Vegas Vengeance (17 page)

Hawker struggled against his own anger. He wanted badly to drive his fist through the face of this repulsive little creature. But emotion, he knew, was an indulgence for amateurs. He forced himself to remain stoic. “I'm not going to shoot you—as long as you keep telling me what I want to know. Understand?”

The man nodded immediately. “Anything. Anything you want.”

“Is Queen Faith that bitch you've got stationed out front?”

“Adria? Certainly not—”

“Then tell me where I can find her. Tell me where I can find Queen Faith.”

“Don't do it, Sol,” the cameraman broke in. He looked anxiously at the director. “You know what's going to happen if you talk? You know what's going to happen to us all?”

“Do you want me to tell you what's going to happen if you don't?” Hawker snapped.

The director shuddered, his voice broke, and he began to cry. “I'll tell you.” He sobbed. “I'll talk. But please …
please
don't hurt me. I can't tolerate pain. I really can't. Please believe me—”

“Where can I find her?” Hawker demanded. “Where can I find Queen Faith?”

The director took a deep breath. “Her operation is run out of—”

He never got a chance to finish. There was a ringing gunshot and, simultaneously, the director's face lost form, bulged grotesquely, then exploded like a shattered pumpkin.

In the back entranceway stood the pock-faced man Hawker had seen with Brenda Paulie. The black, heavy-caliber revolver he held was still smoking.

As the pistol swung toward him, Hawker dove and fired.…

THREE

The slugs made thudding sounds above Hawker's head as his attacker got off two quick shots, then ducked back behind the fire door.

Hawker held the Colt ACP in both hands as he lay belly first on the tile floor, arms thrust outward, both eyes focused on the man in the doorway. He squeezed the trigger once, and a pockmark was punched into the soft steel.

He waited patiently for the man to return fire. But he didn't. It finally dawned on Hawker that the man was escaping.

Swearing at his own stupidity, the vigilante jumped to his feet to give chase. As he did, someone hit him from behind. It was the cameraman—a short, stocky Italian who had arms like a bear. He tackled Hawker around the waist, taking care to pin his gun hand down. Immediately the other three men tried to help wrestle Hawker to the ground.

On the bed, Brenda Paulie screamed as she watched the auburn-haired stranger who had promised her freedom now fight for his life. As she inhaled to scream again, the woman with the purple Mohawk slapped her sharply across the face then pulled her by the hair off the bed. “Shut up, you silly bitch! No one's going to help you now.
No one.”

Brenda Paulie collapsed on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

But Hawker hadn't given up yet. He swung backward with his left elbow and heard the cartilage of the cameraman's nose burst. One of the actors had him around the neck while the other tried to tackle him. The lighting grip bounced around the chaotic tangle like a rooster, swinging at Hawker's face whenever he got the chance.

The vigilante had the brief mental image of a buffalo being hauled down by a pack of jackals—that's exactly the way he felt.

Hawker got in a few more good blows, but then the grip went to work on his fingers until he was forced to drop the Colt. While three of the men held him, the cameraman got the pistol and the Randall and tossed the knife to the side.

“Let him go!” the cameraman shouted as he leveled the Colt at Hawker. “Go ahead—turn him loose. Let's see how tough he is without his gun.” The Italian man's nose poured blood down his chin, onto his shirt. He tried to wipe it away with the back of his wrist, but with little effect. “Why don't you try to give some orders now, smart ass? Come on! Say something! Tell me again what you're going to do if we don't obey you.”

The two actors had Hawker's arms bent behind his back. Hawker gave a half shrug. “I'd rather just stand here and wait for you to bleed to death.”

The cameraman slapped him with a heavy backhand. “Really like your little fucking jokes, don't you?”

“Your nose is pumping it out faster than your heart can make it, friend. Who's joking?”

“That kind of amuses you, doesn't it? Doesn't it? You broke my fucking nose, you bastard!” The cameraman lifted the Colt toward Hawker. “You broke my nose, and you got Sol killed too.”

“Me? One of your people killed that little jerk. Don't blame me.”

“Queen Faith's people aren't our people, asshole. The man who killed Sol wasn't with us. But you can bet he's headed back to his own people to tell them what went on here. And do you know what that means? Do you? It not only means we're left with a body to explain, but it also means we're out of the hard porn business for a while. We're going to be on Queen Faith's shit list. And, in this town, that means you might as well sell your cameras and get a job peddling insurance.” The cameraman pushed his face closer to Hawker's. “It means, asshole, that you have cost us a lot of time and a lot of money.”

“You don't have to explain it to him,” the stockier actor said. There was a feminine breeziness in his speech, yet it was charged with emotion. “Just kill him. Go ahead. The son of a bitch deserves it. Look at the way poor Sol is lying there. Christ, it's awful the way he looks. He's got no face no more—and it's all this bastard's fault.” The talk of violence caused the actor's face to flush with a heat that was unmistakably sexual.

Hawker looked over his shoulder with an expression of contempt. He said, “I bet you like car wrecks too, don't you?”

The actor put so much pressure on Hawker's arm that the vigilante was sure the ball of the shoulder joint would rip loose from its socket. “I'm tired of his smart-ass answers!” the man complained. “Shoot him now, damn it. Why wait?”

The cameraman shook his head. “I'm all for killing him. If he lives, he blows to the cops about poor little Brenda Paulie here. Even though she's one of Queen Faith's herd, we'll still get nailed for it. For kidnap and rape, even with a soft judge, you're looking at six, seven years. Killing him is the smart thing to do.”

“So do it!”

The cameraman hacked and spit blood. “I just thought of a way we can have the satisfaction of killing him and
still
make money doing it. Probably more money on one project than we've ever made before.”

The woman with the purple Mohawk spoke to them for the first time. She still stood guard over Brenda Paulie, but now she took a step toward the cameraman. “I think I know what you mean, Benny. I think I see what you have in mind.”

“Yeah? What?”

“Film it.… Murder this dude and film the whole thing.”

Benny grinned. “That's exactly what I mean. You remember that Rolling Stones movie back in the early seventies? The one called
Gimme Shelter?
The movie made a bundle for one reason: If you watched real close, you could see some Hell's Angel kill a guy right on film. We got the chance now to make a black-market movie that would be a hundred times better than that. A movie that would sell a hundred thousand prints the first month. We've got a chance to make the toughest S-and-M film ever produced—and finish it in a way no other movie has ever ended. With a real murder.”

The woman with the Mohawk smiled. “I like it, Benny. I
like
it.”

Hawker listened, incredulous. He felt like a chunk of beef at a McDonald's marketing session.

Benny continued, almost as if talking to himself. “I've always wanted to direct. God knows, I've paid my dues behind that camera.” He considered the carnage on the floor for a moment. “Sol always said I'd get my chance if I was just patient. Maybe I've been patient enough, huh?”

“Hell, go for it, Benny.”

“Yeah, Sol won't care.”

The cameraman took one more look at the bloody corpse on the floor and slapped his thigh. “By God, we're going to do it. We're going to make a movie that will make us all rich!” To the woman with the purple hair, he said, “Donna, I want you in the film with him. You'll be his costar.” He chuckled. “His
last
costar—get it? We'll get him strapped to the bed, just like we had the girl. Then I want you to go down on him. You've got to get him interested, see? That's going to be the tough part. He's not going to be in the mood, but you've got to get him up. To make this movie work, it's an absolute must. Understand? And one other thing: You'll have to wear one of the masks. I don't want them to be able to recognize you. I don't want the cops nailing any of us.”

The woman gave a wicked cackle. “Get him up? Baby, I could suck-start a Buick if I really put my mind to it.” She strolled over to Hawker and squeezed his crotch. “Hey, surprise, surprise. It feels to me like our hero has all the necessary equipment too.”

“Then what happens, Benny?” one of the actors asked. “You're gonna have Donna get him up, then just shoot him?”

The cameraman thought for a moment. He gestured toward the corpse only a few feet away. “I don't know. Shit, I wish Sol wasn't dead. He was good at this sort of thing. He could have worked it all out in his head in nothing flat.”

“I think you've got to build up to some sort of climax, Benny,” said the actor. “And I think the person going down on him should be the one who kills him.”

“Donna, you mean?”

“Hey,” the woman put in haughtily, “I didn't sign up to do no double duty. What do you want me to do? Blow him or blow him away? I ain't doing both.” She brushed at her purple Mohawk, a gesture of concentration. After a moment, she added, “Tell you the truth, Benny, I'd kinda like to try shooting him. I've gone down on thousands of guys, but I ain't never killed nobody—that I know of. And it's good to try new experiences.”

Hawker felt his stomach roll.

It got worse.

Behind him he heard the stockier actor say anxiously, “I'll do both, Benny. I'll go down on him and, just before it's time, I'll kill him. But I don't want to use the gun, Benny. I want to use his big silver knife you threw on the floor back there. Honest, Benny, I can do it. I'm ready for it; I've matured in my craft. All I want is a chance at some kind of signature performance. Can you picture it, Benny? Just as this dude is getting his rocks off, the camera zooms in tight. That's when I pull out the knife and open him like a melon. We get it all on film, see? The way his face looks as he dies; the way his guts pour out. And with me wearing the leather mask, the fucking S-and-M's out there will go crazy. We'll make a million bucks.” The actor pressed his lips close to Hawker's ear as he added, “Plus, it will be fun.”

Hawker jerked his face away. “Boy,” he hissed, “if you ever touch me again, you'd better cut my head off and hide it—because that's the only thing that's going to stop me from coming after you.”

The cameraman ignored him. He had found a handkerchief and was now dabbing at his ruined nose. “You're talking strictly gay market, Alex,” he said, shaking his head. “I want both markets. So let's compromise. Donna, once we get him on the bed, we'll start the cameras. I want you to strip, then I want you to take his mind off everything but what you're doing. You know the bit; no one does it better than you, baby.” To the stockier performer, he said, “Alex, you come on camera once Donna gets to work. Carry the knife.” The cameraman smirked. “After that, do what you want. Join in any way that seems … interesting.” He turned to Hawker. “How does that sound to you, ace?”

Hawker was angry—and scared. But he was damn determined to show neither emotion. As the men dragged him toward the bed, he heard himself say, “You can't use me in the movies. Don't you see why? Hell, my
nose
—it's too crooked, you dumb shits. Walk out to the front office and ask Adria Bent. She'll tell you.”

In spite of his nose, the three men wrestled him to the bed and strapped him down. They tied him with pieces of the same leather thongs they had used on Brenda Paulie.

For that, at least, Hawker was thankful. The leather was about a quarter-inch thick, plenty strong enough to hold a woman. But not strong enough to hold him during the degradation they had in mind—or so he hoped.

Because of his chosen profession, Hawker had few illusions about growing to a ripe old age. He was a vigilante. A killer. And one day, no doubt, he would cross someone smarter, someone faster, someone tougher or luckier, and he would die. But now, as they tied him to the bed, he vowed not to die like this. Not to die as a degraded flesh pile of blood and bones and tissue, soiled by the leer of the sadists who now controlled him.

If he was to die, he would die fighting; he would die killing.

Strapped to the bed, he found the Klieg lights above blinding. Everyone towered over him in grim silhouette. It was a little like being on an operating table—an appropriate simile considering what they planned to do. And, ironically, they planned to do it with his own knife: the knife hand-built by Bo Randall of Randall Knives in Orlando, Florida.

The knife that had saved his life so many times would now be used to kill him.…

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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.