Houston Attack (9 page)

Finally he pulled on a black wool watch cap to keep the moon from reflecting off his red-brown hair, then he climbed the fence and set off across the pasture toward the Williams mansion.

It was his hope to be able to get an idea of just how well equipped and organized Skate Williams's so-called “army” really was. Also, he wanted to try to spot the slave houses and, if the opportunity presented itself, to make contact with one of the slaves and find out where they were keeping Cristoba de Abella.

But, more than anything else, he didn't want to get caught.

To get caught meant death. But, worse, it meant failure.

Hawker moved toward the security gate, parallel to the road and the fence.

Steers in the pasture were dark silhouettes that moved past him with a ghostly grace. The air smelled of fresh manure and the peppery odor of mesquite.

The pasture fence ended abruptly at a higher adobe fence that began at the security gate and apparently encircled the whole estate. Hawker was on his belly now, hidden in the shadows of the higher fence.

From his position he could see that two guards sat within a lighted cubicle from within which the high wrought-iron gate was controlled. It was an extraordinary security precaution for such a secluded ranch.

Hawker wondered if Williams was just paranoid—or whether he had a reason to be expecting trouble.

The guards were dressed like soldiers, in plain green fatigues. They sat playing cards in the lighted guardhouse, and Hawker could see them plainly from his position outside. When one of them stood to get coffee, Hawker could see that he wore a side arm.

Both were Anglos, and both looked rugged and businesslike.

Hawker hoped they weren't indicative of all of Williams's troops. If they were, this mission would be even tougher than he had thought. Maybe even impossible.

On the wall behind the guards was a board covered with lights and toggle switches—no doubt a center for electronic surveillance. Hawker exhaled a long, low breath.

“Damn,”
he whispered to himself.

Getting in would be tough—and getting out tougher yet.

Hawker watched for a few minutes before taking out a sausage roll of plastic explosives and planting a heavy load behind a bush on the wall of the guardhouse.

That done, he turned to crawl along the outside of the high adobe fence. As he did, a high-powered searchlight was suddenly switched on, and the door of the guardhouse was thrown open as one of the guards ran out.

Immediately Hawker freed the brutal-looking Colt Commando rifle he carried on his back, and lifted it toward the first guard. The metal stock was cool against his cheek.

Through the soft red glow of the Colt's Star-Tron Night Vision System, Hawker watched the guard draw a military-type .45-caliber automatic.

Hawker waited for the searchlight to vector toward him. But it never did. Instead it was fixed on the main dirt road.

He listened, his own breath coming swift and shallow. Then he heard what the electronic listening system must have heard long before: the steady
clippity-clop
of a horse walking. Moments later, the horse and rider appeared in the harsh white light.

The rider, a tall, rangy man wearing a cowboy hat, held up his hand in greeting.

He said a few words to the guard, and there was the sound of laughter.

Then the huge wrought-iron gate swung open on an electric hinge, and the rider disappeared behind the adobe wall.

The gate was swung shut immediately.

Hawker waited a few minutes more, then crawled off into the darkness, his mind working at a frantic pace.

The man on the horse had been Quirt Evans.…

There was a chance that Evans
was
an informer—and that he had found Hawker's truck and now he was going to warn Williams.

But there was something in Quirt's easy manner as he greeted the guards that told Hawker that, informer or not, he hadn't come with any warnings.

One thing was for sure, though: Quirt was far too familiar with the guards for Hawker to believe he had met with Williams only twice.

Evans had lied. Also, he seemed to know a hell of a lot more about Hawker than he would come right out and say. But, if he did know why Hawker was at the Sister Star Ranch, why had he helped get him a job there? Why hadn't he spoken up immediately or—more reasonably—let Jeb kill him when he had had the chance?

None of it seemed to make any sense.

The only way to find out, Hawker was sure, was to slip into the inner sanctum of this slaver, tyrant, and survivalist supreme: Skate Williams.

The first problem was how to get over the wall. The adobe fence was undoubtedly keyed to some kind of electronic warning system. Hawker was sure that the moment he touched the top surface of the wall, alarms all over the estate would be sounded.

Once away from the guard outpost, he moved more quickly. The wind had freshened from the northwest, casting a thin cirrus scud toward the moon. The cattle seemed to grow more restless. There was the smell of coming rain in the wind.

At the back corner of the wall—about a quarter of a mile from the guard outpost—Hawker found what he was looking for. A giant oak grew within the Williams estate, but one high branch extended over the wall.

Hawker took the rope and grappling hook from his belt. It took him three throws to finally get the hook to wrap around the limb.

Motionless, he waited to make sure no one had heard him.

It was ten-fifteen by the green glow of his Seiko diver's watch.

After a full two minutes he pulled himself up the rope, hand over hand. The limb was about twenty feet off the ground. It seemed higher.

When he got to the limb, he swung his legs over, straddling it. Then he pulled the rope up behind him, buckled it into his belt, and worked his way to the trunk of the tree.

From that height he could see the bright windows of the main house. It was three stories high with massive pillars.

According to the talk around the bunkhouse, Williams was a widower with no children. Hawker wondered why he had such a large house and, moreover, why there were so many lights on.

Did Williams's troops live with him? That didn't seem likely. And, if they did, what were those long, bunk-house-style houses lighted behind the main house? There must have been a half-dozen of them.

Before Hawker climbed down the tree, he took a long look through the Star-Tron Night Vision System, which was mounted as a scope on the Colt Commando rifle. The Star-Tron, manufactured by Smith & Wesson, collected all available night light—moon and star glow, house lights, etc.—and magnified it a total of eighty-five thousand times via an intensifier tube. The final image, as sharply contrasted as high noon but an eerie red, was formed on an interior screen but viewed through an eyepiece like an ordinary rifle scope.

Hawker was glad he'd taken the precaution of looking through the Star-Tron.

Along with the guards at the gate, Skate Williams had posted foot guards to walk the perimeter of the interior wall. The guards patrolled alone, but in an overlapping system that meant they were due to pass each other every so many minutes—a built-in system of checks.

To jump one guard was to alert all the guards.

Two guards, coming from opposite directions, approached the large oak tree now.

Slowly Hawker lowered the Commando rifle. Because they walked in the shadow of the adobe wall, they were invisible to the naked eye. Hawker patted the Star-Tron in genuine appreciation.

When the guards were about fifteen yards away, Hawker heard the crack of twigs and the creak of leather, and then they came into view beneath the tree in which he sat.

“Merriwald?”

“Yeah. Hawser?”

“You got it.”

The two men stopped beneath the tree. Looking down on them, Hawker got only the impression of two sets of narrow shoulders and fatigue hats.

“Hey, I've got to stop and have a smoke.”

“Come on, you know the rules about that, Hawser.”

“And you're going to squeal, right, Merriwald?” The man snorted in disgust and put away the pack of cigarettes. “Boy, I'm telling you, you people really are a pain in the ass.”

“You knew the rules before you joined, Hawser. If you don't like it, tell Mr. Williams—”

“No thanks, man. I
know
how he discharges guys.” Hawser seemed suddenly nervous. “Hey, look, Merriwald, you're not gonna report me for this, are you? Hell, all I was going to do was have a little smoke.”

Merriwald grew more prim as he realized he now had Hawser in his power. “We've got important work to do, Hawser. Work that's more important than you, me, or any one person. Even a little thing, like smoking on patrol, could jeopardize it all. Especially on a night like tonight, with a big shipment going out from the farm.”

“Yeah?” Hawser sounded impressed. “Hell, I didn't even know there was a shipment going out. Shit, if I'd known—”

“And you might watch your language while you're at it,” Merriwald snapped. “You haven't been here long, but you should have realized by now that we try to keep things nice and clean. That's the way it
should
be, Hawser, and I, for one, don't like the way you talk. And this is the only warning I'm going to give you—”

“Hey, Merriwald,” Hawser cut in, trying to change the subject. “Why all the fuss about a shipment? Shipments go out of here all the time.”

“This isn't a beef shipment, that's why. This is straight stuff. It's going right to the streets—but that's none of my concern, and it's certainly none of your concern.” Hawker watched Merriwald check his watch. “We're both exactly a minute and forty seconds behind schedule because of you, Hawser. Now snap to, or we'll miss our next rendezvous.”

“Okay, Merriwald, as long as I got your word you're not going to report me.…”

Merriwald marched off before the other man had a chance to finish. When Merriwald was out of earshot, Hawser added in a whisper, “You donkey dick.” Then he walked away in the opposite direction.

Hawker followed their progress through the Star-Tron. When they were well away, he climbed down from the tree. Carrying the Colt Commando automatic ready at hip level, he headed for the main house.

He had hoped to get in and out without leaving the slightest clue that he had been there. But now, with all the security and all the guards, he had to admit there wasn't much chance of that.

And he was right.

Trouble was all too soon in coming.…

eleven

The guard captured him as he neared the main house. Hawker was doubly surprised because he had just checked the area ahead through the Star-Tron.

The guard must have been staked out behind the massive garage.

As Hawker edged along the side of the garage, a cold voice stopped him?
“Freeze
. Put down your weapon, then place your hands against the wall.
Now.”

The voice came from about ten feet behind him. Hawker hesitated, then realized he had no choice. To try to shoot it out would have brought a dozen other guards on the run.

Slowly Hawker placed the Colt Commando on the ground, then leaned his hands against the side of the garage.

“The side arm, too, buddy. And that knapsack you're carrying.”

There was a nervous quiver in the guard's voice. Hawker found that reassuring. He lifted the Walther out of its little holster and dropped it in the dirt beside his pack.

Gravel crunched beneath the guard's feet as he came closer. He kicked Hawker's feet wider apart, then began to frisk him with his left hand.

Hawker knew it was now or never.

He waited until the guard ran his hand beneath his left armpit. When he did, Hawker locked down with his left arm and spun with all his weight. The guard was slammed into the wall, and Hawker immediately grabbed his right wrist and twisted the pistol away.

In that microsecond Hawker saw the guard's mouth open wide to scream a warning.

But the warning was never voiced. Hawker slammed his right fist into the man's face, then jumped on top of him when he hit the ground.

They wrestled violently in the sand, and then Hawker realized the guard now had a knife. It seemed to appear in his hand as if by magic. Hawker ducked away as it speared past his face, then he locked both hands on the guard's right arm.

It was a five-second test of strength, which seemed to last forever. And, in fact, it did—for the guard.

The vigilante forced the blade of the knife downward, downward, downward. When the guard realized he was going to lose, his whole body gave a desperate jolt, trying to roll away from beneath Hawker.

But too late.

With an effort that made his muscles creak, Hawker forced the blade of the knife deep into the guard's throat. The guard thrashed wildly in the sand as Hawker rolled away.

There was a raspy, deflating hiss, like a balloon losing air. The guard's mouth worked, but no sound escaped.

Hawker realized his hands were wet and sticky: blood.

He wiped them on the guard's fatigue pants, then waited for a long minute to make sure their fight had not drawn the attention of the other guards.

It hadn't.

Now hurrying, Hawker pulled the guard's body into the garage, then picked up his gear and moved on toward the main house.

The house looked even bigger now. A mansion in the tradition of the Old South. A spotlight at the base of the flagpole in the grassy circle out front showed the Lone Star banner of Texas.

The flag snapped in the wind of the approaching storm.

A massive porch ran the breadth of the mansion, and Hawker crawled into the bushes beside it and poked his head over to have a look.

A guard sat in a chair outside the front door. His rifle leaned against the wall behind him. Once again Hawker was discouraged by the knowledge that getting to Skate Williams would be no easy task.

As he knelt there in the darkness, he heard the brass tumble of a lock, and then watched as the front door was pulled open.