The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy (27 page)

"That'll be enough,” said Nighthawk.

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They sold their ship as soon as they reached the Inner Frontier, then took their new ship and their new identities straight to Solio II.

"You know,” said Nighthawk, when they were still half an hour out from Solio, “I know why
I'm
going back. But I sure as hell can't figure out why
you're
going."

Father Christmas shrugged. “Why not? Solio's got churches, just like every other world."

"It's also got a top-notch security force. We may fool them for a while with all the stuff we picked up on Purplecloud, but eventually they'll dope it out. If not before I kill Hernandez, then after. Either way, anyone who was seen with me is going to be pretty high up on their Wanted list."

"You want me to leave?” asked Father Christmas.

"I didn't say that,” replied Nighthawk. “I asked why you
hadn't
left."

The older man leaned back on his seat, stared at the ceiling for a moment, and exhaled heavily. “I think it's curiosity more than anything."

"To see if you were right about Hernandez hiring the Marquis?” asked Nighthawk, puzzled.

Father Christmas shook his head. “No, I'm pretty sure about that. And if it's not that, then it's something similar. These guys feed on lies and subterfuge the way we fed on Redbison two nights ago."

"Then what are you curious about?"

"You."

"Me?"

"Yeah,” said Father Christmas. “I want to see if you're as good as I think you are."

"I assume that's a compliment?"

"All depends. I don't think you can steal the girl and get off the planet, but I'm curious to see how close you come."

"You left out killing Hernandez."

"That, too."

"Getting to him will be the toughest part of the job,” said Nighthawk thoughtfully. “Once I've killed him, the rest should fall into place."

"Have you given any thought as to how you're going to get to him?” asked Father Christmas.

Nighthawk lit a small, thin cigar. “Not really. Create some story that'll get me in to see him, I suppose."

"You can't be the only man who's ever wanted to kill him,” suggested Father Christmas. “There probably aren't too many stories he hasn't heard—or that his subordinates haven't heard."

"Well, if push comes to shove, I'll shoot my way in and shoot my way out,” said Nighthawk with a shrug.

"Just like that?” asked the older man, snapping his fingers together.

"Why not? I took the Marquis, didn't I?"

"What if you run into someone better?"

"Anyone who's better than the Marquis isn't working for peanuts on some security force,” answered Nighthawk. “He's set up shop somewhere on the Frontier, and he probably controls a dozen or more worlds."

"Well, at least consider this: there's no silencer for the gun you're carrying. The first shot will draw everyone within five hundred yards."

"There's only going to be one shot,” responded Nighthawk. “That's all I ever take."

"One, five, a dozen—it'll make noise."

"Hernandez carries a laser pistol. By the time my gun's made a bang, I'll have his weapon, and it's silent except for a little buzzing. If no one hears a second shot, they'll think the first one was something else."

"You hope."

"Actually, I don't much give a damn. If they worked for Hernandez or so much as touched my Melisande, I
want
to kill ‘em."

"Well, I, for one, would feel a damned sight safer if you had some means of approaching him other than to tell one ridiculous story and then shoot your way in if the story doesn't work,” said Father Christmas.

"Just say the word and I'll put down on a neighboring world and let you get off."

"I don't want to get off, son,” said the older man. “I just want you to take it a little slower and more carefully so that you live through this episode."

Nighthawk looked at Solio II, a green and blue world spinning in the viewscreen. “She's there right now,” he said. “The slower I go, the longer it'll be before we're together again."

"Son,” said Father Christmas, “I hate to keep bringing this up, but she doesn't
want
to be together with you."

Nighthawk's expression hardened. “She will,” he said adamantly.

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They touched down at Solio II's single spaceport, about ten miles outside the planet's major city, which was also called Solio. Unlike many Frontier worlds, Solio II was large enough and busy enough to have a Customs department, and their documentation was given its initial test, as they were ushered into separate booths.

"Please insert your passport, sir,” ordered the Customs computer.

Nighthawk did so.

"Thank you. Please sit down."

Nighthawk sat down opposite the holographic screen.

"Name?” asked the computer.

"Vince Landis."

"Your passport says Vincent Landis."

"Vince is a shortened version of Vincent."

"Checking ... verified. Home planet?"

"Silverblue."

"Your passport says you live on Aristotle."

"I do live there now, but I am a student and that is a temporary residence. My permanent residence is with my parents on Silverblue."

"Considering ... accepted. Age?"

"21."

"Purpose of visit?"

"Research."

"What is your area of study?"

"As you see,” answered Nighthawk, “I am majoring in ciphers. My doctoral thesis will concern the use of ciphers by security forces on the Inner Frontier. I intend to visit a number of worlds on the Frontier, questioning the security forces about the use of ciphers in their daily work."

"Where will you stay while on Solio II?"

"I have no idea,” said Nighthawk. “Can you recommend a good hotel?"

"I will append a list of all hotels and room rates to your visa,” said the computer. “Have you any weapons to declare?"

"I'm just a student,” said Nighthawk with a smile. “What would I do with a weapon?"

"You did not answer the question."

"No, I don't have any weapons."

"Have you any existing medical conditions?"

"None."

The machine returned his passport, along with a 30-day visa and a list of hotels.

"You have cleared Customs, Vincent Landis,” it announced. “Welcome to Solio II."

"Thank you."

Nighthawk got up and walked out of the booth, and found Father Christmas waiting for him.

"How'd it go?” asked the older man.

"No trouble. And you?"

"Nothing to it."

"Let's get out of here,” said Nighthawk, heading toward an exit. They followed the departing crowd to an airbus and rode into the city. When they reached a street that seemed to have lots of hotels, they got off.

"What now?” asked Father Christmas.

Nighthawk studied the area carefully. “I'm trying to remember where the Security Division is.” Finally he shrugged. “It doesn't make any difference. We'll find it later. Let's go get a couple of rooms."

They registered at one of the hotels, and met a couple of hours later for dinner.

"Did you locate it?” asked Father Christmas.

"The Security Division?” said Nighthawk. “Yeah, it's about half a mile away."

"And teeming with armed men?"

"It is now,” said Nighthawk. “We'll walk by and see how it looks after dark."

They ate dinner in the hotel's restaurant, and Father Christmas spent most of the meal complaining that the meat seemed insipid next to a cut of Redbison. They waited until dark, then walked outside and headed over toward the large building that housed Hernandez's office.

"I'm nervous,” said Father Christmas.

"Why?” asked Nighthawk.

"I don't know. Maybe because it's been so easy to get this far. I keep thinking someone's watching us and is getting ready to pounce."

"Won't do ‘em much good,” said Nighthawk with a grim smile. “I must be walking around with thirty Maria Theresa dollars in my pockets."

"You mean you've already assembled the gun?” asked Father Christmas.

"I thought I'd attract less attention assembling it in my room than in front of the Security Division,” said Nighthawk wryly.

Father Christmas kept looking nervously off to his right and left. Finally Nighthawk stopped and turned to him.

"Look, if you'd be happier robbing a church, I'll point a couple out to you and—"

"I don't want to rob a church."

"Well, you sure as hell need
something
to do with your hands,” said Nighthawk. “You're even making
me
nervous."

"Sorry,” said Father Christmas, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

"All right,” said Nighthawk, giving his companion a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Let's keep going."

They walked another two blocks, and finally found themselves staring at a large building.

"This is it?” asked the older man.

"This is it."

"Well, how do you approach it—from the front, the rear, the side?"

"The front,” answered Nighthawk. “Isn't that why I'm a student from Aristotle? Tomorrow I'll just walk up and make an appointment."

They were about to leave when a window on the third floor opened, and a sleek figure stepped out onto a balcony. It was Melisande, dressed all in gold.

"It's
her!
” whispered Nighthawk.

"I
knew
those ID's were too good to be true,” muttered Father Christmas.

"What are you talking about?"

"They know we're here, son, or at least they expect us any moment,” said the older man. “Look at her, dressed in gold and glitter and leaning out over the edge of the balcony. They're using her as bait."

"For me?"

"Who else?"

"And they think I'm going to burst into the building and shoot my way up to the third floor because she's standing there?” continued Nighthawk.

"Yeah,” said Father Christmas. “Pretty damned foolish, aren't they?"

"Sure are."

"So what do we do now?” asked the older man. “Go back to the hotel?"

"You can go if you want."

"What about you?"

"Me?” repeated Nighthawk. “I'm going to burst into the building and shoot my way up to the third floor."

"I thought I just explained: That's exactly what they're expecting,” said Father Christmas.

"They're expecting a man,” replied Nighthawk, checking his ceramic pistol and thrusting it back into a pocket. “What they're getting is the Widowmaker."

He turned and began climbing the ornate stairs to the main entrance.

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Nighthawk entered the building, passing through the security scanner without setting off any alarms. Father Christmas, after a moment's hesitation, followed him at a safe distance.

A young man sat behind a desk in the main foyer. He looked up at Nighthawk with a bored expression on his sullen face.

"May I help you?"

"My name's Landis. Vince Landis. I'm a graduate student from Aristotle. I'd like to arrange an interview with Colonel James Hernandez."

"Are you seeking employment?"

"I told you—I want an interview."

"Concerning what subject?"

"I don't see that it's any of your business,” said Nighthawk.

"Rudeness will not get you your appointment,” said the young man punctiliously. “I must know the purpose of your request."

"I'm a student of ciphers and communications,” said Nighthawk. “I want to speak to him about his use of them."

"I will transmit your request to him, Mr. Landis,” said the man. “Have you an address where you can be reached?"

"I'll wait right here."

"It may take days or even weeks for an appointment,” said the young man. “And that's
if
he'll agree to see you at all."

"I haven't got days or weeks,” replied Nighthawk. “I'm leaving Solio II in a couple of hours. It'll have to be right now."

"That's out of the question."

"Contact him and let
him
decide."

"Are you giving me orders?” demanded the young man, rising to his feet.

"I'm trying to save your life,” said Nighthawk. “Now call him."

"I'll do no such thing!"

Nighthawk pulled out his pistol and fired at point blank range. The man collapsed behind his desk, and Nighthawk, without another look at him, sought out the nearest airlift.

"Don't go that way,” said a voice behind him, and he turned to find himself facing Father Christmas.

"Someone's got to be monitoring the lobby here,” continued the older man. “They know you've killed that young feller. You get into an airlift now, you've obliged them by confining yourself, and they won't let you out until there are more guns facing you than even you can handle. If I were you, I'd find a stairway instead. Even if they come after you, you'll have a little more room to manipulate."

"Makes sense,” said Nighthawk, heading for the ornate curving staircase that led to the upper levels of the building. “Keep clear once the shooting starts."

"I ain't no hero, son,” Father Christmas assured him. “Once the guns come out, you're on your own."

"That suits me fine."

"Somehow I thought it would,” said Father Christmas wryly.

Gun in hand, Nighthawk began climbing the stairs, alert for any sign of movement above or below him. He made it to the second floor without any opposition. Then, as he was about to climb to the third floor, a door opened behind him and two thin beams of light burned into the railing. He whirled and got off three quick shots, and two men, each holding a laser pistol, fell to the floor.

"Nice job,” said Father Christmas’ voice from well below him.

"Thanks,” said Nighthawk.

"Be careful,” urged Father Christmas. “They won't be that dumb again."

Nighthawk surveyed the staircase. Given the way it curved, the top of his head would be a target for anyone on the third floor before he could see to fire back.

"Right,” he said.

He stepped back and considered his options, then turned and walked quickly to the office in which the two men had been hiding. There was a large window, and he opened it and leaned out. The sides of the building were as smooth as glass; climbing up on the outside would be impossible.