Footsteps of the Hawk b-8 Page 25

  "It won't work. Why don't you— ?"

  "Shut up!" she snapped. "You're done talking. The only reason I'm not killing you right this second is maybe Morales won't show up on time. He could get in an accident, have a flat tire— I don't know. But I have to do him before I do you, just to make sure."

  "It won't help," I said. "What I know, what I just told you— it's all written down. If anything happens to me— "

  "Liar!" she hissed out at me. "Dirty liar. You don't have anybody. Just other…people like you. Thieves. Even if you did leave something, they'd only want money. I'll have money."

  "What if Morales doesn't show up at all?" I tried. "Or what if he has backup? You could talk your way out of a lot of things, but not a dead body in your apartment."

  "He'll show," Belinda said. "I got everything I need from you. Well, maybe everything. We'll see…."

  She pulled the jersey bra up over her breasts, then over her head. She slipped off the shorts, stood there naked. "You think a man can be raped?" she whispered.

  "I know they can," I said.

  "I don't mean by another man, like in prison. Do you think a woman can rape a man?"

  "I don't know."

  "You and me, we're gonna find out, honey. Don't go away now."

  She walked down the hall, an exaggerated wiggle to her hips, looking over one shoulder, blowing me a kiss. When she came back, she had a blue washcloth in her hand. She got on her hands and knees and started crawling toward me. When she got right on top of me, she raised her head, licked her lips. "I'm going to make you come, she purred. "In my mouth. And I'm going to spit it up on this," she told me, holding out the washcloth. Her eyes flickered under long lashes, looking up at my face. "Looks like you're not just a hit man, Burke," she whispered. "You're a rapist too."

  "You're out of your— "

  "No," she said. "No, I'm not. I look good, don't I? Isn't this perfect? I'm going to rape you. You're going to get nice and hard, and you're going to come in my mouth. Even though you know what I'm going to do with it. Even though you know you're going to die. You can't help yourself. Just watch…"

  She pulled my cock toward her, stuffed its limpness into her mouth, sucked hard. I felt a tremor.

  No!

  Another, like a little shock wave. I couldn't…stop it. I felt myself go crazy, right in my own mind. I couldn't— she couldn't make me. But people did make me…when I was a kid. I felt that come back at me…and then the red dots flashed behind my eyes until they merged into a scream inside me and I snapped my head forward, trying to drive my forehead into the top of her skull….It didn't work— the leather straps pulled me up short. She craned her neck, looking up at me from under her bangs, my cock still in her mouth. She winked at me like we were sharing a joke— then she went back to work. I looked down, looked at her mass of chestnut curls covering my lap. And I went dead.

  She tried for another few minutes, licking, sucking, making little noises. But I stayed dead.

  Her head came up, lunatic eyes shining with joy. "It doesn't matter," she said. "You just sit here, be a good boy. Maybe, if you're real good, when I get back, I'll give you another chance."

  She got to her feet, brought her face down to where we were almost touching, closed her eyes, and spit full in my face.

  When I opened my eyes again, she was at the end of the hail, dressed in a yellow turtleneck and black pants, a pocketbook over one shoulder.

  "See you soon," she said, and blew me a kiss.

  Strapped in that chair, waiting, I was cold. Not from the temperature, from inside me. I went into that safe place, the place where ice cauterizes, makes you numb. You can think things there, but you can't feel them. I didn't want to feel….The only option on that menu was Terror.

  I had a plan going in— I thought it over first. It was a good plan— no way Belinda was going to kill me in her own apartment— too many risks. How could she explain it to the cops?

  But after she explained it to me, I could see it happening.

  Getting people out of the way, that was the real plan. Hauser was too much of a news hound to let him stay around. No telling what kind of stunt he'd pull if he thought there was a story in it. The Prof and Clarence, they were professionals all right, but they were my family first. The last time I got them in something…that time in the Bronx…I wasn't going to do that again.

  I wanted to save Max for vengeance. If it came to that, he could take his time, work around the edges, strike when it was safe. Max isn't bulletproof— but if you don't know he's coming, he can't be stopped.

  I had my backup ready: brains and muscle both. The Mole and Frankie. Only the Mole is a lunatic and Frankie's down to one arm.

  I rocked in the chair, trying to tip it over. Maybe I could get free that way— maybe the crash would say something to the people downstairs. She hadn't put a gag in my mouth, so I figured yelling would be a waste of time. I shoved hard to my right— the chair didn't budge. I couldn't see where the legs met the floor, but I guess it was anchored somehow.

  Calm, stay calm. I tried to remember everything I'd learned about escapes. There was a young guy I did time with once. He could get out of handcuffs like he was greased. The trick was to fold your hands over so they were no wider than your wrist— he was always practicing it. He would let you hold his wrist, tight as you wanted. And then just pull it free. I tried, but it was no good. Something like that takes practice….

  There was a little play in the waist strap— I had pushed all the air in my lungs into my stomach when I saw what Belinda was going to do— I'd remembered at least that much. But it wasn't enough…I just had more room to squirm, a worm on a hook.

  I could feel the baby spot beaming down on me, a hot, focused light. It was so quiet I could hear my heart beat…faster than I wanted, but still below the panic line. Maybe Morales would get the drop on her…Then all I'd have to worry about was starving to death.

  If there's a way in, there's a way out. I said it to myself, over and over again, a mantra that gave me no peace. If only I had…

  I heard the deadbolt on the front door snap open. The sound froze my heart. I stopped breathing. A thin beam of light came around the corner.

  "Jesus Christ!" It was Frankie, a flashlight in his hand, the lens taped so only a sliver of light came through. He came forward slowly, wary as a stray dog offered food.

  "I'm okay," I told him, willing calm into my voice. "But hurry it up, all right?"

  He moved quickly to where I was strapped in. I saw the Mole materialize over his left shoulder, his leather satchel in his hand. The Mole pushed Frankie out of the way, held up his hand so Frankie couldn't get any closer.

  "You wired up?" he asked me, making a sniffing noise like a bomb dog.

  "No."

  The Mole nodded, satisfied. He put his satchel on the floor, knelt to open it. Then he carefully examined the straps through his Coke–bottle glasses. He shook his head in disgust, reached in his satchel and came out with what looked like a giant pair of scissors. The scissors had a pistol grip on one side with a wide handle on the other, a spring between them. The Mole worked it under the strap on my left arm, resting the base of the scissors on the chair itself. He leaned forward, grunting with effort, and the thick leather parted. I flexed my arm, working some of the stiffness out while the Mole did the other strap, around my right arm. I could have slipped out then, but the Mole did the waist strap too, and I was free.

  "She went out the front door, headed downtown," Frankie said. "We couldn't follow her. I mean, not and get in here too."

  "You did the right thing," I told him, climbing into my clothes. "It doesn't matter anyway— I know where she's going."

  "Can we— ?" Frankie asked.

  "You got a car?" I interrupted.

  "We got the Mole's…truck, I guess it is," Frankie said. "He picked me up in it."

  I knew what he meant— the beat–up old panel truck with the name of a kosher butcher on the side that the Mole used to get a
round in.

  "Let's go," I told them.

  The Mole drove like he always did, with bat–blind incompetence, like he had a sonar system in his head but it wasn't working too good. The panel truck yawed around corners. Every pothole sent my head toward the roof.

  "You have any trouble with the locks?" I asked the Mole.

  He gave me a "Don't be stupid" look, sawing at the big steering wheel to negotiate another corner.

  We drove up Van Dam slowly, seeing if…Nothing— the street was quiet. Morales' screaming–red sports car was parked right in front of the loft. I used Frankie's flashlight on its windshield— it was empty. We turned on Greenwich and doubled back, parking on Charlton— the loft on Van Dam was just through the alley.

  "You got a piece?" I asked Frankie.

  "No. I mean, you didn't— "

  "That's okay," I said. "Mole?"

  "I have some grenades," the lunatic replied. In his world, the subject of individual targets doesn't come up much.

  "Stay here," I told him. "Frankie'll be back in a minute. Then take off, okay?"

  The Mole nodded, as miserly with words as always. I took off down the alley, Frankie right behind. He may not have been a world–class burglar when he was doing houses, but he knew how to move: quick and careful. I located the building, eye–checked it, taking stock. A rusty fire escape ran up the back of the building. The loft was on the second floor. I looked to the rooftops. The buildings were so close together you could travel the length of the block and never touch the street.

  No way I was going to ring that bell, ask Belinda to throw down the key. I knew what she'd throw down if she saw me coming.

  Frankie saw the look on my face. "What can I do?" he asked, hard truth in his voice.

  "One more thing, brother," I told him. "I gotta get on that fire escape. Get on quiet, understand? And it's too high for me to jump."

  "I'm with you," Frankie said, planting his feet, bending at the knees, cupping his right hand. I stepped into the cup with one foot, jumped off with the other one just as Frankie heaved up with all his strength. For a second, I was floating….Then I grabbed the base of the fire escape with both hands and hauled myself up. I turned from my perch, looked down at Frankie. I made my right hand into a fist, held it right next to my face. Frankie made the same gesture from below, answering. I moved both hands in a "Get the hell out of here!" gesture. Then I turned my back on Frankie and went to work.

  I took a black shadow–marker out of my pocket, smeared it over my face in a random pattern. I pulled a black wool watch cap over my hair, slipped the black gloves on my hands. The window into the loft was closed, pitch black from years of city soot— I couldn't tell if it was dark inside or if I just couldn't see through the glass. No bars on the window— strange in this neighborhood. I got my hands under the frame, shoved up slowly. Nothing. I braced myself, shoved with all my strength. It didn't budge. I pulled a black silk handkerchief from my jacket, spit on it and rubbed a clear circle on the glass. Still couldn't see anything.

  I ran my fingers over the window. Old plate glass, not even Thermo–paned. No wires in it either. In this neighborhood? Maybe a motion detector…

  I took a deep breath. Let it out slow. Then I took off my jacket, pulled it open like a shield over my face, and kicked in the glass. It shattered easy enough. I came all the way through behind it, the jacket protecting my face and arms. I rolled into the room, staying low, the plastic knife in my hand.

  For a second, I didn't move. Didn't breathe. Then I heard footsteps, running. Heard a door slam. I moved along the wall, heading for a patch of light I saw off to my right. I peeked around the corner, looked into that big room with all the Retro crap scattered around. I heard a grunting sound. Who…?

  Morales. On his back, head propped against the base of the couch. His shirt was white, but his chest was red, a spreading stain. I ran over, dropped down next to him.

  He opened his eyes, looked at me. If he was surprised, he didn't show it. "Bitch shot me," he said through clenched teeth. "Got the drop on me, took my piece. Told me the whole story— like she was getting her rocks off, telling me. Then she just stepped back and fucking shot me."

  "Don't talk," I said. "I'll— "

  "Bitch shoulda known I always carry a spare," he said, straining with every word. That's when I saw the pistol in his fist, a cheap–shit .25–caliber Raven automatic— the favorite of low–level gangbangers, a perfect throw–down piece. "She had the gun up, ready to finish me— bitch didn't see this one. I was just about to take my shot when I heard the glass go. She took off."

  "They'll get her," I said. "It's all over now. Just— "

  "I'm done," Morales said. "She caught a fucking lung— I can feel it. She gets away, you're done too. She won't go out the front door— she's gonna use the roof, make a run for it. Take…"

  His head slumped on his chest, lolling to one side. I put my ear close to his face. I could hear him breathing, but it wasn't much.

  "Don't give me up," I said, dropping the cellular phone next to his hand— the same hand I pulled the pistol out of. Then I straightened up and started for Belinda.

  I found the inside staircase to the roof at the end of the hall. Flattened my back against the wall and pushed it open with the barrel of the pistol. It moved easy. I counted to five in my mind, then slipped inside. Still nothing. Up the stairs, step–by–step, slowly, slowly…all the way to the roof.

  She'd be running now. Running hard. She couldn't be sure Morales was dead, couldn't go back to her apartment. Did she have a car stashed somewhere? Money? A passport?

  It didn't feel like that. She'd gambled everything on a pair of murders— she'd left me staked out, went off to do Morales…but the bridge she built had collapsed under her feet.

  I crawled out onto the roof, snaking my way forward using my elbows and feet. Nothing. I stopped, went quiet, listening to the night. The sound of breaking glass wouldn't bring the cops in this part of town— the other apartments were empty anyway. And she'd had enough time to get completely off the block. I couldn't stay around, not with Morales maybe dead right beneath me. I stood up to wide–angle a look at the other roofs, trying to spot a flash from her yellow turtleneck. A piece of brick flew off the chimney a couple of inches from my face. I hit the ground, rolled to my right fast as I could just as another pair of shots smacked into the brick where my chest would have been. No sound…She must be using her own piece— the one with the silencer.

  I couldn't tell where the shots had come from, but they had to be close.

  No more footsteps to hear— now the hawk was on the ground, talons out.

  I crawled backward until most of my body was behind the chimney. Would she think she'd hit me, come over to finish me off? No…she couldn't be sure. Time was grinding to a stop, everything in slow motion. But I knew it was an illusion— knew time was the enemy too. I counted my options, came down to one.

  "It's me, Belinda," I called softly. "I got out of your place. Morales is dead— your plan is shot. We have to do this together now, girl. You and me."

  "You're a liar!" Belinda's voice, a viper's hiss slashing through the night. I couldn't follow the sound to the source, but she had to be close. Real close.

  "I'm not lying," I said out of the darkness. "I'm too scared to lie. It's over now You pulled it off. All I want to do is get out of here alive."

  "Liar!" she hissed again, a robot, locked in by its programming.

  "I just want some of the money," I called to her. "Just a piece, okay? We can't stay up here. Sooner or later, the cops are gonna come. I can alibi you. Foolproof. The Chinese restaurant, that's where we were tonight. Together. A dozen people saw us. You were right— Morales wouldn't have any notes. It's you and me now."

  "You swear?"

  "I swear on my mother's life," I told her.

  "Stand up where I can see you," she called back.

  "No way. You've got a gun— I don't. I'm not getting myself— "

&nb
sp; "I'll throw it away," she promised. "Watch."

  Something silver flashed to my left, a high arc. I heard the sound of metal hitting the roof. "I gave it up," she called, her voice closer now. "Now stand up where I can see you."

  "You first," I told her. "I can't see where it landed— I'm not letting you run over and pick it up."

  "I'm coming," she said, stepping out from behind a maintenance shack, hands in the air.

  I stood up too, letting her see me, holding my hands high, easily palming the little .25. We walked toward each other, feet crunching on little stones and litter, maybe ten feet apart, hands still in the air like we were going to slap each other high–fives.

  "It'll be okay," she said. "Don't worry. We can still— " Her right hand flashed toward her waistband but mine had less room to travel— I cranked off three rounds into her chest. The cheap little pistol made pop–pop–pop sounds. She staggered, fell to her knees, pulled Morales' gun out and fired— missed— just as I put two more into her. She fell on her face. The pistol dropped from her hand.

  I ran over, reached under her arm and rolled her over. Her yellow turtleneck was still clean— I couldn't see where the bullets had gone in. "You're liars," she said, voice drained. "Dirty fucking liars, all of you."

  I picked up Morales' revolver, knelt down by Belinda. Her raptor's eyes flamed at me. I pointed Morales' pistol at her forehead, squeezed the trigger. The explosion shut off my hearing. Her forehead disappeared.

  I ran then, ran hard. Across the roof, down the stairs, Morales' pistol held ahead of me like a talisman against evil. The apartment door was standing open. I found Morales, still in the same position, knelt next to him.

  "She's dead," I told him. "I shot her with your throw–down gun. I put another one into her with this," I said, holding up his pistol so he could see it. "I'm taking off— the cops'll be here in a minute."

  "I didn't…call," he said. "I waited…in case you could— "