Denver Strike (14 page)

The vigilante took quick inventory of his body. He could move his toes, his legs, his arms, his head. He took a deep breath of genuine relief. He might suffocate, but at least he wasn't paralyzed.

He seemed to be in some kind of natural culvert of rock, covered with snow. Because of the culvert, he had a little room to move in, and there was obviously also enough air trapped for him to breathe.

Falling into the culvert had no doubt saved him. Now it might even provide a way for him to escape.

But Hawker didn't move. The voices seemed very close, although he could not understand what they were saying. It was possible that the men were walking over him at that very moment. Hawker waited motionlessly just as long as he could stand the cold.

It was probably ten or fifteen minutes. It seemed like two hours. He realized that he would have to get his body moving soon if he were not to suffer severe frostbite. It had been some time since he had heard the last of the voices. He edged himself over onto his stomach. Snow and gravel rained down on his head. Hawker paused for a long moment, fearful that this might be the beginning of another avalanche. When all was still once more, he began to move again.

There seemed to be some kind of opening ahead. He began to burrow his way along, pushing the duffel bag ahead of him. To the vigilante's delight, the culvert widened unexpectedly. The roof was no longer of snow—it was made of rock. He was at the mouth of some kind of shallow cave. Now, instead of being unbearably cold, the snow and the rock seemed to work together to produce a warm stillness. Hawker found a ledge, and he sat with his head almost brushing the roof of the cave. He blew on his numb fingers and flexed his toes, warming himself. Yes, he could make it here for a while. He could survive here until it was safe to leave.

The vigilante checked his watch: 2:14
P.M.
The sun would set behind the mountains in another three hours.

Hawker unzipped the duffel and searched through the firearms and heavy ordnance until he found his good black wool sweater and his black watch cap. He put them both on for extra warmth, then used the duffel for a pillow and settled back.

For a long time he had been refining his ability to use his mind to control his mind
and
his body. Hawker called upon that ability now. He ordered his body to relax as he switched his mind to a numb but still alert state of hypnosis. In a back compartment of his mind he was aware of his heartbeat getting slower and slower as his body temperature stabilized. He could almost feel his nerves and body healing in this deep meditative state.

James Hawker told his mind to reawaken at sunset, and then he followed hypnosis into sleep.

He awoke in darkness, aware of pain.

James Hawker flexed his neck, his arms, his legs, his swollen ankle. The helicopter crash had hurt him more than he had suspected. He wished he could go back to sleep and not wake up for a long, long time. But in this land of ice and silent mountains, he knew such a sleep might mean death.

The vigilante sat and touched the top of the narrow cave. When he felt able, he rifled through the duffel bag until he found the little Tekna waterproof light. He twisted the cap and shined the beam around. It made an eerie light, like looking up from the inside of a grave. Then he began to slide toward the mouth of the cave. Soon the rock ceiling disappeared and the roof was formed by only ice and snow. What had happened to Nek's men? Hawker wondered. Was there any chance they would have left a guard to watch for him? No, that was unlikely. Completely covered by snow, they would have assumed that he was either dying or dead.

Furthermore, it was after sunset—at least, it seemed so in this dark world.

Hawker removed the cannonlike .44 magnum Smith & Wesson revolver from the duffel. He checked to make sure it was not loaded, then he used the butt to chip away at the overhead ice. When he had almost knocked a hole through the ceiling, the whole thing suddenly collapsed on him, and for one terrifying moment he thought he really might be buried alive. But then he poked his head through to see a silver cusp of moon and bright Venus glowing over the bronze afterglow of sunset.

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—”

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?”