The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy

by Mike Resnick

  “I'm just a student,” said Nighthawk with a smile. “What would I do with a weapon?”

  “You did not answer the question.”

  “No, I don't have any weapons.”

  “Have you any existing medical conditions?”

  “None.”

  The machine returned his passport, along with a 30-day visa and a list of hotels.

  “You have cleared Customs, Vincent Landis,” it announced. “Welcome to Solio II.”

  “Thank you.”

  Nighthawk got up and walked out of the booth, and found Father Christmas waiting for him.

  “How'd it go?” asked the older man.

  “No trouble. And you?”

  “Nothing to it.”

  “Let's get out of here,” said Nighthawk, heading toward an exit. They followed the departing crowd to an airbus and rode into the city. When they reached a street that seemed to have lots of hotels, they got off.

  “What now?” asked Father Christmas.

  Nighthawk studied the area carefully. “I'm trying to remember where the Security Division is.” Finally he shrugged. “It doesn't make any difference. We'll find it later. Let's go get a couple of rooms.”

  They registered at one of the hotels, and met a couple of hours later for dinner.

  “Did you locate it?” asked Father Christmas.

  “The Security Division?” said Nighthawk. “Yeah, it's about half a mile away.”

  “And teeming with armed men?”

  “It is now,” said Nighthawk. “We'll walk by and see how it looks after dark.”

  They ate dinner in the hotel's restaurant, and Father Christmas spent most of the meal complaining that the meat seemed insipid next to a cut of Redbison. They waited until dark, then walked outside and headed over toward the large building that housed Hernandez's office.

  “I'm nervous,” said Father Christmas.

  “Why?” asked Nighthawk.

  “I don't know. Maybe because it's been so easy to get this far. I keep thinking someone's watching us and is getting ready to pounce.”

  “Won't do ‘em much good,” said Nighthawk with a grim smile. “I must be walking around with thirty Maria Theresa dollars in my pockets.”

  “You mean you've already assembled the gun?” asked Father Christmas.

  “I thought I'd attract less attention assembling it in my room than in front of the Security Division,” said Nighthawk wryly.

  Father Christmas kept looking nervously off to his right and left. Finally Nighthawk stopped and turned to him.

  “Look, if you'd be happier robbing a church, I'll point a couple out to you and—”

  “I don't want to rob a church.”

  “Well, you sure as hell need something to do with your hands,” said Nighthawk. “You're even making me nervous.”

  “Sorry,” said Father Christmas, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

  “All right,” said Nighthawk, giving his companion a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Let's keep going.”

  They walked another two blocks, and finally found themselves staring at a large building.

  “This is it?” asked the older man.

  “This is it.”

  “Well, how do you approach it—from the front, the rear, the side?”

  “The front,” answered Nighthawk. “Isn't that why I'm a student from Aristotle? Tomorrow I'll just walk up and make an appointment.”

  They were about to leave when a window on the third floor opened, and a sleek figure stepped out onto a balcony. It was Melisande, dressed all in gold.

  “It's her!” whispered Nighthawk.

  “I knew those ID's were too good to be true,” muttered Father Christmas.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “They know we're here, son, or at least they expect us any moment,” said the older man. “Look at her, dressed in gold and glitter and leaning out over the edge of the balcony. They're using her as bait.”

  “For me?”

  “Who else?”

  “And they think I'm going to burst into the building and shoot my way up to the third floor because she's standing there?” continued Nighthawk.

  “Yeah,” said Father Christmas. “Pretty damned foolish, aren't they?”

  “Sure are.”

  “So what do we do now?” asked the older man. “Go back to the hotel?”

  “You can go if you want.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me?” repeated Nighthawk. “I'm going to burst into the building and shoot my way up to the third floor.”

  “I thought I just explained: That's exactly what they're expecting,” said Father Christmas.

  “They're expecting a man,” replied Nighthawk, checking his ceramic pistol and thrusting it back into a pocket. “What they're getting is the Widowmaker.”

  He turned and began climbing the ornate stairs to the main entrance.

  28.

  Nighthawk entered the building, passing through the security scanner without setting off any alarms. Father Christmas, after a moment's hesitation, followed him at a safe distance.

  A young man sat behind a desk in the main foyer. He looked up at Nighthawk with a bored expression on his sullen face.

  “May I help you?”

  “My name's Landis. Vince Landis. I'm a graduate student from Aristotle. I'd like to arrange an interview with Colonel James Hernandez.”

  “Are you seeking employment?”

  “I told you—I want an interview.”

  “Concerning what subject?”

  “I don't see that it's any of your business,” said Nighthawk.

  “Rudeness will not get you your appointment,” said the young man punctiliously. “I must know the purpose of your request.”

  “I'm a student of ciphers and communications,” said Nighthawk. “I want to speak to him about his use of them.”

  “I will transmit your request to him, Mr. Landis,” said the man. “Have you an address where you can be reached?”

  “I'll wait right here.”

  “It may take days or even weeks for an appointment,” said the young man. “And that's if he'll agree to see you at all.”

  “I haven't got days or weeks,” replied Nighthawk. “I'm leaving Solio II in a couple of hours. It'll have to be right now.”

  “That's out of the question.”

  “Contact him and let him decide.”

  “Are you giving me orders?” demanded the young man, rising to his feet.

  “I'm trying to save your life,” said Nighthawk. “Now call him.”

  “I'll do no such thing!”

  Nighthawk pulled out his pistol and fired at point blank range. The man collapsed behind his desk, and Nighthawk, without another look at him, sought out the nearest airlift.

  “Don't go that way,” said a voice behind him, and he turned to find himself facing Father Christmas.

  “Someone's got to be monitoring the lobby here,” continued the older man. “They know you've killed that young feller. You get into an airlift now, you've obliged them by confining yourself, and they won't let you out until there are more guns facing you than even you can handle. If I were you, I'd find a stairway instead. Even if they come after you, you'll have a little more room to manipulate.”

  “Makes sense,” said Nighthawk, heading for the ornate curving staircase that led to the upper levels of the building. “Keep clear once the shooting starts.”

  “I ain't no hero, son,” Father Christmas assured him. “Once the guns come out, you're on your own.”

  “That suits me fine.”

  “Somehow I thought it would,” said Father Christmas wryly.

  Gun in hand, Nighthawk began climbing the stairs, alert for any sign of movement above or below him. He made it to the second floor without any opposition. Then, as he was about to climb to the third floor, a door opened behind him and two thin beams of light burned into the railing. He whirled and got off three quick shots, and two men, each h
olding a laser pistol, fell to the floor.

  “Nice job,” said Father Christmas’ voice from well below him.

  “Thanks,” said Nighthawk.

  “Be careful,” urged Father Christmas. “They won't be that dumb again.”

  Nighthawk surveyed the staircase. Given the way it curved, the top of his head would be a target for anyone on the third floor before he could see to fire back.

  “Right,” he said.

  He stepped back and considered his options, then turned and walked quickly to the office in which the two men had been hiding. There was a large window, and he opened it and leaned out. The sides of the building were as smooth as glass; climbing up on the outside would be impossible.

  He stepped back into the hall and picked up the dead men's weapons. Now that his presence was known, the more firepower he had, the better.

  He approached the stairs, then paused. There had to be another way to the third floor besides the stairs and the airlift. Perhaps a service lift. He was about to look for it when a door opened at the far end of the hall. A man stepped out, saw him, and started shouting. Nighthawk quickly silenced him with a burst of solid light from a laser pistol.

  There was certainly a service elevator, but he didn't have time to hunt for it. Besides, if he started walking down the hallway, he'd have cut off his options, since the airlift and the stairway would both behind him and it wouldn't take much to isolate him.

  So it was back to the stairs. He began climbing them in a semi-crouch, ceramic pistol in one hand, laser in the other, not so fast that he was an easy target, not so slow that Hernandez had time to send more men to meet him. When he was almost halfway up, just reaching the turn where his head would become visible, he measured the angles by eye and fired his laser once more, holding the pistol steady as the deadly beam burned through the floor above him. There were exclamations of surprise and a scream of pain, and he knew he'd gotten at least one of the men who were waiting for him. The problem was that he didn't know how many were left, or where they were positioned.

  He heard a footstep below him and spun around, half-expecting to see Father Christmas. But it was a uniformed guard, taking aim. He dropped down and got off a shot as he tumbled down a couple of stairs. When he regained his balance long enough to look, the guard was dead.

  He fired upward, blindly, just to make whoever was on the third level keep their distance, but he knew he couldn't remain trapped on the stairs between floors for much longer. He'd just about made up his mind to go back to the second floor and look for some other means of reaching Hernandez’ office when he heard Melisande's voice ring out from above.

  "Jefferson!"

  He paused just an instant. Then, pocketing his ceramic pistol, he took a laser in each hand, swept every part of the third floor he could see with deadly light, and raced up the stairs, which were already starting to smoke. Two men moved to stop him; both were dead by the time he reached the top step. Two more bodies lay where he had shot them through the floor.

  He looked around for Melisande but couldn't see her. The corridor ran about sixty feet in each direction from the stairway, and he began walking down the hallway to his left, guns at the ready.

  Suddenly a man burst out of a room behind him and hurled himself at Nighthawk's back. Nighthawk went sprawling, and both laser pistols flew from his hands. He tried to get up, only to have a large forearm come down heavily on the back of his neck. He rolled onto his side, and was able to see his attacker, a huge man some six and a half feet tall, topping 300 pounds without any fat on him at all.

  Nighthawk twisted and turned, trying to free himself, but the man wouldn't budge. Finally he snaked his hand down to his side, then moved it slowly, painfully, inch by inch, until he found what he was looking for—his attacker's testicles. He grabbed and squeezed, and the man let out a howl of pain and tried to roll away. Nighthawk held on, squeezing and twisting, as the man shrieked and squirmed, and finally, with one enormous effort, pulled free.

  The man, red of face, breathing heavily, got to his feet and pulled a wicked-looking knife from his belt. Nighthawk looked for his pistols, but they were too far away. The man hunched over, holding the knife like someone who was experienced with the weapon, and edged forward.

  Nighthawk, his back to the railing, realized the man would reach him momentarily. He got to one knee, checked for escape routes, found none. Then, suddenly, he grabbed one of the railing's smoldering supports, pulled it loose, and swung it toward the man's head, all in one motion. It split his opponent's head open with a sickening thud. The man fell forward, and Nighthawk bent down, letting the huge body somersault over him and past the railing. By the time it hit the floor two levels below, Nighthawk had picked up his laser pistols, and was once again stalking down the corridor.

  He heard a sudden sound behind him, and saw Melisande, well past the landing, almost at the end of the opposite corridor, struggling to free herself from two uniformed men. They overpowered her and pulled her back into the room from which she had come.

  He raced down the corridor, past the landing, toward the room she was in. A shot rang out, and he felt a bullet bury itself in his shoulder from behind. The force of the bullet spun him around, and he got a quick glimpse of a man ducking back into a room, almost at the spot he had reached before seeing Melisande. He fired his laser, but it was too late; the corridor was empty.

  As he turned back, ready to race to Melisande's room, a sonic pistol hummed and suddenly he staggered as a field of solid sound overwhelmed him. He fell to one knee, his ears and nose bleeding, and fired back. The man with the sonic pistol fell into the hallway, dead—but even as he did so, another bullet dug deep into the back of Nighthawk's left thigh. He turned and fired where he knew the shot came from, and this time he burned off the sniper's hand. There was a scream, then silence.

  And now, suddenly, every room seemed to hold a sniper. Dozens of doors up and down the corridor slid open and shut, just long enough for the occupant to take a shot at Nighthawk. A laser put a smoking hole in his left foot, and another burned off part of his ear. He fired back, and two more men were dead. A bullet smashed his right knee. He fell to the floor, but he melted the man who'd shot him. Another bullet hit him in the back, then two more, and as he tried to regain his feet he found that he couldn't get up, either because of the knee or the bullet in his lower spine, he didn't know which. He dragged himself to a doorway, trained a laser on it, and tried to burn a hole through to the interior, where he would momentarily be out of the line of fire. The door, made of a tightly-bonded titanium alloy, glowed red, but didn't melt. A bullet burst through his hand, and he felt the bones splinter as the laser dropped to the floor.

  He inadvertently grabbed his broken hand with his left hand, dropping his other laser in the process. A molecular imploder disabled both lasers, and suddenly he was lying on the floor of the corridor, bleeding from more than a dozen wounds, unable to move.

  A door at the end of the corridor opened, and James Hernandez stepped out. He walked over to Nighthawk and stared down at him.

  “You should have stayed away,” he said.

  “Couldn't,” rasped Nighthawk, choking on his own blood.

  “Why? You killed the Marquis, you saved your ... ah ... progenitor—or at least bought him a few more years. You must have known that I'd kill you if you came back here.”

  Nighthawk couldn't force any words out. He settled for nodding his head weakly.

  “Then why?” asked Hernandez, genuinely puzzled. “There's no price on my head. Why did you come back?”

  He tried to mouth the word “Melisande” and found that he couldn't. “For her,” he grated.

  “Ah.” Hernandez smiled. “I didn't think anyone was that young or that foolish.” He turned and spoke to someone who was out of Nighthawk's line of vision. “Come say good-bye to the bold young hero who was going to rescue you from my nefarious clutches.”

  And then, suddenly, she was standing next to Nighthawk.r />
  “You're a fool,” she said.

  He convulsed with pain. “I know.”

  “And now you're going to die.”

  “Everyone dies,” he replied, coughing blood.

  “You could have just stayed in the Oligarchy,” said Melisande angrily.

  “Probably,” he grated, as a wave of pain and dizziness overcame him.

  “Then why didn't you?”

  His lips moved, but no words came out.

  “Well, this is all very touching,” said Hernandez, “but I'm afraid the time has come to deliver the coup de gras. Have you any last statement to make?”

  Again the lips moved silently.

  “Kneel down and tell me what he's saying,” ordered Hernandez.

  “Why me?” demanded Melisande.

  “You slept with him. Who better to hear his final words?”

  She glared at Hernandez for a moment, then knelt down next to Nighthawk and leaned over until her ear was next to Nighthawk's lips.

  Suddenly there was the sound of a gunshot, and the blue-skinned girl jerked spasmodically just once, then rolled over with a coin-sized hole in her chest.

  “I saved you the trouble,” whispered Nighthawk as Hernandez kicked the ceramic pistol out of his hand and aimed his gun at the young man's head.

  Epilogue

  They buried Nighthawk the next morning, in an unmarked grave beside the Pearl of Maracaibo.

  Father Christmas walked across the large cemetery, looking neither right nor left, ignoring the dozens of armed, uniformed men who watched his every move. When he reached the grave he stopped, crossed his hands sedately in front of him, and lowered his head.

  “I rather thought I'd see you at the ceremony,” said Hernandez, joining him.

  “I hate services.”

  “But you like churches.”

  “This was a little one,” said Father Christmas. “Hardly anything worth stealing, except for the cross behind the altar.”

  “How did you know about it?” asked Hernandez. “No one saw you check it out.”

  The older man smiled. “If people could spot me when I'm casing a job, how long do you think I'd stay in business?”