Hawker heard the low growl before he saw the dog coming at him—dogs coming. Two German shepherds, not one. Hawker vaulted over the next fence as their teeth clicked at his ankle.
The vigilante sat on the ground breathing heavily. From the other síde of the fence the dogs yammered at him. He expected lights to start blinking on all over the neighborhood.
They didn’t, though. It was 3:46 A.M. by the pale glow of his Seiko. Wells Church was deafened by sleep.
Hawker stood. Before him was a rambling ranch-style house on a large chunk of lawn. Trees grew on both sides of the house, and there was no fence. If he had to pick a house in this neighborhood to bomb, it would be this one. Easy access and plenty of cover.
Through the trees the vigilante could see the outline of the laundry truck.
Apparently the terrorists felt the same way about the house.
They had chosen it as their target for the night.
Hawker lifted the Colt Commando and had a look through the Star-Tron. In the backyard was a swing set, a jungle gym, and a cement basketball court.
Judging from the varieties of playground equipment, Hawker guessed that at least two kids were asleep inside the house, possibly more.
His hands tightened on the automatic rifle as he scanned the rest of the area.
He stopped abruptly. He could see a man creeping along the yard near the bushes. The man’s face seemed to be horribly disfigured, but then Hawker realized he was wearing a stocking tied over his head.
He dragged some kind of knapsack along beside him.
It would be a bomb, of course. A satchel bomb? Perhaps a variation of a satchel bomb.
Hawker brought the glowing red cross hairs of the Star-Tron to bear on the man’s temple. He held the sight there for a moment, then lowered the rifle.
If he shot now he would spook the rest of the terrorists. Hawker touched the safety tang to make sure it was switched to full automatic, then he slid along the shadows of a high copse. When he was about fifteen yards from the man, he stopped again. The terrorist had removed the bomb from the knapsack, and now was affixing it beneath one of the windows, a bedroom window, probably.
Hawker placed the Colt Commando on the ground. He pulled up his pant cuff, unsnapped the handmade scabbard, and drew the Randall knife. The weight of the stainless-steel hilt felt good in his gloved hand. He moved slowly, quietly across the grass toward the man in the stocking mask. When Hawker was close enough to smell the sour-sweat odor of the man’s body, he threw his arm around the terrorist’s throat and touched the point of the Randall to his ear.
The man struggled briefly.
“Freeze, asshole. Not a sound,” Hawker whispered into his ear. “Say one word, and I’ll use this knife to scramble what few brains you have.”
The man stopped struggling and went stiff with fear. “Please, don’t hurt me,” he said, his bad English made harder to understand by the stocking over his head. “There is no need to hurt me. I have done nothing.”
“Let me guess, greaseball—you’re a desert Santa Claus, way early for Christmas.” Hawker shook him roughly. “Don’t lie to me, you scum. What time is that bomb set to go off?”
“Bomb? I know of no bomb—”
Hawker clamped his hand over the man’s mouth and put just enough pressure on the knife so it slid about a quarter inch into the man’s ear canal. Blood began to run in a shiny black river down the side of the terrorist’s neck. The man’s scream was muffled.
Hawker waited a few seconds, then removed his hand. “Let’s call that a friendly warning, penis nose. With me, you get only one friendly warning. Then I get unfriendly. Real unfriendly.”
“Oh, god, you poked that knife clear into my head. Please don’t hurt me anymore, please don’t hurt me.” The man was crying, sobbing like a baby.
Hawker shook him again. “You’re a real tough guy, aren’t you? You’ve got no problem murdering kids, but when it comes to someone hurting you, you blubber like somebody’s spoiled brat.” The vigilante slapped him hard on the face. “When’s the bomb supposed to go off, damn it? Tell me!”
“The bomb … the bomb is supposed to explode in—”
The terrorist’s words were blotted out by a succession of noises. From the street came the screech of tires, the sudden blast of a siren, and the flare of flashing blue lights. Through the side yard Hawker could see two cops jump out of their squad car, service revolvers pressed between both hands. The weapons were apparently pointed at terrorists Hawker could not see. “Police, FREEZE!” one of them yelled.
Then there was the muffled chain-rattle thud of automatic weapons firing through sound arresters. Both cops doubled belly-first toward the ground, their faces gray with shock, their hands holding in the viscera that threatened to escape from the black line of bullet holes in their stomachs.…
eleven
Watching the brutal murder of the police was a mistake, but Hawker couldn’t seem to pull his eyes away from the carnage.
The terrorists kept the guns turned on the fallen cops far longer than they needed to.
The unseen gunmen made the two fresh corpses jump on the asphalt as if they were electrified.
Why in the hell had the cops stopped? Had someone called in a suspicious-activity report? Were they working on a tip from the feds?
No way of knowing.
And Hawker didn’t get much time to think about it.
Sensing the vigilante’s lapse in concentration, the man he held kicked backward savagely, his heel clipping Hawker’s groin. Hawker clamped his knees together and twisted away involuntarily. The terrorist shook free, then hit Hawker a slapping, panicky blow to the face. He could have drawn the little .38 Police Special he carried and finished the vigilante, but he ran instead, stumbling awkwardly into a sprint.
Groaning, Hawker got to his feet and gave chase. The terrorist was neither a fighter nor a runner. Hawker caught him before he reached the corner of the house, tackling him from behind. The terrorist slapped at his belt, pulled out his weapon, and Hawker turned his face away just as the little revolver exploded.
The powder discharge burned his face … the noise made his ears ring … but the slug missed him.
Hawker didn’t give him a chance to shoot again. He thrust the seven-and-a-half-inch blade of the Randall knife into the soft area under the man’s chin, shoved until the point of the knife hit the back of his skull, then twisted.
The terrorist’s muscles contracted violently, twitching like a bug on the end of a needle.
Hawker withdrew the knife, wiped it on the grass. He half-jogged and half-limped back to the bomb, which hung beneath a back window of the house, his stomach still rolling from the kick to the groin.
The bomb was about the size of a desktop radio, encased in metal and painted some dark color. Hawker pulled a tiny flashlight from his knapsack and studied the bomb carefully without touching it.
Then, from within the house, he heard a woman scream, then the wild, sleepy wail of a child. A man yelled something unintelligible, and there was a quick burst of automatic rifle fire.
Hawker switched off the light and jammed it back into the bag.
Shit!
There was no time to study the bomb now. He could see the situation taking shape: the cops had interrupted the terrorists, and had died for their trouble. But the dead policemen had undoubtedly called in their location, and probably had reported the license number of the delivery truck as well. When they failed to report in, more cops would be dispatched.
The terrorists would know this, and they would also know there was no escape for them.
So now they had broken into the house and taken hostages. They would hope to bargain their way out, or at least have the chance to get plenty of free air time on the national news to plead whatever Mideastern cause with which they were associated.
Hawker knew what would happen when their plea for amnesty was refused.
They would begin killing people inside—if they had
n’t already killed them all.
The bomb would have to wait—not that he could do anything to defuse it. Back at the police academy he had had one short course on bomb disposal, but that had been woefully incomplete. He could deal with the simple, homemade bombs. But this thing looked far too complex for an amateur to go rummaging about in it.
A woman screamed again from the other side of the house.
Hawker ran toward the far window where a light was now on. He knew he had to get to the terrorists, and get to them before they began thinking clearly. If he could hit them before they had a chance to get organized, he might be able to turn their attention to him and make them forget about the hostages.
Later, he could worry about how to escape the police.
Right now, though, he was the only chance that the Americans inside had.
Hawker poked his nose up over the windowsill. He had a thin field of vision through the slit beneath the shade. He saw a boy of about nine and a girl of about seven cringing in the corner as a woman in a sheer nightgown came tripping into the room. She was followed by a man with dark olive skin and the standard black mustache of every male from the Middle East. Cradled in his arms he carried an Uzi submachine gun. But it was the expression on his face that worried Hawker the most. His expression was a combination of terror and panic. He was frightened, but he also had the cold light of the fanatic in his eyes. Between the fear and the fervor, this guy would be as dangerous as a human being could be.
And Hawker had no doubt that the other terrorists were exactly the same way.
The young man shoved the woman again, and she fell out of Hawker’s sight—probably on a bed. When she stood up, she tried to hold the nightgown together where the bodice had ripped. She was a dark-haired woman in her middle thirties, very pretty, with finely textured cheeks and chin, and large brown eyes. As she stood, the man grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her again.
This time, the nightgown ripped away, leaving her naked and sobbing. She held her arms against her chest, but they could not cover entirely the heavy swell of her breasts. They were like soft, pale melons, and they made her shoulders and waist seem smaller, almost girlish.
“Leave my mommy alone!” yelled the little boy. He charged the terrorist, his small fists hammering at the man’s thighs. The terrorist yelled something, then bunched his fist and hit the little boy very hard in the face. The boy flew backward and landed on the floor, sprawled like a rag doll.
“Ryan!” screamed the black-haired woman, lurching toward him.
The terrorist brushed along the window, trying to cross the room ahead of her and cut her off.
Hawker had had enough. When the terrorist’s backside touched the window where the vigilante’s eye was pressed, Hawker acted without thinking. He slammed his gloved fist through the glass, grabbed the terrorist’s baggy trousers, and hauled him backward through the jagged window.
The terrorist landed on the ground with a whoof as the automatic rifle flew out of his hands. The terrorist looked at Hawker in shock and surprise. The glass had cut a gouge out of his cheek so that a flap of skin hung down, exposing the back section of his gums and molars. The stocking over his face was already sodden with blood, and the blood poured down over his neck and dark shirt. The terrorist gave an animal growl that made blood bubble from the hole in his face. He dove toward the Uzi, but Hawker stopped him with a brutal kick to the face.
The impact smashed the terrorist’s nose. The flesh turned a florid white, then it, too, began to pour blood.
“You son of a bitch!” the terrorist called. His facial injuries gave his voice a weird vibration. He sounded like a Munchkin with a bass voice. “You will be killed for this! We shall punish—”
There was now a cold fury in Hawker. He had no interest in hearing the olive-skinned man finish his litany. Using the steel butt of the Colt Commando like a stave, he knocked the man’s jaw crooked, then clubbed down hard on the back of his head, feeling the cranium splinter into the soft brain-jelly within.
The terrorist slumped backward and did not move again.
Hawker hurried back to the window. He used the Commando to knock away the rest of the glass, then pulled himself up into the room.
The naked, black-haired woman was stooped over her young son. The little girl watched in terror as Hawker walked toward them. He smiled and held his hand out, as one might hold a hand out to a shy puppy. “It’s okay, little girl,” he said softly. “I’m a friend. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The woman looked at him with outrage, then looked quickly back at her son. “What in the hell is going on here!” she shouted, her eyes wild. “Why won’t you people let us get some sleep? Just leave my family alone, for god’s sake!”
The woman was incoherent with shock, but Hawker didn’t have time to cajole her out of it. He needed information, and he needed it immediately if any of them were to survive.
“Is your husband dead?” he asked.
“Dead?” the woman answered with an eerie, distant tone. “What an absurd question! They pretended to shoot him, but they didn’t, of course. My husband went along with it. What else could he do? These people are insane. We must do what they want us to do!”
The little girl began to sob, her face buried in her mother’s long hair.
Hawker read between the lines.
The husband was dead. The woman couldn’t accept it. The child, though, knew the truth.
“How many more of them are there?”
“How many more of those men?” the woman asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“Three … maybe four. They really are awful men. Why would a grown man hit a little boy?”
Something in the woman’s face touched Hawker deeply. Her expression was not unlike that of a child asking why there was evil in the world. James Hawker took her arm gently. “May I take a look at your little boy?” he asked.
“Are you a doctor?”
“No. I’m a friend.”
“You won’t hurt him?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then you may look at him.”
He took the little boy from the woman’s arms. The boy was small and warm in the big man’s arms. Hawker touched his ear to the tiny chest. It was a long moment before he picked up the faint heartbeat. Then the vigilante slid open the child’s right eyelid. Hawker was relieved to see the pupil dilate properly in the light of the bedroom.
Hawker handed the boy back to the woman. He stripped a blanket off the bed and draped it around her nakedness. He said, “I think your little boy is going to be okay. But he still needs to be looked at by a physician. Understand? You three are leaving through the window—”
“But my husband—”
“I’ll send him later. But if you want your children to live, you will listen to me. I have to hurry, so please listen carefully. Okay?”
The woman nodded.
“Good. I’ll help you through the window. When you’re through, run just as fast as you can to a neighbor’s house. Do you have a good friend who is a neighbor?”
The woman nodded, some life returning to her face. “Helen Beardsley, two houses down.”
“Good. Take the kids there. Now comes the important part—listen carefully. I want you to have your friend call every neighbor in the area and tell them to evacuate the area immediately. Get them the hell away from this block.”
“But why—”
“Because your house is rigged with bombs, and I have no way to stop them. Remember, if you want your kids to live, do just what I tell you. All right?”
The woman’s eyes were damp with anger, fear, and shock, but she nodded.
“And one more thing,” Hawker added. “I want you to forget that you ever saw me. Please. That’s all I ask in return for saving your lives.”
“You’re not a policeman?” the woman asked slowly.
“No.”
“You’re not … not one of them?”
The vigilante smi
led. “Hardly. Let’s just say I’m a friend you never met until now. Please, you really do need to hurry. The other guys will be coming soon. They’ll be wanting some help. More policemen will be coming soon, and those men are going to have to make a fight of it.”
Hawker helped her out the window, then handed the little girl and the unconscious boy out to her. He heard the woman’s quick intake of breath when she saw the brutally beaten corpse of the terrorist.
“Hurry,” Hawker whispered, “don’t stop for anything. Make that neighbor of yours drive you the hell away from here. Understand?”
“But what about you?” the woman asked blankly.
Hawker realized that in not asking about her husband again she had already accepted his death.
“I’ll be fine,” said the vigilante. “You don’t have to worry about me. But those bastards who planted the bombs sure do.…”
twelve
When the black-haired woman and her children were safely across the lawn, James Hawker cracked open the bedroom door and looked out into the hall. It was empty, but from the front of the house he could hear the clack and chatter of a language that sounded like Arabic, though he couldn’t be sure.
Quickly, he tried to formulate some plan of action. If the woman was right there were as many as four terrorists left—and it wouldn’t be wise to confront that many armed men at once. On the other hand the cops would be arriving soon, and there wasn’t much doubt about what they would do. They would surround the place, bring in choppers, SWAT teams, a bomb squad—everything but the Marines.
Once the cops were in position there would be no escape for Hawker. And Maxwell Percival had made it all too clear that, if he was caught, he would face the consequences without any help from the CIA.
The vigilante ex-cop toyed with the idea of leaving the terrorists to their fate. The hostages had already been freed. The cops didn’t know that, but in time they would figure it out and storm the place. Then the terrorists would be arrested and … and what?
Spend the next year on the front pages of the nation’s papers pleading their “cause” while they waited to be brought to trial—that’s what. Hawker’s imagination raced ahead. As prisoners in an American penitentiary system, they would be looked upon as martyrs by their countrymen. More than likely, American hostages would then be taken in hopes of making a deal for an exchange.
Terror in D.C. Page 6