of him the beam of a flashlight swept the bushes, and then there was a rifle barrel stabbing at him, a foot from his face. The guard knelt, peering into the thicket, and his eyes grew wide when he saw Hawker.

“Who in the hell—”

The guard never got a chance to finish his question. Hawker grabbed the rifle barrel and jerked the man into the bushes on top of him. He wrestled the weapon free, but he could not unseat the guard.

The guard hit him twice in the face, hard. As Hawker brought his hands up to block the next flurry of punches, the guard locked his hands around Hawker's throat.

Standing next to the bulk of Skate Williams, the guard hadn't impressed Hawker as being particularly big.

But he had a grip like a bear trap.

Catching his wrists cross-handed, Hawker punched the man's hands away from his neck, then slid his thumbs inside the man's cheeks and ripped with all his strength.

The man's scream was more like a hiss of anguish, and Hawker was thankful for that. Having his cheeks pulled open had taken the fight out of him, and now the guard wanted only to get away. As he turned to crawl safely out of the bushes, Hawker grabbed him by the back of the shirt and jerked him back. He drew the little Walther and used the butt to club him twice behind the ear.

The guard kicked once, then lay still.

Hawker pushed the dead weight of the man off him, recovered the assault rifle, then checked to see if the man's body could be seen from the brick path.

It couldn't.

Hawker hurried on toward the cottage, keeping low.

The front door was closed once again, and the light inside was brighter. Hawker knelt at the porch, then crawled around to the back window and looked through the bars inside.

What he saw both gladdened and sickened him.

Cristoba de Abella was there. Still alive. Healthy. In good shape except for the strip of gauze bandage on her left arm. She stood beside a narrow bed. There was a lamp on the desk, which threw a soft yellow light over the room. In that first moment Hawker realized that he had underestimated her beauty.

She wore a sheer white nightgown that came down to her thighs. Her legs were long and nut-colored, and in the light he could see that a soft, peach-hued fuzz grew on them. Her hair was blue-black, combed long to the small of her back, and it glistened in the light. Beneath the translucent nightgown, her breasts were abrupt swells, firm and heavy, that peaked at the dark expanse of nipple.

Her face seemed more striking than he remembered: the sculptured Indio nose and cheeks; the soft curve of chin; the proud Mayan eyes, like brown liquid pools, which were devoid of all human emotion.

Except for now.

Now the eyes of the young Cristoba de Abella showed more than fear. They showed loathing and disgust—and terror.

Skate Williams stood before her, dwarfing her. He had stripped off his jacket and shirt. His belly was covered with hair, a massive gray blob. His trousers were down around his ankles and, ludicrously, he wore European-style red bikini shorts.

His big hands were on Cristoba's shoulders, and Hawker could hear his voice through the window.

“Now look at it from my point of view,
señorita
, darling.” Williams smiled. “When they brought you in here, you was damaged goods. Had that nasty little bullet hole through the meat of your arm. I could have let you die. Could have just told that greasy Mexican to cart you on back to that nice little bar down Rio Bravo way. They got a show there with a dog and a big nigger—and they'd'a had you on that stage the next day.” His smile broadened. “But, instead, out of the goodness of my heart I took you in. Had a fine doctor tend you. And, hell, it was
you
who promised that if we didn't stick no needles in you to make you more … loyal … you'd be extra real nice to me.” The smile vanished, and he shook her roughly. “Well, darlin', we didn't stick no needles in you, and now you'd damn well better be nice to me. Real nice. And I mean right now.”

Cristoba gave a low, throaty moan of revulsion as Williams's hand slid down her arm and found her breast, squeezing it roughly.

She tried to pull away. “Don't,” she pleaded. “Please. That hurts.”

Williams leaned over her, kissing the young girl's neck. “Then be nice to me, Cristy, baby. Get down on your knees and be nice—”

“No!” The girl tried to jerk away, and as she did, her face turned toward the window where Hawker now stood. She saw him then, her eyes growing wide in recognition, and her one free arm reached out as if yearning to take Hawker's hand. But then Williams pulled her back and ripped the gown from her shoulders and clamped his wide mouth on her pale breast.

Hawker saw no more because he was running. Running toward the front door of the cottage. Running, not caring any longer for the mission or the unanswered questions. Running with but one thought: to get his hands on Skate Williams and to kill him; kill him slowly.

But as he slid around the corner of the cottage, the Colt assault rifle at hip level and ready, several things happened at once.

The searing beam of a searchlight caught him full in the face. Then a siren screamed a long, continuous wail from somewhere near the main house, like an old World War II warning to head for the bomb shelters.

The firecracker crackle of automatic weapons fire erupted from a line of trees several hundred yards away, kicking up tufts of dirt far in front of Hawker.

In that sudden chaos Hawker still had but one thought: to get inside, kill Williams, and free the girl.

But as he reached for the railing to swing himself up on the porch, Williams charged halfway out the door, his pants still down. In the microsecond it took him to realize Hawker was not one of his men, he fired two quick shots from the heavy-caliber revolver in his right hand.

Hawker ducked, then sprayed the door with a quick burst of the Commando. But too late. Williams had ducked back inside.

Hawker stood with the intention of shooting away the lock, but a flurry of slugs from more guards splintered the wood on the porch in front of him. He could see them running at him: a dozen guards, all with heavy weapons, all firing at once.

He could do nothing but retreat.

And run. Run for his life and take as many of the guards with him as he could.

As Hawker reluctantly trotted toward the darkness of the ranch's back acreage, he heard the high, pleading scream of the girl: “Help me! Oh, please, you must help me!”

I will
, Hawker thought as he held the assault rifle on full automatic, and three more guards fell in his wake.
Hang on for just one more night, Cristoba, and I will. I promise
.…

twelve

The next two hours were a nightmare as James Hawker ran the gauntlet of his life.

It was like barging through a forest filled with hornets' nests. Every twenty yards, it seemed, he stumbled into a new one.

Twice he tried to work his way back to the cottage in which Cristoba was imprisoned. And twice a fresh charge of guards pushed him back.

Finally Hawker had to admit that he had no choice but to make a fighting retreat. He couldn't do anyone any good if he was captured or killed.

Hawker lost the first set of guards in the best way he knew how. Running toward the back acreage of Williams's inner estate, Hawker took cover behind a stone bench and rummaged in his knapsack until he found what he was looking for.

He was in, he realized absently, some kind of ornamental garden. He wondered if any of the men chasing him had ever guessed they might die in such a pretty spot.

In a few seconds the guards came fanning down the hill, shoulder to shoulder. They fired only sporadic bursts now, a covering fire to clear the path ahead.

Hawker waited until they were about forty-five yards away, then pulled the pins from two M-34 incendiary/fragmentation grenades. The M-34 is one of the most deadly grenades ever manufactured by the Department of Defense. It kills two ways. The rolled steel body is serrated to help fragmentation. And the four hundred twenty-five grams of white phosphorous filler burns at twenty-seven hundred degrees Centigrade for approximately one minute.