Denver Strike (5 page)

Hawker was helping the woman to her feet, calming her as best he could. She grabbed him by the sweater and shook him. “Don't just say you'll do it! Promise that you will get my children back, damn it!”

The vigilante stepped away, holding her at arm's distance. “Do you know what you're saying? Do you know what you're asking me to do? If I go after those kids now, it'll double the danger they're in. And they're already in enough danger.”

“I can't let that
scum
keep my children, James. Can't you understand that? My kids are going to be scared out of their wits! It may change them for the rest of their lives. You have to get them back before it's too late!”

Hawker nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I'll go after them on one condition.”

“Anything. Anything at all. Just tell me what you want.”

“I want you to stay by my side. I want you to do exactly what I tell you to do without question. Understand?”

The woman nodded meekly.

Hawker took a deep breath. His left arm was throbbing again and, after just that little bit of activity, he was already feeling weak. “Okay,” he said. “If you've got a saddle, stick it on that horse, and make it quick. We've got to catch them before they get to their vehicle. Did you hear the sound of any kind of motor this morning?”

The woman shook her head immediately. “No, and I listened, too. Their truck or Jeep can't be very close.”

“Good,” said Hawker, returning to the cabin for the rest of his weaponry. “Let's go.”

five

Hawker swung up onto the big Appaloosa mare and pulled Lomela onto the cantle behind him.

“Are you sure you know how to ride?” the woman cried.

“I know enough to know I'm not very good at it,” snapped Hawker, who did not like or trust horses. “Just shut up and hang on. And no matter what happens, don't drop that canvas backpack.”

“You already have the terrible-looking machine gun strapped to the saddle. Why do you need this backpack?”

“Because that thing strapped to the saddle is an automatic rifle, not a machine gun, and I thought you weren't going to ask any questions.”

“But this backpack is so heavy—”

“It's heavy because of the grenades.”

The woman's voice dropped to a whisper. “Oh, my god.”

Hawker kicked the horse into a canter and was immediately relieved to find that the animal was smooth-gaited. That meant that there was a good chance he might not fall off at all. He tried to remember the emergency riding lessons a Texas Ranger friend of his had given him one Mexican night long, long ago: back straight, reins in the left hand, knees turned inward, ass lifting and falling slightly with the horse, not fighting the horse.

Even when he did it right, he felt like a subject in a hemorrhoid experiment.

The vigilante reined the horse toward the river, and the animal charged through the icy water and up onto the grassy plain beyond.

“They didn't go this way!” the woman called into his ear. “They went the other way.”

“I know that!” Hawker yelled back. “And if I have to remind you not to ask questions one more time, I'm going to throw your ass right off this horse—I mean that, Lomela!”

The woman lapsed into a moody silence behind him.

Hawker steered the horse up the side of the mountain toward the nearest pass. He continued to press the animal to run, for he knew that they didn't have more than a couple of miles to go. No matter where the kidnappers had parked, they still had to take the logging trail out. And his only chance of taking them was when they passed by.

At the top of the pass, Hawker almost reined up. The view was stunning. The great Colorado Rockies moved away through the clouds like waves, one after another, silver mountains touched with veins of white and green against the pale blue sky.

The horse grunted as Hawker nudged it with his heels, urging it down the slope.

At a stand of aspens, Hawker stopped abruptly. “Get off,” he said.

The woman was surprised. “What? Those men aren't here. They can't be anywhere around here.”

“I know that,” said Hawker. “That's why I want you off here. If I bungle the rescue attempt on your children, I don't want them to get you, too. Understand?”

“But couldn't I help you in some way—”

“Lomela,” Hawker said impatiently, “let me explain something to you. Getting your kids back is not going to be easy, but I am going to give it my best try. I am not up here on a lark. I am here because I do what I do very damn well. And I don't like to do anything on a whim, because whims are dangerous, and in my business they get the wrong people killed. I'm a planner and a plotter. I think everything out ahead—
everything
. It's like a curse, see? So when I tell you to do something, it's not because I'm trying to be mean or because I'm mad at my astrologer. It's because I damn well
want
you to do it, and I don't like to be questioned every step of the way. Questions are a waste of time, and things that waste time can get people killed. Understood?”

The woman slid down off the horse. “Should I wait here?” she asked meekly.

“Yes, you should wait here. Even if the kidnappers zap me and start a search for you, they won't find you here. When it's safe for you to come down to the logging trail, I'll fire four shots: the middle two will be close together. If you don't hear that signal within the next hour, beat it down the mountain to the nearest phone and give Tom Dulles a call.” The vigilante allowed himself to smile slightly. “Don't worry, Lomela. I'll do the very best I can to free those handsome kids of yours.”

Close to tears, the woman nodded quickly. “I'm sorry I'm so much trouble, but I'm just so worried about them I can't think straight—”

Hawker reined the horse away. “You already made it up to me—last night.”

Then he and the horse were lunging down the slope. Hawker kept both hands firmly on the saddle horn and his feet well-braced in the stirrups as the Appaloosa twisted in and out of the pale yellow aspen trees. Then he could see the logging trail just ahead. It was an overgrown, twisting, turning ribbon that worked its way precariously down the mountain.

Hawker knew that because he had driven up it the previous day. His own vehicle was about a mile to the south, well-hidden by the branches of a red pine with which he had covered it.

Hawker got down off the horse and led it to an area just above the logging trail. He tied the horse out of view, then set about trying to find something with which to block the path. There were boulders around, but none were small enough to be moved by a man with a wounded arm. There were a few fallen trees, but they were too large, too. Finally, he found a partially rotted tree trunk that looked as if it might be big enough, and he dragged it laboriously across the trail.

Then he climbed up the embankment, found his Colt Commando and his knapsack, and settled himself in some bushes and waited. The kidnappers had headed west from the cabin, so he expected them to come charging down the narrow trail at any moment.

Even so, it was nearly ten minutes before he finally heard the high-torque whine of the four-wheel-drive Wagoneer coming from around the bend. Hawker got to his knees, the Commando ready. What he hoped to do was zap the first man as he got out to move the tree, then immediately nail the second as he sat waiting behind the wheel.

The plan had a couple of flaws, not the least of which was the fact that the Commando was an assault rifle built for tough action in cramped quarters, not accuracy over any great distance. If the two children were anywhere within the sighting area, he wouldn't be able to fire at all.

As it turned out, though, that was not the plan's greatest flaw. The plan's greatest flaw was that the man driving the Wagoneer decided not to stop for the fallen tree. Hawker heard the man downshift and hit the gas in preparation for jumping the log, and he knew immediately that there was only one thing he could do. He got to his feet, waited until the vehicle had already jolted over the tree, then jumped spread-eagle onto the luggage rack on the roof of the car.

Immediately, there was a shattering roar as a bullet gouged a hole in the roof of the car. Hawker rolled to the side just as far as he could as two more ugly spouts appeared in the roof.

From inside the Jeep, Hawker could hear the children screaming. He had to make this quick if any of them were going to survive.

In one swift motion, he locked his toes into the luggage rack and leaned his head down over the passenger's window, the stout little assault rifle in his right hand. The man in the passenger's seat looked shocked as the vigilante touched the barrel to his head.

“Throw it out the window before I drill you a new ear!” Hawker yelled.

He could see Lomela's little girl and boy cringing in the backseat as the man let the husky .45-caliber ACP drop from his finger out the window.

The dumb expression never left his big ugly face. Hawker turned the barrel toward the driver. “You too, buddy,” he yelled. “Take your weapon out of that shoulder holster with your left hand. Use two fingers. Drop it out the window.”

The driver began to reach toward the automatic in the shoulder holster, but then his eyes hardened and he twisted the wheel suddenly. The jolt almost flung Hawker off the roof. “Try that again,” the vigilante yelled, “and I'll put a bullet through your knee!”

“And get these two brats killed?” the man hollered back. “You won't do it. You don't have the balls!”

The driver swerved again, and Hawker had to tighten his grip and clamp his legs. Now they were on a portion of road that lurched back and forth down the side of the mountain, and the vigilante found himself looking out over a sheer drop of several hundred feet. If the driver made a mistake, it would mean death for all of them.

Inside, the children cried out again as the Wagoneer slid precariously close to the edge of the cliff.

Hawker could hardly force himself to look.

There was another explosion, and the roof was pocked once more by a bullet hole.

They were shooting at him again.

He had to do something, and do it soon.

The vigilante slid the Commando under his right thigh, pressing tightly, locked his toes under the luggage rack again, and swung out over the window of the driver's side. With one quick motion, he grabbed the door handle in his aching left hand and the hair of the driver's head in his right hand.

The passenger now had the driver's handgun and was bringing it up to fire!

Hawker yanked the driver out of the vehicle, his ears indifferent to the hideous scream the man gave as he tumbled toward the ledge and certain death.

The Jeep gave a sickening lunge toward the cliff, but now the passenger grabbed the wheel and slid over in front of the controls, as Hawker had been certain he would. When he felt the vehicle come back under control, he swung back down on the passenger's side and poked the assault rifle at the new driver. “Toss your weapon out the window, friend, or I'll blow your nose off!”

“I don't think you have the nerve!” the driver retorted, but the anxious look on his face said very plainly that he did think Hawker had the nerve.

Hawker raised the weapon as if to fire. “Okay, buddy, okay!” the man cried as he threw the brutal-looking handgun out the window. “Just don't shoot me!”

“Pull this Jeep to the side—now! Do everything slow and easy!”

The man steered the Wagoneer toward the wooded side of the logging trail, then braked to a stop. Hawker took a long breath of relief. His toes were cramped from trying to bury themselves in the metal of the roof. He continued to point the automatic rifle at the man as he said, “Okay, sport, slide out from behind that wheel and keep your hands high. Now fold your hands behind your head and kick the door closed with your boot. Good, now touch your nose to that tree. If you so much as move, you'll join your friend at the bottom of that gorge.”

Hawker got to his feet, stepped down onto the hood of the vehicle, and jumped to the ground. The children were now sitting quietly in the backseat. Their faces were pale and they looked very glum.

Hawker looked in the window and smiled. “Dolores? K.D.? Are you two all right?”

They both had onyx-black hair, like their mother. The little boy's hair was Indian-straight, but the girl's hair had some curl. “That man fell off the cliff back there,” K.D. said gravely.

“That's something you had absolutely nothing to do with,” the vigilante said gently. “Those men were wrong to make you go riding with them. But it's not your fault. I'm going to take you home to your mother now.”

“I'll bet Mommy is worried,” said the little girl.

“That's right,” said the vigilante, “your mother is worried. We need to hurry. Everything will be okay now. Can you two just sit right here for a few minutes more? I won't be long.”

The kidnapper in the green snowsuit still stood with his nose against the tree. Hawker went to him and touched the barrel of the Commando to the back of his head. “You and I are going to have a long talk, sport,” he said. “I'd like to have that talk right now. There are a lot of questions I need answered. But I hate to see those kids kept away from their mother any longer. After the stunt you and your dead friend just pulled, they'll probably be having nightmares until they're well into high school anyway—”

“It wasn't my idea to snatch the kids. I was just following my orders.”

“Whose orders? Bill Nek's?”

“I can't tell you anything about that,” the man said nervously. “A guy like you's been around. You know what the score is in things like this. If I spill my guts, the people I work for will make sure I get a hand hacked off or something like that. Don't make me talk—”

“There's nobody around but you and me, is there? Who would ever know that you talked?”