Houston Attack Page 2

  Hawker locked his arms around the man’s heavy waist and tried to trip him to the deck. The man launched an elbow at Hawker’s head, and as the vigilante ducked away, the sudden shift in momentum sent them both crashing against the double doors of the trailer.

  There was a tremendous impact, and Hawker was aware of the doors opening and then of being airborne, flying through the night.

  With a searing jolt he hit the asphalt highway, and then he was rolling through gravel. James Hawker got shakily but quickly to his feet, ready to continue the fight with the Mexican.

  But the huge shape in the middle of the road did not stir. The Mexican was knocked out cold by the fall or dead.

  Hawker hoped that he was dead.

  Experimentally Hawker moved both his arms and then his legs. Nothing seemed to be broken.

  They had been carried about three hundred yards from the bar, and Hawker was aware of men running toward him. There was the muted flash and cough of gunfire and the nearby whiz of lead slugs scraping the highway.

  They were shooting at him.

  North on the desert highway, the semi-tractor-trailer’s lights were bright, taunting eyes as the truck sped its slaves toward Texas.

  Hawker’s words to the girl haunted him: “You’ll be safe with me. I promise you that.”

  Right.

  Somehow he had to find her. Somehow he had to save her from the living hell that awaited her and the others.

  As the men running toward him grew nearer Hawker threw back the serape and unstrapped the brutal-looking little Ingram submachine gun.

  He couldn’t allow himself to think about the girl now. Before he could save her, first he had to survive.…

  two

  As James Hawker waited on the tarmac, waited in the balmy Mexican night for his attackers to fall within range of the Ingram, he thought, It can’t end here. I’ve worked too hard tracking these bastards down, worked too many lonely weeks to see them slip through my fingers. Plus, there’s now the girl to consider … if she lives.…

  It had been his most unusual assignment to date.

  And one of his toughest.

  He had spent a long winter in Chicago doing a dangerously good imitation of the sterotypical suburban male. He had allowed himself to be sucked into the cozy trap that cold weather so easily sets: It’s ten below outside, so let’s just skip the run and calisthenics today … and tomorrow … and next week. There’s a hell of a blizzard blowing in, so why not curl up on the couch and watch a little television. With a beer, maybe … and a couple of sandwiches now that you’re in the kitchen … and maybe a piece of pie, too, because you don’t want to hurt the landlady’s feelings.

  It had gone on and on like that, through January and February, and then into the long, gray sopping month of March.

  And he deserved it, didn’t he?

  He’d put his damn neck on the line too many times during the last assignment: that run-in with the Nazis of New York and their crazy plan to rebuild the Third Reich.

  And he’d damn near lost one of his best friends to boot: Jacob Montgomery Hayes.

  It had been Hayes’s idea to put Hawker’s unique cop skills to work in a nation that was quickly being destroyed by crooks and killers and con artists who no longer feared—or needed to fear—the American court system.

  It had been Hayes’s idea to seek out selected areas of the nation where innocent people were being bullied and then send in Hawker to help them fight back.

  Hayes, one of the richest men in the world, would provide whatever financial backing was needed.

  Hawker would provide the experience, the muscle, and the street sense.

  And it had gone well. Almost too well. None of the missions had been easy, but they had all been successful … until they ran into the Nazis of New York.

  It was the first mission in which Hayes had gotten personally involved. And it had almost cost him his life. Hawker and the inimitable butler, Hendricks, had spent long nights by Hayes’s bedside, waiting while he hung by a thread between life and death.

  But finally the tough old Texas billionaire started to come around. Started to respond to the nursing and the around-the-clock doctors’ care. Started to draw on the innate subbornness that had driven him from the poverty of his south Texas youth to the top of the business ladder and far, far beyond.

  Hayes began to heal, and then he began to get crotchety, souring in bed. And when they finally let him get up, his old good humor began to return, and then he began reading his esoteric books on Zen and began tying his beloved trout flies, and finally Jacob was his old, sweet, imposing self.

  And that’s when winter set in and Hawker used the weather as an excuse to go on his extended vacation.

  After a month of too much rest and too much food, he made a couple of halfhearted efforts to get back into shape. Each effort started with a muscle-wearying flurry, then ground to a slow halt.

  After about the fourth failed attempt, Hawker began to get scared.

  He knew all about the sweet trap of middle age: eat when you feel like it; drink all you want; and someday, when the time is right, get back into shape because there’s always time.…

  Someday. But Hawker had too many old friends who lived for “someday.” They were overweight and out of shape, and because they took little pride in their own physical well-being, they took little pride in their lives. To wait for “someday” Hawker knew was to settle for that slow decline that led only to the coffin.

  And James Hawker had no desire to die of old age.

  So, on a bleak March morning, he put himself back on the old routine. No excuses. No whining. And damn the wind, snow, and rain.

  He started slowly, feeling the fat bounce on his sides during the morning run, feeling the deteriorated muscles burning during the hour of calisthenics. Feeling the shame of the slowed reflexes during the brutal sparring sessions at the old Bridgeport gym.

  But he stuck with it. And by April he was beginning to feel he was approaching that nicety of speed, litheness, and endurance that meant he was in top shape.

  It was after one of these morning workouts in late April that Hawker returned to his second-floor apartment in the Irish section of Chicago to find he had a visitor.

  He knew who it was before he even went inside.

  The beige Mercedes 450-SL outside told him who it was: Andrea Marie Flischmann, his ex-wife.

  Ex-wife but still an old friend.

  He’d known her since junior high school. Andrea with the silken hair, olive skin, and the fashion-model face. Andrea with the burning brown eyes that seemed to see to the very core of Hawker.

  They had been opposites in every way. Hawker was the Irish jock, the tough red-haired kid who preferred to hang around with the guys. Andrea was the Jewish-American princess who excelled at academics and dabbled in art and politics.

  Their marriage had been a bad risk. But for a sweet year it seemed they had it all. During the day they each followed their chosen occupations. Andrea was an art teacher at an exclusive private school; Hawker, a Chicago cop. At night they met on a field of mutual interest and affection: the bed.

  In bed nothing else mattered. In bed Andrea was transformed from a prim, sarcastic intellectual into a wanton lioness.

  But then the hours Hawker put in as a cop began to get to her. And the danger he faced. And the pressure of the near misses and close calls. As she put it, “I love being the wife of James Hawker, but I despise being the wife of a cop.”

  As the pressure built, the marriage began to wobble and stagger like an injured animal. Finally it collapsed.

  They divorced amicably, still a little bit in love.

  So when Hawker returned from his workout to see her sleek Mercedes outside, he was surprised but not shocked.

  Toweling his face off, he trotted up the stairs and swung open the door of his apartment.

  She stood by the window, looking out toward the gray haze of the Chicago skyline. She wore designer jeans and a
green sweater over a pale green blouse. She was tall, and her dark hair was cut short and boyish. She was one of those rare women who seemed to become more beautiful as she aged. And though she would never have admitted it, her great beauty and searing wit were prime factors in the tremendous success of her exclusive art and antique shop, Reflections Gallery, in downtown Chicago.

  Thus the new Mercedes. And a penthouse apartment. And a snobby group of jet set friends.

  “Out slumming?” Hawker kidded as he came into the room. He tossed the towel onto the couch and began to remove his Nikes. It had been almost three months since he had last seen her. And, as always since the divorce, the beauty of her produced a sharp stab of regret in him.

  She turned from the window, hands in pockets. “I’ve got an artist who wants a middle-aged jock for a model. Interested?”

  There was a hollowness in the joke and an emptiness in her voice that Hawker caught immediately.

  He walked toward her. “What’s wrong, Andrea?”

  She tried to force a smile, but then her face went slack, contorted, and suddenly she was in his arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

  All she could do was repeat over and over, “Oh, James, they’ve murdered him, they’ve murdered him, they’ve killed my dear little brother.…”

  three

  It took Hawker a careful two hours of nursing and consoling to get the whole story out of her.

  He held her in his arms until the bawling slowed to long sobs and shudders. Finally she turned gently away from him, rubbing a fist at her eyes, her mourning spent.

  “You need someone to talk to?” Hawker asked softly.

  “Yes. Yes, I do.” She turned and looked up at him, her dark eyes glistening. “It’s … funny, but when I first heard the news, you’re the one I wanted most to see. You’re the shoulder I wanted to lean on.”

  Hawker held her face in both hands and kissed her tenderly on the lips. “Both shoulders open. No waiting.”

  He sat her on the couch with a stiff Scotch and soda while he set the fireplace and lighted it. When the fire was crackling, he steamed himself clean in the shower and dressed himself in soft jeans, T-shirt, and an oiled wool sweater.

  By the time he returned, she had gotten control of herself. And she was ready for another drink. While getting ice, he decided a month and a half of strict abstinence was enough. He indulged in a cold Tuborg.

  Beer had never tasted better.

  They made small talk. Hawker knew he had to let her work into it her own way.

  Finally she did.

  Her youngest brother’s name was Jonathan. Hawker had seen him at a few family functions: a tall, gangly young man; jet-black hair worn longish; horn-rimmed glasses; an endearing air of innocence; and a fierce sense of indignation.

  But Hawker knew him better by reputation. Jonathan had gone the Ivy League route. B.A. at Yale. Harvard Law School. Ninth in his class. He had returned to Chicago and worked for the D.A.’s office.

  There he became known for his high moral values, his intense hatred of injustice, and the zeal with which he crusaded.

  There was talk around town that he had a shot at becoming the youngest District Attorney in Chicago’s long and sullied history. He knew all the right people, had all the right connections. But more importantly he was as tough as he was good. Apparently his talent and popularity were too much for the current D.A.’s ego to handle, and Jonathan was given his notice.

  So Jonathan had put up his own shingle. Because of his reputation, he had no trouble getting private work. And according to Andrea the biggest job of his career came from an unlikely source: the Houston, Texas, District Attorney’s office.

  She sat on the floor now, her knees pulled up against her chest. The flame on the grate caught the depth of her brown eyes and the childlike texture of her skin. The Scotch and soda was molten amber in her right hand.

  There was a sad and dreamy expression on her face as she talked, and Hawker interrupted as little as possible.

  “I got word this morning,” she began. “The D.A.’s office in Houston called. A man named Blakely. Somehow they knew my parents weren’t in the best of health, so he wanted me to break the news.” Her voice trembled slightly, and she went on. “I knew that Jonathan had been working down there for the last eight months, but I didn’t know on what. The man from the District Attorney’s office told me as delicately as he could. He seemed a little surprised that I didn’t break into a million screaming pieces, and maybe it was relief on his part that made him so willing to explain to me what had happened and why. I’m sure a lot of what he told me was classified.”

  She sniffed and sipped at her drink, peering deep into the fire. “Nearly two years ago the Houston D.A.’s office got word of a slavery ring operating near the city. It was highly organized, yet it kept a very low profile. The slavers preyed on Mexicans who had entered, or wanted to enter, the United States illegally.

  “According to the man I talked with this morning, the slaves are kept on large, isolated ranches. There are ranches in Texas, apparently, the size of small states—and run with better security. The D.A.’s office decided it would be best to bring in an outside investigator. Someone who had no ties to the area and therefore could see more clearly just how high the rot went. They hired Jonathan. He spent the last eight months working under cover, compiling hard evidence, taking testimony, and following leads. Last week Jonathan called the D.A.’s office from some little Mexican border town outside Rio Bravo. He told the D.A. he had uncovered evidence that a certain millionaire Texas rancher was not only involved in the slavery ring but had financed and equipped his own small army, which he used to acquire more land and oil rights from smaller ranchers. Jonathan told the D.A.’s office he would be sending them a four-hundred-page report within the week, complete with names, dates, incriminating documents, and eyewitness testimony.”

  She sighed, swirled the Scotch in her glass, and finished. “The report never arrived, James. Jonathan apparently made it back to Houston okay. They found him very early this morning. His apartment had been ransacked. The report was gone. And Jonathan had been shot. Murdered. They found him on the floor of his study.” Her voice broke. “He wasn’t even wearing his glasses … and the poor boy couldn’t … couldn’t see a thing without his glasses.”

  “I’m sorry, Andrea. I really am.”

  She looked at him, her eyes moist. “The Houston D.A. says they’ll get the people who did it, James. He promised me. But he said it’ll take a long time. He said the people responsible probably have a lot of money. And you know what that means.”

  Hawker’s jaw tightened. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

  “James,” she went on, “I don’t think I’ve asked you for a single thing since we’ve been divorced, have I?”

  “No, Andrea. I’m sorry to say you haven’t.”

  Her eyes were like those of a sad young child. “I’m asking you for something now, James. I want you to go down there. I want you to find out what happened to Jonathan … and why. I’m not looking for revenge, James. But I am looking for justice. Jonathan had so much to offer … so much to give. It’s just such a damnable … waste.”

  She shuddered again, and as she did she held her arms out toward Hawker, and Hawker scooped her up, holding her through the long crying jag that followed.

  So what can you say to a woman who is crying? Even when she’s your ex-wife?

  Nothing.

  Hawker held her tenderly, stroking her hair and patting her. Finally she fell into a fitful sleep, laying there in his arms beside the fire. And then Hawker, tired by the long morning workout, also drifted off.

  It seemed they awoke simultaneously. It must have still been well before noon, but the fire and the overcast sky outside made it seem later.

  Hawker opened his eyes to find that he was looking deep into the liquid brown eyes of Andrea. Their noses were only inches apart, and she was smiling.

  “Thanks,” she whispered. “Thanks for l
istening.”

  “No charge, lady. Anytime.” Hawker made a move as if to get up, but she stopped him with a touch of the hand.

  “And how has your love life been, Mr. James Hawker?”

  Hawker felt his abdomen stir at the fresh huskiness in her voice. It was a tone he recognized.

  “My love life? Dull. Bo Derek’s supposed to stop by at seven, and that Ronstadt girl—she claims to be some kind of singer—says she’ll be here at eight. That means I’ll have to hurry with Dolly. And believe me, it’s no easy job to hurry with Dolly.…”

  Andrea touched her finger to his lips. “I wish mine was as dull. The last three men I’ve been interested in have been gay. Artists, you know.”

  “Geez. That must be like opening an empty box at Christmas.”

  “You don’t have to sound so happy about it.” She propped her head on one elbow and kissed him softly on the lips. Her mouth was moist and warm. Hawker cupped his hand behind her head and pulled her face to his and kissed her again. She seemed shy and tender at first, but then she groaned softly as she settled back on the carpet. Her mouth opened, wet and wanting, and her back arched.

  He could feel the tension go out of her muscles when he touched her, and he knew that in some strange way this was to be a necessary release for her. A way of saying yes to life in the face of her brother’s death.

  Hawker’s right hand slid up the rutted curvature of her ribs and found the heavy, warm weight of her breast. She groaned again and pulled him tighter to her as her own hand searched for and found the opening at the top of his jeans.

  Then suddenly she was standing, her back to him. She pulled the sweater off in one fluid motion, then unbuttoned her blouse. She wore no bra, and her breasts were paler than the skin of her bare abdomen. They were full and heavy, with very long, dark nipples that strained upward.

  On his knees now, Hawker unzipped her jeans and slid them down to her ankles. She stepped out of them, standing before the fire only in sheer beige panties through which he could see the black gloss of her pubic thatch.