Getting up out of his chair, the ambassador took the bomb and crossed the room to his wardrobe. Pulling open the hand-carved wooden doors on the handsome oak piece, he slid the device back into his inner vest pocket. It was deactivated, it had spent most of the day there . . . it would be as safe there as anywhere else.
The bomb was not the problem. The real problem that worried Hawkes was what to do next.
So, he asked himself, whom do I alert? Someone tell me who it is I'm supposed to trust . . . whom I can call that I can be certain isn't working for whoever just tried to kill me. And even after I think of those who might be on my side . . . what about their staff, the connections leading away from them? Who out there is so secure that no one within the range of their voice can possibly be tainted?
It was the curse of playing the civil service game, one he had lived with for a long time: Who do you trust? No matter how secure an organization might be—no matter how respected or honorable or reliable—if you had just one enemy within it somewhere, or at some level it housed a single person who could be bought . . .
The ambassador knew how that game was played. He had turned plenty of people against their own kind in his time—it was his job. Office politics . . . any kind of politics. Hawkes knew how pitifully few dollars it took to buy men's souls. He had authorized too many of the receipts not to know. More than once, he had laughed out loud at how little effort, how few lies it took to blind people to facts they knew to be true simply by playing on fears they were too weak to ignore. It was only part of the reason he had kept people at arm's length since he had left the service—since he had entered the corps and become a creature of government.
But now he was on the receiving end, and it was damned uncomfortable. Certainly he had been there before . . . but not like he was after finding a bomb in his own home. That was a change in the usual rules. That was different.
Hawkes was not even sure he could trust his own workers. The Graamler had not rolled under the 4 X 4 and jumped up onto the axle. Someone planted it there. And that someone had either snuck across the miles of his ranch unseen, did his work and then slithered back out again—or he had no need to sneak because he lived there.
Like I said before, laughed the cynical voice in his head, bet you wish you had more friends now, eh?
Aww, God, shut up, he told himself, chasing away his depression. Leave me alone. I like things just fine this way. This is who I am.
Then, glancing down at the dark form sleeping soundly on the floor, Hawkes whispered, "Besides, I have all the friends I need right here."
The ambassador's gaze stayed fixed on the dog.
Poor Dizzy, he thought. Twelve years old already. How much longer will you even be with me?
Then what will you do? came the cynical side of his brain. Then what?
Before Hawkes could answer himself, a deafening roar thundered through his house.
7
DISRAELI BOUNDED UP FROM THE FLOOR, HIS BARK NERVOUS and frightened. Hawkes staggered back to his feet, feeling somewhat the same. He had not even made it across his room before another explosion tore loose somewhere outside. This one went off much closer, blowing out the glass door to his raised porch and taking out the closest window. Flying glass filled the air. Shards embedded themselves in the walls and the ceiling, bounced off furniture, and rained down on the ambassador and his dog.
Hawkes slapped the retriever in the rump, aiming him for the door as he shouted, "Run, Dizzy! Run for it!"
Hawkes pulled open his nightstand drawer and grabbed out the old Ingram M-10 that had been there since he had come back from the war. A sudden memory flashed through his head that the weapon had not been cleaned since before he left for Australia. He reached into the drawer and grabbed the ammunition clips that always sat there with it, rammed one home, and shoved the rest into his pockets, casting aside the worry that the scaled-down submachine gun might be too dirty to fire. He had other things to worry about.
Who's doing this? he wondered, making his way to the door. This is twice. Twice someone's gotten over the fences: around the radar and the sensors. Past the guards. When the government had first insisted that he accept such elaborate protections, he had scoffed. Now he wished he had demanded twice as many.
"Who the hell are you people?" he shouted, taking the stairs two at a time down to the first floor. "And what the hell do you want with me?!"
Gunfire rang from the outside. Screams followed. Another explosion sounded and suddenly the ranch's power failed. Instantly the main house went black. Hawkes slowed his descent unconsciously, unsure in the dark of the number of stairs. The same heavy weapons he had heard before barked again. A hard line of terrible thuds slammed into the wood-and-stone walls of Hawkes's home, punching jagged holes close by, and filling the room with splinters and pebbles.
Over the din, Hawkes could hear the voices of the ranch's workers: some were shouting, barking orders; others were confused, lost—dying.
They're killing my people, thought the ambassador.
Lead smashed its way through three of the remaining windows in the massive living room. It gouged into the wood of the wall behind Hawkes, shattering the picture of his parents and knocking his Nobel Prize off the mantel. As he stood his ground for the moment, held helpless by the confusion in the air all around him, another explosion, seemingly louder than all the rest, rocked the grounds. The ambassador was thrown from his feet. He landed hard on the floor, smashing his left arm against the corner of the couch. Staggering to his feet, he snarled, "Maybe I should kill some of theirs."
The ambassador headed for the back of the house, Ingram still in hand. Coming into the kitchen, he could hear rough boots hitting the porch outside. Instinct told him they belonged to the attackers. Counting off the seconds he had before they reached the door, he headed for the large butcher's block in the center of the room and plucked up the cleaver hanging from its side. As he did, the door to his left flew open. Two armed men entered, one breaking left, the other right.
And welcome to my home, you sons of bitches.
Hawkes pulled back and hurled the cleaver end over end. Before it could dig into the chest of the man to the left, he let off a burst at the man to the right. Two of the three bullets tore into the attacker, spinning him around and bouncing him off the cold locker. The other took the full force of the cleaver hit. It staggered him slightly, but that was all.
Body armor, thought Hawkes. He could see the man shaking off the blow, his arm starting to come up. As time fractured into splinters of seconds, he pulled off another burst, and then another. The man fell backward, hitting the doorway he and his partner had just demolished. The dead man stumbled out onto the porch and then toppled off it. His body fell into the yard beyond, arms and legs awkwardly tangled.
The ambassador ignored him, hunching over the body that was still in the kitchen. Like his partner, he was dressed in sterile military fatigues. No marking to identify who he was, where he was from. Worse than that, the man's face had been bubbled.
Damn! Damn, damn, damn!
Bubbling was expensive. And if he had been bubbled that meant his teeth had been melted, his fingerprints filled, his retinas painted. It meant the invading force was most likely made up of mercenaries. It also meant that someone with money was behind what was happening. More than money—power. And suddenly, Hawkes knew what kind of fight he was in.
"One I'd better win."
Picking up the man's weapon, the ambassador was surprised at its weight; it was heavier than it looked. He recognized the Heckler & Koch insignia on the stock, but not its type. Not caring, Hawkes stood up, shoved his own, smaller weapon in his belt behind his back, and then headed for the door, holding the H&K at waist-high level.
The firefight outside had slackened off considerably. The ambassador instantly understood why. The ranch's power might have gone out, but fires in two of the outer buildings were lighting the area all too well. With the element of surprise gone, the invader
s were digging in, looking for cover, searching for targets.
Yeah, and I wonder who that would be?
Inching his way out onto the porch, Hawkes gave the outer yard a quick scan, then covered the same ground again more slowly, searching for targets of his own. No one was in sight-—no one was alive. He could make out nearly ten bodies on the ground within his field of vision. Sadly, he recognized far too many of them. Moving off the porch and down into the deep shadows cast by the service barn, the ambassador moved in that direction. He had a hunch he knew where at least some of the enemy were.
Setting private property ablaze was an old trick, one he had seen used on three different continents. Torch a man's house and he generally headed for a hose, not a rifle. Sizing up the angles at which the fires were set, it looked as if his attackers were looking to lure him and his people into the area near the large well in front. That meant they would be in the utility center, waiting to pick them off.
Hawkes crawled forward, toward the barn, the Ingram digging into his back with each shuffle of his legs. Drawing closer, he checked the safety on the unfamiliar weapon in his hands. As he made sure he was ready to go, gunfire erupted from the service barn. Screams of agony cut through the night. Before he could stand, another volley let loose, accompanied by more cries.
Getting to his feet, the ambassador rushed the back door. He felt his breath coming harder, could hear his heart in his ears.
Too old for this, he thought, mopping at his forehead. Supposed to be sipping my hot milk right now.
Getting to the rear of the barn, Hawkes threw himself against the wall. He pulled the H&K up against his chest and dug his back into the old wooden planks, making himself as small as possible. He inhaled deeply, bracing himself. A new explosion rocked the ground, forcing the breath from him. Taking another, he said, "All right. Let's get this over with."
The ambassador let his hand fall to the door. He was counting on the fact that the darkness had probably kept the invaders from even spotting it. Slipping the latch, he opened it quickly and threw himself inside. Ahead of him, at the edge of the barn, he spotted five, maybe six figures. All those he could see clearly were dressed like the man who lay dead in his kitchen. All stood in a row, firing into the night at the backs of his people as they tried to reach the well.
Well, when in Rome . . .
Hawkes lifted the heavy weapon, squared it off at mid-chest height, and then opened fire at the left end of the row. He had meant to swing along the row and mow all of the gunmen down, but he had not reckoned on the weapon's recoil. The H&K had been modified to fire explosive shells, rounds that threw out an enormous back kick. The ambassador was able to keep his finger wrapped around the trigger only long enough to fire twice before being thrown backward, out of the barn.
The three invaders in the center of the line were instantly blown apart. The one to their right was thrown sideways, with gaping shrapnel wounds in his arm and thigh. The fifth escaped harm, however.
Taking advantage of the sudden drop in the volume of fire coming from the utility barn, several of Hawkes's wranglers triggered off again. The last of the five withdrew his position quickly, deciding to take his chances with whoever had attacked from the rear than with the men advancing on his position.
He hit the back door long before Hawkes had regained his footing. The ambassador had landed on his back. The blow had knocked the air out of him. The Ingram had torn into his spine, shooting stars of pain through his skull. Groping wildly, half-blind with pain, he was only halfway up when the fleeing soldier came through the door. The soldier spotted him instantly.
At once, the mercenary gripped the weapon tighter, swinging it around for a good shot. Hawkes desperately tried to do the same. Every move he made was far too many seconds behind his opponent, however. He was still trying to stand, still trying to bring his captured weapon around even as his enemy's trigger finger was tightening.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Disraeli hit the soldier solidly on the side, sending him flying. The man's machine gun discharged, barely missing Hawkes. The soldier hit the ground clumsily, landing hard on his side, cracking his head.
Wasting no time, the large black Labrador bit at the man's face, tearing his nose clear away from his head.
Ignoring the wild, blubbering screams erupting from his victim, the dog drove his teeth into the man's neck, crushing his windpipe. Blood gushed from the wound. Not troubled by the warm spray, Disraeli bit harder, then jerked his head upward. A large chunk of the man's throat came away with the motion. The air filled with blood.
Holding his side, the ambassador looked down at the retriever and whispered, "Damn good dog."
And then gunfire erupted from the back door of the barn. The shooter toppled back inside, thrown over by his weapon's recoil. Several yards from Hawkes's feet, Disraeli lay still, cut in two pieces—dead instantly.
The ambassador stood frozen; his eyes stretched wide. Inside, he understood what had happened: the shooter who had been aiming for him hadn't understood his weapon any better than he had the H&K. The recoil had thrown his shot wild, killing Disraeli instead of Hawkes.
His teeth grinding together, his eyes unblinking, his body trembling from rage, Hawkes started for the barn. He entered without caution or subtlety, immediately spotting a figure moving several feet inside. He came up to it and stood over it. The man was unarmed, not even able to hold on to his weapon when the recoil had caught him.
The ambassador lowered his weapon to fire, and then something the back of his mind had noticed forced him to stop. To look—to see that whoever had killed the faithful retriever was not dressed as the others. He wore regular clothing, clothing that Hawkes was startled to find he recognized.
"No."
Tossing aside the H&K, the ambassador reached down and jerked Daniel Stine to his feet. Holding him by his shirtfront, Hawkes spun the corps-appointed aide backward and slammed him against the side wall. Inside his head, a thin voice of reason whispered to him, pleading incessantly, Don't kill him. He knows who did this. He knows why it happened. Where it came from. Don't kill him. Don't kill him. He can tell us what's going on. He knows. He planted the bomb. He knows. Don't kill him. He knows—he knows—he knows.
Hawkes did not care. It did not matter what the man hanging from his fists knew. The ambassador grabbed Stine's head in his hands and smashed it against the wall. Once, twice, as hard as he could. Again and again.
For twelve years he had one friend, one confidant, one being in all the universe he trusted. Now he had no one.
Hawkes roared from deep within his chest, a numbing, echoing bellow that tore his lungs and bloodied his throat. Still screaming, he jerked Stine away from the wall and pitched him forward, toward the front of the barn. The aide stumbled blindly, flopping wildly in the flickering shadow-light cast by the fires.
The ambassador ran after the younger man, stepping on him when he finally fell. Hawkes let his heel dig into the man's chest, trampling him as hard as he could. In the back of his mind, common sense still raged at him: Don't kill him—don't kill him—
The ambassador's eyes cleared for a moment. In the background, over the last of the gunfire, he could hear the roar of the blaze taking his home to the ground. He could make out the voices of some of his people trying to control the fires, trying to help the injured. He could hear others crying, screaming as their pain pounded its way out of them, spiraling up into the night sky.
And then, out of all he could hear, his imagination created a noise for him, a sound resembling one of a tortured hound, dying by inches.
Without hesitation, Benton Hawkes reached behind his back, pulled his Ingram out of his belt, and fired, emptying his clip into the man on the ground before him.
8
THE NEXT MORNING FOUND HAWKES IN LITTLE BETTER shape than when the fighting had ended the night before. In many ways, he was worse off. The ambassador sat in a chair on his side porch, folding his arms over the top pockets of his leat
her vest. His eyes simply stared off into space. As far as anyone who had seen him could tell, he had not moved since he had first sat down. Cook placed a mug of coffee in front of him, but he did not touch it. She came out later and slid a small loaf of freshly baked bread in front of him as well.
It sat next to the mug, untouched. Unnoticed. By that time, the coffee was cold, a thin film layered across its surface. A half hour later Cook came back out and removed both the mug and the loaf. She did not return. Hawkes sat throughout, thinking. Brooding.
He and his people had put out the fires. They had collected their dead—collected their attackers as well. For a short while they had debated whether they should radio anyone. It was the same paranoia that had stifled Hawkes's actions before. Whom could they call? And why?7
In the end, however, they chose people they trusted in the local sheriff's office.
It was obvious to Hawkes that whoever had authorized the attack would have to assess its level of success before making another move. It meant they were safe for the moment—but only for the moment.
Oh, yes, quite true, thought the ambassador bitterly, and that's contingent only on us having found all of their inside people.
Stine's betrayal had affected him badly. Yes, he had kept the man—boy, really—at arm's length. It was his way. It was how he treated everyone.
Get over yourself, Benton, he chided himself mentally in a brittle tone. You're not feeling betrayed. You're feeling embarrassed. You're getting old—old and foolish. You're starting to trust people . . . again. Remember what happened the last time you did that?
Hawkes's right hand curled into a fist. He remembered. All too vividly. He remembered the bodies that had been piled up that time as well. Because he had been open to his people. Friendly and trusting.
Man O' War Page 6