Denver Strike (17 page)

When he got near the building, he saw a man sitting outside what apparently was the lone extrance—a set of double doors, probably steel fire doors. Hawker got down on his belly and crawled in for a closer look. When he was about ten yards from the door, he could see the guard plainly: a thin man with jet-black hair, sitting with his weapon at his feet looking at
Playboy
, his jacket collar pulled up tight around his neck.

If this is the type of security Cwong's men maintain, Hawker thought to himself, I won't have much trouble at all. Hawker immediately cursed beneath his breath for jinxing himself. Although he wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, Hawker had his superstitions when it came to a mission, and one of them was never to assume it would be easy. That brought the worst bad luck of all.

Hawker lay in the shadows for a minute, wondering how best to handle the guard. He wanted information about the complex, and stumbling upon a lone guard seemed like the ideal chance to get it. But Hawker had also heard rumors about the estate's extensive electronic burglar alarm system. Was it possible there were listening devices planted all over the grounds, with a central listening board someplace inside? If so, it would be foolish to do anything but eliminate the guard right now, silently, then rig the drug warehouse—if that was what it was—to blow. Hawker decided to risk it. Why would anyone plant listening devices near a guard's area, one of the least vulnerable places on the estate?

The vigilante left the Cobra crossbow lying in the bushes and drew his heavy, cold, razor-sharp Randall Attack/Survival knife from its calf scabbard. Carrying the knife in his right hand, he crawled through the bushes to within four yards of the man. The guard was so absorbed in his
Playboy
that he didn't even notice.

Hawker stood and lunged in one smooth motion, knocking the guard off his chair and coming to rest on top of him, the big stainless-steel blade at the man's throat.

“Not a word, pal, not a sound. Nod your head if you understand.”

The Vietnamese man nodded quickly, shocked eyes wide with terror.

Hawker grabbed the man's collar and jerked him to his feet, still holding the knife at ready. “You got one chance to live, pal. Hear me?
One
chance. You answer my questions, give me the right answers, I'll tie you up, leave you for someone to find in the morning. If not—” Hawker pressed the knife closer. “If not, you'll be saying grace through your asshole. Understand?”

The guard whispered, “Anything, anything, I tell anything, everything, just don't kill, huh? Just don't kill,” in the Vietnamese version of pidgin English.

Hawker still held him. “What's in the building? What've they got you guarding? Tell me—”

“Product inside. Much, many product. Heroin, cocaine, chemicals, anything. Much product.” The guard whined as he whispered, seeing in Hawker's eyes that he wasn't bluffing, that the man in the navy watch cap wouldn't hesitate.

Hawker said, “How many men in the house? How many men on the grounds?”

The guard, trying to stand up straight, moving gingerly against Hawker's grip, said, “Many mens. Many very many. Twenties, maybe. Twenties-five. You no kill, I help you, yes? Help you fuck them good, huh, Joe? Only no kill, yes? I use my gun, help you shoot them good.”

The little man's manner was as nauseating as the sour smell of him, willing to turn against his comrades to save his own skin. Hawker said, “All I want from you is the key to this warehouse. Understand? Give me key, I let you live.”

The guard was cringing now, trying to pull away, whining. “No have key, Joe. No have key. Keys inside house, Joe. But no kill, huh? No kill—”

The vigilante shoved the little man roughly away, picked up the AK-47 that had been knocked to the ground, then got his elbow up just in time as the guard, who had been cringing with fear, threw himself full force at Hawker, the stiletto blade of a knife glittering in his hand.

three

Hawker ducked clumsily under the knife, just in time. The guard tumbled over him, then was immediately on his feet, crouched and ready. The vigilante, who had always considered himself quick, was just a microsecond slower in getting to his feet, and the guard got off a vicious karate kick that caught Hawker in the temple, just above the right eye. Hawker staggered backward, shook the cobwebs out just in time to parry the saber-lunge of the stiletto, and hit the guard with a glancing left hook that knocked him backward to the ground.

The vigilante kicked at the guard's right hand—the hand with the knife—and missed. The guard caught Hawker's heel, yanked, and Hawker found himself on his back, expecting at any moment to feel the sickening pain of a blade sliding between his ribs.

But the guard made a mistake. He tried to kick the vigilante into unconsciousness before finishing the job, and Hawker absorbed two more solid kicks to the head and jaw before catching the Vietnamese's ankle, twisting, and pulling the man to the ground. Now he was on top of the guard. Catching his right wrist, Hawker twisted until the stiletto fell … twisted until the man's wrist snapped … twisted until the man's hand was almost backward on its joint, ignoring the shrill scream of agony. Then Hawker drove the heavy, long blade of his Randall attack knife home, through the chest cavity, into the heart, feeling the guard shiver beneath him, quivering, dying.

Hawker stood up dizzily, feeling sick, lightheaded, almost drunk from the kicks to his head.

The guard moaned, his eyes still open … and then was dead.

Hawker leaned, cleaning the blade of his knife on the grass, fought the urge to vomit, then stood.

What should he do now?

The question came at him as if down a long tunnel. The guard had screamed, no doubt about that. Had anyone heard? Hawker looked toward the huge three-story mansion. Had that upstairs light been on earlier? In his confused state of mind, he wasn't sure.

He had to get control of himself, put himself on automatic pilot until his head cleared. He must call upon past experience to take over, help him go through the motions by rote until his brain stopped spinning.

He knew that the first thing he had to do was rig the warehouse full of drugs to self-destruct. He had to make sure that the warehouse was destroyed even if the rest of his mission was a failure. The guard had said there was heroin in there. Heroin, cocaine, chemicals—all of it bound for the U.S. sailors of Norfolk if something wasn't done.

Trouble was, it wasn't going to be easy getting into the damn place.

Hawker went to the double doors. He slid out of the Colt Commando, out of the backpack, and took out a little microflashlight. Peering into his pack, he pushed aside the carefully prepared explosives until he found what he was looking for—two small plastic vials. One was an extremely powerful but inert acid, the other was a catalyst. The catalyst would activate the acid when the two were combined. Using an eyedropper, the vigilante deposited drops of liquid inside both locks of the steel doors. The acid fumed and hissed, eating away the locks' internal works.

When that was done, Hawker took a long wire that had alligator clips on both ends. The burglar alarm, he hoped, would be a standard one; if so, the doors would be wired to an internal electrical circuit. Any break in the circuit would set off the alarm.

Hawker cracked one door just enough to see the conductor plates on the door seal. Then he hooked an alligator clip to each conductor plate and opened the door just enough for him to slide through—being damn careful not to kick the wire loose as he did so.

Once the door was closed behind him, the vigilante breathed easier. There were no windows in the building, none. He patted the wall until he found the switch, turned on the lights … and saw a single large room stacked to the ceiling with boxes wrapped in plastic—black plastic, like garbage bags. He pulled the Randall once again from its leg holster and cut one of the bags. Fine white powder poured out onto the cement floor—heroin or cocaine, he didn't know which. And he wasn't about to taste it like the TV cops did. No cop with any brains would ever chance such a stupid thing because the stuff might be one of the junkie standards or, just as easily, LSD or mescaline or angel dust. Just a taste might send you tripping your brains out.

Working quickly, Hawker removed from his pack a small slab of claylike material, top section blue, bottom section yellow, covered on each side by waxed paper. He kneaded the plastic explosive until the combination of the two colors made green, then broke it into three fist-size chunks. Into each chunk he inserted tiny radio detonating devices. Then after sticking each at the base of the three exposed walls, he stepped back out into the darkness, over the corpse of the dead guard.

The wind was blowing cold off the Chesapeake, wild in the bare tree limbs, but Hawker didn't notice, so intent was he on the house in the distance. The crossbow was strapped over his back now, and in his hands he held the Colt Commando automatic rifle.

Playtime was over. It was time to get serious with the drug pushers employed by Con Ye Cwong.

There was still just that one light on—the light upstairs. Apparently no one had heard the scream. With the noise of the wind and sea, Hawker wasn't all that surprised.

It was a perfect night for this kind of mission. It was the first of what he hoped would be many deadly blows aimed right at the heart of Cwong's empire, and Hawker wanted the Vietnamese drug lord to feel it all the way back in the Solomon Islands.

Hawker knew he would be going to those islands soon enough, to take the message in person. But first he wanted to knock out the American franchises.

He crossed quietly through the shadows, moving from tree to tree, past hedges and marble statues, small fountains, figures of fat sitting Buddhas. Then he was twenty yards from the back door of the mansion, the service entrance, and still no sign of movement, no sign of another guard. Once again he got the feeling that maybe this would be easy after all. Immediately Hawker pushed the thought out of his mind.

He walked easily across the asphalt, holding the Commando assault rifle against his leg so that it wouldn't stand out in silhouette. Then he went up the steps and tried the door.

The door swung open easily.…

Hawker stopped in the doorway, looking this way and that. Guards on the dock, burglar alarms supposedly everywhere, and they leave the damned back door unlocked? That made no sense at all. What the hell was going on?

The vigilante thought for a moment, then touched the safety tang of the rifle, switching it to semiautomatic. If he was walking into a trap, he didn't relish the idea of having to reclip in darkness and damned tight quarters.

From his side holster, he drew the Smith & Wesson .45 magnum, the weight of it and the checkered grip feeling good in his hand. Carrying the Commando in his left hand, he entered the house. He was in some kind of storage area—boxes, a washing machine, the smell of soap. Then he moved into the kitchen—a big commercial-type kitchen with stainless-steel tables and hanging pots. Suddenly he heard something and came to a quick stop. Something in the corner, some kind of odd scratching noise. Hawker twisted the lens of the microflashlight and painted the beam around.

Rats. The kitchen was crawling with rats, dozens of them scurrying, scrabbling in fear, running from the light. Hawker shut the flashlight off quickly, not wanting any more noise. He put his hand on a table to find his way out while his eyes adjusted. But as he did so, he felt something heavy run over his hand and up his arm, scratching his neck. A big rat. Hawker turned too quickly, slapping the rodent off, but hitting something hard and sending a whole rack of pots clattering, clanking down on him, a deafening noise in the stillness of the dark house that sounded like the whole kitchen was collapsing.

The vigilante stood breathless in the hollow silence. He heard a muted voice call something from upstairs and waited another full two minutes, hearing nothing else.

Maybe it was going to be okay after all; maybe these Vietnamese had gotten soft and fat over here in the land of free trade and could sleep through anything.

James Hawker made his way out of the kitchen, took two steps, and found out how wrong he was.…

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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 © 1986 by Dell Publishing Co., Inc.

Cover design by Andy Ross

ISBN: 978-1-5040-2459-4

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.