The vigilante pulled his weapons up behind him and set off hobbling in the direction of the hunting lodge.
What were the chances of finding Jimmy Estes and Chuck Phillips? Hawker had no idea. But injured or not, he was damned determined to take a close look at the hunting lodge.
He moved along slowly through the woods, aware that there might be guards waiting for him anywhere. As he walked, he loaded the .44 magnum revolver. The big cartridges felt like minitorpedoes in his cold hands. He slid a fresh clip into the Ingram and pulled out the wire stock so that he could belt the submachine gun over his shoulder. Into a nylon waist pack he put several types of grenades and plastic explosives. Whatever Nek had waiting for him, he was determined to be ready.
As Hawker walked, his ankle began to loosen. He began to feel better. The adrenaline rush he always felt before the beginning of a firefight began to move through him. Nek and his men had numbers on their side, but he had surprise on his. More important, though, he had experience.
Ahead, he could now see the uniform darkness of the log hunting lodge. There were lights on, and the windows were square yellow eyes. He could also see the dim vertical shapes of the dead deer hanging on the rack. Hawker swore beneath his breath. If it hadn’t been for spotting the deer, the young pilot would be alive now.
The vigilante moved deliberately from tree to tree, staying in the shadows. He wanted to hide the canvas duffel filled with the rest of his ordnance someplace where he could find it quickly. He noticed a tent-shaped wooden hogs’ shed near the venison rack. He approached it from the side, then poked his head in. It was too dark to see anything, so he chanced flicking on the little flashlight.
The vigilante almost screamed in shock.
Only a few inches from his nose were the pale face and the wide dark eyes of Lieutenant Tom Dulles staring at him. They had thrown him into the shed so that his back had lodged on a stack of tinder wood, giving him an odd look of impermanence, as if he were frozen on film in the midst of a bad fall. He wore the same beige down vest Hawker had seen him wear before, but now it was stained black with blood. The blood had dripped down and caked on the face of the corpse resting beneath him, the corpse of the lovely Lomela Carthay; Lomela of the full warm breasts and the wanting lips and the motherly touch and the thrusting, fertile hips. In the center of her forehead was a dark hole, and her face looked oddly swollen, misshapen.
The vigilante knew that a bullet through the head could do that and worse to a human face.
Lying on the ground next to Lomela was the body of the young pilot.
Hawker switched off the light and sat down quickly in the snow, making an uncontrollable growling noise.
Bastards!
He had stumbled onto Nek’s body locker. It was almost full—and all in only a day. Tom Dulles and Lomela had come up into the mountains looking for old Robert Charles Carthay, who had sworn to bring Nek to justice himself. And they had paid dearly for their concern.
What had happened to old man Carthay? Hawker hoped like hell that Lomela hadn’t brought her two kids with her.
No, she would have never done that. She cared too much for them.
The vigilante squeezed his hands into heavy fists. He had liked Dulles as much as he had liked any man. And he had been Lomela’s lover. He had known her in private hours, and he had seen what a tender creature she was with her now-orphaned children. Tom and Lomela had been two bright lives, two vital people. Now Nek had killed them and thrown them into a hogs’ shed beside the venison rack like so much butchered meat.
James Hawker got up slowly. It had been a long time since he had felt what he was now feeling. He was feeling anger, cold and deadly anger, like bile coursing through his body.
And only one thing would satisfy that anger—revenge. Harsh and bloody revenge.
And bloody revenge, Hawker decided, was exactly what he would now take—a revenge as brutal and demanding as the life of Bill Nek.
If Nek wasn’t here, Hawker would track him as long as need be, and he would kill the old bastard with his bare hands.
The vigilante unstrapped the Ingram and drew the .44 magnum. Carrying the submachine gun in his left hand and the huge revolver in his right, Hawker began to move slowly toward the house.
fifteen
The dark figure appeared from the trees so quickly and hit him so hard that Hawker didn’t have time to react. He was instantly on the ground fighting for his life as a big man tried to kill him.
The man had something in his hand, something heavy and hard and silver—a knife.
Hawker dropped the MAC10 submachine gun and caught the man’s hand as he brought the knife slashing toward his face. The vigilante used the man’s momentum to send him rolling over his head. Hawker was on his feet in an instant, and he used the .44 magnum like a club. The butt of the revolver made a sickening plastic-smack sound against the man’s face. His entire jaw swung apart from his cheek, his whole face crushed. He toppled to the ground with a groan.
Hawker gave him an insurance kick to the throat, and the attacker lay soundlessly. The vigilante snapped the .44 into its chest holster, hunched over the body, and picked up the knife.
He recognized the size and feel of the weapon instantly. It was his Randall survival knife, the one taken from him back in Denver. He searched the body of the man and found the custom scabbard strapped to his belt. He stripped it away from the man’s hips, quickly threaded his own belt through, and buckled it tight. It felt good to have the solid weight of the Randall on his hip once again.
Hawker picked up the MAC10, cleaned the butt of the Smith & Wesson in the snow, and moved on. Behind the house the vigilante could now decipher the dim outline of some kind of cottage. A single window glowed through the trees. In the pale mountain night, Hawker could also now see the shape of two men standing in front of the cottage. Guards? Probably. But what were they guarding? Hawker could only hope that the three old miners were inside.
He decided to have a look. Sliding from tree to tree in the darkness, he moved to the backside of the huge lodge. The new snow crunched beneath his feet. Owls called back and forth in the distance. The wind made an exotic rattling sound in the aspen trees, like oriental wind chimes. It was one of those beautiful Rocky Mountain nights, a night of rarefied air, of high laser-bright stars, of wine and cheese parties in Denver, of pre-ski parties in expensive Aspen. It was the kind of Colorado night that people sang about and the whole world fantasized about. For the vigilante, though, it was a night for hunting, a night for collecting old debts. For him, it was a Colorado night built for killing. The pale moon gave some light, but not too much. The wind made enough noise to cover his footfall, but not so much noise that he could not hear.
Hawker was still surprised that Nek didn’t have more guards out. But then, why should he? Dulles was dead. Lomela was dead. The three old miners were once again prisoners. And presumably Hawker was frozen under several feet of snow.
Why should Bill Nek be worried? His enemies were all eliminated, and he would soon own the Chicquita Silver Mine—or so he thought.
His face a grim mask, cold and unemotional, Hawker stopped a few dozen yards from the side of the cottage and slung the MAC10 over his shoulder. He leaned into a tree, letting his black sweater and wool watch cap make him a part of the shadows. The two guards stood at the front of the cottage, their feet shifting uncomfortably in the cold. One of them was smoking a cigarette. His rifle rested against the side of the little house. The other held his rifle in the crook of his arm.
Hawker didn’t hesitate. He strode boldly toward the front door of the cabin. The guards jumped to attention, fearing an attack. “Hey,” said the vigilante easily. “How are you guys tonight?”
They both visibly relaxed. “Not so bad,” said one of them in a light German accent. “A little cold, but not too bad. Been worse.”
“You got business out here?” said the other guard, a little suspiciously. “I don’t remember seeing you—”
&
nbsp; He never got a chance to finish the sentence. As the guard stuck the cigarette in his mouth and leaned toward his rifle, the vigilante brought the brass butt of the Randall knife down on his head, then threw himself headlong into the belly of the second guard, who was already leveling his rifle to shoot. Hawker tried to wrestle the rifle from his hands, but the guard kicked up hard with his knee, catching Hawker just to the right of the scrotum. It sent a pain shock flashing through his guts, and beads of sweat formed on his head. But he still did not go down to the ground.
The guard managed to yank the rifle free, and he used it like a baseball bat to swing at the vigilante’s head. Hawker ducked under the rifle and drove the brutal blade of the Randall attack knife up under the ribs of the guard. The 7-1/2-inch blade found the man’s heart. As the guard opened his mouth to scream, a large bloody bubble formed on his lips. It popped in silence as Hawker pulled the knife free.
The guard fell dead to the ground.
The vigilante limped to the door of the cottage. It was padlocked. Cursing softly, he returned to the first fallen guard and took the keys from the dead man’s pocket. The lock was cold against his fingers, but it finally snapped open. Hawker swung open the door.
Inside, the lights were on. Three old men sat at a table by a wood stove playing cards. They looked up in surprise at the vigilante.
“Holy dogshit,” said Robert Carthay, a wide-shouldered, balding man with suspenders, “if it ain’t Mr. James Hawker. Hey, boys, this here’s the man I was telling you ’bout.”
All three men dropped their cards onto the table as they stood to greet the vigilante. But Hawker was in no mood for social niceties. And they had no time. “Look,” he said quickly, “can you three find your way back down the mountain? Can you make it on your own?”
Carthay looked offended. “Listen here, you young buck. We spent more time walking these hills than you’ve spent toyin’ with your pecker. We can find our way out in a coal-dust storm at night in the rain when it’s foggy. Shit, I guess. Ain’t that right, boys?”
“Damn tootin’, Bobby.”
“You tell the young fart, Bob-O!”
Hawker motioned to them to keep their voices down. “Then grab your coats and get going. And I mean now. There’s going to be some real ugly stuff going on here in about five minutes.”
“We’re gonna stay right here and help,” Carthay said stubbornly. “I ain’t gonna be happy till I get my hands around the throat of that son of a bitch Bill Nek. Why, I’m going to pull his ears off—”
“Nek’s inside?”
“You goddamn right he is! I heard the old bastard yell at somebody not more than an hour ago. It ain’t gonna be the last time he yells tonight, either. I’m gonna make that turd beg for his life, after the way he’s treated us!”
“Sure, you do that,” Hawker said sharply. “Do that, and you’ll get involved in what’s going to happen tonight. Give you plenty to tell the cops, won’t it? And they’ll give you plenty more to tell the judges in Denver. You’ll spend all the money you make from the Chicquita Silver Mine on lawyers, and all three of you will probably go to jail.” Hawker shook his finger at them. “You three had a chance to make some money a long time ago, but you let Nek screw it up for you. Are you going to let him screw you up again? Don’t be dumb shits. Get the hell out of here while you can. Keep yourselves in the clear.” Hawker looked at old Robert Carthay pointedly. “You’ve got grandchildren to think about, Mr. Carthay. Are you going to risk their future, too?”
The old man rubbed his grizzled chin, thinking. “I wouldn’t want to hurt Lomela or them kids,” he said softly. “They ’bout the only things I care about in this here world.”
Hawker cringed, thinking how badly Carthay was going to take the news of his daughter’s murder. But he couldn’t be told now. He’d never agree to leave the mountain. Nor would his two friends. “Then get a move on,” Hawker said. “Get the hell out of here, and don’t turn back, no matter what you hear. Get your coats on. It’s cold as hell out there. Take some of those blankets, and here’s some money—”
“Listen to this young fart,” said Jimmy Estes. “Sounds like a damned Jewish mother. Boy, we was hiking these hills long before you pissed your first diaper.”
“Yeah,” Chuck Phillips put in quickly, “but we’ll still take some money. Guards took all ours, and we may need it. Thanks, Mister Hawker. Thanks for talking some sense into this old fool beside me.”
The vigilante handed a wad of bills to Phillips, then hurried the three of them out the door and into the woods. He watched them until they disappeared into the darkness, three resolute shapes against the loom of the mountains that had been their homes for so long.
Once they had gone, Hawker sat on the door seal of the cabin, watching the hunting lodge. He sat quietly, letting his body rest, letting the aching ankle take a break from the work he knew it must soon do, letting his mind vector this way and that, seeking a plan. But in truth, he wanted no plan. He knew exactly what he was going to do. Tom Dulles wouldn’t have approved. Dulles was a lawman in the best sense of the word. Lomela wouldn’t have approved either, though she would probably understand.
But in some strange way, Hawker knew it was what he must do. Nek was an old man. He would undoubtedly die a natural death before long.
But the vigilante knew he could not allow that to happen. The life of William Nek was too fouled by his own deeds to be allowed such a clean exit from life.
No, Dulles wouldn’t have approved, and Lomela wouldn’t have approved. But they were now cold corpses, thrown into a hogs’ shed to be buried later.
They no longer had any say.
Hawker was a master of revenge. And he knew the decision was now all his.
sixteen
When Carthay and the others had a half-hour head start down the mountain, Hawker stood and checked the Ingram to make sure that it was fully loaded and that he had plenty of extra clips. He took the .44 magnum revolver from the holster strapped across his chest, spun the cylinder in the light of the cabin, then slid it easily back into the holster.
In his free right hand, he took two Army TH3 incendiary hand grenades, pulled the pin on each with his teeth, and, still holding the safety spoons in place, walked calmly to the front door and knocked.
He could hear men’s voices inside, could hear music. The door swung open wide, and Hawker got a momentary glimpse of one of the Germans he recognized from Nek’s Denver estate.
“Special delivery,” the vigilante said sweetly, tossing both grenades into the huge front room of the lodge. In reply to the German’s sudden look of terror and confusion, Hawker added, “Don’t worry—you don’t have to sign.” Then he jumped from the steps, sprint-hobbled toward some trees, and dove behind them as a huge explosion shook the earth.
He turned to see the entire interior front section of the lodge engulfed in gaseous white flames. The heat was withering. Hawker wasn’t surprised, nor was he shocked to hear the terrible screams coming from inside. The incendiary grenades were filled with thermate, a lethal chemical developed by the Chemical Warfare Service of the United States. Each thermate grenade would burn for nearly a minute at more than two thousand degrees, setting everything within twenty yards immediately in flames.
William Nek’s hunting lodge was now burning as if it were made from Georgia lighter pine.
The vigilante drew the big Smith & Wesson revolver and waited. In a few moments, the front door flew open and men began to sprint out like ants from a damaged anthill. They all seemed to have weapons, and they fired wildly into the night, more concerned with escaping the terrible heat than with killing their attacker.
As they exited, the vigilante aimed and fired carefully. One by one, the .44 magnum blew the first six men backward, knocking two of them right out of their shoes.
Hawker wasn’t surprised when the door was suddenly thrown closed. Someone had decided it was safer to face the fire than to face the lone man outside.
Quic
kly, Hawker lumbered to the side of the house, smashed out a window, and tossed in another thermate grenade. He used his last three incendiary grenades at the back of the house. Four times he opened fire on men as they tried to flee out the back door or windows. Four times men died. The vigilante worked his way to the side of the great house, the only section that now was not in flames. He could see men peeking out the door. When he stepped into view, the men opened fire, and Hawker had to dive toward cover.
Slugs kicked up a line of snow and dirt behind him as he rolled into a ditch.
“Nek! Bill Nek! I want you!” Hawker’s cold voice echoed through the night.
More shots rang out, vectoring on the position of his voice. The vigilante turned the Ingram on full automatic and sprayed the side door and windows of the lodge. Inside, a man screamed. Another came crashing through the window, clawing at his bloody face.
“Nek! Get your ass out here, old man!”
The vigilante was standing now, his blazing gray eyes and square chin illuminated by the raging fire that now consumed the lodge.
On the second floor, a window shattered and a man opened fire with a wide-bore shotgun. Snow plumed around Hawker as he immediately held the freshly loaded submachine gun on full fire. A man wearing only underwear came floundering through the jagged glass, shotgun in hand. He landed heavily, kicked wildly for a moment, then lay still.
“If you don’t come out now, old man, I’m going to let you burn to death!” Hawker was standing at the corner of the house so that he could see both the front and side exits. How many of the Silver King’s men had he killed? At least fifteen. Maybe more with the grenades. Nek couldn’t have many more bodyguards left inside. And he sure as hell didn’t have much more time. The hunting lodge was a crackling, steaming box of flames now. It crossed the vigilante’s mind that Nek might already be dead: burned to death or killed by the percussion of the heavy ordnance.
Denver Strike Page 11