KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set

by Gordon Kessler

  I asked, "How'd you get involved with Judge Hammer?"

  "Six months ago, I vas cop like Fatha — ho-me-cide division. They find I kill brotha and not who say I am. I run again — vas looking for vay out. Zudz Hamma find in Minsk alley."

  "You saw Judge Hammer? You know what he looks like?"

  "Dah. Him give ride in limo. Nice man. Explain vhat do. I like."

  The Judge had told her that she could be just what he needed — not a sexual toy, but an undercover operative and vigilante. She loved the idea, especially since her first job involved stopping someone like Karl. She said it was a favor the Judge "gave" her. Judge Hammer trained her, gave her passports and papers and sent her to LA for further orientation. And she was soon to be an Amerikanka — an American girl — a citizen, with the Judge's help.

  She thought she could work for the Judge long enough to repay him for his kindness and to build up a savings. After that she'd find a husband and raise little Amerikankas and Amerikanets.

  She finished, "Zat all have say about zat."

  Her sleepy tone began to have a hypnotic effect on me. My eyelids grew heavy. At the same time, as she toyed with my chest through my open shirt, excitement grew below my belt.

  "Like go bed?" she asked.

  "I'll sleep on the couch."

  "Nyet!" She raised up and kissed my neck and chin. "You come bed now. Vith me!"

  I grinned. "Is that an order?"

  * * *

  My defenses down and caught completely off guard, I am amazed when she pulls out a silenced Sig Sauer 9mm from her nearby purse.

  Is she the third assassin?

  Smiling, she places the silencer under my chin and flips the safety off.

  I don't care for this little game — not liking it one bit. She seems somewhat intoxicated and an accident won't be a surprise.

  She rubs the cold barrel down my throat and across my chest, stopping at each nipple. I let her, knowing that I can knock the gun away any time I want. But it could still go off, and one of us is likely to get hurt.

  She brings the gun down to my belly and straddles my middle. A large grin on her face, she begins a slow bump and grind against my groin and grabs my chest with her free hand.

  The silencer moves to my navel, stopping there briefly before she slides it beneath my belt and pants. The steel is cold against my erection, and it makes my eyes widen.

  "You not like game?" she asks. "Fair game, da — my gun 'gainst yours?" She giggles.

  With the Sig still buried, her grinding escalates, slowly building.

  Finally, I can take no more and grab her hand. I quickly flip the safety back on and pry her finger away from the trigger.

  "You're right," I say. "I don't like your game. I don't know how you can lose--but even if you do, you can always go buy yourself another gun. I can't."

  She laughs at me.

  "Now I'm going to show you my game," I say, and I quickly stand with her around my middle.

  Within ten seconds, we are both completely naked, and I have her up against the wall, her legs wrapped tight around me. She bites, licks and sucks at my face, ears and neck as we ram together in perfect synchronicity. She is the most feral woman I've ever been with.

  Crazy as it may seem, I think of the Run for the Roses, the Kentucky Derby, her being the jockey on my quarter horse; enthusiastically, single-mindedly going all out for the finish line.

  Finally — this not being the fastest two minutes in sports, but is a pretty fast six — both of us climax, and I fall back onto the sofa with her still astride me. I'm now ready for that blanket of roses in the winner's circle.

  I'm somewhat surprised when I realize my pony isn't ready to quit. This has been a long day, and the Vodka, the talking and the sex has helped me finally wind down. I'm tired enough to roll over on the sofa and close my eyes — but not all of me is ready for sleep. And my rider isn't done racing, either.

  They're off! The Preakness pros have nothing on this jockey.

  Finally, after another fifteen minutes, we cross the finish line together and she relents. I lift her in my arms and take her into the bedroom. But, as soon as I lie down beside her, she's on top of me and her heels dig in.

  Oh, God! The Belmont Stakes — she's going for the Triple Crown!

  * * *

  The alarm went off at 4:30 a.m., and I pried my eyelids open with a satisfied smile, not remembering why. Then the evening I'd shared with Zoya came back to my thoughts.

  She lay across me, and I began stroking her long brown hair as I reached to the alarm and shut it off. I felt her firm nude body and traced a couple of butterfly tattoos she had on her shoulders with my finger. Before long, I noticed the sheet below my waist looked like the old stable tent was back up. I thought Zoya was still asleep, but she noticed the quarter horses were still in town, as well, and her hand found a stud she liked quicker than I could say "and they're off...!"

  "What did you put in that chilled Vodka besides the lime?" I joked.

  "Viagra," she said.

  I laughed. Then I realized she wasn't joking.

  I was mad as hell. "Why, you little...you doped me up?" I gripped her wrist and she squeezed what was in her hand hard in return.

  "What gave you the right to drug me?" I scowled at her. "I ought to turn you over my knee and give you the spanking of your life."

  Her eyes widened in pleasure and she grinned back. There was absolutely no getting through to this one.

  * * *

  It's not five seconds before she's astride me again, sleepy eyed, and away she rides like being chased by an angry posse lynch mob.

  Shit, I think, what's the commercial say about 'an erection that lasts more than four hours'...should I call a doctor, or entertain the neighbor ladies?

  She bucks hard and, although I have one body part that seems made of steel, the rest of me is not. After last night's racing schedule — I mean, really, three major races all within a two hour program on the same night — I feel the aching deep in my hips, the weariness in my loins and thighs — I do not need to be reminded that I am no longer a twenty-year-old.

  Shouldn't we at least have the racetrack re-groomed? Don't want my old rogue stallion to bobble at the gate or slip on the soft turf and go down in the backstretch!

  I quickly realize she's found the stud that can take her all the way to the finish line. So I move with her as she drives all-out, hold on and enjoy the ride. Little blue pill, aside — I am still one a hell of a man!

  Finally, both of us climaxing, the bed frame breaks. We fall with it to the floor, and roll away from each other, panting, sweating and laughing. But the soreness in my pelvis and hip sockets are no laughing matter. I wonder if I might actually have a fracture.

  * * *

  I couldn't help but think of my Jazzy Brass and her hip dysplasia: what she might soon be going through when she got a little older and the lining between the balls of her hips and hip sockets begin to wear out. Soon after, she would become arthritic. With the throbbing ache I felt now, for just this moment, I might be able to relate.

  The Vodka and sex had dimmed my judgment. I looked at the clock and realized we had to get going, shower and be at the meeting point on time. A little girl's life depended on it.

  CHAPTER 16

  Seaside Standoff

  We met the others at a grocery store parking lot in South Laguna Beach and waited. Zoya and I were in Jason's Porsche, Jason was with Pula in his SAAB, and Booger was riding with Beautiful in his Escalade. The rest of what I began calling my "Omega Team," except the missing Rabbit: Jada, Ol' Corky, See-Saw and Jazzy Brass were back at The Wizard's Grog, standing by to assist in any way they could.

  We still hadn't come up with any ideas about where Rabbit could be. Ol' Corky was keeping vigil with Smokey, trying to settle her nerves. The police had come out and searched the property and found nothing. Of course they gave her the standard answer: Runaway. Although that might be standard, we all knew Rabbit and we knew bett
er. Although not officially assigned, Lieutenant Harper Lee Legend was keeping Beautiful updated on the search for the young teenager.

  What else could we do? Police were looking for him, and the only thing left was to hope he'd show back up...or for whoever might have abducted him to contact us. And of course we had this little ongoing thing with Sophie Ryder being kidnapped and wired with explosives, as well as a bunch of Ruskie-led goombas going around trying to kill people. So far, the only ones they seemed to have been able to kill had been themselves—if it was even them who did that.

  We got out of the vehicles and stood together by Beautiful's Escalade. I felt like a spider monkey juggling Persian cats and found myself nervously fidgeting with my ball cap.

  At about 5:45, Jason's cell rang. It was the kidnapper. I listened next to Jason's ear trying to determine if it was Ramón's voice. But the voice on the phone was mechanically disguised. It would be difficult anyway. It had been a good eight years since we'd last had words. Even though of Cuban heritage, he was born in Florida, and he hadn't picked up any gang slang — his voice wasn't particularly distinctive.

  "Got the money," the altered voice said.

  "Yes," Jason said. "But I want proof of life."

  The guy chuckled on the other end. "You want what, asshole?"

  Jason was pissed. He yelled into the phone, "I want proof of life, son-of-a-bitch!"

  The line went dead.

  I shook my head in frustration.

  I didn't need to tell Jason he'd screwed up. I couldn't blame him, though — I probably would have reacted the same way.

  Now, we were really worried. If the kidnapper didn't call back, what then?

  Thirty seconds later, the phone rang.

  "Yes," Jason answered eagerly.

  "Okay, we'll try again. I guess I should have reminded you who was in charge. I'm the one making the demands, not you — understand?"

  Jason clenched his jaw.

  I nudged him.

  "Understand?" the kidnapper demanded.

  I said, "He understands."

  "Oh-ho! Mr. E Z-ass Knight! And do you understand this situation?"

  He recognized my voice... It was Ramón, but I didn't want to let on that I knew, even though he didn't seem to mind. It could have been a slip of the tongue — it could have been intentional. I learned long ago, when dealing with assholes, the less you let on that you know, the better.

  "I understand."

  "And what about your friend there, Jason Ryder. I want to hear it from him."

  Jason was about to break a couple of molars from the pressure he was applying.

  "I'm waiting."

  I nudged him again.

  "I — understand," Jason said. "I'd like to hear my daughter's voice."

  "Oh, yeah — that 'proof of life' thing. Well...screw you."

  "You — "

  I took the phone away from Jason. "Please put Sophie on — we need to hear her voice."

  "You ne-ed? What you need is to get the money and your stupid asses over to Sun Rock Beach within ten minutes. And don't bring anybody with you — just Ryder and you. I don't want to see the little Russian bitch, or either of your dick-head buddies. Park your car off the highway and walk in with the money by yourself. Big movie star Ryder stays in the car. You'll know where to go when you get there."

  "One more thing," he said. "I feel the need to remind you who's in charge. Do you remember?"

  I said, "Yes."

  "Who?"

  I swallowed my pride in a dry throat. "You are."

  "Good — good. Now, don't mess with me. You screw this up, the little girl's dead. Five million isn't a thing to Ryder. Play it cool, and this will all be over in thirty minutes."

  He hung up. I had no doubt I had just talked with Ramón Peña.

  * * *

  Jason and I got into Pula's SAAB and drove through the early morning darkness to Sun Rock Beach. I'd been there years ago and remembered that beach wasn't a good term for the place, but Sun and rock were.

  The ten minute drive seemed like an hour.

  When we arrived, it was as Ramón had said. I knew exactly where to go. Two-hundred yards out on the rocky shoreline, a lone car sat with its grill away from us toward the water.

  I took out a pair of binoculars I'd brought along and looked at the car. It was a late-model, full-sized Kia. Someone was sitting on the passenger's side in the backseat. I could make out what appeared to be the back of a head — possibly a young girl's. No one else was in the car. However, the view was obstructed on the driver's side by a sign that had clearly been made to be read with binoculars from two-hundred yards away. It simply said: Leave money in car and take girl.

  I passed the binoculars to Jason and he looked.

  "It's her — thank God, it's her. I hope she's okay. She's sitting up, that's a good sign, isn't it?"

  "Jason, I don't know. I don't trust this guy. You remember Ramón. He cheated at everything he did. He loved to compete, and if he couldn't win fair, he'd cheat or lie his ass off."

  Jason frowned at me. "Come on. What else can we do? You're not going to chicken out on me, are you?"

  The question threw me. "No, Jason. I'm only saying that we need to be careful. I don't trust him. We need to be ready for anything."

  "I've got my H&K .45. If something doesn't look right, I'll drive out there and shoot the bastard."

  "What bastard? Where is he? He's sitting up on a hill someplace with his sniper rifle. Remember, Peña had sniper training. He could be three-quarters of a mile away — it'd be an easy shot with a scope."

  "You — you're getting yellow on me!" At the same time Jason gritted his teeth, I felt something hard hit me in the back of the head.

  Lights out!

  * * *

  I woke up bare headed and with a terrible headache. Jason was watching the car through the binoculars.

  Rubbing the knot on the back of my skull, I squinted to see where he was looking. Damn that hurts. About fifty yards this side of the car, I saw someone walking. In the early morning light, it looked as if he might be wearing a baseball cap — maybe my baseball cap.

  "Scott? Jason, is that Scott?"

  Jason didn't look away from the binoculars. "Yep."

  "Good God, Jason," I said and started to get out of the car to try to call Pula back.

  Jason pulled his H&K on me. "Don't even think about it."

  "Jason, it's a trap! Can't you see that? I don't think Peña gives a rat's ass about that money. He just wants me dead. Listen, Jason! There's a contract out on me. Ten-million dollars."

  "What?" Jason brought his binoculars down and glared at me. "Why didn't you tell me? Son-of-a-bitch, why didn't you tell me?"

  "It wasn't pertinent — didn't matter. I didn't want you to be worrying about me, too. I had no idea Pula was going to hide in the back seat, and you'd pull this crap on me."

  "He didn't either. It just worked that way. He was afraid you wouldn't do it — you'd chicken out."

  "Jason, you know me better than that. What's with him anyway?"

  Jason put the gun down and raised the binoculars once again. "Sophie is his. He's Sophie's biological father."

  God, I can't be hearing this right, I thought. Pula must have hit me damn hard.

  I turned my attention to Pula as he stepped up to the car.

  "He's going to get sniped, Jason — I'm telling you!"

  He reached for the door handle.

  I was wrong. No bullet would come.

  But the explosion that followed would make his body nearly unidentifiable. There wouldn't be a charred piece of any of the fifty-thousand, hundred-dollar bills from within the briefcase found that was bigger than a postage stamp.

  The flash is brilliant, the explosion lung rattling. Fragments of burning metal and upholstery fill the air, and then rain down before us like heaven afire.

  CHAPTER 17

  Nyet, Nyet, Zoya!

  Sniper or not, we ran toward the Kia without rega
rd for our own safety.

  Most of the car had been disintegrated.

  Jason fell to his knees. "Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"

  I was in utter disbelief. We'd both seen worse, many times over. But this was Jason's little girl — correction, Scott's little girl.

  I kicked some small rocks where a piece of upholstery lay burning. But it wasn't upholstery. I bent down and picked the thing up.

  It was a wig about Sophie's hair color, mostly singed and melted together. Underneath was a fist-sized, curved piece of plastic — a piece of a manikin's skull.

  A tiny bit of hope returned. "Jason," I said. "Look, Jason — a wig! That means it's okay. It wasn't...."

  "Scott didn't wear a wig," Jason said. He was sobbing heavily. "Scott's dead...oh, God! Scott's dead — how can I go on living without him?"

  All I could think of to say was a soft, "Holy...shit."

  I'm not real clear on what happened next. I think Jason's mind started whirling like a hamster wheel run by a rabid Jackrabbit.

  * * *

  Jason stands up, his head still bowed. His sobbing has settled somewhat, but he won't face me.

  He takes a deep breath and speaks softly, "It's all your fault, you know?"

  "Jason, I couldn't have known. I wanted to stop him."

  "You could have fallen off that damn cliff. That would have stopped this."

  "Jason, no. We're dealing with a madman. He's not going to stop until he's either ruined all our lives or killed us."

  "If you're dead, he'll stop. You're right, he doesn't care a flip about the money. It's you he's after. And now Scott is dead," his voice elevated, "Sophie is as good as dead — and Stella is going to end up in a nut house or hanging from the balcony by her pantyhose."

  "No, Jason," I ordered. "Stop this. Don't give up. We've got to keep after this guy and take him down."

  "Oh, I haven't given up. I have something to finish. Everyone I care about will be gone, and I'll be in prison, but I have to finish."