Detroit Combat (12 page)

Hawker exhaled softly. “Clear as a bell.”

“Good. Good! That's good, isn't it, fellas? Pretty boy understands what I'm saying. And does that mean you want to hire our actors, pretty boy?”

“Maybe. We need actors. I guess we're willing to meet with your people and discuss it.”

The biker's sarcasm was thick. “Ain't that nice, boys? He's willing to discuss it with some of our people.”

“Real big of him, Fritz.” One of the bigger hoods chuckled.

“A regular white guy,” said the other.

Fritz jutted his jaw out toward Hawker. “Let's discuss it right now, asshole.”

Hawker shook his head. “I don't talk business with lackeys. It's a waste of time. You'll forget everything I say, and I won't be able to understand anything you say.”

The biker's face flushed with anger. This time, instead of slapping Hawker, he reached out and tried to grab the woman. Hawker saw what he wanted to do, and, at the very last moment, he reached up and caught the man's hand in his own big right fist. Glaring into the biker's eyes, Hawker said, “You know, the two of us would get along a whole lot better if you knocked off the rough stuff.”

“Get your fucking hand off me, asshole,” the biker hissed.

Hawker could feel anger moving through him like a cold light. He said, “Touching that woman is one of the bigger mistakes you could make today, sport. I'd hate to have to shove those knuckle dusters up your bunghole.” Hawker gave the biker's hand a numbing squeeze, then flung it away. “If you want to talk business, let's talk business. But let's knock off the
West Side Story
routine, huh?”

With a bellow of rage, the biker clubbed at Hawker with the brass knuckles. Remembering that the woman was behind him, the vigilante deflected the brunt of the blow with his upper arm, caught Fritz by the sleeve of the jacket, and wrestled him away. Hawker expected the biker to use streetfighter tactics. He wasn't disappointed.

With his right arm locked beneath Hawker's elbow, Fritz began to aim savage kicks at Hawker's groin, bellowing with every attempt.

“Need some help, Fritz?” one of his gang called out. There was a merry ring to his voice. They were having fun. Their leader would kick the shit out of the porno producer and then all three of them would have fun with the lady. Hawker knew exactly what they would do if he lost, and so he was relieved when the biker wheezed back, “I'm gonna kill this son of a bitch. I'll wring his head off with my hands!”

Hawker managed to block most of the kicks, but one got in just enough to start the sweat flowing and his eyes watering. He buckled over instinctively, and Fritz dug the brass knuckles into the vigilante's stomach, then clubbed him behind the head with his left fist.

Hawker fell face first into the slush. There was a gauzy, starlight sensation from the blow on the head and the vomit was rising in his throat, but he couldn't let himself acknowledge either. He was too busy rolling away from the biker's boot heel as he tried to smash Hawker's face in. The biker missed narrowly in four successive kicks before Hawker suddenly reversed his roll, knocking Fritz's legs out from under him.

He should have gone for the Walther holstered beneath his coat. But in the minisecond in which he made the decision, he decided the other two hoods were no doubt armed and, for all he knew, they had already drawn. He decided it was best to slug it out and hope the other two were still willing to negotiate a deal, and thereby lead him to Queen Faith.

When the biker came down on top of him, Hawker did a variation of a wrestler's sit-out and spun away. The greaser was quick to his feet, but Hawker was quicker. He buried his right hand in the man's solar plexus, then cracked his nose open with a left hand that came from the asphalt. Fritz back-pedaled and fell against the Toyota, nearly out on his feet. But Hawker wasn't about to let it end that quickly. He braced the biker up, gauged the distance, then swung backward with his left elbow. The impact made an ugly grating sound, the sound of bone being crushed.

“That's enough!”

Breathing heavily, Hawker turned to see the two hoods just drawing their weapons. One had a long-barreled Smith & Wesson .38; the other, some kind of esoteric automatic—a 9mm probably, brand unknown. Both were aimed at his chest.

His stomach still cramping, Hawker shook the pain out of his right hand. He tried to give the woman a reassuring nod. It didn't seem to help. She stood just to the right of the two big bikers. Her face was white and she sagged against a neighboring car. Hawker looked at the greaser on the ground, then at his two friends. “I'm still willing to talk,” he said.

The biggest of the two shook his head. He had a massive face covered with a greasy black beard. Imprinted on the pocket of the leather jacket was a screaming skull wearing a halo. The biker's meaty right hand all but dwarfed the big Smith & Wesson. He said, “You had your chance to negotiate, slick. But you had to be a tough guy. I don't like tough guys. I make it my business to kick their ass.”

“Look, all we want to do is make a movie,” Hawker cut in irritably. “If the people you work for have talent for hire, we're interested. But it's our project; we're not going to take orders, from you or anybody else. Why don't you load your friend in the car and trot on back to your boss lady and tell her that?”

There was something almost obscene about the big man's toothless grin. “Oh, we're going back to the boss lady. But you ain't never going to get no chance to see her. Not alive, anyway. Your movie company just mysteriously closed down, mister. And you and your lady friend just mysteriously disappeared.” He swung his head at his companion. “Bobby! Load Fritz into the back, then put the chick in. Tie her hands with something. Shit, use your handkerchief or your belt—don't be asking me to do your thinking.”

Hawker stood helplessly as the unconscious biker and then Clare were both piled into the backseat of an aging, slush-streaked white T-Bird. The woman tried to fight just as Bobby got her to the door. She looked at Hawker and yelled in a voice that sounded pitifully like a frightened girl-child's, “James, do something. Don't let them take me, James. Oh,
please
do something. I can't bear for this to happen again.”

Hawker's mind was scanning so frantically for an idea—any idea—that he didn't answer.

The big man used the gun to wave his partner into the car. “Start her up, Bobby,” he said, keeping a careful eye on Hawker. “We're going to leave pretty boy belly down in the snow. He's just a little too good with those fists of his for us to trust him with us.”

“Lot of traffic now,” Bobby said nervously, climbing into the car. “We kill him, we don't have much hope of a fast getaway.”

“Just start the fucking car!”

The big man opened the passenger door and put one foot in. When the engine was roaring, he raised the gun at Hawker's face. “Have a nice trip—
asshole.”

Hawker'd anticipated the deadly fire and dove behind the Toyota just as the gun exploded. The T-Bird's tires struggled for purchase as Bobby floored it in reverse, then slammed it into drive. The big man was still leaning out the window, his gun swinging back and forth in search of another shot.

Hawker drew out the stodgy Walther. He pushed his head up over the roof of the Toyota, ready to fire—but didn't. Clare's face was pressed against the window like a little girl's filled with homesickness. He didn't want to take even the slightest chance of hitting her.

The big biker had no such reluctance. He snapped off two quick shots that peeled the paint off the Toyota as Hawker once again dove to the ground.

The T-Bird's engine screamed as its tires sluiced ice and dirt into a pinwheel trajectory before they finally touched asphalt, gained traction, then fishtailed out of the parking lot and onto the street.

Hawker jumped to his feet. He didn't notice that he was soaked with slush, or that his nose was bleeding.

He holstered the Walther, drew out his keys, and threw open the door of his midnight-blue Corvette Stingray.…

SIXTEEN

Hawker downshifted and skidded into the street. It was rush hour, going-home time for a quarter million tired, hungry workers—and they all seemed to own cars.

But the only four cars Hawker was interested in were the ones he could see between him and the white T-Bird.

A cavern dusk had descended upon the city, a palpable absence of light and heat and color interrupted only by the penetrating reds of brakelights and the wind-random pitch and yaw of plastic Santas affixed to light standards.

Hawker hung on the bumper of the car in front of him, looking for an opening to pass.

Ahead, the T-Bird turned east on 7-Mile Road, and Hawker fishtailed after them. Traffic was faster there, but no less heavy. McDonald's, Arby's, Burger King, Pizza Hut blurred by, molded tributes to plasticism and bad food. A steady line of headlights streamed by in the opposite lane, so Hawker was surprised when the T-Bird shot into the passing lane and jumped four more cars ahead, running two approaching automobiles off the road. Their horns screamed, and a hubcap wheeled crazily down the middle of the road—someone had hit the curb.

Without hesitation, Hawker steered the Corvette into the temporary vacuum, downshifted into second, and touched the accelerator. The 427-cubic-inch engine paused for a microsecond then vised Hawker's head to the seat with a awesome acquisition of G-forces.

He dropped the Corvette back into traffic just as a cement truck blared by.

Once again he was four cars behind the T-Bird.

For a long time, the rush of traffic made it impossible to get any closer. But then the T-Bird veered north onto the Southfield Freeway—a fast multilane highway, and Hawker knew he was in for a race.

On the access ramp, the T-Bird began a long acceleration that did not end even when it melted into the heavy traffic. Hawker tapped the steering wheel nervously while the cars ahead of him seemed to putter past the runway. Then, when his chance came, he whipped the Corvette right and jammed the accelerator to the floor.

The Corvette seemed to squat lower over the road as the back tires screamed, then the car gave a shudder, and suddenly Hawker was being propelled toward the concourse as if in a rocket sled.

Holding the wheel at the ten-and-two position, Hawker drifted the long runway curve, then burst into the line of traffic. He glanced down at the speedometer. Despite the 55-mph speed limit, Detroit freeway traffic usually moved along at 70. The Corvette was already showing 110 mph, and the engine was still winding, far from top end.

He backed off a little, holding it at that speed. The road was a salt-stained gray, and the Corvette was absorbing it at a tremendous rate. The cars he passed seemed to be standing still. Ahead he could see the white T-Bird dodging in and out of traffic like a halfback, but still trying to stick close to the right lane.

That made Hawker suspicious, so he too began to maneuver back across the highway—and just in time too.

At the last moment, the T-Bird veered along an exit ramp, and Hawker had to do some inspired driving to cut behind one car, ahead of another, and follow along.

He was close enough now to see the woman's head bobbing. Then her face turned toward him, and Hawker hit his high beams. He could see her pretty shape clearly: She was saying something, motioning … motioning him away? Yes, she was telling him to give up his chase.

Hawker wondered if they were coaching her from inside the car. He decided they must be. He remembered the look of sheer dread on her face, remembered how she had pleaded for him to help her.

Hawker decided it was a good sign. If the bikers wanted her to wave him away, then they were undoubtedly worried about him. Also, they hadn't had the time to attack the woman sexually. It meant they would want to keep her around, that they probably would use her as a bargaining tool if Hawker was able to force them to stop.

He decided it was best to keep pressure on them until they led him to Queen Faith's, or until he thought of a way to snatch the woman away.

Hawker pressed the accelerator and moved in tight on their bumper. They were rounding the big access curve that straightened onto 8-Mile Road, another fast highway. The T-Bird tried to increase its speed, but it fishtailed slightly, unable to match the Corvette's handling.

Abruptly, the T-Bird's brakelights flared. Hawker downshifted, but not without first slamming into the white car's bumper. He fought the steering wheel until he had the Corvette under control, then was surprised to see the T-Bird brake again.

This time Hawker accelerated instead of downshifting and passed the T-Bird on the berm, throwing ice and rocks into the brilliant wedge of the car's lights. The T-Bird tried to pass, but Hawker blocked it, trying to force them to stop before they got onto 8-Mile Road, swerving every time they swerved, gradually slowing to a crawl.

For a time, it seemed as if it would work, as if it were the smart thing to do. The T-Bird just didn't have the mobility to get around the Corvette. But they had something else. The window shattered behind him, and it took the vigilante a moment to realize they were shooting at him. Hawker took out the Walther and placed it in the bucket seat beside him as he began a series of S-skids. The entrance ramp was close now, so Hawker knew he had to do something to stop them, and do it quickly. Then it suddenly came to him. It might work—if he was lucky.

He slowed a little and let the T-Bird start to pass. He felt the Corvette's fiberglass body shudder as more slugs cracked through it. When the car was halfway past, Hawker turned sharply. His port fender collided with the T-Bird, and the white car wheeled crazily up the side on a snowy incline, then came to a stop.

Keeping the body of his car between him and the bikers, Hawker jumped out of the Stingray, the Walther ready. If they wanted a shootout, he would give it to them—as long as they kept the girl out of the way. And they probably would. After all, she was valuable property.