Houston Attack (15 page)

He hoped none of the shrieks came from Quirt Evans. He had been hit, there was no doubt about that. How bad, there was no way of finding out until it was over.

And that wouldn't take long.

Hawker's assault the night before had softened them. And now it became quickly obvious that the mercenaries didn't have the heart to stand toe-to-toe with a fast-moving band of hell fighters on horseback.

In the heat-charged light, Hawker could see that the soldiers were both running and fighting—but mostly running.

He just hoped the escaping slaves didn't run into the fleeing soldiers. If they didn't, if they kept their heads, they should have been able to find their way through the ruptured back wall and to the first dirt road—where Sancho Rigera and the other men from the village would be waiting with their trucks.

Hawker put the detonator and flare gun into the knapsack and pulled the Colt Commando from the rifle scabbard attached to the saddle. Then he kicked the Arabian into a smooth canter and rode into the estate grounds. Unlike the Rangers, he wasn't a good enough horseman to fight from a saddle, so he dropped to the ground and let the horse go free.

Before him, the ground floor of Skate Williams's mansion was aflame. Hawker was tempted to fight his way upstairs to make sure Williams wasn't hiding there.

But there was something else he had to do first. Something he had waited too long to do.…

With the Colt held at hip level Hawker sprinted around the burning house and through the ornamental garden where he had killed the guard the night before.

The cottage that imprisoned Cristoba de Abella was brightly lighted. It looked snug and neat and safe in the shadows of the trees.

Hawker knew better.

There was the silhouette of a man against the front curtains. A gigantic man. He made a familiar motion with his hands, which Hawker recognized immediately: Skate Williams was buckling his belt.

Not unbuckling it. Buckling it.

Hawker lengthened his stride, running hard toward the front porch. Too hard.

He didn't expect any guards to be still standing at their posts.

He was wrong.

As he came charging down the path, a single figure stepped out in front of him. The figure was holding something in his hand. A gun. A military .45 automatic.

Hawker was going too fast to stop. He collided with the figure, and a microsecond later, the automatic spewed fire. Hawker felt a sledgehammerlike blow against his left thigh. And then he was tumbling, falling, his whole left leg numb. He knew he had been shot, but he didn't have time to worry about how bad it was.

The figure was on top of him, pummeling him with his fists, and then the barrel of the .45 was pointed directly at his face. Hawker knocked it aside with his left elbow just as it exploded a second time, and he hit the man in the face with a sizzling right hand.

The man tumbled over backward, still holding on to the .45. Hawker smothered him with his body, then cracked him with two more rights. Through his broken mouth the guard half-cried, “I'll blow your fucking head off for that, you bastard!”

The voice hit one of his memory electrodes, and Hawker realized it was Roy Dalton, the manager of Ranch #4, the sour-looking man with the black mustache who had hired him.

Why would he be outside the cottage guarding it for Williams?

And then the answer came. He wasn't standing guard while Williams raped Cristoba—he had probably been involved in it. A treat awarded him by his employer, like throwing a dog a biscuit.

Dalton brought the automatic up once again, but Hawker locked his hands around the man's wrist and turned it until he heard the delicate carpus bones pop. As Dalton's wrist gave way the .45 swung downward and went off.

Beneath him, Dalton kicked wildly, then lay still.

Half of his face had been shot away.

Hawker rolled off the corpse and touched his thigh. The wound was not bad. Blood seeped out steadily, but the artery had not been shot away. The slug apparently had cut a swath of flesh away on a downward course, narrowly missing his right foot.

The pain was beginning to come now: a deep, throbbing ache.

He pulled out the metal stock on the Colt Commando and, using the weapon as a short crutch, got shakily to his feet. He fully expected to see Skate Williams standing on the porch, a gun in his hand.

But the porch was empty, the front door open.

Hawker knew that if the front door was not locked, Cristoba would be gone.

He hobbled up the front steps, anyway, and looked inside.

For long nights afterward he would wish that he had not.

The girl lay inside on the bed. She lay on her back. The sheer white nightgown had been ripped from her body. Her breasts were paler than her shoulders, and they were flattened and rounded by their own weight.

Williams had been here, all right. And Dalton, too. Maybe others. Hawker wondered how long the horror had gone on for her.

Her nut-colored legs, long and graceful, were smeared with dried blood that had pooled in splotches beneath her on the sheet. There were scratch marks on her neck and arms. A great many scratch marks.

Yes, it had gone on a long time. Gone on and on until Cristoba had finally ended it by her own hand.

The pillow beneath her head was soggy with blood. Unlike the blood on her legs, it was fresh. Her right fist was locked around the butt of a .38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver. The pressure of the slug entering her right ear had blown her facial structure into a bloated mask of horror. Only her eyes remained oddly unchanged: dull brown orbs that bespoke great knowledge but no emotion; bespoke the inexorable understanding of her ancient people, as if all the tragedy, madness, and cruelty of life was beneath their comment.

Hawker heard a weak, involuntary sob and realized that it originated within him.

Why hadn't she used the gun on Williams? Or one of the others?

He would never know.

He hobbled across the room and touched her eyelids, closing them, then covered her with a sheet.

“I'm sorry, Cristoba,” he whispered. “You should have never trusted me. I'm so damn sorry.”

Hawker stood over the ruined body of the girl for another anguished moment before turning and leaving at a fast hobble, punishing himself with the agony of using his left leg.

Outside, the stars were a brilliant veil above the orange haze of smoke from the fires that now consumed the ranch. In the air was the stink of burning gasoline, and the flames glowed eerily above the trees.

Hawker thought he had been to hell before.

But nothing had ever quite compared to this.

Hawker headed off into the shadows along the path that led to the factory. He half-ran, dragging his left leg along behind.

Skate Williams couldn't have gotten far. And when he found him, Hawker would show him what hell was all about. He would show him and show him and show him.…

eighteen

Skate Williams jumped him as he passed the first greenhouse, coming out of the shadows like a grizzly, all arms and fists and beefy weight, knocking Hawker to the ground.

Hawker had been slowly wilting from shock and loss of blood. He knew he could not go much farther. He had, in fact, begun to rationalize the urge to lay down and rest. He told himself his mission had been a success in one way—the slave compound had been empty when he'd passed it. They had all escaped. And what would happen if he
did
find Williams? He was too weak to do anything but simply shoot him, and Hawker wanted to make it last a hell of a lot longer than that.

But then he remembered the girl. Remembered the way she looked when she was alive. Remembered the tilt of her head, the glint of her brown eyes, and the fine bravery in her that night outside the Bar of the Unknown Souls.

Then Hawker remembered the way Williams had left her. And suddenly, the weariness and weakness were gone, fired by his own fresh anger.

A moment later Williams took him by complete surprise. He hit Hawker four strides into a lumbering sprint, hit him waist-high with his massive right shoulder. The impact catapulted the Colt Commando from his hands, snapped his head sideways, and almost knocked him out.

It took Hawker a dizzy moment to realize who his attacker was. By the time he did, Williams was diving for the assault rifle, his own revolver obviously out of ammunition.

He half-landed on Hawker, his hands outstretched toward the Commando. His body stank of sweat and cigar smoke, and the weight of him all but knocked the wind out of the vigilante. Hawker rolled painfully to his side and caught Williams's right arm, pulling it away. Williams clubbed at him with his left fist, but Hawker managed to swing his head away from the blows. If one landed, Hawker knew, he would be knocked out. The man must have weighed close to three hundred and fifty pounds.

Using all his strength, Hawker forced the huge Texan's right arm under him, then slid from beneath the man, pulling his right arm up between his shoulder blades.

When Williams tried to struggle out of the hammerlock, Hawker put more pressure on the arm.

“I want you to remember something before I kill you,” Hawker hissed, his breath coming in labored gasps. “I want you to remember Cristoba de Abella. I want you to remember the way she looked when you left her, because you're going to look twice as bad when you die, Williams. You're going to be such a mess, the crows won't even bother with you.”

Beneath him, Skate Williams winced with pain. The left side of his face dug a furrow in the sand as he edged himself along, trying to relieve the pressure on his arm. “Look, you don't got to kill me. I got money. I got a lot of money.” There was a piggish whimper in his voice that nauseated Hawker. “You say you're going to kill me because of that girl? Well, shit, boy, a couple hundred thousand in cash can do a lot to wipe out a momory.”

“Forget it, Williams,” Hawker said. He felt the urge to kill him then and there, but he didn't want it to end that quickly. Instead he increased the pressure on the big man's arm until Williams began to make a strange noise. It was the mosquito-whine a balloon makes when you stretch the valve between your fingers. It took Hawker a moment to realize that the man was crying. Hawker said, “I know all about how you made that money, and I know all about your fast-food franchise, and why they're getting so popular so quick.” Williams struggled beneath him, and Hawker settled him with even more pressure. “I've visited this experimental farm, friend. I know what you grow here, and I know what you do with it. Money from oil and cattle wasn't enough. You wanted to control it all, Williams. Instead of just slave workers, you wanted to control a nation of slaves.”

Goaded by the pain, Williams gave an unexpected thrust of his pelvis that threw Hawker off-balance. Then he kicked backward and caught Hawker flush on his injured thigh with the heel of his boot. In sudden agony Hawker released his grip for just a moment.

That's all it took.

Williams cracked Hawker hard with his elbow, then came up standing, the Colt Commando leveled at Hawker's stomach. “Now it's your turn to beg, you son of a bitch,” Williams bellowed. “And you'd better beg long and hard, because I'm going to blow your fucking guts right out.” A strange chuckle escaped his lips. It was the frenzied laughter of a psychopath who realizes, much to his delight, that once again he has outwitted his enemies.

“You say I wanted control? Well, you're wrong there, buddy boy, 'cause I already
got
control. I got the money, I got the army, and in another two years' time people are going to be fightin' in line just to get to them little food stands of mine.” He laughed again. “You know where I got the idea? It's damn near funny! Hell, I got it from Coca Cola! Back at the turn of the century they used cocaine in Coca Cola. Had to ship the coca leaves up from South America, but they used it just the same. Damn profitable business until people started catching on that they didn't just
like
Coca Cola, they
had
to have it. Hell, they were addicted. 'Course, the damn government came along and made them change the ingredients.

“No one else took up the idea until I came along. Five years ago, some old boy approached me about financing a fast-food franchise. Said putting barbecue sauce on hamburgers would be the biggest thing since McDonald's.” The huge, piggish face contorted into a grin. “Well, I made damn sure it was
bigger
than McDonald's. Started my own coca tree farm. Needed people who'd refine the shit and not talk—so I started bringing in wetback slaves. We toyed around with the idea of putting it in the sauce. But there was too much waste in that, so we just put it right in with the ground meat. Knew I could buy off the inspectors. And you know what? The dumb fucking public went for it! Hell, I got more stands in Houston than McDonald's does! Getting inquiries from all over the country about the franchise. 'Course, the problem there is finding inspectors in every state who can be bought off. But we will, by God! And when that day comes, sluts like Cristoba what's-her-name will climb up my steps on their bellies just to get another little fix.”

Hawker had gotten slowly to his feet. If he was going to die, he was going to die standing. He said, “You're pathetic, Williams. Go ahead and kill me—but don't do it thinking you're going to be in the clear. I've told too many people about your operation. And how you killed Jonathan Flischmann to keep him from talking. He knew, too, didn't he, Williams?”

The fat man made a pained expression. “That little Jew twerp? He didn't have enough sense to know when to call it quits. Hell, I offered him money. Plenty of money. When he refused, I sent Roy Dalton up to find him.” Williams smiled. “Roy found him, all right. Gave him the Smith & Wesson cure for insomnia.” He raised the assault rifle, and his expression changed. “Just like I'm going to give you—”

“No, you're not,” said a voice from the shadows. From behind one of the greenhouses stepped Quirt Evans. He held his left arm and shoulder at an odd angle, and Hawker knew how badly wounded he must be. But his voice was strong, and his stainless Colt .44 was aimed at Williams's back. Evans said calmly, “You shoot, Skate, and it'll be the last thing you ever do.”