Night of the Hawk (LS 767)

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Night of the Hawk (LS 767) Page 3

by Victoria Leigh


  Checking his watch, he discovered that only six minutes had passed since he'd entered the garage. If he didn't make any more mistakes, there was a chance he'd be far away before the hunters realized he'd escaped their net.

  He'd been stupid to assume he had any leeway once Mrs. Avery and that psychic had broadcast his description all over the nation. On the other hand, his hunters had been foolish to think they could take him so easily.

  Steering the Jeep onto the southbound ramp of the Redwood Highway, Hawk wondered why the woman hadn't shot him when she'd had the chance.

  TWO

  Angela couldn't decide whether to puke or cry.

  Since neither option offered much comfort, she settled for sinking her teeth into her bottom lip in an effort to stop them from chattering. The longer she could feign unconsciousness, the more probable it was that she would come up with a plan to get herself out of ... well, whatever trouble she was in. She wasn't quite clear on that yet.

  She knew she was on the floor of a moving vehicle—a truck, she guessed, although she couldn't know for sure with the blanket obscuring her view. It felt like a truck, though, the way it swayed as though it were built higher from the ground than a car. Her hands were tied, there was a throbbing in her head from when she'd slammed it on the cement, and she figured that if her ribs weren't already broken, they soon would be. Potholes, the bane of motorists worldwide, would take care of that.

  She had to assume one of the two men from the garage was driving, and she doubted it was the one with the broken nose. It was probably the other man, the big one with the dark eyes and fast moves.

  Rolling her face against the thinly carpeted floorboard, she wondered just how in the hell she'd gotten herself into this situation. Guns, blood, men turning on her as though she were a threat ... If they'd just taken a minute to look at her, they would have known she wasn't part of their struggle.

  Life, her life, simply wasn't like this. The worst thing that happened to her in the course of a normal day was having to placate an overanxious speaker while giving him hints on how he could punch up his talk without straying too far from incremental profit margins, federal excise taxes, or whatever thrilling subject material he was the chosen expert on.

  If only she hadn't picked up the damned gun.

  She squirmed beneath the blanket in an attempt to keep her hip from rubbing so hard against the hump in the floor, and wished she'd gone to the bathroom before she left her office.

  The truck hit a bump and blood smeared across the lip she was biting. One more offense to chalk up to the tall stranger who'd turned on her so fast, she hadn't been able to duck. He'd thrown the other man in her face and down they'd all gone in a pile, Angela wondering why she'd bent down to pick up the gun before the breath was knocked from her chest and snooting stars replaced all coherent thought.

  Blood and guns. She gagged, remembering the bloodied face of the man with his nose pointing toward his ear. She'd noticed more than she cared to before the other man had shoved him at her and toppled them all into a heap. Even though there were a hundred more discomforts to dwell on, she knew the man's blood was smeared on her face. The thought made her wrinkle her nose in disgust, and she stopped short—-just barely—of voicing her revulsion aloud. It occurred to her then that she couldn't feel anything caked on her skin, and she wondered if that was because she'd been unconscious too short a time for the blood to dry or if her subconscious was beginning to shut down all but the most critical senses required for survival.

  She really wished she hadn't picked up that gun.

  Angela realized she was repeating herself, but didn't care. And if her thoughts were beginning to resemble the whining of a beleaguered politician who couldn't get reporters away from questions regarding some creative financing on the part of his campaign manager, she knew that was preferable to letting her mind wander too far into the realm of fear.

  There was only so much terror she could handle without losing that last bit of control that kept her from opening her mouth and screaming—a move that would certainly earn her the displeasure of whoever was driving. It seemed prudent to avoid annoying him.

  When they next came face-to-face, the dignity afforded by that self-control might be her only asset. With control and a calm demeanor, she might be able to talk her way out of this mess . . . which she wouldn't be in if she'd just gotten into her car and pretended she hadn't seen anything. She could have been on her way to her apartment in Corte Madera or already there and not tied up on the floor of a vehicle hell-bent for somewhere she didn't like thinking about.

  If only she'd minded her own business.

  Angela forced back a surge of bile—the result, she worried, of car sickness as much as sheer terror—and prayed he'd let her go instead of doing anything worse. The anything worse preyed on her mind and ensured her silence as the vehicle pressed deeper into the night, drawing her toward a dark reality she knew she was going to hate.

  Hawk drove south across the Golden Gate Bridge, staying with the vehicles that jostled for position as they veered right along the thruways bisecting San Francisco. Following the example of the drivers around him, he ignored the speed limit and cruised just under fifty along the well-lit streets. He made it to the other side of town in record time. Daly City flashed by as traffic picked up the pace, and it wasn't until the sharply curving exit to San Francisco Airport slowed him that he neared posted speed limits.

  He followed the signs to the long-term parking lots and parked in a dark corner between a tall van and a wood-paneled station wagon. Switching out the headlights and the overhead lamp, he sat for about five minutes without moving, watching the irregular flow of cars entering the lot. A brown four-door sedan came his way and parked six spaces up in the next row. He waited as the male driver got out and pulled two suitcases from the trunk before heading toward the brightly lit courtesy bus shelter about eighty yards away.

  Ten minutes later the bus collected the man along with two others who had parked on the far side of the shelter. No one got off the bus at that shelter, or at the next stop the bus made before leaving the lot. Hawk took a screwdriver from his sports bag, slid out of the Jeep, and closed the door gently behind him. Although he hadn't heard so much as a peep from the rear seat, he opened the back door and lifted the blanket from the woman's face. In the weak light, he looked into her gold-flecked green eyes and saw recognition in them. He also saw fear, and silently credited her with better than adequate acting skills.

  Not that he didn't doubt fear was one of the emotions she was experiencing. She wouldn't be human if she wasn't even a little afraid of what he intended to do with her. But fear shouldn't be the only emotion showing, not on the face of a woman who had expected to see him dead not an hour past.

  The ability to conceal murderous intent, particularly in her precarious circumstances, was a talent to be handled with cautious respect. Ignoring it would be a fatal mistake.

  "There's no one to hear you scream," he said. "If you do, I'll gag you."

  "If there's no one to hear, why bother?"

  The soft, almost winsome sound of her voice hit a pleasure center deep inside him. Hawk cursed his carelessness in not anticipating a voice to match the undeniably seductive body. He would have to be careful with this one, he told himself. A man was never more exposed than when he was physically attracted to a woman.

  "Screaming gets on my nerves. Don't do it." He flicked the blanket aside and checked the knot at her wrists. It held firm, so much so that he realized he'd have to cut her free when it was time. The skin next to the silk tie was red, sore looking, the result of a struggle to free herself. He was indifferent to the self-inflicted pain, and met her gaze again without commenting.

  "I don't know who you think I am—"

  He cut her off before she could finish the lie. "Talking gets on my nerves too. Don't." He dropped the blanket over her face and shut the door with a soft click.

  A quick survey of the parking lot confirmed t
hat no one had come toward the corner while he'd been with the woman. He'd been listening for sounds outside the Jeep, but he'd been listening to the woman, too, and knew better than to depend on a sense that had been partially distracted.

  He went over to the sedan and made quick work of removing the license plates, replacing them with a set he'd kept stored in his backup car for just such an occasion. By the time he put the sedan's plates on the appropriated Jeep and tucked the third set—those that had originally been on the Jeep—under a mat in the back of the Jeep, only five minutes had passed since he'd warned the woman not to scream.

  The fact that she'd heeded his warning confirmed his opinion that she was a thorough professional. A well-trained assassin would know he meant what he said.

  Reassured by her silence, Hawk took another minute to break into the van parked in the next slot and exchange his parking ticket for the one the driver had foolishly left on the dash. He'd already seen through the window that it was dated nearly a week earlier, and he took three twenties out of his wallet to cover the fee. Now, when he drove out, the clerk in the booth wouldn't wonder why he was leaving so soon after arriving.

  He got back into the Jeep and had just started the engine when the woman spoke.

  "I have to go to the bathroom."

  "Not now."

  "But I—"

  "Shut up." He leaned over the seat and lifted the blanket from her face. "I meant what I said about gagging you."

  "That was for screaming," she said, her voice a little harder than before, yet still managing a significant tug at his senses.

  "The same goes for talking."

  She twisted her head to glare at him. Taking advantage of her attention, Hawk reached into the sports bag and pulled out a silencer. He screwed it onto the end of his gun, gripped the assembled weapon in his right hand with his finger against the trigger, and draped a sweatshirt over it. Then he rested his forearm on the console with the gun aimed somewhere between her breasts and pelvis. The position was awkward, but outside of putting her to sleep, it was the only way he could think of to ensure she didn't do anything stupid on the way through the tollgate. Once he found a quiet place to question her, he didn't want to have to wait for her to wake up.

  Fear flared anew in her eyes, and he was satisfied that she understood the threat. "Behave yourself. Don't move. Don't even whisper."

  "A bullet won't stop me from needing a bathroom."

  He clenched his jaw to keep from laughing. Like her voice, the humor caught him off guard. "We have to pay to get out of here. I'd prefer to do it without any drama. Your choice."

  Her nod of acquiescence was barely discernible in the near darkness. "Mind the speed bumps."

  "You have a smart mouth."

  "Potholes too."

  "Be quiet."

  Hawk pushed the blanket back over her face with his free hand, then switched on the radio. Under the cover of something that sounded like a combination of African drums and alpenhorns, he tucked the Astra and sweatshirt back into the sports bag. The exercise had been designed to gain her cooperation; he saw no need to chance actually shooting her. Even if she went against the odds and kicked up a ruckus, it made more sense to drive out of it than risk forfeiting whatever information she possessed.

  Remembering to stay in first gear—something he'd have done with his right hand otherwise occupied—he drove slowly between the rows of cars toward the exit marked with well-lit booths. Cars from all corners of the lot funneled with cutthroat determination toward the bottleneck. Hawk maneuvered the Jeep into line behind a red Jaguar as a high-pitched yodel caught the rhythm of the stereo-enhanced drums. Nerves already stretched taut were sorely tested, and he would have changed the channel but figured he'd end up with Schubert or Enya—neither of which would do him any good if the woman made noise. Drums and annoying vocals served his purpose if not his pleasure.

  She didn't make any noise, though ... at least, not until he'd paid the clerk, rolled up the window, and switched off the hideous noise. He was heading toward the on-ramp that would put him on Highway 101 south when she cleared her throat. She did it again a few seconds later, and he asked, "What now?"

  "Just clearing my throat. Why, is that banned too?" Even muffled, her voice was dangerously compelling. Before he had a chance to answer, she added, "How long before we stop?"

  "As soon as I find a place where we can talk without being disturbed."

  "A coffee shop would be nice."

  They were clearly not thinking along the same lines. The digital clock on the dash blinked from eleven fifty-nine to midnight, reminding Hawk there were only four good hours of dark left. He knew he had to be out of the area or undercover before dawn.

  "They have bathrooms," she went on.

  He'd been wondering when that subject would come up again. "Are you always this obsessed by trivialities? I'd think someone in your position would be more concerned with the bigger picture."

  "It's my position that's keeping my attention focused on the basics."

  Hawk smothered a laugh as he cut hard to the left and accelerated onto the freeway, refusing to feel guilty as the unbraced body on the floor ricocheted against the seat. The woman's groan of protest had faded by the time he reached cruising speed, and he allowed himself a few moments' reflection on her curious combination of sassy defiance and wide-eyed fear—both of which were at odds with the image one normally had of a ruthless assassin.

  Humor could be an effective weapon if it succeeded in lowering his defenses. Added to the aura of fear she projected and her insidiously appealing voice, Hawk judged she was about as harmless as a piranha on a blood trail.

  Easing into the lanes leading to the San Matteo Bridge, he decided it was time to give her something to think about. "We'll be stopping soon. When we do, I'll want you to tell me when and where you were to deliver my body to Constantine." He wanted to know more, a lot more, but that would get the ball rolling. Once she committed that much, the rest would be easy to get out of her.

  "Your body?" She made it sound as distasteful as something the cat dragged in.

  Hawk ignored the insult. "I know Constantine. He wouldn't accept photos."

  "Of your body?" Once again, her distaste for the word was graphically clear. He could almost hear the follow-up thought. Who'd want pictures of your body?

  The fact that she didn't say it aloud didn't affect the smile that lifted one corner of his mouth. For a man on the run with one hunter tied up on the floor behind him and God knows how many others on his trail, Hawk was surprised at how at ease he felt. How comfortable. Cheerful, almost. He chalked it up to adrenaline.

  "I don't know anyone named Constantine," she added.

  He sighed. She was going to be stubborn. "What's your name?"

  "Why?"

  "What is it?" Even if she gave him a pseudonym, using it would lend a sense of intimacy when the time came.

  A small hesitation, then she said, "Angela."

  He was certain from the way she said it that Angela was either her real name or that or someone very close to her. He was pleased. "Think about what I asked you, Angela. The faster you give me the answers, the better your chances will be."

  "What chances? I don't know what—"

  "Shut up and think, Angela. We'll be there soon."

  Maneuvering the Jeep into the right-hand lane, Hawk cruised across the last quarter mile of bridge and prepared to take the exit to Freemont. The furnished house he'd rented three months earlier had been paid for in cash and was virtually untraceable back to him. The woman he'd hired to house-sit was an illegal alien who communicated best in Spanish and didn't pry about why he paid her to live there when he could have charged rent. It was enough that she understood he wanted the place available for his use at a moment's notice, and would vacate the premises for as long as he needed to be there. In exchange, she kept the crackheads and dopers from taking up residence in his absence.

  She also kept the garage empty, the mechanism
for the electric door in working order, and the safety light permanently broken. Fifteen minutes after leaving the bridge, Hawk eased the Jeep across the short, cracked driveway to the garage door, dug the electronic opener from his sports bag, and pointed it at the door. It opened noiselessly, and he killed the headlights before driving inside and clicking the button to close the door.

  He leaned over the backseat and spoke to the woman without removing the blanket. "There are some people inside who would as soon kill you as look at you. Keep quiet and they won't even know you're here."

  "What's the difference between you and them?"

  "Not much."

  A short silence, then she said, "I'm tired of you telling me to be quiet."

  "So am I." He got out of the Jeep and rang the bell beside the kitchen door before pushing it open. He walked through the spotless kitchen with its Formica-topped table and metal chairs, then went down a short hallway to the living room and waited. Consuela joined him a minute or so later, holding closed the lapels of her terrycloth robe with one hand and rubbing grit from her eyes with the other. Her gray-streaked black hair fell in a single braid down her back.

  She stopped at the end of the sofa and looked at him without speaking. Hawk gave the street out front one final check, then pulled the shabby drapes completely closed. When he turned, he bowed his head slightly as a sign of respect for her age and apologized for waking her.

  uEs su casa," she replied. It's your house. An abbreviated version of the classic Spanish welcome for guests, in this case more to the point than the courtesy implied.

  This was a scene they'd played once before, Hawk's need to ensure that the system worked overcoming his reluctance to chance exposing the hideout. He kept it brief, and in English, because no matter how limited Consuela's English, his Spanish was worse.

 

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