Detroit Combat (2 page)

Hawker turned to go, then stopped. He said, “Say, Adria, while I'm gone, would you mind getting me a cup of that coffee? Cream and Sweet 'n Low if you've got it.” He smiled sweetly.

The woman was just lighting another cigarette. She exhaled smoke through bared teeth.

Hawker didn't wait for her answer. He had a feeling it wasn't going to be very nice. He went through the door into the second set of offices. As he did, he touched the .45 automatic in the Jensen speed holster beneath his jacket. The weight of the weapon was reassuring.

Hawker smiled at a private joke. He was thinking: There's no way that ball-breaking bitch is going to get my clothes off me—not as long as I'm armed.

TWO

James Hawker moved quickly down the hallway.

He walked right past the door marked “Men.”

He remembered what Adria Bent had said about the camera crew. She'd said they were shooting on one of the back sets. Hawker assumed that meant they were working in one of the rear offices.

He wanted to see exactly what they were working on.

For the first time since he had come to Detroit, he felt a slight trickle of confidence about the prospects of breaking at least one of the kidnapping cases.

It all figured: Pornography was a reasonable motive for kidnapping an attractive young woman. It might not be the reason why all thirteen women were taken, but it was a start—if he was right.

Hawker moved quietly through the next office. It was empty, and the few desks were covered with plastic and a layer of dust. The suite was obviously a temporary quarters for the pornographers. The offices were probably inexpensive to lease for a week or two of work. And, judging from the old building's construction, the rooms were probably all but soundproof.

Hawker paused at the next door and touched his ear to the heavy wood. From within he heard a muted
kerwack
followed by a cry of anguish.

Hawker forced himself to remain calm. He cracked the door ever so slightly and peered in. He had been confident the woman was Brenda Paulie. Now he was positive. And what he saw made him want to vomit.

They had strapped her spread-eagle to a bed, using leather thongs. The woman was completely naked, and Klieg lights and a pair of cameras hunched above her. Also on the stage were two muscular men. Both of them wore leather masks. The more muscular of the two men had a freakishly large penis, and he engaged in coitus while the woman lay helpless, her head thrown back in pain, the veins in her neck pounding, sweat beading on her forehead. The second held a leather whip. Whenever the woman seemed to resist, he slapped her sharply with the whip. She had round, heavy, milk-white breasts that now showed the iridescent red streaks of the whip. The pale nipples beaded with blood.

Hawker took a deep breath and drew the .45-caliber Colt ACP. He took note of the odds as he slid a cartridge into the chamber. There were five of them: a cameraman, a lighting grip, the director, and the two actors. The actors and the technicians would probably be trouble, Hawker decided. The director, who wore salmon-color jodhpurs and a pink shirt, would not be.

Behind the director, a woman sat on a steel folding chair. She wore a black negligee, smoked a blue cigarette, and her hair was cut into a punkish purple Mohawk. Hawker refused to even imagine how the woman with the Mohawk figured into the plot of the movie—if there was a plot.

In one swift motion, Hawker kicked the door open and stepped into the room. “Freeze! Not a word; not a move!” Then to the muscular actor who had stopped midstroke in his rape of Brenda Paulie, Hawker shouted, “You're not supposed to freeze, dumb shit! Climb down off her.
Now!
And take off those damn masks. What are you two supposed to be? Members of the Fire Island executioner's club or something?”

Hawker helped him off the woman with a sharp kick in the butt. It may not have damaged the actor's ego, but the kick certainly deflated his libido. Hawker motioned all of them against the wall as he walked toward Brenda Paulie. As he leaned down and pulled his Randall Attack/Survival knife from the scabbard on his calf, the director stepped forward.

“Who are you?” he demanded shrilly. “Are you a cop? Even if you are, you have absolutely no right to interrupt serious work in this manner. Do you have a search warrant? Do you?”

Hawker cut the leather thongs. “Do I have a search warrant?” He smiled. “Sure.” He motioned with the .45 automatic in his right hand. “This is my search warrant. And if you so much as look at me wrong, you nauseating little shit, they'll be pulling chunks of your skull out of the wall until the end of this century.”

“I never said you
had
to have a search warrant,” the director said quickly. “And we're not moving, are we? Not even an inch. We're going to do whatever you tell us.” He looked at the others. The two actors had taken off their masks, and Hawker was surprised at how young they looked. Both of them looked very frightened as they watched Hawker replace the Randall in its scabbard.

There was a sheet on the floor, and Hawker used it to cover up Brenda Paulie. For the first time, she seemed to realize she was free. Hawker could see firsthand that she had a lithe athlete's body and a pretty cheerleader's face. She opened her eyes groggily. “Are we done now? Can we go, please?”

“Yeah, Mrs. Paulie,” Hawker said softly, “we can go now. I'm taking you home. Home to your husband, Blake. Home to a doctor.”

The woman's head cocked slightly, as if she didn't believe what she had just heard. “Home? Home to my husband? Why are you lying to me? Please don't do that.”

Hawker squeezed her wrist tenderly. “I'm not lying to you, Brenda. I'm a friend. We're going to find you some clothes and get you away from these animals.”

“Home?” the woman echoed. “Oh, that would be so … so
nice
. That would be just wonderful. Really? You really mean it? God, I think you do.” She pushed at her stringy black hair as if to neaten it for the journey—a pathetic gesture. “I've been away for so long, it seems. Such a long, long time. I know Blake has been worried about me, and I just haven't been able to call.” She looked carefully at Hawker. He could see the depth of the confusion and the hysteria in her bleary eyes. She added anxiously, “You have to let me get cleaned up first. Please. You can't let Blake see me like this.” She began to wring her hands as if to rid them of some unspeakable filth. “I'm just so … so … so damn
dirty
.…” Her voice faltered and she began to cry softly, her knees pulled up to her chest in a fetal position. Brenda Paulie looked small and humiliated and tragic.

Hawker stared at the director. Hawker stared at him for a long, searing moment. He stared at him until the sweat beaded on the little man's forehead and the weak jaw quivered. Trembling, the director wore a nervous, mongrel smile. He saw something in Hawker's eyes that was cold and murderous. The director pleaded, “I didn't hire her. Honest. I help them work together. They supply the actors and I make the films—”

Hawker exhaled a long breath. The director seemed to realize how close Hawker had come to pulling the trigger. His knees wobbled and he touched a chair to balance himself. A dark stain began to spread across the crotch of the jodhpurs. The director had wet himself.

“Who brought her here?” Hawker demanded. His voice, barely audible, was a hoarse whisper. “No more bullshit, no more explanations. Just tell me.”

“She … she's one of Queen Faith's people.”

“Who?”

“Queen Faith. She's like a talent agency … an underground talent agency. She recruits street people. You know: drug users, poor kids, runaways. She supplies actresses.”

“Women? Just women?”

The director hesitated. “Usually. But sometimes she has young boys available … when we need them.” The director took a slow step backward. His face was now a pasty white. “Why are you looking at me like that? You certainly can't blame just me. All the filmmakers use Queen Faith. All of them. Honest. You aren't going to shoot me, are you?”

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?”