Denver Strike (8 page)

There was the orange sputter of automatic weapons fire, and Hawker threw his body into a dark figure that stood before him. The impact snapped the bodyguard's head back to his spine, and he collapsed, unconscious.

Nek was screaming, “Stop firing, stop firing, you stupid shits! You'll hit
me!”

The charcoal shapes of the bodyguards turned the barrels of their weapons toward the ceiling, frozen by Nek's orders and also by the knowledge that either Hawker or Dulles was probably armed by now.

“Tom? You okay?” Hawker shouted.

“Fine. I've got this revolver trained on Nek's head. I may just blow this crazy bugfucker all over the wall.”

“Don't do it! Just keep him covered and move back toward me. Okay?”

The lanky form of Tom Dulles backpedaled into Hawker as the vigilante found the door handle, threw it open, then slammed it closed behind them as he pulled the Denver cop out into the hall.

Hawker flicked the safety tang of the Uzi onto full automatic and shot a quick burst through the door.

“That'll hold them a minute or two. Let's get the hell out of here,” he shouted.

They were in the great hall of the house. There was the noise of heavy feet running in all directions, it seemed. Hawker crashed through a side entrance with Dulles right after him.

“What in the hell are we running for? We didn't do anything!”

“I don't want those Germans to get their hands on us,” Hawker yelled back. “Have you ever been worked over by a professional? I don't recommend it. You piss blood for about a week.”

Behind them, one of the doors swung open, and slugs cut through the tree limbs over their heads. Hawker turned and returned fire. “Shit,” Dulles yelled, “if you kill one of those bastards, I'm going to be filling out forms for the next year!”

“I'm just keeping them honest,” said Hawker. “They could have wasted us easily enough back in Nek's library. Nek is nuts. He really wanted to put a round through my brain. But those krauts are too smart. They know you're a cop. They don't want to get into anything too stinky.”

Once again, slugs brought autumn leaves splattering to the ground like confetti. “For not trying to hit us, they're coming damn close!”

“They want to show us they can play rough.” The vigilante turned and emptied the rest of the Uzi into the outside wall of the fortress. “But now they know we can play rough, too.”

They were running through a park of trees and close-cropped grass. Ahead was the black wrought-iron gate. Dulles turned toward it, but Hawker shouted, “Hey, that thing's hot. If you get fried on their fence, they can just say you were trying to do a B & E. We've got to go back out the way we came.”

“That guard was armed!”

“Yeah, but he cares about living and dying. People like that, you don't have much to fear from. He'll move. Skip a couple of rounds off the asphalt into the wall of the guardhouse. He'll get the idea. I'd use the Uzi, but it's empty.”

They were sprinting now along a high copse. The stone guardhouse was less than fifty yards away. More men were behind them, running hard as Dulles snapped off two shots that pinged off the rock wall.

Hawker got a glimpse of the guard's shoes protruding from beneath the desk as he and Dulles flew by. The guard was hiding. And he didn't look up as the vigilante slammed the iron gate behind them.

“I'll drive,” Hawker yelled, skidding to a halt beside Dulles's car. “Keep the revolver handy.”

Hawker twisted the key, mashed the accelerator to the floor, and fought to control the car as they fishtailed onto the road and away from Bill Nek's secluded estate.

Ahead were the bright, blue-white snowy peaks of the Rockies, looming over the Denver skyline. The city made gray and silver concrete stalagmite shapes at the foot of the mountains.

“Holy shit,” Tom Dulles exclaimed, releasing a great breath. “Is your life always this wild?”

“I'm usually home every night with a good book.”

Dulles hooted. “You don't think I believe that shit, do you? Jesus, man, you've got balls made of grade-A granite! I can't believe you just bullshitted your way in to see the great William Nek, the richest man in Denver, and then sat there and told the old fart you would destroy his entire empire if he didn't cooperate. Jesus, did you see his face when you said it? I thought he was going to blow a tube in his brain. What a bluff you made!”

“I wasn't bluffing,” Hawker said quietly. “I meant every word of it.”

Dulles looked dubious. “Look, Hawk, I don't doubt you're damned good at what you do. I mean, I know firsthand how good you can be! But be realistic. How can you destroy Nek's whole empire?”

“Easily,” Hawker replied. “Nek is a business. He's insane, but he's still a business. I can shake him up good on the outside, and I have an associate who's so rich that he could buy and sell Nek. Believe me, my friend could find a way to turn the screws so tight on the so-called Silver King that he would never recover. That's why I wanted to see Nek in person. It's damned serious business. And when you think about it, this whole case is kind of a long-term domestic squabble. Four old friends have a fight fifty years ago. Bad blood continues. One of them—Nek—goes a little crazy. He wants to show his old partners how powerful he's become, so he flexes some muscle.” Hawker shrugged as he steered the car north toward the heart of Denver. “I wanted to give him a chance to drop it. I wanted to give him a chance to poke his hands in his pockets and go shuffling back to the others and ask for their forgiveness. A sane person would have accepted my offer. Don't think for a minute Nek really didn't recognize my name. I saw the look in his eyes. He's heard of me, heard of what my organization is capable of. But he's gone too screwy. And I think he's been screwy for a long time. I'll bet if we had a way of getting inside information, we'd find out that Nek has used kidnapping and murder and God knows what else to intimidate people before. He's got this weird, wild expression in his eyes. I've seen it before. I've seen it in the faces of psychopaths and kinks. That man has some screws loose, mark my words. He is a thoroughly dangerous man.”

“How clever of you to notice,” purred the voice of a stranger from the backseat. Hawker and Dulles both started as the precision
lick-click
of a revolver being cocked echoed in their ears. “Now, Mr. Hawker, if you are done philosophizing, kindly pull this car over to the curb before I am forced to shoot one of your ears off!”

It was the husky, lubricious voice of a woman. He could see a choice rectangle of her face in the mirror: silky platinum hair, rust-colored, auburn eyes, waspish pug nose, delicate cheekbones, lips rouged pink on a mouth that now wore a slightly cruel smile.

He felt the cool barrel of the snub-nosed .38 touch his earlobe.

The vigilante saw a gravel berm, and he pulled over.

“Now,” said the woman easily, “I want Mr. Policeman to get out of the car.”

“What?” Dulles's head pivoted to look at the woman. He smiled slightly when he saw how beautiful she was, but the smile vanished from his face when she leveled the revolver at his nose.

“Did I say you could turn around, Mr. Policeman?”

“Look, lady—”

“Nor did I give you permission to talk!” With his peripheral vision, Hawker saw her nudge Dulles's head with the revolver. “What I told you to do was to get out of the car. That's exactly what I expect you to do.”

Dulles shook his head. “Lady, you are making one hell of a mistake. I don't know who you are or why you're doing this, but I swear to you—”

“And I swear to you, Mr. Policeman, that I will shoot you in an exceedingly uncomfortable spot if you do not obey me this instant!”

“You crazy broad—”

“Go ahead, Tom,” Hawker interrupted firmly. “Take a walk. I'll try to make it back to the hotel by tonight—”

“No more talking!”

Tom Dulles reluctantly got out of the car and slammed the door. The vigilante saw the quick, studious look he gave the woman. Hawker knew the Denver cop was trying to memorize every detail of her face, eyes, and hair for future reference.

Hawker hoped Dulles would not have to use the information to try to pin a murder rap on her—his murder.

“Drive,” commanded the woman.

“Drive where?”

“Just keep going straight until I tell you otherwise.”

Hawker put the car in gear and began to drive. Behind them, Dulles grew smaller, then disappeared, still trudging along on foot.

Hawker could see the woman better in the rear-view mirror now that she had settled comfortably into the backseat. Her fashion-model face fulfilled the promise of startling beauty that his first quick look had given him. Her platinum hair fell like spun glass over her down vest and black ski sweater. She had the flavor of money about her. It was more than just the diamond earrings and the expensive gold watch that flashed in the mirror from time to time as she waved the revolver to illustrate directions. It was her presumptuous attitude of control. She was used to giving orders. She was used to getting her way. That she had taken him at gunpoint seemed not to disturb her in the least. It was almost as if they were going for a Sunday ride, or as if Hawker were a chauffeur. How old was she? Maybe twenty-two, maybe much older—it was hard to tell in the forgiving light of the car's interior. Who the hell was she?

“Turn left at the next corner,” she called. “Keep going until you see Meeker Boulevard. Then turn right. Go about three miles. That'll take us to Interstate 70. Get on the westbound ramp and take us out of Denver.”

Hawker looked in the mirror. “You're not taking me back to Nek so his goons can work me over?”

“What a ridiculous thing to say. Why would I take you back to my husband?”

“Husband?”

The woman gave a slow, sardonic laugh. “For once, I see surprise on the face of the great James Hawker. Such a cold, cold face you have, Mr. Hawker. But it's a strange kind of coldness. It's like—like cold fire.” She seemed pleased by the description, and her voice began to purr. “Yes, that's it. Cold fire. But a rather handsome face in a brutal sort of way, with your autumn-colored hair and that crooked nose. I've heard a bit about you, Mr. Hawker. Oh, yes, quite a lot, really. Actually, I've read about you. My husband has been very worried that you would be coming. He's suspected for weeks. He had some of his people draft a report on you. Quite a report it was, too!”

“Mrs. Nek,” Hawker said, “if you don't mind my asking, why are you doing this?”

“I'm getting to that, Mr. Hawker. Please don't be so impatient. We have quite a long ride ahead of us. I assure you, you will have all your questions answered if you cooperate with me. Actually, I was just getting to one of the important points. The report on you. I read it, or read most of it, anyway. I must admit to having been fascinated by what I read. Such an interesting man you are, Mr. Hawker. World traveler, world criminal, world playboy, world rogue. It seems everyone loves you and fears you at the same time. And what a record with the ladies!” She made a ticking sound with her tongue. “Yes, my husband's people always draft very thorough reports. I knew immediately that I had to meet you. There was no doubt in my mind that you were the man I needed to help me.”

“Help you?” said Hawker. “Your husband just tried to kill me fifteen minutes ago. His men are still after me. If your husband knew we were together, he'd probably have us both tortured.”

“Of course he would,” the woman said. “Why else would I have gone to such extraordinary lengths to meet you? Several days ago I made arrangements with old Blake, our gatekeeper. I instructed him to notify me if you happened to arrive. I also told him that under no circumstances were you to drive in on your own. Your car was to be left outside the estate. Blake followed my orders perfectly, and I sequestered myself on the floor of your backseat, revolver in hand.”

“But why, for Christ's sake?” Hawker exclaimed. “You're making absolutely no sense—”

“Because I had to talk to you,” the woman snapped. “I had to get you alone, and I knew there was no other way for me to do it. I need you, James Hawker, and I couldn't let my husband know how much. I need you because you're the one man who can help me kill the son of a bitch.”

“What?”

“That's right, I want the bastard dead. I heard you talking to your policeman friend. And you were correct in everything you said about William Nek. He is a psychopath. He is a bug. He's a kidnapper and murderer and much, much more—”

“And you married him,” Hawker said, his voice rising over the shaking hatred of the woman's.

“That's right! I married him! But if you think I'm going to tell you why, or if you think I'm going to try to justify my reasons, you're wrong as hell,” she retorted. “I don't need a confidant. I need a man. I need someone fast and tough and experienced in—this kind of thing.” She leaned forward in her seat. “Don't worry, I'll pay you well. Money's one thing we'll never have to argue about. Never will you get so much for doing so little. Upon the successful completion of my husband's assassination, I will hand to you personally one hundred thousand dollars in cash. Along with the money I will also give you a key and a signed, notarized authorization to take the contents of a safety deposit box at the Candadian Bank on Grand Cayman Island. In the safety deposit box you will find nine bricks of ninety-four percent pure gold. The bricks each weigh five pounds. At today's prices, those bricks would be worth over a quarter of a million dollars.”

“If you read my dossier, you know that I already have plenty of money. More money than I could ever use.”

“A person can always use more money, Mr. Hawker. Always.”

“And you could drive down into the slums of Denver and hire someone to do it for five hundred bucks. Why offer me over three hundred thousand?”