Florida Firefight (5 page)

Hayes's friend had been given an ultimatum by the Colombians: sell them the Tarpon Inn or end up a corpse stuck in some 'gator hole in the heart of the Everglades.

Everyone in town was running scared. They had approached their one-man police force—an aging, retired Miami cop—and asked him to seek outside help. But they knew why he couldn't even before they asked: by the time state or federal gears of justice got into motion, the Colombians would have plenty of time for reprisals.

And there were a lot of innocent kids on Mahogany Key.

So Hawker had jetted from the bleakness of a Chicago December into the heat and glare of Miami.

It hadn't taken him long to get ready.

Hayes had made arrangements for Hawker's cover story. Hawker would pretend to be the new owner of the Tarpon Inn. Hayes's friend was more than willing to shed the burden for a while. Hayes had also seen that the equipment Hawker required had been safely shipped ahead.

So Hawker put his Stingray in storage, gave the widow Hudson two months' advance rent, then contacted his ex-wife, Andrea Marie, and told her to spread the word to his friends that he would be out of town awhile. A few years before, the strain of Hawker's passion for dangerous police work had been too much for Andrea, and they had divorced amicably.

Even so they remained close friends—and a little bit in love with each other.

On his last night in Chicago, they had driven outside the city to Lakemoor's Le Vichyssoise, a country French restaurant, for a farewell dinner. Somewhere between the cream of leek soup and the roast duck cooked in wine, the regrets and the desire to take each other to bed again had built until Andrea burst into tears. She was a lithe brunette with a face and body that demanded longing looks from the men in every room she had ever entered. But she also possessed the intimidating demeanor of a woman who knew damn well what she wanted, and contact with those demanding brown eyes of hers usually sent the same men staring away into space, frightened.

“Damn it,” she had said, dabbing at the tears with her napkin, “why does a big ugly potato-head like you still affect me this way?”

“That's the trouble with every Jewish-American princess—too emotional.”

“Bullshit,” she snapped. “It's different between us, you know that. You're an ex-husband, and the modern businesswoman doesn't worry about ex-husbands. She's happy to be free and single—read
Cosmo
or
Ms
. if you don't believe me.” The tears began to flow again, and her lips trembled. “So why … why do I feel so awful about your …
leaving!
” The soft weight of her breasts heaved as she buried her face in the napkin.

Hawker had tried hard not to smile. “People are beginning to stare, woman. And your picture has been in the society sections too often for them not to recognize the famous art gallery owner—”

“Fuck 'em,” she cut in.

“My, my, what language!”

She wiped her eyes a last time and gave Hawker a heartbreaking look. “Hawk, you won't tell me why you're going to Florida, but I know it's not just for the sun and surf. You've quit the Chicago force, but I know you too damn well to believe you'll ever give up being a cop.” She took his hand and squeezed it gently. For the hundredth—or thousandth?—time, Hawker fought away his sexual wanting for her. “So promise me this,” she continued. “Promise me you won't get into trouble down there. And damn well promise me you won't get hurt.”

So Hawker had promised. And he had promised again on the way back to her penthouse apartment. And he had promised still again as he forced himself from her bedroom door.

So Hawker had rented a Monte Carlo at Miami International Airport and driven west across the Tamiami Trail, through the scent and heat of the Everglades.

Sun shimmered off the highway, and a sea of grass rolled away toward both horizons, golden as Kansas wheat. The air smelled of citrus and sulfur, and white egrets and grim-looking vultures flushed as he drove. Hawker had found something jazzy and Cuban on the radio, and he hummed along.

It felt good to be alone.

The cold, the politics, the complicated relationships of Chicago all seemed long ago and far away. He felt charged and ready.

Mahogany Key was a village on an island connected to the mainland by a concrete drawbridge. The island was four miles long and three miles wide, with draping ficus trees and coconut palms lining the narrow streets.

The houses were built of wood or block and well maintained, but there was a creeping air of decay about them. It wasn't obvious: a fallen awning that hadn't been replaced, leaf-clogged gutters, abandoned toys in the drives. And the lawns were gradually going to weed. The public park in the tiny downtown area hadn't been mowed in weeks. A wooden dock reeled along the bay side of the island, and fishing shacks built on stilts stood in abandoned clusters out in the shallows. The commercial boats there were wrack-stained and unattended.

Something was obviously very wrong on Mahogany Key.

Hawker cruised slowly over the bridge and into the town. It was Saturday, but most of the businesses were closed.

The few people he saw on the streets caught his eyes briefly, then looked quickly away. They all seemed to walk with their heads down. They seemed in a hurry.

The one business still open was a seedy-looking Shop-and-Go. A flea-ravaged dog slept in the sun in the parking lot near a spilled trash can.

Hawker pulled in for gas and directions.

That was when the four Hispanics converged on him.

And that was when Hawker remembered he had lied to his ex-wife and high school sweetheart, the former Andrea Marie Flishmann.

“You understand, gringo,” the Hispanic repeated. “You leave town pronto, or we cut your pretty white ears off, huh?” He was a little shorter than Hawker, heavily muscled, with a Fu Manchu mustache. His grin was a dark scar that showed bad teeth.

Hawker could feel eyes watching from inside the Shop-and-Go: a young mother with a pair of towheaded kids; two beefy-looking middle-aged men with the sun-beaten faces of fishermen; a pretty, Indian-looking woman with long black hair. Their faces were all pressed against the window. Across the street a teenage boy and his father stopped to stare.

Absently Hawker wondered if he could depend on them for help.

But then he saw the look of fear in their eyes, and he knew that he would fight alone.

Theirs were the faces of helplessness, faces he remembered from the Neighborhood Watch days.

He knew he had to give them all a fighting example.

Hawker surprised the Hispanics, taking three quick steps toward Fu Manchu. They stood half an arm's length from each other, face to face. “I'd planned to drive on into Miami this morning,” Hawker said, returning the Colombian's grin, “but you know, I've begun to take a real liking to this town. Seems like a real friendly place. Think I'll stick around for a few days.”

Fu Manchu flushed, and his eyes darted to his friends. They nodded, ready to help. The Colombian put his hands on his hips, threw back his head and laughed. “This gringo, he is very brave, eh? Very brave and very stupid!” The laugh became a sneer. “I will call you Rojo—it means ‘Red'—for your lovely red hair.” He gave his three friends a wink. “But remember, Rojo, red is also the color of your blood when it's spilled.”

Hawker nonchalantly slid his hands into the oversize military pockets of his British twill guide slacks. “And you're very brave, too—as long as you have these three goons to back you.” The Colombian's face described outrage. He stepped as if to swing, but Hawker held up both hands, a sign of momentary truce. “Don't fly off the handle, José—”

“My name is not José!”

“Well, whatever your name is, I'm offering you a fair fight. You and me, José, right here; right now.”

“You must think me a fool, gringo—not that I couldn't grind your face to
basura
with one hand.”

“Let's just say I'll think you're a coward if you don't try.” Hawker smiled and offered a wink of his own. “And so will everyone here.”

“Pedro Cartagena is afraid of no man!” the Colombian spat.

“Then why don't you fight him!” It was a woman's voice that interrupted. It was the Indian woman from the Shop-and-Go. She was tall and slim, with a smoky, mystic beauty. Her raven black hair was draped over heavy breasts, and she wore the jeans-and-cotton-knit uniform of college students across the nation. She stood on the step, her face trembling with rage. “I'm so sick of you—you
animals
roaming this town like a pack of dogs, bullying and pushing, that I'd really like to see if you have the courage to fight alone.” And when the Colombian didn't immediately react, she seared him with a witting laugh. “It's just as I thought,” she said. “You're like all pack animals—cowards when you're by yourself.”

The Colombian's eyes were venomous. “Perhaps I will find you alone one night and show you what a coward Pedro Cartagena is,” he whispered in a deadly voice. And in the same instant he whirled on Hawker, catching him across the nose with his elbow.

Hawker back-pedaled across the lot, right hand going toward the oversize pockets of his pants in the event all four Hispanics charged him.

They didn't. Hawker wiped the gush of blood away with the back of his hand. This was exactly what he wanted: a public fight, one on one.

Back in Ireland his father had fought the professional circuit to earn the few extra quid it took to keep his wife, son and three daughters fed. He had stuck Hawker in the ring before he was in his teens. First it was the Police Benevolent Boxing Association and then the Golden Gloves.

Every tough kid in the city—Italian, black and Pole—had fought his way in and out of the Archer Boxing Club Gym, and Hawker had slugged it out with all of them.

By the time he was seventeen, Hawker was the Golden Gloves light-heavyweight champion of Illinois. And he had the medals—and the nose—to prove it.

Hawker walked straight at Fu Manchu. People had crowded around them, but the only ones yelling encouragement were the Colombians. The others were frightened to call out—except for the Indian woman. Unafraid, she was openly pulling for Hawker.

Fu Manchu was doing his best imitation of a professional fighter, dancing and bobbing. Hawker slapped the jabs away, waiting for his opening. He didn't have to wait long. Fu Manchu went for the home run punch—a sizzling overhand right. Hawker stepped through it, got Fu Manchu's toes under his left foot, then cracked his face open with a straight right. The Colombian jolted butt first to the asphalt, a look of surprise on his face. He made a motion as if to climb to his feet, but then his glazed eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed face first on the pavement.

Surprisingly, the other Colombians weren't quick to come to his aid—not with their fists, anyway. Hawker had obviously made an impression. They circled him, glaring, each waiting for the other to make a move. Then, as if they all had the same idea at once, they went for their knives.

seven

Someone screamed as they rushed him. Hawker had no idea who. He was too busy trying to stay alive.

He ducked under the first Colombian and flipped him over his back onto the pavement. The man hit with a massive thud and lay bug-eyed, kicking for oxygen with the wind knocked out of him. In that brief moment of victory, Hawker thought he might actually have a chance.

He was wrong.

Someone hit him from behind immediately. Hawker felt a firelike pain in his left shoulder. He tried to jerk away, but a thick arm was locked around his throat. A fist clubbed him twice on the side of the face, hard. The third Colombian approached him warily, knife vectoring in on Hawker's throat.

“We can't kill him here,” insisted the man who was holding him. His voice was thick with nervousness. “Too many eyes here, man. Medelli won't like it.”

The name had an effect on the Colombian, and he hesitated for a moment. But just a moment. “After what he did to Pedro?” The Colombian with the knife spat. “I don't give a shit what Medelli thinks. We cut him now!” He brought the knife back, ready to lunge—and from out of nowhere a beer bottle exploded against the man's face. It threw them off balance just long enough.

Hawker drove his right elbow into the stomach of the man behind him, turned and hit him behind the ear with a chopping right. It didn't put the Colombian down, but it stunned him.

But more important, it finally gave Hawker time to fish the lethal little Walther PPK from the oversize military pocket of his pants. He swung it around, framing each of them in the Walther's U-notch sight.

“You assholes toss those knives away—now!”

The Colombian who had had the wind knocked out of him and Fu Manchu, his face split and covered with blood, got shakily to their feet.

All four slid their sheath knives across the pavement.

Hawker turned to the crowd that had gathered. “One of you folks get to that pay phone and telephone for the law.”

They acted as if they were deaf. The men studied their worn hands and kicked at the pavement. The women hung their heads, refusing to meet Hawker's eyes. One by one they turned and slunk away.

Only the pretty Indian girl remained. She flipped her raven black hair back, saying, “There's no law around here, mister. We've got a one-man police force who's too old to be much good and too scared to care.” The disgust was razorlike in her voice. “And we've got a bunch of local men who like to guzzle beer and brag about how tough they are—in the safety of their own homes, or the Tarpon Inn bar. But law? You're holding the only law around here, mister.”

“Someone tried to help me,” Hawker insisted shakily. He was suddenly feeling faint, weak from those shots to the head and loss of blood. One of the Colombians began to edge toward the knives, and Hawker stopped him with a motion of the Walther. “Someone helped a hell of a lot, throwing that bottle.”