Terror in D.C. (2 page)

“I will not forget, Karaj.” Mosul smiled. “But this day, let us not think of wounds. Let us rejoice! The cowardly American pig and his little piglet son are dead, and the American newspapers and television stations will again remind the world of our great cause. But before we celebrate, brothers, we have things to do. Zanjen, it is your turn to telephone
The Washington Post
with news of our victory. Remember—tell them only what I have told you to say. Do not give them time to trace the call, for they surely will try. Karaj, you must call Isfahan at the embassy. Isfahan, our honored leader, will be very happy. Be careful, though! Speak only of the kindness of our professors. That is the code for a successful mission. Now more than ever, we must be careful. Our necks are not the only ones on the block!”

“And what will you do, Mosul?”

“I have an eight o'clock appointment at the student loan office.”

“But why?”

Mosul Aski, tall, slim, with a black mustache and a dark Mediterranean face, grinned with sarcasm. “If we are to retain our diplomatic scholarships for next year, there are forms that must be completed! Have you forgotten that it is the great and generous United States that pays for our education? Where is your gratitude, brothers!”

two

James Hawker swung shut the cylinder of his Colt .44-caliber stainless-steel revolver and stepped out into the street. It was a dirt street with a row of dingy houses on one side and a field of rank weed and junk on the other side.

To his right a door creaked open. Hawker raised the weapon in both hands, but stopped himself just as an old woman walked from a house carrying a shopping bag.

As Hawker lowered his revolver two men swung out from behind a clump of bushes. The guns in their hands looked like Lugers, only longer, less metallic, more space-aged. Hawker dove for his life and rolled hard as laser beams sizzled into the ground behind him.

He came up on one knee and fired twice, carefully. The skull of the first man exploded into small shards. The chest of his companion became a gaping black hole.

Once he was sure they were legitimate kills, Hawker got to his feet and continued down the street.

Overhead, through the camouflage mesh that covered the area, a half-dozen 747s banked like vultures as they waited their turn to land at Washington's International Airport. From the far distance the sound of heavy traffic could be heard. The vigilante noticed neither the planes nor the traffic. His concentration was total.

Despite the cool wind that blew off the Potomac, Hawker wore only a thin black cotton crew-neck sweater, jeans, New Balance running shoes, and aluminum-tinted glasses. The wind mussed his short reddish-brown hair, but he did not feel the cold. He had come to this killing ground to prove himself, and nothing could draw his attention away from the job he had to do.

Ahead and to the left was a tanker truck. The fuel tank was made of stainless steel and brightly labeled
DANGER! EXTREMELY FLAMMABLE!
The truck was parked on a steep grade at the curb next to a building with a sign that read
FORT STANTON PRESCHOOL AND NURSERY
.

From within the building Hawker could hear the clear voices of children singing.

It presented an interesting problem. He suspected there were one or more of his adversaries waiting for him behind the truck. They could fire at him safely, but if he returned their fire he might ignite the tanker and take the lives of a hundred innocent children with him—and that was unthinkable. If it came to that, he would have to take the laser beams in the chest and be done with it.

Was there some way he could lure them safely away from the tanker? No, not these guys. Not a chance. He might as well try to get the moon to leave its orbit.

There might be one other safe way to do it.…

Hawker moved toward the cover of the brush across the street. Then, without warning, he turned and sprinted toward the tanker truck. He caught a glimpse of two figures swinging out to meet him as his left foot touched the truck's steps and he dove through the open window into the cab. Even before he pulled his legs in behind him, Hawker released the emergency brake and knocked the gearshift into neutral. The hill was steep enough, and the truck began to roll.

Now sitting at the wheel, the vigilante let the truck coast for more than a block. Not trusting the air brakes without the engine running, he double-clutched and shifted into low to bring the huge rig to a stop. Before it stopped completely, though, he swung the door open and hit the street on the run. As he suspected, his adversaries had clung to the truck and made the ride with him. Hawker swung the Colt up in a two-handed grip. If he hit the tank now, no one would be killed but the killers—and maybe himself. He sighted carefully down the Jensen illuminated bead sights and squeezed the trigger twice.

The cannonlike impact of the .44 magnum severed the arm off one man, and tumbled the second man onto the ground.

Hawker snapped open the cylinder, ejected the four empties, reloaded, and trotted off down the street.

The next man waiting to kill him stood in an open third-floor window. Hawker glimpsed him from the corner of his eye, swung too quickly, and fired. Shots of unfamiliar elevation are always the toughest to make, and Hawker's clipped the man's shoulder. It would have knocked most men to the ground, but not this one. The laser gun beaded in on Hawker's heart as the vigilante hurried two more shots.

These did not miss.

The man tumbled from the window soundlessly.

Reloading on the run, Hawker was not prepared for what happened next. A block beyond the preschool, there was a strange
whuff
sound, followed by a deafening explosion, and just a few yards ahead of him where the smoke bomb landed, an acidic purple haze filled the air.

Immediately, Hawker dropped to his belly, gun poised. Coming at him through the fog were three tall figures. Hawker fought the urge to fire blindly, forcing himself to wait until he could make definite identification.

He was glad he did.

The first two were women dressed in white smocks, carrying black bags: doctors. Behind them, though, was a man with a gun held at their heads. The women were being held hostage. As Hawker knew, better than most, in any hostage situation the loss of one life usually motivates kidnappers to fire more freely.

In this operation blood had already been spilled.

Trying to use the purple fog to his advantage, Hawker lay motionless until the last possible moment. The women doctors stood not quite shoulder to shoulder. The man stood between them.

There was plenty of room for a safe shot, and Hawker took it, taking slow, careful aim.

The killer's head exploded from his shoulders as the two doctors dropped to the ground.

The vigilante stood and looked at the two women. “You could at least say thanks,” he said wryly.

The women lay motionless, saying nothing.

Hawker moved on.

His objective was the brick house at the end of the street. There, he would be safe.

But he still had a long fifty yards to go.

Hawker walked quickly, then began to trot. He was anxious to get this battle over with, and the only way to do it was to force the opposition into the open. To kill him, they had to show themselves.

It didn't take long for them to appear.

A lone gunman swung to meet him from behind a high white fence. The vigilante's hurried shot was low, just above the groin. But with a Colt .44, any placement in the trunk area is a man-stopper.

The figure collapsed on the ground.

He had only twenty yards to go now. Did he really have a chance of making it? Maybe. But he couldn't allow himself to think about it. Any lapse of attention in this business could mean death.

Hawker continued to jog, head swiveling, gun ready.

Then the brick house was only ten yards away, then five … and then he knew he would make it. But just as he was about to step onto the porch of the brick house, three big men jumped up from behind the white fence at once. Hawker caught his breath in surprise while the big Colt began to blaze in his hands.

Hawker took the man in the middle first, dove and rolled, then cut down the man closest to him, then the man on the far left.

The sudden silence was eerie. They were dead. All of them, dead.

Hawker got to his feet breathing heavily. How many rounds had he used? Four, maybe five? He had at least one left, but it didn't matter. He had made it.

He swung open the gate to the brick house and stepped up onto the porch. Just as he was about to reach for the doorknob, the door slammed open. Hawker drew up the Colt, but stopped just in time.

It was another woman carrying a bag of groceries.

“Don't the ladies in this town have anything better to do than shop?” Hawker smiled as he moved to step by her.

As he did, the woman dropped the grocery bag. Hawker watched in disbelief as a gun materialized in her hand far too quickly for him to react.

The woman shot him once, in the left side of the chest.

James Hawker backpedaled into the railing and somersaulted backward into the street, thinking of nothing but the terrible pain in his heart.…

three

“You're dead, Hawker. Too bad. So tell me, is there really a heaven? Or just a hell?”

James Hawker opened his eyes slowly. Looming above him was a tall, lanky man with thin blond hair and a craggy, Wisconsin smile. He wore a black tie, a baggy gray suit, and a white shirt.

The vigilante got slowly to his Feet, his breath whistling through his teeth at the electric pain that still Ping-Ponged between his brain and his toes.

“Jesus Christ, Rehfuss.” He grimaced. “You told me getting shot by one of those laser beams hurt, but you didn't say it was like getting hit by a flame thrower.”

Lester Rehfuss, department director of the Central Intelligence Agency's Small Arms Training Division, added a patronizing flair as he brushed the dust from Hawker's sweater. “I told you we'd made it as close to an actual firefight situation as possible, and that means a man has to pay dearly for any mistakes he makes. Let's face it, Hawker, you made a mistake. Never trust old ladies with shopping bags.”

Hawker ripped the aluminum-tinted goggles from his face in disgust. The goggles protected his eyes from the low-intensity laser beams the computer-controlled mannequins fired. “Damn it,” he said, “I almost made it.”

The smile left the CIA man's face.
“Almost
made it? Is that supposed to impress me? The last time the CIA
almost
made it, we got our asses chewed good for printing a little manual in Spanish that had the audacity to tell Nicaraguan rebels how to eliminate the Commie goons who have taken over their country. You still don't get it, do you, Hawker? In this business, we can't afford even the tiniest mistake. ‘Almost' isn't good enough—not because of what our enemies will do, but because of how our own news media will tear us to bits. Every time we screw up, the Dan Rathers and the Barbara Walters scream and whine and condemn until the Congress is forced to pull our leash just a little tighter. And if it gets much tighter, friend, we might as well trade our badges in for Boy Scout manuals.”

Hawker held his chest and rolled his head experimentally. “I don't doubt it, Lester, but I'm in no mood for lectures. Besides, I'm out of the picture now. You people invited me in to give me a … what did you call it? Yeah, a screen test. Well, I just blew the screen test. So, if you don't mind, I'll just turn in my temporary security pass and head on back to my hotel. I think maybe soaking in a hot tub for three or four hours may make me feel well enough to get on a plane back to Florida.”

“Just like that? What about the people who pulled so many strings to get you this far?”

“You said it was a pass-or-fail test.”

“That's right.”

“And one of your motorized hit ladies has just turned me into a statistic. A clean kill if I ever saw one.”

“Nice back somersault you did too. Were you ever a gymnast?”

“Just full of jokes, aren't you?” Hawker began to dust off his jeans, then stopped suddenly. “Hey, wait a minute—why are you stalling? You don't have to kill me now, do you? I mean, I came in here to your secret training installation and you showed me around, but now I've messed up the routine by failing your little test. What do you people do with outsiders who've seen too much?”

“Aside from poke their eyes out with hot sticks, you mean?”

“Come on, Lester, it's a legitimate question.”

“Then I'll give you a legitimate answer—but let's wait until after your evaluation.”

Hawker looked at him with suspicion. “Why is it this is the first I've heard of any kind of evaluation?”

Lester Rehfuss smiled. “Don't you read the papers? It's because the CIA is just plain sneaky.”

Hawker shrugged and picked up the Colt .44, which lay several yards away where it had landed in the dirt. He clicked open the cylinder and began to eject the live round before he stopped and smiled wryly at Rehfuss. “Maybe I shouldn't unload this thing?”

“Do what you want, James. But slapping a loaded revolver down on the table isn't going to make the man chairing your evaluation look any more kindly on you.”

“Oh? And who's that?”

The smile faded from Rehfuss's face. “Admiral Percival, my boss.”

“Admiral?”

“Unless you're one of the two or three people in this whole world he actually likes, then he's
Max
Percival. But you don't have to worry about that, James. The admiral isn't going to like you. He isn't going to like you one little bit.…”

Hawker followed Lester Rehfuss back down the dirt street, past the movie-set house facades and past the empty tanker truck. Children's voices no longer floated from the nursery school—the reel-to-reel tape inside had been switched off. Up and down the street, CIA technicians were already busy replacing the plastic heads and trunks of the mannequins Hawker had “killed.” The mannequins were fixed on steel tracks for mobility, and thick black cables ran from their laser guns to an unseen source of power.