The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy (28 page)

He stepped back into the hall and picked up the dead men's weapons. Now that his presence was known, the more firepower he had, the better.

He approached the stairs, then paused. There had to be another way to the third floor besides the stairs and the airlift. Perhaps a service lift. He was about to look for it when a door opened at the far end of the hall. A man stepped out, saw him, and started shouting. Nighthawk quickly silenced him with a burst of solid light from a laser pistol.

There was certainly a service elevator, but he didn't have time to hunt for it. Besides, if he started walking down the hallway, he'd have cut off his options, since the airlift and the stairway would both behind him and it wouldn't take much to isolate him.

So it was back to the stairs. He began climbing them in a semi-crouch, ceramic pistol in one hand, laser in the other, not so fast that he was an easy target, not so slow that Hernandez had time to send more men to meet him. When he was almost halfway up, just reaching the turn where his head would become visible, he measured the angles by eye and fired his laser once more, holding the pistol steady as the deadly beam burned through the floor above him. There were exclamations of surprise and a scream of pain, and he knew he'd gotten at least one of the men who were waiting for him. The problem was that he didn't know how many were left, or where they were positioned.

He heard a footstep below him and spun around, half-expecting to see Father Christmas. But it was a uniformed guard, taking aim. He dropped down and got off a shot as he tumbled down a couple of stairs. When he regained his balance long enough to look, the guard was dead.

He fired upward, blindly, just to make whoever was on the third level keep their distance, but he knew he couldn't remain trapped on the stairs between floors for much longer. He'd just about made up his mind to go back to the second floor and look for some other means of reaching Hernandez’ office when he heard Melisande's voice ring out from above.

"Jefferson!"

He paused just an instant. Then, pocketing his ceramic pistol, he took a laser in each hand, swept every part of the third floor he could see with deadly light, and raced up the stairs, which were already starting to smoke. Two men moved to stop him; both were dead by the time he reached the top step. Two more bodies lay where he had shot them through the floor.

He looked around for Melisande but couldn't see her. The corridor ran about sixty feet in each direction from the stairway, and he began walking down the hallway to his left, guns at the ready.

Suddenly a man burst out of a room behind him and hurled himself at Nighthawk's back. Nighthawk went sprawling, and both laser pistols flew from his hands. He tried to get up, only to have a large forearm come down heavily on the back of his neck. He rolled onto his side, and was able to see his attacker, a huge man some six and a half feet tall, topping 300 pounds without any fat on him at all.

Nighthawk twisted and turned, trying to free himself, but the man wouldn't budge. Finally he snaked his hand down to his side, then moved it slowly, painfully, inch by inch, until he found what he was looking for—his attacker's testicles. He grabbed and squeezed, and the man let out a howl of pain and tried to roll away. Nighthawk held on, squeezing and twisting, as the man shrieked and squirmed, and finally, with one enormous effort, pulled free.

The man, red of face, breathing heavily, got to his feet and pulled a wicked-looking knife from his belt. Nighthawk looked for his pistols, but they were too far away. The man hunched over, holding the knife like someone who was experienced with the weapon, and edged forward.

Nighthawk, his back to the railing, realized the man would reach him momentarily. He got to one knee, checked for escape routes, found none. Then, suddenly, he grabbed one of the railing's smoldering supports, pulled it loose, and swung it toward the man's head, all in one motion. It split his opponent's head open with a sickening thud. The man fell forward, and Nighthawk bent down, letting the huge body somersault over him and past the railing. By the time it hit the floor two levels below, Nighthawk had picked up his laser pistols, and was once again stalking down the corridor.

He heard a sudden sound behind him, and saw Melisande, well past the landing, almost at the end of the opposite corridor, struggling to free herself from two uniformed men. They overpowered her and pulled her back into the room from which she had come.

He raced down the corridor, past the landing, toward the room she was in. A shot rang out, and he felt a bullet bury itself in his shoulder from behind. The force of the bullet spun him around, and he got a quick glimpse of a man ducking back into a room, almost at the spot he had reached before seeing Melisande. He fired his laser, but it was too late; the corridor was empty.

As he turned back, ready to race to Melisande's room, a sonic pistol hummed and suddenly he staggered as a field of solid sound overwhelmed him. He fell to one knee, his ears and nose bleeding, and fired back. The man with the sonic pistol fell into the hallway, dead—but even as he did so, another bullet dug deep into the back of Nighthawk's left thigh. He turned and fired where he knew the shot came from, and this time he burned off the sniper's hand. There was a scream, then silence.

And now, suddenly, every room seemed to hold a sniper. Dozens of doors up and down the corridor slid open and shut, just long enough for the occupant to take a shot at Nighthawk. A laser put a smoking hole in his left foot, and another burned off part of his ear. He fired back, and two more men were dead. A bullet smashed his right knee. He fell to the floor, but he melted the man who'd shot him. Another bullet hit him in the back, then two more, and as he tried to regain his feet he found that he couldn't get up, either because of the knee or the bullet in his lower spine, he didn't know which. He dragged himself to a doorway, trained a laser on it, and tried to burn a hole through to the interior, where he would momentarily be out of the line of fire. The door, made of a tightly-bonded titanium alloy, glowed red, but didn't melt. A bullet burst through his hand, and he felt the bones splinter as the laser dropped to the floor.

He inadvertently grabbed his broken hand with his left hand, dropping his other laser in the process. A molecular imploder disabled both lasers, and suddenly he was lying on the floor of the corridor, bleeding from more than a dozen wounds, unable to move.

A door at the end of the corridor opened, and James Hernandez stepped out. He walked over to Nighthawk and stared down at him.

"You should have stayed away,” he said.

"Couldn't,” rasped Nighthawk, choking on his own blood.

"Why? You killed the Marquis, you saved your ... ah ... progenitor—or at least bought him a few more years. You must have known that I'd kill you if you came back here."

Nighthawk couldn't force any words out. He settled for nodding his head weakly.

"Then why?” asked Hernandez, genuinely puzzled. “There's no price on
my
head. Why did you come back?"

He tried to mouth the word “Melisande” and found that he couldn't. “For
her
,” he grated.

"Ah.” Hernandez smiled. “I didn't think anyone was that young or that foolish.” He turned and spoke to someone who was out of Nighthawk's line of vision. “Come say good-bye to the bold young hero who was going to rescue you from my nefarious clutches."

And then, suddenly, she was standing next to Nighthawk.

"You're a fool,” she said.

He convulsed with pain. “I know."

"And now you're going to die."

"Everyone dies,” he replied, coughing blood.

"You could have just stayed in the Oligarchy,” said Melisande angrily.

"Probably,” he grated, as a wave of pain and dizziness overcame him.

"Then why didn't you?"

His lips moved, but no words came out.

"Well, this is all very touching,” said Hernandez, “but I'm afraid the time has come to deliver the
coup de gras
. Have you any last statement to make?"

Again the lips moved silently.

"Kneel down and tell me what he's saying,” ordered Hernandez.

"Why me?” demanded Melisande.

"You slept with him. Who better to hear his final words?"

She glared at Hernandez for a moment, then knelt down next to Nighthawk and leaned over until her ear was next to Nighthawk's lips.

Suddenly there was the sound of a gunshot, and the blue-skinned girl jerked spasmodically just once, then rolled over with a coin-sized hole in her chest.

"I saved you the trouble,” whispered Nighthawk as Hernandez kicked the ceramic pistol out of his hand and aimed his gun at the young man's head.

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They buried Nighthawk the next morning, in an unmarked grave beside the Pearl of Maracaibo.

Father Christmas walked across the large cemetery, looking neither right nor left, ignoring the dozens of armed, uniformed men who watched his every move. When he reached the grave he stopped, crossed his hands sedately in front of him, and lowered his head.

"I rather thought I'd see you at the ceremony,” said Hernandez, joining him.

"I hate services."

"But you like churches."

"This was a little one,” said Father Christmas. “Hardly anything worth stealing, except for the cross behind the altar."

"How did you know about it?” asked Hernandez. “No one saw you check it out."

The older man smiled. “If people could spot me when I'm casing a job, how long do you think I'd stay in business?"

"You have a point,” conceded Hernandez. “But a moot one. I'm putting you out of business this morning."

"Be quiet and show some respect for the dead,” said Father Christmas.

"When you're through praying for
him
, you might say a brief one for yourself,” continued Hernandez. “You're going to be joining him, wherever he's at."

"Don't be foolish,” said Father Christmas easily. “You don't really think I'd show up here without protection, do you?"

Hernandez looked around the cemetery. “I don't see any protection."

Father Christmas chuckled. “And you won't—unless I turn up dead."

"What do you think you've got?"

"This is hardly the place to discuss crass worldly matters,” said Father Christmas.

"What
is
the proper place?"

"You got any drinkin’ stuff in your office?"

"Yes,” replied Hernandez.

"That'll do."

The two of them turned and walked across the cemetery together, then entered the impressive Security headquarters, and took an airlift to the third floor.

"It's a lot easier to get here today,” noted Father Christmas. “How many of your people did he take out before you killed him?"

"Enough,” said Hernandez grimly.

They stepped out of the airlift and onto the third level.

"You cleaned up the mess pretty quickly,” said Father Christmas.

"It looks better than it is,” replied Hernandez. “There was some structural damage to the staircase. Everyone above the second floor is required to take the airlift."

"Well, when all is said and done, lots of things look better than they are,” said Father Christmas. “I hate to think of how many industries would go broke if that weren't so."

"Spare me your quaint homilies."

They reached the door to Hernandez’ office, where the colonel waited for the standard retina and palmprint scan, after which the door slid into the wall.

"What's your preference?” asked Hernandez.

"Anything that's wet."

Hernandez poured them two drinks, handed one to Father Christmas, who seated himself on a leather chair, then went behind his desk and sat down himself.

"All right, old man,” he said, “what do you think you have on me?"

"You hired the Marquis of Queensbury to kill President Trelaine,” replied Father Christmas. “And then you got them to create young Nighthawk to kill the Marquis so you could cover it up."

"Why would I do that?” asked the colonel, lighting up a thin Antarrean cigar.

"Oh, lots of reasons,” answered the older man, sipping his drink. “The way I see it, you wanted to be President. You hired the Marquis to kill Trelaine ... but then he began blackmailing you. He probably got a little too greedy, and eventually it was a matter of kill him or be exposed."

"You couldn't be more mistaken."

Father Christmas shrugged. “The reason doesn't make much difference. What matters is that you hired the Marquis to pull the trigger, and he confessed to it before Nighthawk killed him."

"Rubbish. Why would he tell you?"

"Maybe he was trying to buy his life."

"Nonsense,” said the colonel. He noticed that his cigar had gone out and relit it. “The Marquis was as brashly fearless as young Nighthawk."

"Maybe he was bragging,” said Father Christmas. “Who cares what the reason was? I've got recordings of it stashed on three different worlds in the Oligarchy. If I don't report in to each of them every month, those recordings go—"

"To the Oligarchy?” interrupted Hernandez. “Somehow, I'm not trembling in my boots."

"To the press on Solio II, and to half a dozen select politicians just down the street."

Hernandez stared at him. “I think you're bluffing."

"Ah, but would you stake your life on it?” said Father Christmas. “All I want is to go out to the Rim and plunder God's churches at my leisure. If you let me go, you'll never hear from me again. If you kill me, you'll be joining me within, not to be too pessimistic about it, a year."

Hernandez downed his drink in a single swallow, then carefully placed the empty glass down on a corner of his polished desk. “Do you want to know the truth of it?"

"I'd like to,” said the older man, glancing out the window at the cemetery. “But I can live without it. It's up to you."

"Trelaine was a tyrant, but he was a
weak
tyrant. He allowed the Marquis to rob the Solio system because he didn't have the guts to stand up to him.” He paused. “The Marquis had once worked for me on, shall we say, a freelance basis. We'd had a cordial relationship. I finally managed to convince him that if he killed Trelaine, I would put in a puppet who would allow him even greater freedom in plundering Solio II."