Atlanta Extreme (14 page)

It was a delicate problem. If he attacked the two guards at the cars, he would certainly be heard, and then the other four could barricade themselves in the old building and Hawker would be in for a dangerous firefight.

If he entered the warehouse from behind and attacked the four men inside, the two guards would have plenty of time to either join in the fight or, most probably, escape to take revenge at a later date.

Hawker decided to take the surer, more time-consuming—and dangerous—route.

As he neared the pickup truck and Cadillac, the vigilante began to slow his pace. He could see the two men clearly, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, talking. He held the stubby Colt submachine gun down so that it matched the movement of his leg. With his right hand he pulled a thermite grenade from his belt.

When Hawker was thirty yards from the vehicles, they finally noticed him, finally noticed that it was not their comrade coming back from his post on the dirt road.

“Hey—hey! Who the hell are you?”

Hawker pulled the pin from the grenade and rolled it under the pickup by their feet, at the same time lifting the Commando to hip level in his left hand. “I came with a message from Curtis,” Hawker said quickly.

“Hey, he just threw a fucking grenade!”

“Curtis said he'll see you in hell!”

Hawker squeezed off a quick burst before he dived for the ditch; saw one of the men get knocked off his feet as the slugs drove through his chest, saw the other trip backward in shock and pain; then the grenade exploded, and the two vehicles and the two men were consumed in blinding white fire that raged so fiercely, it sucked the screams from their lips.

Hawker stood. The thermite burned at more than two thousand degrees, and the heat was wilting.

He stood behind the flames, submachine gun ready, the black watch cap pulled low over his head, his angular, unemotional face glistening with sweat.

He'll see you in hell!

Those two are already in hell
, the vigilante thought.
My hell. And now the rest are going to join them
.…

Immediately the front door of the old warehouse smacked open and the two men who had been with Warren and Pendleton stuck their heads out. Hawker saw their eyes grow wide with horror as they saw their two companions on the ground, their bodies ablaze—and the vigilante froze the look of surprise on their faces when he opened up with another volley from the Commando.

The Colt's 5.56-mm. slugs burst their faces open like melons and catapulted them back inside the doorway.

In the warehouse windows shattered. Hawker ran in a serpentine sprint and dived into the ditch as automatic weapons fire pocked the red dirt at his heels.

“I'm going to blow your fucking head off!”
came a wild threat shouted from the building.

Hawker answered back. “Pendleton! Warren! I don't want you two! I want Curtis. Understand?”

A long burst of weapons fire was their answer.

“All I want is information! Do you hear me? Show yourselves and we can talk!”

“Who in the hell are you?”

Hawker pulled a second thermite grenade from his belt and absently checked his watch. 10:47
P.M.
By now Jon Sanders and his family should have already left the gas station and be well on their way to Athens, their alibi intact. There was no way in the world that the people on the adjoining farms could have missed hearing the explosion of the first grenade, and later the authorities would tie the explosion directly to the deaths of at least two of the men.

“You don't need to know who I am,” Hawker called back. “All you have to do is answer my questions. Now come on out!”

Another hail of slugs smacked through the brush overhead. Hawker pulled the pin on the second grenade and tossed it toward the building, turning his eyes away from the blinding flare.

The old wood caught on fire immediately, wildly, in a popping, all-consuming blaze.

“We're going to burn to death in here!”

“Then come on out! Toss your weapons out and follow them, hands on the tops of your heads.”

“You're going to kill us!” The voice was Pendleton's, and he was crying as he yelled, “You got to promise not to murder us!”

“All I want is information,” Hawker yelled back. “Understand? That's all I want.”

“You got to promise!”

Hawker almost chuckled at the childish whine in the man's voice. What was he going to say: Cross my heart and hope to die?

“Get your asses out here, you two pukes!”

The door of the warehouse swung open. One Uzi then another was tossed out, followed by Pendleton and Warren, hands on the tops of their heads.

Everything was as bright as day now, brighter in a wild, flickering golden light. Electrical wires popped and burst as the flames consumed the wooden building. Hawker slid a new magazine into the Commando, drew his .45 ACP, and walked slowly toward the two men.

Pendleton was standing nervously, shifting his weight like a child who had to pee. “You promised, you promised, you promised,” he kept saying nonsensically.

“Shut the fuck up!” Warren, the smaller blond man, snapped at him. “He ain't going to kill us.” He glared at Hawker. “Are you, man?”

Hawker thumbed back the hammer of the .45. “What makes you so sure—man?”

“'Cause we got money. Lots of money. We'll give it to you. We'll give it all to you.”

“How much?”

“Sixty, seventy grand. And it's all yours. In cash.”

“But it's Curtis's money. What's he going to say?”

“I don't give a shit what he says as long as you don't kill us.”

“Why would you give the money to Curtis, anyway? Why wouldn't you keep it for yourselves?”

Warren's eyebrows raised as if surprised. “We do keep some of it. But the rest is small potatoes compared to what we're going to get, man. Hell, he's going to take over Masagua. He's going to rule it like a king. We're going to be his top men. Anything we want, any money, any property, any women, anything we want is ours. Hell, you could be part of it. We could tell Curtis that you helped us. What you make as a cop? Twenty grand a year? Hell, down there, when he takes over, you can live like a fucking sultan. Screw a different girl every night—”

“Shut up.”

“You a cop, man?” whined Pendleton. “You a cop, sir? Please, we know our rights, sir. You got to take us in. You got to call us a lawyer. You got to read us our rights. Ain't that right, Greg?”

“You'll get a fair trial, sport. But first I want to know a couple more things. How do you get the money to Curtis?”

“We got a deal with a cargo company in Atlanta. They fly it direct to Belize City. Hell, they think we're shipping out drugs or something. But the customs people don't look for nothing going
out
of this country, just in. In Belize the customs people are on the take, anyway. Then Curtis's lady picks up the shipment, or I hire a small plane, depending on the load, and fly the guns and money and all direct to the base.”

“And when are they due to pick up the next shipment?”

“It's up to us, always up to us unless they really need something special. I'd planned a shipment in about another week or two, I guess.”

“And how do you let Curtis know you're coming? How do you let him know you don't want Laurene Catacomez to pick up the stuff?”

Warren hesitated just a little too long, and the vigilante slapped him with the barrel of the .45. He said, “I know a lot about the operation already, friend. Some of this shit I'm asking you are test questions. Others aren't. If you lie to me once, just once, I'll kill you and your friend.”

“I'll tell you, mister,” Pendleton cried, stepping forward. “I'll tell you everything. Greg sends him a telegram, sends it to a pimp he's got in Belize City. Says either, ‘Pick up produce Monday two
P.M.
' or whatever the day is, or it says, ‘Arriving with produce,' then whatever the day is.”

“What's the pimp's name in Belize?”

“His name's Martin … Martinis. Thurston Martinis. At the Sea Beach Hotel. Martinis gets in touch with Curtis.”

The vigilante thought for a moment. “You ever have a beard, Warren?”

“Well, yeah, why—”

“When's the last time Curtis saw you?”

“He ain't seen either of us for almost two months,” Pendleton shot in.

Hawker nodded. “That's it, then. That's all I need to know.”

Pendleton sighed and started to lower his hands. “We can go, then? You're letting us go?”

The vigilante shook his head. “No. But I'm about to give you your fair trial.” From his belt Hawker took the UHF radio, switched it on, and hit the mike key. “Air mobile, air mobile, this is Almighty, do you copy?”

There was a squawk of static, and the voice of ex-sergeant Doug Miles came back. “I've got you, Almighty. Things all tidied up there?”

“Just about. You can come on in now and make it quick. Get the box of salt ready.”

“Box of salt, that's a roger. Will do.”

Hawker switched off the radio, put it away. Now Warren was getting nervous. “What was that box-of-salt business? I don't like that. What in hell are you planning to do?”

“Greg Warren,” Hawker said in a formal voice, “are you responsible for the deaths of children in Macon and Marietta?”

“What? Hey, no, you can't ask me that. It ain't legal—”

“Shawn Pendleton, are you responsible for the murders of one child in Marietta and two children in Macon?”

Pendleton dropped to his knees, begging, a huge, blubbering baby with the face of a weasel. “I didn't want to do it. Please, please don't kill us, sir. It was Greg's idea.…”

“You have both been as fairly tried as you deserve, and I now pronounce you guilty of murder in the first degree—”

“You son of a bitch—”

The .45 automatic jumped in Hawker's hands, making the familiar loud metallic clang with each ejection of spent cartridge as he shot them both, Warren in the face and Pendleton in the top of the head.

In the near distance the vigilante could hear the ceiling-fan thud of Miles approaching in the helicopter.

Calmly Hawker holstered the .45 and took out his knife.…

sixteen

A Rain Forest in Guatemala

On the grass landing strip the faces of two men stared blankly out of the cockpit of the little red Dakota airplane that James Hawker had hired in Belize City.

Hawker had sent a telegram three days earlier to Thurston Martinis. The telegram read: “Will deliver produce Monday, two
P.M.
Big load.

Now it was Monday. Now it was one thirty-five
P.M.
And the vigilante sat comfortably in the dank coolness of a towering guanacaste tree while wild monkeys squawked and chattered overhead.

From his hiding place he could see the plane, could see the faces of the two men inside the plane, could see the landing strip and the mud road that led toward Curtis's camp.

He had been sitting in this spot for more than an hour, waiting. He had been sitting since he and Miles had finished the digging and planting and preparing it had taken to get ready for Curtis and his army.

The vigilante wore camouflage fatigues and greasepaint on his face so that no one could see him, not even Doug Miles, who, similarly dressed, was hidden on the other side of the landing strip.

Resting across Hawker's lap was the Colt Commando, barrel and folding stock scratched from rough use. Strapped to his hip was the Smith & Wesson .45. On the ground beside him was a metal can full of loaded clips for the Commando. Nearby were two electronic detonators, each with four individually wired toggle switches.

Miles also had a submachine gun … and detonators.

At 1:48
P.M.
Hawker heard the first sign of their approach. The monkeys in the high trees began to scream their warnings, spooking outward, away from the mud trail.

Then Hawker could hear the clank-rattle-snort of horses pulling wagons in jungle heat and, later, the muted sound of a man's voice.

It was Wellington Curtis.

The vigilante fought the urge to stand so that he could get a better look. Any movement now might give his position away, might ruin everything.

Then Curtis came riding into the clearing, riding in on the ragged gray horse. He wore khaki pants, combat boots, aviator sunglasses, and a jaunty red beret on his shaved head. In the saddle scabbard appeared to be some kind of pump-action shotgun, probably a Winchester Model 12. Slung over his shoulder was an Ml6, and strapped bandolero fashion across his hairy chest were belts of ammunition. The squat, heavyset man held up his hand like a cavalry soldier, and his troops on foot and horseback halted behind him, about forty yards from the plane. Laurene Catacomez, her pretty black hair hanging down over her safari shirt, reined up beside him.

Curtis looked at the woman, said something, then he cupped his hands and yelled toward the plane, “Captain Warren, Pendleton! Wake up, you lazy bastards! You can sleep after we've had a drink together!”

Behind him his band of mercenaries chuckled.

Curtis waited and, when they did not stir, yelled again, “Warren, Pendleton, wake your asses up!”

Slowly, ever so slowly, the smile faded from the man's face. “Captain Warren? Captain Warren, I'm talking to you!”

Hawker could hear the woman's voice. “They're probably very tired, Colonel.”

“Probably drunk, more like it.”

Curtis kicked his horse into a brief gallop, reined up beside the plane, reached over from the backside of the wing, and yanked open the door.

Hawker had been waiting for this moment, anticipating Curtis's reaction. And he wasn't disappointed.

When the door was thrown open, the severed head of Greg Warren tumbled out, pulling along with it the stick on which it had been placed. It rolled across the wing, making a sound like a rotten melon, right into Curtis's lap.