Denver Strike (13 page)

“We don't have far to go to that first mine. It's about ten klicks beyond that next peak.” Jake nodded ahead to a towering mountain cap covered with white and veined with jagged rocks. It seemed to Hawker very unlikely that the chopper would ever make it up and over. “That's Mount Holy Cross. More than fourteen thousand feet high. A real monster, huh?”

“Are we going to try to get over it?” the vigilante asked, his voice calm.

“Naw, no way. I did it once, but it was real hairy. Too high, man. The blades got nothing to dig into. We need to cut west a bit anyway, so we'll sneak around it. What do you expect to see at these abandoned mine sites, anyway?”

“I don't expect to see anything,” Hawker replied. “But I want to take a look just in case.”

“I got it,” the pilot said, snapping his fingers. “You're an investor, right? You got some kind of group maybe thinking of starting a new ski resort. You're thinking of maybe building something between Vail and Aspen, right?”

Hawker tried to look troubled. “Even if I did represent such a group, I couldn't tell you,” he said. “Do you understand me, Jake? I've paid you well to fly me around, and I expect some professional discretion, okay? If our competition found out, they could undercut us or get some of those environmental hotheads out on the warpath. Hell, they kept the Olympic Games out of Colorado. We sure as hell wouldn't stand much of a chance if the wrong people found out.”

“No problem.” The man laughed. “Hell, I'm all for it. I can maybe keep my eye open for your group and make a small investment on the ground floor. Shit, I thought maybe one of those two duffels you loaded on board was maybe filled with cocaine. I was afraid you were going to ask me to drop it. I don't need to get involved in some big drug bust.”

“No need to worry about that,” the vigilante said, laughing. “I swear to you, there are no drugs in my duffel.”

They came off the side of the mountain into a long valley. The valley was a cradle of open fields, sparse trees, and a raging river. The western edge was streaked with twisting brown ruts that disappeared into heavy woods. They were the tracks of vehicles.

“Why would there be cars up here?” the vigilante asked.

The pilot shook his head. “You got me. There's some kind of private hunting lodge up here, but it ain't hunting season. Maybe there's a group of bird watchers up here or something.”

“Who owns the hunting lodge?”

“How the hell should I know? Rich people. Who else? These mountains are owned by people from all over the world. Arabs, Jews, Japs, maybe even a few Americans—actors and rock stars, mostly. They're the only ones who can afford it. Hell, a rich person doesn't figure he's made it till he can brag at cocktail parties about his condo in Aspen.”

“How long has the lodge been here?”

“Longer than I've been here, friend. See it down there through the trees? It's that big log cabin place. The one right on the river.”

The lodge was dimly visible beneath the trees, a great dark L-shape with a stone fireplace. The tire tracks all led directly to it, though there were no cars visible.

“What's that?” asked the vigilante. “See it hanging from the trees there?”

“Yeah. And it looks like the snow's all red beneath it. Like blood or something. What the hell? Hang on. I'm taking her down for a closer look.”

The helicopter banked sharply as the pilot drove the craft downward within a couple of hundred feet of the ground. “They've got some deer hanging up there,” Hawker said, relieved. He had been afraid he had stumbled onto the bodies of Dulles and Lomela. “They've got five or six of them, waiting to be butchered.”

The pilot swore softly. “That's what I hate about these rich bastards,” he said. “They buy property up here, and they think they own the goddamned mountains. Hell, it ain't even deer season, but they've gone ahead and shot more than they can probably use. Hell, see there? Half of them are does. The bastards! I'm gonna go in close and give them jerks a scare. Maybe they'll think we're game wardens.”

Hawker shook his head. “I'm no fan of poachers, but I'm not up here looking for game law offenders. Skip the kamikaze act. Find me those silver mines.”

“You're paying for the flight, Mr. Hawker,” said the pilot stubbornly, “but I'm still at the controls. I'm going to give those bastards a little something to worry about, and then I'm gonna notify the state game warden when we get to Aspen. People like that need to be shown that the laws apply to them just like they do to everyone else.”

The vigilante said nothing as the young pilot brought the craft hovering low over the trees in which hung the dead deer. Snow swirled away in a fog beneath them, and Hawker wasn't surprised to see several men come running out of the lodge.

But he was surprised to see that one of them carried something long and tubular over his shoulder.

Hawker grabbed the pilot's shoulder. “Get the hell out of here!” he yelled. “Now!”

Jake's eyes had grown wide. “What in the hell is that thing? He's—he's aiming it at us!”

“Damn it, get this chopper moving! It's some kind of ground-to-air weapon. He's going to drop us.”

The pilot yanked the stick abruptly backward, and the helicopter jumped over the approaching trees with a burst of speed that sent Hawker's stomach up into his throat. He turned in his seat and looked behind them.
“Shit,”
he whispered grimly. Vectoring after them, fluttering with a tail of black smoke, was some kind of small rocket.

“Put her down,” the vigilante said coolly. “Get her down below the treeline, or we're both dead.”

The young pilot didn't have to be told twice. He shoved the stick forward, and they were immediately hurtling toward the ground, the branches of trees swarming past, going much too fast. Hawker was about to yell out, to offer more directions to the terrified pilot, when there was a deafening explosion, a burst of bright white light, and then the chopper was spinning wildly, dropping down through the trees, toward the mountain, and toward death.

thirteen

There was a terrible slapping-cracking noise as breaking tree limbs slowed the twirling descent of the chopper. Then there was a bone-jarring crash much harder than what Hawker was prepared for.

“Fire!”

The scream of the young pilot yanked the vigilante from the gauzy twilight world of near-unconsciousness. The entire back section of the helicopter was ablaze with withering white flames. Hawker found his seat-belt clasp, reached behind for his duffel, then threw himself out the door onto the fresh snow.

“Help me! I can't move!”

The shriek was more like that of a terrified woman. But it wasn't a woman. It was the pilot. For some reason he couldn't get out of the blazing chopper.

The vigilante leaped to his feet—and immediately fell. His left ankle felt as if it had been jammed up into his leg. On his hands and knees he crawled toward the portside door of the aircraft. Jake was pounding frantically against the window, trying to get out.

“Don't let me burn, for God's sake!”

The vigilante locked his hands on the door latch—and heard his flesh sizzle. He yanked off his down vest, wrapped it around the handle, and tried again. Hawker put all his strength into it, all his weight, and finally the door snapped open.

The snow was deliciously cold as he tumbled backward onto the soft forest floor.

“My legs won't move. You got to pull me out, Mr. Hawker! Hurry. I can't—stand—this heat!”

The vigilante was by the man's side in an instant. He used one hand to try to shield his own face from the flames and the other on the release clasp of the seat belt. After long agonizing seconds, the belt finally broke free. Hawker grabbed Jake by the shirt and pulled him clear of the blazing chopper, dragging him onto the ground like a heavy sack.

For the first time, Hawker looked back toward the hunting lodge. The men who had shot them would be coming soon. People didn't use hand-carried ground-to-air missiles unless they planned to follow up and hide their own tracks. In this case, following up meant finishing the kill, hiding the bodies, and destroying all evidence of the chopper.

Who the hell were they, anyway? Left-wing reactionaries on a secret training mission? Drug-crazed hunters who would stop at nothing to keep from getting caught with their illegal kill? Or maybe the pilot had inadvertently stumbled onto Nek's secret hideout.

Whoever they were, the vigilante knew he didn't have much time to get ready for them.

“Jake? Can you hear me? Can you understand what I'm saying?” The vigilante held the pilot's head in his lap, trying to get some idea of how badly hurt he was. He didn't look good. There was absolutely no body movement below his waist. Apparently he had broken his spine in the crash. His face was ruby-red, the skin blistered like a barbecued frankfurter. His hands were a blackened mess. “I'm going to try to put you over my shoulder and carry you out of here,” Hawker said.

“No!” The young pilot's eyes fluttered open. “Too—tired. Let me stay.… Snow feels so good, so … cool.…” Hawker felt the man's muscles contract violently as his green eyes turned suddenly foggy. “A missile,” the pilot whispered in fading disbelief. “They hit us … with … a damn
missile.”

Then his mouth dropped open as his body became a solid meaty weight in the vigilante's arms.

He was dead.

Disgusted, Hawker spat into the clean snow—and realized for the first time that he was bleeding from the mouth. He touched his face and saw more blood on his fingers. The windshield of the chopper had apparently burst and cut him. He must have looked like one hell of a mess.

But at least he was alive. And fairly mobile. That's more than he could say for Jake.

He hadn't known the pilot well, but he had seemed like a nice kid, a square shooter who wasn't afraid to put the cards on the table. It was a rare quality these days. Hawker rolled the body over and patted the kid's back pocket, took out the billfold, and slipped it into his own pants before he put on his down vest. The pilot wore no wedding ring, but there would be a girl somewhere, and her picture and probably her phone number would be in the wallet. Hawker would call her when he got the chance.

Suddenly, there was the distant crashing noise of men rushing through the woods. And there were voices: “This way. It went down someplace over here!”

The vigilante could hear voices coming nearer. What was it that seemed familiar about the voices? Then he realized: several of the men had heavy German accents.

That's when he knew. That's when he knew that, if he had been in danger before, the danger was now tripled.

This was Bill Nek's hunting lodge. And these were Bill Nek's men coming to get him.

Hawker got painfully to his feet, drew a can-shaped Ingram MAC10 submachine gun from the heavy duffel, and hobbled off through the forest cursing the fresh sheet of snow that covered the ground. It was impossible to travel without leaving tracks! He tried moving from one bare rock to another, but they were too far apart and it didn't really work anyway. Nek's men would find his tracks and be on him in a matter of minutes.

What the hell was he going to do?

He had no choice. He had to run as best he could on the bad ankle and hope the Germans wasted enough time at the crash site for him to get away. He knew how unlikely that was, but he had to hope.

Ahead the forest opened into rocky crags without a horizon. Could the river be ahead? Hawker wished he had paid more attention to the lay of the land. Maybe he'd luck out and find a cave.

There was a thud in the snowbank ahead of him, followed by the Winchester whistle-whack of a rifle being fired. Hawker turned to see three men come charging out of the woods after him. All of them carried rifles. And now they were all firing at him.

Hawker checked the safety tang of the Ingram to make sure it was on full automatic, and he turned and fired, holding the weapon in one hand at hip level. The little Ingram had an effective range of only seventy-five meters, but it could spray three hundred rounds of 9mm slugs in fifteen seconds.

The vigilante waved the weapon back and forth only once, and the thirty-two-round clip was empty—and the three men lay kicking and writhing in splotches of bright scarlet on the hillside, as the clatter of the submachine gun echoed through the mountains.

Hawker threw the empty clip back into the duffel and slid in a fresh clip before hobbling over the hill. There was a snowy embankment ahead. He hoped like hell there was a cave or something on the other side. He stopped for a moment and looked back before climbing over the embankment—and wished immediately that he had not bothered.

A man was kneeling on the hillside beneath the trees, holding something dark and tubular on his shoulder. The vigilante knew immediately that it must be a weapon similar to that which had knocked the helicopter from the sky. An army M72 disposable missile launcher, maybe.

Whatever the hell it was, Hawker didn't want to be around when it went off.

He took three long steps toward the embankment, wincing with pain, aware of a weird whooshing noise and a piercing whine as he rolled over the edge of the snow mound expecting to see a hill—but there was no hill, just a sheer, sheer drop—then he was falling, tumbling, smacking, rolling through powdered snow, and a moment later there was an explosion and the whole top lifted off the embankment and rolled toward him.

fourteen

James Hawker was aware of darkness and of numbing cold. He could hear voices, too. Strangely muted voices, as if they were coming through a wall.

He strained to open his eyes until he realized his eyes were already open. An opaque light was noticeable directly in front of him, like light beams through crystal. With a start, he realized that he must be buried under snow. The voices he heard must be the voices of Bill Nek's men looking for him.