Hawker leered at her. “Being macho has nothing to do with gold chains and a bushy head of hair—as I will show you when we get home.”
“Promises, promises.”
Hawker took her arm as they turned down the alley into the parking lot. The sun, a pale swath behind the December clouds, was already dropping beyond the tallest skyscrapers. It was dusk in the city: cold, gloomy, fast becoming nightfall. They had come in separate cars. She had come in her Toyota because, with its hatchback, it was easier to bring another of the movie props they had been gradually collecting—the latest a cumbersome suspension mike that was said to have been used in a local production of The Music Man. That it didn’t work made no difference. Hawker had driven his Corvette because he’d had a lunch appointment with McCarthy’s friend, Detective Randolph White.
It had been a productive meeting. White was all McCarthy’d said he was—a facts-and-figures man who seemed more at home behind a desk than he would leading a big-league bust. Hawker asked him to use the computers in conjunction with NCIC to get a list of all the local porno producers who had been arrested in the last few years.
“From those names,” Hawker told him, “see how many women you come up with. I’m interested in real names, aliases, anything that can put me on the track. These porno people put a lot of stock in a name. It’s one of those adolescent obsessions that they don’t seem to outgrow—maybe because most of them still function on an adolescent level. I’m willing to bet the name ‘Queen Faith’ is just one in a long line of stage names for a very tough, very twisted woman. It’s just too unlikely that she got into the business without working her way up through the ranks first.”
White agreed and promised to do everything he could to sniff out a few leads for Hawker.
So it had been a good day, a productive day in what was by now a coldly calculated hunt for the woman who had brought so much terror to so many other women. They had had luck. Now it was up to Hawker, up to the vigilante ex-cop to plan their assault so carefully, so efficiently that, when he was finished, the kidnap/porno ring would be nothing but a seared scar, smoldering in the memories of the few who lived through it.
The hardest thing would be to lose the woman, to cut her out of the picture the moment he had a sure fix on Queen Faith’s location.
There was no way he was going to let her risk her life on some midnight assault.
For now, though, he had to let her play along. There was no harm in it. She seemed happy and (as Hawker grudgingly admitted to himself) he was happy—really happy—for the first time in a very long while.
Clare held out the keys. “Would you mind unlocking the doors for me, Hawk? It would not only be chivalrous, but it would give my freezing little fingers a chance to warm themselves.”
“I thought slavery went out with Lincoln, lady.”
The woman waggled her eyebrows. “No, it supposedly went out with the feminist movement. But it was all really just a trick—and you silly men fell for it.”
Hawker reached out for the keys … and was momentarily confused as the expression on the woman’s face changed. Her eyes grew wide, and her mouth contorted as if to scream.
The vigilante wasn’t confused for long.
Someone shoved him from behind, almost knocking the woman and him to the ground. He whirled around to see that three men had been waiting for them behind another car. They looked like members of a motorcycle gang. Their hair was long and greasy, and they wore leather James Dean jackets. Two of them were taller and heavier than Hawker. But it was the smallest of them who did the talking.
“You the pair that wants to make that porno movie?” the man asked without preamble. He had bad teeth and his brown hair hung in braids down his neck. The name “Fritz” was sewn in white script above the left pocket of his jacket.
Hawker stepped in front of the woman. As he did, he gave her a reassuring pat on the hip. “Yeah,” he said. “We’re the ones. And if you three want a screen test, you’re going about it all wrong.”
Fritz’s grin broadened. He turned toward his friends as if to poll their reactions, then hit Hawker so quickly with a backhand that the vigilante didn’t even have time to react. “Let’s not be a smart ass, okay, buddy?”
Hawker regained his balance and wiped the blood from his nose. His eyes had become cold blue orbs. He said nothing.
The man laughed. “Pretty boy here doesn’t like being slapped, does he, boys? Pretty boy is getting real mad, isn’t he? I bet pretty boy is afraid we’re going to take his sexy little lady, huh?” The smile vanished from the man’s face and he pointed his finger at Hawker. “If you want to keep that big-titted bitch, asshole, you’d better listen to every word I say. We hear you want to make yourself a movie. Well, that’s real nice. The people we work for make movies too. But they also rent actors. That’s the way they make money, understand? They rent actors to other moviemakers.” The man paused and reached beneath his jacket. He brought out a wicked set of brass knuckles and slid them on over his gloved hands. He said, “When these movie people rent our actors, everyone is happy. The people I work for get paid; the moviemakers get paid; and the actors—” He turned and grinned at his two big friends. “—get to gang bang each other in front of a camera and act like big-shot stars afterward.” Fritz looked at the brass knuckles then looked at Hawker. “You get my meaning, asshole?”
Hawker exhaled softly. “Clear as a bell.”
“Good. Good! That’s good, isn’t it, fellas? Pretty boy understands what I’m saying. And does that mean you want to hire our actors, pretty boy?”
“Maybe. We need actors. I guess we’re willing to meet with your people and discuss it.”
The biker’s sarcasm was thick. “Ain’t that nice, boys? He’s willing to discuss it with some of our people.”
“Real big of him, Fritz.” One of the bigger hoods chuckled.
“A regular white guy,” said the other.
Fritz jutted his jaw out toward Hawker. “Let’s discuss it right now, asshole.”
Hawker shook his head. “I don’t talk business with lackeys. It’s a waste of time. You’ll forget everything I say, and I won’t be able to understand anything you say.”
The biker’s face flushed with anger. This time, instead of slapping Hawker, he reached out and tried to grab the woman. Hawker saw what he wanted to do, and, at the very last moment, he reached up and caught the man’s hand in his own big right fist. Glaring into the biker’s eyes, Hawker said, “You know, the two of us would get along a whole lot better if you knocked off the rough stuff.”
“Get your fucking hand off me, asshole,” the biker hissed.
Hawker could feel anger moving through him like a cold light. He said, “Touching that woman is one of the bigger mistakes you could make today, sport. I’d hate to have to shove those knuckle dusters up your bunghole.” Hawker gave the biker’s hand a numbing squeeze, then flung it away. “If you want to talk business, let’s talk business. But let’s knock off the West Side Story routine, huh?”
With a bellow of rage, the biker clubbed at Hawker with the brass knuckles. Remembering that the woman was behind him, the vigilante deflected the brunt of the blow with his upper arm, caught Fritz by the sleeve of the jacket, and wrestled him away. Hawker expected the biker to use streetfighter tactics. He wasn’t disappointed.
With his right arm locked beneath Hawker’s elbow, Fritz began to aim savage kicks at Hawker’s groin, bellowing with every attempt.
“Need some help, Fritz?” one of his gang called out. There was a merry ring to his voice. They were having fun. Their leader would kick the shit out of the porno producer and then all three of them would have fun with the lady. Hawker knew exactly what they would do if he lost, and so he was relieved when the biker wheezed back, “I’m gonna kill this son of a bitch. I’ll wring his head off with my hands!”
Hawker managed to block most of the kicks, but one got in just enough to start the sweat flowing and his eyes watering. He buckled ov
er instinctively, and Fritz dug the brass knuckles into the vigilante’s stomach, then clubbed him behind the head with his left fist.
Hawker fell face first into the slush. There was a gauzy, starlight sensation from the blow on the head and the vomit was rising in his throat, but he couldn’t let himself acknowledge either. He was too busy rolling away from the biker’s boot heel as he tried to smash Hawker’s face in. The biker missed narrowly in four successive kicks before Hawker suddenly reversed his roll, knocking Fritz’s legs out from under him.
He should have gone for the Walther holstered beneath his coat. But in the minisecond in which he made the decision, he decided the other two hoods were no doubt armed and, for all he knew, they had already drawn. He decided it was best to slug it out and hope the other two were still willing to negotiate a deal, and thereby lead him to Queen Faith.
When the biker came down on top of him, Hawker did a variation of a wrestler’s sit-out and spun away. The greaser was quick to his feet, but Hawker was quicker. He buried his right hand in the man’s solar plexus, then cracked his nose open with a left hand that came from the asphalt. Fritz back-pedaled and fell against the Toyota, nearly out on his feet. But Hawker wasn’t about to let it end that quickly. He braced the biker up, gauged the distance, then swung backward with his left elbow. The impact made an ugly grating sound, the sound of bone being crushed.
“That’s enough!”
Breathing heavily, Hawker turned to see the two hoods just drawing their weapons. One had a long-barreled Smith & Wesson .38; the other, some kind of esoteric automatic—a 9mm probably, brand unknown. Both were aimed at his chest.
His stomach still cramping, Hawker shook the pain out of his right hand. He tried to give the woman a reassuring nod. It didn’t seem to help. She stood just to the right of the two big bikers. Her face was white and she sagged against a neighboring car. Hawker looked at the greaser on the ground, then at his two friends. “I’m still willing to talk,” he said.
The biggest of the two shook his head. He had a massive face covered with a greasy black beard. Imprinted on the pocket of the leather jacket was a screaming skull wearing a halo. The biker’s meaty right hand all but dwarfed the big Smith & Wesson. He said, “You had your chance to negotiate, slick. But you had to be a tough guy. I don’t like tough guys. I make it my business to kick their ass.”
“Look, all we want to do is make a movie,” Hawker cut in irritably. “If the people you work for have talent for hire, we’re interested. But it’s our project; we’re not going to take orders, from you or anybody else. Why don’t you load your friend in the car and trot on back to your boss lady and tell her that?”
There was something almost obscene about the big man’s toothless grin. “Oh, we’re going back to the boss lady. But you ain’t never going to get no chance to see her. Not alive, anyway. Your movie company just mysteriously closed down, mister. And you and your lady friend just mysteriously disappeared.” He swung his head at his companion. “Bobby! Load Fritz into the back, then put the chick in. Tie her hands with something. Shit, use your handkerchief or your belt—don’t be asking me to do your thinking.”
Hawker stood helplessly as the unconscious biker and then Clare were both piled into the backseat of an aging, slush-streaked white T-Bird. The woman tried to fight just as Bobby got her to the door. She looked at Hawker and yelled in a voice that sounded pitifully like a frightened girl-child’s, “James, do something. Don’t let them take me, James. Oh, please do something. I can’t bear for this to happen again.”
Hawker’s mind was scanning so frantically for an idea—any idea—that he didn’t answer.
The big man used the gun to wave his partner into the car. “Start her up, Bobby,” he said, keeping a careful eye on Hawker. “We’re going to leave pretty boy belly down in the snow. He’s just a little too good with those fists of his for us to trust him with us.”
“Lot of traffic now,” Bobby said nervously, climbing into the car. “We kill him, we don’t have much hope of a fast getaway.”
“Just start the fucking car!”
The big man opened the passenger door and put one foot in. When the engine was roaring, he raised the gun at Hawker’s face. “Have a nice trip—asshole.”
Hawker’d anticipated the deadly fire and dove behind the Toyota just as the gun exploded. The T-Bird’s tires struggled for purchase as Bobby floored it in reverse, then slammed it into drive. The big man was still leaning out the window, his gun swinging back and forth in search of another shot.
Hawker drew out the stodgy Walther. He pushed his head up over the roof of the Toyota, ready to fire—but didn’t. Clare’s face was pressed against the window like a little girl’s filled with homesickness. He didn’t want to take even the slightest chance of hitting her.
The big biker had no such reluctance. He snapped off two quick shots that peeled the paint off the Toyota as Hawker once again dove to the ground.
The T-Bird’s engine screamed as its tires sluiced ice and dirt into a pinwheel trajectory before they finally touched asphalt, gained traction, then fishtailed out of the parking lot and onto the street.
Hawker jumped to his feet. He didn’t notice that he was soaked with slush, or that his nose was bleeding.
He holstered the Walther, drew out his keys, and threw open the door of his midnight-blue Corvette Stingray.…
SIXTEEN
Hawker downshifted and skidded into the street. It was rush hour, going-home time for a quarter million tired, hungry workers—and they all seemed to own cars.
But the only four cars Hawker was interested in were the ones he could see between him and the white T-Bird.
A cavern dusk had descended upon the city, a palpable absence of light and heat and color interrupted only by the penetrating reds of brakelights and the wind-random pitch and yaw of plastic Santas affixed to light standards.
Hawker hung on the bumper of the car in front of him, looking for an opening to pass.
Ahead, the T-Bird turned east on 7-Mile Road, and Hawker fishtailed after them. Traffic was faster there, but no less heavy. McDonald’s, Arby’s, Burger King, Pizza Hut blurred by, molded tributes to plasticism and bad food. A steady line of headlights streamed by in the opposite lane, so Hawker was surprised when the T-Bird shot into the passing lane and jumped four more cars ahead, running two approaching automobiles off the road. Their horns screamed, and a hubcap wheeled crazily down the middle of the road—someone had hit the curb.
Without hesitation, Hawker steered the Corvette into the temporary vacuum, downshifted into second, and touched the accelerator. The 427-cubic-inch engine paused for a microsecond then vised Hawker’s head to the seat with a awesome acquisition of G-forces.
He dropped the Corvette back into traffic just as a cement truck blared by.
Once again he was four cars behind the T-Bird.
For a long time, the rush of traffic made it impossible to get any closer. But then the T-Bird veered north onto the Southfield Freeway—a fast multilane highway, and Hawker knew he was in for a race.
On the access ramp, the T-Bird began a long acceleration that did not end even when it melted into the heavy traffic. Hawker tapped the steering wheel nervously while the cars ahead of him seemed to putter past the runway. Then, when his chance came, he whipped the Corvette right and jammed the accelerator to the floor.
The Corvette seemed to squat lower over the road as the back tires screamed, then the car gave a shudder, and suddenly Hawker was being propelled toward the concourse as if in a rocket sled.
Holding the wheel at the ten-and-two position, Hawker drifted the long runway curve, then burst into the line of traffic. He glanced down at the speedometer. Despite the 55-mph speed limit, Detroit freeway traffic usually moved along at 70. The Corvette was already showing 110 mph, and the engine was still winding, far from top end.
He backed off a little, holding it at that speed. The road was a salt-stained gray, and the Corvette was absorbi
ng it at a tremendous rate. The cars he passed seemed to be standing still. Ahead he could see the white T-Bird dodging in and out of traffic like a halfback, but still trying to stick close to the right lane.
That made Hawker suspicious, so he too began to maneuver back across the highway—and just in time too.
At the last moment, the T-Bird veered along an exit ramp, and Hawker had to do some inspired driving to cut behind one car, ahead of another, and follow along.
He was close enough now to see the woman’s head bobbing. Then her face turned toward him, and Hawker hit his high beams. He could see her pretty shape clearly: She was saying something, motioning … motioning him away? Yes, she was telling him to give up his chase.
Hawker wondered if they were coaching her from inside the car. He decided they must be. He remembered the look of sheer dread on her face, remembered how she had pleaded for him to help her.
Hawker decided it was a good sign. If the bikers wanted her to wave him away, then they were undoubtedly worried about him. Also, they hadn’t had the time to attack the woman sexually. It meant they would want to keep her around, that they probably would use her as a bargaining tool if Hawker was able to force them to stop.
He decided it was best to keep pressure on them until they led him to Queen Faith’s, or until he thought of a way to snatch the woman away.
Hawker pressed the accelerator and moved in tight on their bumper. They were rounding the big access curve that straightened onto 8-Mile Road, another fast highway. The T-Bird tried to increase its speed, but it fishtailed slightly, unable to match the Corvette’s handling.
Abruptly, the T-Bird’s brakelights flared. Hawker downshifted, but not without first slamming into the white car’s bumper. He fought the steering wheel until he had the Corvette under control, then was surprised to see the T-Bird brake again.
This time Hawker accelerated instead of downshifting and passed the T-Bird on the berm, throwing ice and rocks into the brilliant wedge of the car’s lights. The T-Bird tried to pass, but Hawker blocked it, trying to force them to stop before they got onto 8-Mile Road, swerving every time they swerved, gradually slowing to a crawl.
Detroit Combat Page 9