Detroit Combat (3 page)

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.…

FOUR

Donna, who now wore a full leather mask, stepped into view.

The mask made her look a little like a falcon. The way she strutted and mugged told Hawker the cameras were rolling.

She turned sideways to the lens, slowly unbuttoned the negligee, then stripped it off. She had small sharp breasts with very long, very dark—almost black—nipples. She massaged herself for a few moments, then unbelted her pants and slid them down over her hips. Her broad, broodmare hips intersected abruptly at the pelvic hinge, and her vagina was shaved almost smooth except for one neatly tended band of hair that ran along both sides of the vulva.

Hawker flexed his muscles against the strength of the leather thongs as the woman approached him. She ran a purple fingernail down his chest, then slid her hand up under his sweater. The snap on his jeans popped; his belt came undone; then he heard the muted growl of his zipper.

She pulled his pants down to his knees, and James Hawker felt the woman's hands on him then, felt her roll him between her small palms as if trying to warm him. Then her mouth opened wide and took him in. Hawker resisted … struggled to resist … fought desperately to resist … but the woman continued to lure him toward that narrow reality that consists only of the wilting suction, the flickering tongue, the heat of saliva, and the inexorable drive to deposit.

Hawker fought it. He fought it for a long time, it seemed. Sweat rolled down his forehead and thighs, and the musky odor of naked, sweating, wanting woman was overpoweringly in his face. Every time he slid away from her, the searching, seeking, vacuum mouth found him again and swallowed him like a creature alive. He kept telling himself that to submit was to give in to the most perverted, degrading experience of his life.

But the body sometimes has a mind of its own. And, finally, his body began to turn traitor. It began to react to the wants of the mouth that sought him. It began to react to the heat and smell and damnable suction.

It was at that moment, out of the corner of his eye, Hawker saw the husky male actor approaching. Alex was obviously aroused—but not by the scent of sex. It was the scent of death that drew him now, and in his eyes was the perverse joy of having an opportunity to slaughter.

In his right hand was the bright star-glimmer of the stainless steel attack/survival knife.

Alex drew it high overhead. Wearing the leather mask, he looked like an Aztec priest about to sacrifice a virgin.

Then he drove the knife down; downward with a
whoof
of effort, driving it toward the heart of the man beneath him.

Hawker unleashed all his strength, all his weight, against the leather bindings. Those holding his ankles snapped, as did the thong holding his right wrist. But the strap on his left hand refused to give.

Even so, it was enough. He kicked upward with his knees, hitting Donna in the side of the head. With the tenacity of an Electrolux, she clung for a moment before somersaulting away. Hawker suppressed a roar of agony as he rolled off the bed just as the seven-and-a-half–inch stainless steel blade drove through the mattress.

“Keep it rolling!” Benny yelled to the lighting grip, who now stood at the second camera. Delighted by what was happening, Benny paced away from his station—and almost tripped over the body of Sol, the director. “Realism,” he yelled. “Realism! It's exactly what we want now, Alex! It's the statement we want to make. Keep the action going!”

All the realism James Hawker wanted was to get the hell away from these lunatics. He pulled violently on the thong, dragging the whole bed as Alex slashed at him with the knife. Donna, with her purple Mohawk bristling and the right side of her face swollen, was on her feet again. She screamed, “Kill that dirty puke, Alex! Cut his guts out!”

As Alex lunged at him, Hawker lurched backward—and the thong snapped. The naked actor tumbled over him, and the vigilante got to his knees and cracked him flush in the face with a sizzling right fist. The knife flew into the air as Alex fought groggily to get to his feet. Hawker snatched up the knife and, holding his pants with his left hand, drew it back with every intention of putting Alex's mask on the floor without taking it off his head.

But then there were two deafening explosions, and Hawker turned to see that Donna had somehow found his .45 automatic. Naked, she held it awkwardly in both hands. “I'll kill you myself, you son of a bitch! Nobody kicks me and gets away with it!”

Once again she fired, and one of the Klieg lights shattered high above his head.

Benny was still at his camera, as was the lighting grip. Both of them panned to follow Hawker as he dove over the bed and rolled toward Donna. At that range he expected the next shot to hit him, no matter how bad a marksman she was.

But the next shot never came. Brenda Paulie had gotten to her feet, and body-blocked the woman from behind. Even so, Donna had not dropped the Colt. Hawker charged her, but the second actor—the one who had used the whip earlier—intercepted him. He tried to hit Hawker with a massive roundhouse, but Hawker ducked under it and knocked him off his feet with a straight right to the throat. The actor went down, gagging.

Realizing for the first time that Hawker really might escape, Benny and the lighting grip left their cameras as if on cue. Donna was still trying to fix the sights of the .45 on him, so, when Brenda Paulie threw open the door and yelled, “Run!” that's exactly what Hawker did.

He pushed the girl through before him, slammed the door, and pulled a desk in front of it.

From inside, a muffled shot splintered the heavy wood.

Hawker took Brenda Paulie by the elbow and together they ran through the bank of empty offices, down the hall, and through the door into the front offices.

Adria Bent jumped up from her desk in surprise. “Where in the hell did you go? You have absolutely no right to roam around this place unattended! You can just forget your film test,
friend.”

Quickly Hawker did three things in succession: He locked the door behind him; he painfully snapped his pants; he returned the Randall knife to its scabbard. There was an evil expression on his face, but Adria Bent refused to be intimidated.

“I'm tempted to call some of my employees out here and have them kick the shit out of you. That's the only thing people like you understand—”

“Shut up,” Hawker snapped. He considered the wraparound skirt she wore. “And take off that dress—
now.”

“Are you mad?”

“I'm beyond mad, lady. I'm genuinely pissed off. So you take off that skirt without another word and give it to that nice girl holding the sheet around her.”