Chicago Assault
Page 13
It was Hawker’s fourth mission under the alliance he and Hayes had formed. The premise of the alliance was that crime in the United States was raging out of control. Conventional police forces had their hands tied by ridiculous laws that protected the criminal and said, in effect, to hell with the victims. Hayes looked upon the law enforcement/judicial system as a symptom of social softness. And, as a biologist, he knew that when any species lost the instinct to justly protect itself, that species condemned itself to extinction.
Hawker, who had been Chicago’s most decorated cop before he resigned out of disgust, had seen too many good arrests thrown out of court on legal technicalities not to agree.
So, the alliance had been formed. Hayes, a multibillionaire, would provide the funding. Hawker would provide the skills and firepower. Their goal: to go wherever they were needed to teach people how to fight for themselves.
Under the alliance, Hawker had collided head on with revolutionaries in Florida, savage street gangs in L.A., and I.R.A. renegades in Chicago.
Now he was ready for his fourth mission.
More than ready.
As they flew over the Mar Caribe—the Caribbean Sea—Hawker reflected on the months of inactivity he had suffered beneath the winter skies of Chicago. He had stayed in shape all right. His daily workout of calisthenics and running would have tested a Spartan, and he maintained his boyhood habit of boxing at the old Bridgeport gym. To improve his computer pirating skills, he had even taken an advanced programing course at the Chicago campus of the University of Illinois.
Even so, the inactivity had taken its toll.
He had felt listless, even depressed. He couldn’t help thinking about the I.R.A. mission and the sister he had never met until moments before she died.
He had no trouble keeping off body fat, but in that last month of inactivity, he could almost feel his fighting instincts growing soft from neglect.
So now he had a mission again, and it felt good.
Damn good.
He sat behind Hendricks, who handled the controls of the sleek Trislander stoically and professionally. Hawker was anxious for Hayes to begin, but he made a point not to show his eagerness.
Hayes would get around to it when he was ready. Hayes had a reason for everything he did. Like Hawker, he was a methodical man. In their three days together on Little Cayman, Hayes had been uncommunicative. On the first day, wading the flats for bonefish, Hayes had told him briefly that he had ordered Hawker to New York for a reason, and from New York to the islands for a reason.
He told him he would discover the reasons soon enough.
Other than discussing their plans to handle Renard, Hayes seemed satisfied to spend their days together concentrating on the flats fish and the landlocked tarpon available to any fly fisherman lucky enough to visit Little Cayman.
Flying at a comfortable 2500 feet, they could see how moonlight turned the expanse of Caribbean Sea into an ice field of cobalt and satin. The gauge lights of the plane were lime green, and they softly illuminated the bony face of Hendricks and the thick, no-nonsense face of Hayes.
Finally, Hayes put away the logbook he had been updating, adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, then twisted around in his seat to face Hawker.
“So,” he said, “what did you think of Renard?”
Hawker shrugged. “A professional. In the three days he was on the island, I never caught him staring at me once. He plausibly played the role of the wealthy French playboy on a get-away vacation. I had no idea he was following me until I arrived and you filled me in a little on Fister Corporation and some of the people it employed. He did a good job bugging our apartments. Now I understand why you didn’t want me to destroy the bugs—it would have tipped our hand.” Hawker thought for a moment. “Renard’s one mistake was underestimating us.”
“Right,” Hayes interjected. “And let’s hope they keep underestimating us.” He searched through his flight jacket momentarily, then produced his heavy briar pipe. Noticing the way Hendricks wrinkled his nose, Hayes tamped the pipe full of tobacco but did not light it.
“Hawk, I had you go to New York because I wanted you to familiarize yourself with the area—specifically, The Bronx. That’s also why I went ahead and sent your equipment there—all you have to do is call for it at the warehouse.”
Hawker nodded. He had spent four days in The Bronx, learning the streets, meeting a few people. On Jacob’s orders, he had leased a flat not far from Yankee Stadium and made arrangements with a storage concern before he flew to Little Cayman.
“That part of The Bronx looks like a war zone, I know,” Hayes continued. “But lately there have been sporadic efforts at reclamation. Now, for a variety of reasons, a large federal grant has been authorized. The money will be used for the construction of huge apartment complexes and office towers in what was once a thriving ethnic German neighborhood of about thirty square blocks. One edge of that neighborhood is about twenty-five blocks from a still prosperous section of The Bronx, and the federal government hopes that the redevelopment of the German neighborhood will gradually lead to the reclamation of the connecting territory. Following me so far?”
Hawker nodded and said nothing.
“Good.” Hayes removed the pipe from his teeth, using it to emphasize his next point. “A project of this magnitude means that canny and often corrupt developers and landlords can make fortunes. One of the largest development corporations in the city is owned by Fister Corporation, under the name Fister Limited.
“Now, Fister Corporation, you see, has a history of obscuring its scale and worth by working through numerous wholly owned subsidiaries. Through bribery and maybe some blackmail, Fister Corporation learned almost a year ago of this federal grant for The Bronx. As a result, its subsidiaries have been buying up just as much of the neighborhood as it can. Because most of this area consists of junked lots or abandoned buildings, it was easy for them to buy fast and cheap. But the remaining, oh, five or ten percent of the neighborhood consists of brownstone houses in which live some tough and stubborn old German families. And Hawk, if those Germans wouldn’t move when The Bronx was going to hell around them, they sure as hell don’t plan to move now that the place is going to be fixed up.”
“Is that the conflict?” Hawker put in. “Fister Corporation wants to buy, but the Germans don’t want to sell?”
Hayes smiled. “Exactly. It’s not an uncommon situation in the world of urban reclamation. But Fister Corporation has, unfortunately, uncommon ways of dealing with it.” Hayes raised his eyebrows and looked into Hawker’s eyes. “Renard is a perfect example of their methods. Very professional. Very cold. And absolutely without mercy.”
“Then they’ve already chased the Germans out?”
Hendricks allowed himself a rare chuckle. “Jacob, permit me to explain to James about the Germans—he’s obviously too young to remember much about World War II.”
Hawker listened with a wry expression on his face while the Englishman straightened him out.
“You must remember,” Hendricks went on, “that the Germans—using the resources of a country only the size of your Georgia—came all too close to defeating the entire world in a highly complex, highly mechanized war. Thumb your nose all you like at the taboo subject of racial traits, but the fact is, the Germanic tribes do not frighten easily.” The old Englishman chuckled softly. “Jerry gave us all quite a turn back in those days. Quite.”
“I stand corrected,” Hawker allowed. “The German families have not been chased out of The Bronx.”
“Less than sixty families remain,” continued Hayes. “And they’re having a tough time of it. The head of Fister Corporation is Blake Fister. He achieved prominence in the tough world of New York real estate by the almost indiscriminate use of corruption and intimidation. From there, he pyramided his holdings into a billion-dollar international conglomerate. But he still keeps a firm hand on the home operation. He considers its continued success a matter of personal pride. If he someh
ow got beaten on his own home turf, Fister would lose no little esteem among his fellows in the world of international finance. And no one is more aware of this than Blake Fister.
“In the last month, the German families have been subjected to increasing pressure in the forms of threatening phone calls and personal attacks disguised as street muggings. To carry out his dirty work, Fister employs a Mafia organization of about twenty-two individuals who specialize in strong-arm tactics and murder.”
Hawker had grown increasingly interested as he listened. “Renard was from his security force?”
“Renard, according to my sources, is among the elite of the world’s professional assassins. He contracts out and works totally alone. And, as I said, he is a fair example of what we can expect if we choose to butt heads with Fister.”
“What about the New York cops? Aren’t they doing anything about it?” Hawker asked.
“I suspect the precinct police are sympathetic but powerless. They have a suspicion about what’s going on, but they lack the manpower and money it would take to get evidence.”
Hawker stretched in his seat. The bright holiday glow of Grand Cayman Island was just ahead in the pitch of black sea, and Hendricks nosed the plane down as he started his descent toward Owen Roberts International Airport.
“And you think you can get the necessary evidence here?” Hawker said.
“With a little luck, I can.” Hayes smiled. “I own four of the island’s four hundred banks, and that will be a start.”
Hawker returned his smile. “And I suppose I am to go on to New York and start sniffing around, try to organize the German families?”
As the plane touched, skidded, and screeched on the cement runway, Hayes clapped James Hawker on the back. “More than that, Hawk—much more than that. One man can’t beat Fister Corporation, no matter how tough he is. I need you to come up with some kind of master plan so we can hit this bastard from more than one side. Use me. Use Hendricks. Hell, hire the New York National Guard if they’ll go for it—but get the job done.”
Jacob Montgomery Hayes stood and got his nylon duffel bag from behind the seat as Hendricks swung open the door. Just before he exited into the balmy Caribbean night, he added, “And don’t forget, Hawk—they know about us. Renard was proof of that. They’ll be gunning for you. And they’re going to throw the very best the criminal underworld has to offer right at your head.…
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About the Author
Randy Wayne White was born in Ashland, Ohio, in 1950. Best known for his series featuring retired NSA agent Doc Ford, he has published over twenty crime fiction and nonfiction adventure books. White began writing fiction while working as a fishing guide in Florida, where most of his books are set. His earlier writings include the Hawker series, which he published under the pen name Carl Ramm. White has received several awards for his fiction, and his novels have been featured on the New York Times bestseller list. He was a monthly columnist for Outside magazine and has contributed to several other publications, as well as lectured throughout the United States and travelled extensively. White currently lives on Pine Island in South Florida, and remains an active member of the community through his involvement with local civic affairs as well as the restaurant Doc Ford’s Sanibel Rum Bar and Grill.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1984 by Dell Publishing Co., Inc.
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2452-5
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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