Vegas Vengeance (14 page)

Then Hawker knew. He had seen him earlier. Just after the lights came back on. It was the man who had shouted out orders in Arabic. It was the man they called Hamadan.

Hawker couldn't resist the opportunity.

He put the grenade away and crawled to the cottage. He stood and stole a look through the window. It was, indeed, Hamadan. He sat in a chair, with his feet on an ottoman. There was a drink on the table beside him, and there were papers and charts in his lap.

Hawker had seen his silhouette when he'd gotten up to get the drink.

The vigilante went to the door and tapped twice.

Hamadan called out something in Arabic.

Hawker tapped again.

The moment the door opened, Hawker jammed the barrel of the Smith & Wesson .44 into the Iraqi's face and forced his way in. He closed the door quietly behind.

“What do you think you are doing!” Hamadan blurted, instantly regretting that he had spoken in English.

Hawker smiled. “That's just what I wanted to hear, Hamadan. I need some answers, and I had a feeling you were the man who could give them to me. I came here to look for a friend of mine. A guy named Jason Stratton.”

“Stratton? I know no one named Stratton. Now please, let go of my hair and take that gun from my face—”

Hawker pulled back the hammer of the Smith & Wesson. “I know too much for you to lie to me, Hamadan. Remember that. Because the next time you lie, I'm going to pull this trigger. No more warnings, no more second chances. Just bang, and you're bound for a closed casket funeral.” Hawker yanked the man's head roughly. “Now talk!”

Hamadan had the olive complexion and carefully tended mustache common among his countrymen. But the whimper that escaped his lips suggested he lacked the zealot's courage. “Yes, yes, maybe I do remember that name,” he said quickly. “A man named Stratton brought some minerals to us for testing. He said he lacked the proper equipment.”

“He brought some samples of pitchblende, right?”

Hamadan's eyes grew more worried. The American obviously did know at least part of the story. “Yes,” he said. “It was pitchblende. Mr. Stratton was very excited. He had found several samples in sedimentary clastic deposits in an ancient riverbed near Las Vegas. But he was uncertain if the pitchblende was of the uranite variety.”

“And it was?”

Hamadan hesitated. “Yes. Yes, it was.”

“Now,” Hawker coached, “tell me why Stratton would find that so exciting. What's so special about the uranite variety of pitchblende?”

“I think you already know. So why is it you ask me—”

“Talk, damnit!” Hawker demanded in a hoarse whisper.

“Uranium. Uranium is processed from the uranite variety of pitchblende. To find a reliable source of pitchblende is a discovery greater than a gold mine, for it is far more valuable. Mr. Stratton was quite certain he had found such a source.”

“And he showed you the source?”

Once again, the Iraqi hesitated. His eyes searched James Hawker's face to see if he might attempt a lie. It didn't take him long to decide. “Yes, Stratton took me there. A shallow valley where they had built a gambling complex and a house of prostitution. I thought it rather funny that the Americans had built their businesses on property that could produce more money for them in a month than their gambling casinos could produce in two years. My … my country, as you may know, is absolutely desperate for a reliable source of pitchblende. It is for that reason we founded this mining operation—to look for such a source. We have looked with only minor success for the entire five years of our existence. And then to have a stranger walk in from nowhere with a truly spectacular find—”

“So you murdered him. You murdered Jason Stratton and then tried to force the owners of the Five-Cs complex to sell. You hired American killers to do your dirty work so you would not be connected in any way.”

The Iraqi dropped to his knees, his hands clasped as if in prayer. “You must understand that it was his life against the lives of thousands! Millions, even! My country has the same right to nuclear capabilities as the major powers! Allah has instructed our supreme leader in these matters. We must take our rightful place in this world; we must fulfill our destiny! But Stratton would not listen. He did not believe in us or trust us—”

“I wouldn't trust you goat suckers with a firecracker,” Hawker snapped. A cold fury had built in him as he listened to the Iraqi beg. He backhanded Hamadan across the face, a blow that sent the Iraqi sliding across the floor with such velocity that he knocked the nightstand over. The telephone fell on top of him, and the Iraqi's eyes widened in slow realization. There were two red buttons on the phone, and the Iraqi punched both of them rapidly.

Outside, Hawker heard the wild wail of a siren. Hamadan had hit some kind of emergency alarm. Hawker turned to the front door and peered out the window. Soldiers were pouring out of the dormitories, dressing themselves as they ran. They were collecting around a small Israeli-built JL-14 armored riot car. The riot car had a fifty-caliber machine gun mounted on a turret, and the machine gun vectored toward Hamadan's quarters as the driver started the engine.

A noise behind him brought Hawker's head swinging around. Hamadan was on his feet. Somewhere he had found a gun. A tiny automatic. Found it in the drawer of the overturned table, perhaps.

The automatic popped loudly, and Hawker felt a dull stinging sensation in his left shoulder. He raised the Smith & Wesson .44 magnum and squeezed the trigger in rapid fire.

The Iraqi's face sprayed flesh as the right side of his head disappeared, the impact tumbling him backward onto the bed.

“Bad choice of weapons, asshole,” Hawker hissed at the corpse.

Outside, they had heard the shots.

The roar of the armor-plated riot car was growing near.

Favoring his left side, Hawker unstrapped the M-72 free-flight missile launcher. He snapped off the protective caps at either end, then pulled out the inner tube and locked it into position. He flipped up the plastic reticle sights before sliding in the two-pound HEAT missile with its M-18 warhead.

When he was ready, Hawker kicked open the door and stood ready to take the Iraqis with him into the dark and bottomless abyss of death.

eighteen

Hawker pressed the trigger button.

There was a microsecond delay, then the HEAT missile
whooshed
in a serpentine trail of flame toward the armored riot car.

Fifteen or twenty Iraqi soldiers marched in disorder behind the small tank. They didn't even have time to react.

Traveling at 145 meters a second, the rocket blew the riot car high into the air through sheer impact. The explosion was deafening: a gas ball of orange flame ballooned into the darkness, illuminating the grisly spectacle of dead or dying soldiers on the ground.

Hawker dropped the disposable launcher on the floor, picked up the Colt Commando and sprinted outside.

The entire left side of his body ached now, and his black cotton sweater was soaked with blood. But there was no time to stop and take inventory. He knew the chaos wouldn't last long. If he was to escape, this was the time. And if he couldn't—then he would hit the electronic detonator in his pocket and take most of “Iraqi” Mining and Assay with him.

Forgetting that he shouldn't head straight for the hidden Jaguar, Hawker ran toward the section of fence where he had entered. In the knapsack was a TH3 incendiary grenade with which he planned to blow open the electrified fence.

But as he ran, the guards in the towers spotted him and opened up with their fifty-caliber machine guns. Dirt plumed up in front of him. Hawker skidded to a halt and dove behind an aluminum toolshed.

The fifty-caliber slugs tore through it as easily as if it were a beer can.

Hawker got to his feet and sprinted into the darkness. As he neared Hamadan's cottage, three soldiers jumped out in front of him. Holding the Colt Commando in one hand, Hawker pressed the trigger on full automatic. The soldiers crumpled and were catapulted into the air.

Behind him, the guards again opened up with their fifty-calibers. Hawker dove behind the hut just as the slugs began stripping off the aluminum siding. The vigilante took a moment to punch out the spent clip and slide a fresh one into the Commando. As he did, he drew out the incendiary grenade and forced it into his left hand—which now served as little more than a claw.

Ahead of him were the three railroad cars. They were open-bed cars, built to haul ore. Hawker took a deep breath, then ran just as hard as he could toward them. The fifty-caliber slugs clanked off the steel bed in front of him as his left foot found the switchman's bullard on the side of the car and he threw himself up into the empty car.

Hawker landed harder than he'd expected. It sent a nauseating wave of pain through his left shoulder.

Outside, he could hear voices shouting and heavy footsteps as the soldiers descended on his position.

From the towers, guards sprayed the railroad car so that Hawker could not stand and return fire. The heavy slugs made a deafening clatter as they ricocheted off the thick metal of the car.

It was then James Hawker realized there was no escape for him. This would be his tomb: a ruststained coffin built to haul earth, not flesh.

But he wasn't about to go without taking a few more with him.

Groggily Hawker sat up. The guards were closer now. He could hear their excited Arabic just outside as they decided who would be the first to risk climbing onto the car.

Hawker reached into his pocket and pulled out the electronic detonator. It was the size of a pocket computer, but with a telescoping antenna and two toggle switches.

Then he took the TH3 incendiary grenade from his left hand, pulled the pin with his teeth and lobbed the canister over the wall of the railroad car.

The grenade, armed with 750 grams of thermate, exploded with a searing flash of streaming white smoke rays. The thermate burned at more than two thousand degrees centigrade, and Hawker could feel the withering heat through the steel walls. The screams were hideous—but gratifying.

The grenade had bought him time.

Hawker pulled himself to his feet. The pain was agonizing, but he managed to point the detonator's antenna over the side of the railroad car, then flip both toggle switches.

It was like the end of the world.

The explosion of the chemical tanks threw a brilliant volcanic plume a thousand feet into the air as the ore processing plant and the laboratory thumped and screamed with scarlet flames in a series of smaller explosions.

The railroad car shook violently as if in an earthquake. Weak as he was, the earth's rumbling knocked Hawker off his feet, and he fell heavily on his back.

And still the railroad car vibrated and shook.

It took Hawker a long moment to realize that the car continued to shake because it was moving. Knocked free by the explosion, the car was rolling down the grade, picking up momentum. There was a grinding crash as it burst through the chain link fence. Hawker felt a slight shock. On generator power, apparently, the fence was no longer lethal. The car continued to roll, gaining speed.

Hawker settled back, too weary even to stand and see what lay ahead—or what followed.

He concentrated only on breathing deeply, gathering his remaining strength. Overhead, he could see tree limbs flashing past. They were dark and reassuring beneath the blaze of Nevada stars.

Even though it was really only five or six minutes, it seemed as if he traveled for a long time. Soon the car began to slow; then it stopped, then rolled backward for a short distance.

Hawker forced himself to get to his feet. He peered over the walls of the ore car. The railroad track was a shadowy path, empty in the distance.

The Iraqis had not followed.

Not yet, anyway.

Climbing out was not easy. Hawker got one leg over the edge but lost his balance when his right hand slipped and gave way. He fell in a heap onto the rocky base of the railroad bed.

He knew that inevitably the Iraqis would come for him.

He knew he had to move, had to use his precious last reserve of strength to get away.

So he crawled.

He crawled on his hands and knees into the mountain woods; crawled through the cool brush and the scent of earth musk, over rocks and stumps; crawled for a very long way until he could crawl no more.

Then he collapsed beneath a rock ledge, curled up in a fetal position, the Smith & Wesson .44 clasped in his right hand.

Hawker awoke just before sunrise. A pearly fog had settled on the mountainside, so it took him a moment to realize that a person stood over him, watching him.

He brought the .44 up to fire. But the revolver was gone. Someone had taken it.

He struggled to get to his feet, but his left arm refused to move.

Then the figure drew closer and touched his face gently. It was a woman. She wore a shirt and baggy jeans in the chilly morning air, and her blond hair hung down over her shoulders.

“James, James,” she said softly, “you'll be all right now. You're badly hurt, but you're going to live.”

It seemed as if the words were coming to him down a long tunnel, and it took what seemed a long time to place the voice.

It was the free spirit from Spring Mountain.

“Wendy?” Hawker croaked in a voice that did not sound like his own. “But how in the hell did you find me? How did you know where to look?”

She kissed him tenderly on the hand. “You called for me, James. All night, you called. I heard you in my dreams.”

nineteen

Three weeks later, James Hawker returned to Las Vegas for the first time since his assault on the Iraqis.

Wendy Nierson and the rest of the Spring Mountain Family had nursed him back to health. They had reacted happily to his demand that they not take him to a hospital or notify the police.

The Spring Mountain Family had little respect for either.