Rehfuss’s face had sobered. “I was just trying to make conversation, James. I wanted you to know that I really am glad to see you.”
“Isn’t that just about the way things stand?” Hawker repeated.
“Look, James, if that’s the way you want it, strictly business between the two of us, then I—”
Hawker slammed his hand on the desk. “Jerry, I have spent the last year of my life running from your people. They have tried to shoot me, poison me, stab me, and burn me to death in my sleep. That really isn’t a very pleasant way to live. Now, if you expect me to come in here all smiles—”
“That wasn’t my doing, damn it!”
“You’re saying that it wasn’t your organization?”
“You broke the rules, James! You didn’t play by the book! You’re not a kid; you knew the risk you were taking when you went against our orders on the Iranian thing—”
“But now you want me back?”
“That’s right, Hawker, we want you back. We want you back for this one job because you are the very best available at what you do. You are fast and strong and smart, and you are a coldblooded son of a bitch when you need to be. And it is those same qualities that have made this organization a viable force in world politics. When we see a threat to this nation’s security, we, by God, go after it tooth and claw. And when someone on our payroll jumps out of line, we come down on them with both feet. We make it hurt, because if we didn’t, every bimbo and international psycho in the world would soon hear about it, and we’d be just a little weaker. And a little weaker. And it would go on and on and on. We drew the line, Hawker. You’re the one who decided to step over it!”
The two ex-friends glowered at each other for a time until Rehfuss finally settled back in his chair. “I’m sorry, James,” he said with a sigh. “I thought it could be different. I don’t blame you for holding a grudge, but I swear to God that I did everything in my power to get them to leave you alone.”
“Does that mean you’re no longer offering me a shot at Curtis and his men?”
Rehfuss smiled. “No, it doesn’t mean that at all. This is business. We’re willing to forget our … past troubles if you’ll undertake and successfully complete this mission for us.”
“And what do you want me to do?”
The rangy CIA operative did not blink. “You know who the problems are. I want you to eliminate them. And, of course, if you are caught before, during, or after the completion of your mission, the corporation will disavow any knowledge of you or your assignment.”
“I’ll need help.”
“Name it.”
“Weapons, for one thing.”
“Tell me exactly what you want, and I’ll have them delivered anyplace you say.”
“And any information available on the whereabouts of Warren and Pendleton.”
Rehfuss slid a new leather briefcase across the desk. “You’ll find everything you need in there. Money too. Ten grand in tens, twenties, and fifties.”
Hawker pulled the briefcase his way. “And when I’m done in Atlanta, I want to go back to Central America. I want to finish Curtis once and for all.”
“If you take care of Pendleton and Warren, you will have finished Curtis. No money, no army. It’s as simple as that.”
“Not for me it isn’t. Promise me that if I take care of this Atlanta business, you’ll help me in Central America. I’ll need help with fake passports, transportation, and safehouses and weaponry in Guatemala, maybe Belize.”
Rehfuss thought for a moment. “Is Curtis really as crazy as they say he is?”
“Crazier. He has worms in his brain, Jer. But he’s still as shrewd as hell. I’m going to need every bit of help you can give me.”
“We have strong operations in both Guatemala and Belize. You’ll get whatever you need.”
Hawker stood. He hesitated, then held out his hand. “I’m sorry I blew up at you, Jer.”
The big CIA man took his hand. “Hell, it’s half my fault. Senator Estes told me yesterday on the phone that you’d changed. She didn’t say how, but she told me to act just like you were the same old James Hawker, an old friend. She said you had had a very bad time in the jungle and that it would make you feel better if I pretended not to notice. I should have known better than to try to bullshit you. Christ, I was as jumpy as a cat when you came in here. I felt like someone trying to sell junk cars.” He smiled slyly. “You want the truth, James? You look like warmed-over shit. You’re too skinny, and your clothes don’t fit. That scar makes you look like a fucking Nazi hangman, and your eyes have a weird, glassy look—how did that football coach put it?—like the lights are on but nobody’s home. There, how’s that?”
Hawker grinned. “Now that’s what I expect from an old friend. Sincerity.” He turned to go, then stopped at the door. “One more thing, Jer. In Belize a guy tried to execute a contract on me—”
“Sure, I remember your call.”
“Big black guy with an island accent. Chip on his shoulder but a pro. Was he one of your people? You said you’d check for sure.”
Rehfuss nodded slowly. “I checked. His name is Lorenzo Chiles. His friends call him Sweet Chiles. He has done some free-lance work for us in the past. Small stuff, stuff that doesn’t take much planning or brains.”
“Why is it that I suddenly feel offended that you sent him after me?”
“I didn’t send him. Someone from the Counter Intelligence staff, Western Hemisphere Division, hired him. I’m with the OO division, Office of Operations. But I imagine that they sent Chiles after you because he knew Central America and because just about everyone else had failed.”
“Oh. And is the contract still out?”
“I can almost guarantee you that it isn’t. And if it is, it soon won’t be.”
“Almost guarantee?”
“That’s one of the problems with you freelance people. You don’t have a clock to punch, so you don’t check in with the office as often as you should. If Chiles has checked in, he knows the contract is off.”
“Maybe you could have the folks in Counter Intelligence send him a telegram.”
“A telegram? Hmm … gee, I never thought of that.…”
twelve
Hawker spent the afternoon in his hotel room resting, reading the material Rehfuss had given him. The carefully written reports went into the vigilante’s mind in bursts of pure data:
Shawn Pendleton, 31, Caucasian male. Seven arrests: four assaults, one armed robbery, one rape, one DWI. One conviction: DWI, fined, released. 6’4”, 220 pounds, black hair, brown eyes, missing two upper incisor teeth, wears dental plate. Occupation listed variously as mechanic, motocross racer, mercenary. Dishonorable discharge U.S. Marines 6-10-69, cowardice under fire in Vietnam. Member Hell’s Angels; Member Atlanta Ghost Riders. Always armed, considered extremely dangerous.
Greg Warren, 33, Caucasian male. Five arrests: four drug-trafficking, one assault, no convictions. 5’11”, 180 pounds, blond hair, blue eyes, tattoo on right arm (American flag with serpent); scar on back right hand. Occupation listed variously as chemist, mercenary, Playboy photographer. Dishonorable discharge U.S. Marines 6-10-69, cowardice under fire. Member Atlanta Ghost Riders. Always armed, considered extremely dangerous.
Hawker read each man’s dossier carefully, storing away information. And he began to get a pretty clear picture of the two men in his mind: pseudosoldiers who couldn’t make it in the real military. Motorcycle tough guys when they had a gang behind them; bullies to whom Wellington Curtis had now given a purpose, a reason to use their strong-arm methods on isolated small-business people of Georgia.
There wasn’t much on their victims in the briefcase, but what there was, Hawker noted carefully. Apparently a few of the victims were banding together to try to fight back. The small group was being organized by a man named Andrew Watkins, a former U.S. senator who had returned to Atlanta and private legal practice after three terms in office. It suddenly dawned on Hawker how he had com
e to get involved with the Wellington Curtis case. Senator Watkins had probably somehow communicated his problem to Thy Estes, and Thy had contacted Hawker’s friend, Jake Hayes.
The vigilante made a few notes, checked a phone number in the Atlanta directory, then stripped off his clothes. On the way to the shower he took a cold bottle of Stroh’s from the little refrigerator room service had provided, then scalded and sudsed himself for fifteen minutes until a loud tapping at the door sent him scampering for a towel.
“Who is it?”
A woman’s voice. “Mr. Hawker? Are we interrupting? If we are, I can stop back. I left a message, but the clerk said you didn’t pick it up.”
Hawker recognized the voice. He pulled open the door. Senator Thy Estes stood holding a briefcase; big round glasses perched on the bun of red hair; heavy breasts and trim hips primly covered by white blouse and green tweed business skirt and jacket; strong, mature face with high Loretta Young cheekbones and a strong, full mouth. She seemed surprised to see him and stammered, “Oh, James … er, Mr. Hawker. I really didn’t think you would be in. The man at the desk said you weren’t in. I was going to slip this note beneath your door.” She held up the note for inspection.
Behind the senator stood a twiggy, bird-faced lady who was absolutely shapeless. She also wore business clothes, wire-rimmed glasses … and an embarrassed smirk. “I don’t think you’ve ever met my secretary, Ms. Talis?”
As Hawker stretched to shake the little woman’s hand he realized for the first time that he was wearing only a towel. “But I can see that you’re busy, Mr. Hawker,” Senator Estes went on awkwardly. “We can stop back—”
“Come on in. I’ll get some clothes on.”
“Don’t bother”—the secretary tittered at this—“I mean, we don’t want to rush you—”
“Now, Senator,” the secretary said in a Midwestern nasal whine, interrupting. “If you have business with Mr. Hawker, you just go right ahead. We don’t have to meet with the mayor’s committee for another hour, and I can go on down to the banquet room and stall them a bit if need be. I mean it. Go ahead and have your talk with Mr. Hawker.”
Thy Estes laughed in acknowledgment of the little charade and stepped into the room. “Thanks, Sally. Tell those stuffy bastards down there I’m out shopping for a new hat. That’s all they think women do, anyway.”
“I’ll do that, Senator.” The birdy woman came very close to winking. “And enjoy your meeting.”
Thy Estes stepped into the room, kicked the door closed, and immediately fell into Hawker’s arms. She was laughing. “God, I thought Sally was going to faint when you opened the door wearing that towel. You are, um, a very big man, and that is a very small towel.”
Hawker gave her a kiss on the forehead, then on the lips. “Sorry, lady. You took me by surprise. I didn’t know you were traveling with a friend.”
“We got to the hotel early so Sally could help me go over some of the material the mayor’s going to want to discuss. And I was going to practice my speech. But then the man at the desk told me that you hadn’t picked up your message, and I began to worry. I wanted to make sure you were taking me out to dinner tonight—”
“Dinner?”
“Yes, and don’t try to crawfish out of it. You are taking me to the Top of the Town. We are going to order expensive food and wine, and we are going to eat and drink and play lewd little games with our feet under the table while we enjoy the lights of Atlanta.”
“You seem very sure of yourself, woman.”
“It’s because I am very sure of myself, man.” With her arms still around Hawker she dropped her briefcase on the floor. She held her face up to be kissed, and when Hawker only grinned, she pulled his head down to hers and kissed him fully. Then she reached up and shook her hair free so that it swung down over her shoulders and face. There was a glint in her blue eyes. “Did you hear my secretary say that I had only one hour? One short hour? Only sixty minutes—”
“I heard everything your secretary said, lady.”
Thy began doing something with her hands, and the white blouse she wore strained away, revealing her full breasts cupped within a sheer white, see-through bra. Her nipples were pale pink beneath the silky material, and Hawker slid the tweed jacket from her shoulders, and the blouse opened completely so that he could see the pale contour of her ribs and taut abdomen. “We don’t have much time, Mr. Hawker.”
The vigilante kissed the woman softly, then harder, as his hands slid up her sides and began to massage the soft weight of her breasts. He felt her shudder. “Then we had better get down to business, Senator. But first I have a favor to ask.”
“Anything—in exchange for what I want from you.”
“Why is it that you politicians always have to get something in return?”
She kissed him deeply, communicating her demands with her tongue. “Do you mind so much? Besides, I’ve agreed, and I don’t even know what it is you want yet.”
“I want a meeting with Andrew Watkins. I found his number in the book. Will you call him?”
The woman used her tongue to dampen Hawker’s ear, neck, and chest. “I don’t have to call him. I’ll be seeing him this afternoon. At the conference.”
“Then it’s a deal. You can set up a meeting for tomorrow morning?”
The woman began to move her hands over the vigilante’s body. “Um, you’re such a hard bargainer.”
“And you are so damn sneaky.”
“Sneaky? Me? Little old Thy Estes? Come, sir, I have nothing to hide. See?”
The woman reached both hands behind her, a gesture that drew the bra so tight that it seemed, for a moment, that the elastic would break, then she unsnapped the bra and slid it off, and her pale breasts expanded, took natural shape, wide, full, heavy, pink nipples elongated and pointed upward. She began to sway slowly back and forth, rubbing herself against Hawker’s chest, head tilted slightly back, eyes closed, as her hands now found the towel that Hawker was wearing and stripped it away. She looked down at him. “My God, James, how you’ve grown.”
They both laughed, and the vigilante swept the woman up in his arms as if carrying a bride across the threshold. She seemed surprisingly light as the vigilante carried her across the room to the bed. As he did he slid one hand up her skirt, felt the sheer nylon of her stockings, felt the garter-belt strap on the inside of her thighs—and noticed something else.
“Christ, Thy, you’re not wearing any underwear!”
The woman smiled vampishly. “Since I’ve met you, James, I’ve become a wanton woman. A damn wicked woman. I kept thinking of meeting you tonight at the restaurant and how I could surprise you, really please you. I decided to give you something to do with your hands while we were waiting for our food.”
As she spoke, Hawker’s hand moved high to the inside of her thigh, and he watched the woman’s face go blank, eyes round, as he touched her, then slid his finger inside her, feeling the hot, smooth inner wall of her body. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “Oh, God, that feels so good, James, and I want you so damn badly.”
The vigilante dropped her onto the bed and slid the skirt up over her hips and began to torture the woman with his tongue as her hips lifted, wanting, demanding, pressing to satisfy her more quickly.
“Yes, James, do that, James, yes, yes, yes, faster, faster, faster …”
Hawker looked absently at his heavy Seiko diver’s watch. He lifted his head and grinned. “Only half an hour until you have to get ready to meet the mayor and his committee, Senator.”
“You really are a bastard sometimes,” she said, groaning.
“I know the pride you take in being prompt.”
She grabbed his hair, and the vigilante let her roll him onto his back. “And I know just how I want to spend the next half hour,” she said, grinning back at him. The woman lifted the skirt up over her hips, straddled Hawker, used her left hand to position him, then slid down onto him, spreading her legs so as to take him as deeply as possible. “Th
is is how I want to spend the next thirty minutes,” she whispered, head thrown back, hair hanging, eyes closed in ecstasy. “All thirty minutes, James, please.”
Already fighting not to spend himself too soon, Hawker pushed his hips upward. “Actually, twenty-nine minutes now.”
Thy Estes lifted, thrust in return, lifted, thrust, lifted and pushed harder, faster, demanding. “Twenty-nine minutes,” she moaned, “and counting.…”
thirteen
Andrew Watkins, former United States Senator, one of the wealthiest men in Georgia, and the leader of the small group of businessmen and farmers who were now trying to fight back against Wellington Curtis, lived in an authentic Southern mansion on the south bank of the Chattahoochee River. Hawker took busy Interstate 75 north, caught the bypass Interstate 285 west, then exited on the Johnson Ferry Road north into the red-clay country of central Georgia. There were flat fields of cotton shimmering in the heat; pine forests; wooden shanties with tin roofs; kids on bikes playing in sand yards.
Watkins’s home was an oasis of Spanish-moss-draped oaks and green hedges. The mansion was down a long lane, a great white anachronism of the Old South: Roman columns supported the broad veranda with its brick floor, rocking chairs, hammocks, tables for bourbon and branch water; an upper balcony opened out from double doors from which could be seen the servants’ cottage, the barn and pasture where horses grazed, the screened swimming pool, the bathing house on the Chattahoochee River as the river flowed swiftly toward distant rapids, green and silver in the sun.
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