A Gathering of Widowmakers (The Widowmaker #4) (15 page)

"No, I really wouldn't." Nighthawk paused to light a smokeless cigar, then grabbed the sled as it started drifting away. "Do you know how many men and aliens I've killed in my life?"

"Not precisely."

"Believe me, there were a lot, more than I think you can imagine," said Nighthawk. "Now look around you at the District. Nothing's changed."

"But this is the District. It's a tiny area that's set aside for criminals like these."

"So you're saying that if I leave the planet I won't find any more killers, that Jason and Jeff are wasting their time looking for bad guys on every world they touch down on?"

"No," admitted Kinoshita. "No, of course I'm not saying that."

"Argument ended."

"But if you've felt this way all along, why did you remain the Widowmaker?"

"Because I was the best at my job, and because things would have been worse if I'd quit, or if I hadn't created Jeff."

"And that's the only reason?" said Kinoshita. "You did it because you
could
do it?"

"Have you got a better reason?" asked Nighthawk as they crossed out of the District and headed toward the police station. They stopped for a moment when they came to the cigar shop. Nighthawk left Kinoshita outside with the airsled and a growing crowd of awestruck children while he entered, bought a Greenveldt cigar, and told the woman behind the counter that Cleopatra Rome would not be making her flight connections after all.

Then he rejoined Kinoshita and the two walked to the police station.

"I don't suppose you'd consider joining the force, Mr. Nighthawk?" said the captain as they brought the airsled inside.

Nighthawk smiled and shook his head. "Just have the money transferred here, and then place it in my account."

"We'll do it," said the captain, "but it may take an extra day or two."

"Oh?"

"Yeah" was the answer. "There's been a killing at the bank. We've shut it down until we get everything we need from the crime scene."

"Robbery?"

"Not that we can tell."

"Who got killed?"

"One of the vice presidents. He seems to have been shot trying to stop the thieves from doing something—but we don't know what. They could have incinerated one of the robot clerks and run off with some money, but they apparently weren't interested in that."

"Safety deposit boxes, perhaps?" suggested Kinoshita.

The officer shook his head. "They didn't go near them."

"What the hell else does a bank have besides money and lock boxes?" asked Nighthawk.

"We're still trying to find out."

"Well, I wish you luck," said Nighthawk. "Let me fill out the paperwork and we'll get out of your way."

He spent a few minutes describing the death of Cleopatra Rome to a computer and had just finished letting it register his retina and thumbprint in lieu of a signature when another officer approached the captain.

"We've got it, sir," he announced.

"Good," said the captain. "Let's have a look at it."

Suddenly a life-sized holo of two men appeared. They stepped over the lifeless body of the bank's vice president and began working on his computer. After a moment one of them inserted a small glowing cube in it—a "code-buster", the captain called it —and suddenly the area above the computer was alive with holographs of data streams.

"Well, that's obviously what they were after," commented the captain.

"They look vaguely familiar," said Nighthawk, staring at the two men.

"They ought to," replied the captain. "You know the man you killed the night you killed Jack Bellamy? The one you say was about to fire at you from down the street?"

"Yes?"

"They're his brothers."

Nighthawk tensed noticeably. "Zoom in on those data streams!" he commanded.

The screens got larger and Nighthawk studied them as hundreds of figures raced past. Then suddenly the figures froze.

"Shit!" he muttered. "I thought so!" He turned to the captain. "How long ago did this take place?"

"Maybe four hours. Why?"

"They didn't want money," said Nighthawk. "They wanted my account number." He pointed to the holograph of the bank's computer, where a long number was displayed on the screen. "Part of the code gives my home planet." He turned to Kinoshita. "You stay here on New Barcelona and wait for Jeff. Keep out of the District until he shows up; it's not safe for you to go there alone."

"And what about you?" asked Kinoshita.

"I'm going to the spaceport," said Nighthawk. "Sarah's all alone, and they've got a four-hour headstart on me."

17.

Nighthawk came out of the Deepsleep pod an hour before his ship reached Goldenrod. He methodically checked each weapon, then checked them again. He had the galley serve him a sandwich and smiled as he imagined Kinoshita's surprise that he could sleep and eat at a time like this.

As he entered the atmosphere, his ship's radio came to life.

"Ship's registry and name of commander, please," said a mechanical voice.

"BPM11216, Jefferson Nighthawk commanding."

"Business on Goldenhue?"

"I live here," said Nighthawk. "Put me through to a human supervisor, please."

"Checking . . . matching voiceprint . . . you are Jefferson Nighthawk, resident of Goldenhue. I will patch you through to my supervisor."

An instant later a holograph of a balding man with a carefully-manicured goatee flashed into existence in front of the ship's computer.

"Hi, Jefferson. What can I do for you?"

"Hi, Max," replied Nighthawk. "I need to know if any ship with a New Barcelona registry has landed in the past day."

"Let me check," said the man, looking at a spot that seemed to be just beyond Nighthawk's left shoulder. "Yes, one touched down a little more than three hours ago. It's registered to James Mendes."

"Thanks, Max," said Nighthawk. "Now I need one more favor."

"What's that?"

"Quarantine the ship for ninety minutes, and don't let anyone put Sarah on it."

"I don't know if I can do that, Jefferson."

"Trust me—if there wasn't paper on both men before yesterday, I guarantee there is now."

"Both?"

"Yeah, there are two of them. Both named Mendes, though neither of them are James."

"What's going on?" asked Max.

"I'll catch you up on all the details later," promised Nighthawk.

"What do I do after ninety minutes?"

"Keep the ship, auction it, whatever you want. They won't be using it."

"Is Sarah all right?"

"I hope so. I just want it quarantined in case they're going to the spaceport while I'm heading to the house—but I don't think they will. It's me they want, not her."

"I can have a shuttle waiting for you," offered Max. "It'll get you to your house a lot quicker than anything else you could use."

"Thanks," said Nighthawk. "I'll take you up on that."

He broke the connection as the ship entered the atmosphere and let the automatic pilot set it down as his reserved landing spot. The shuttle was waiting for him, and he got right into it, fed the coordinates of his house into the navigational computer, and ordered it to take off. It immediately began racing toward his home.

He figured it would take him five minutes to reach his destination. Any ground conveyance would have taken the Mendes brothers close to forty minutes, maybe longer. And they would have had to clear Customs and Immigration, purchase visas, and find a vehicle, so he figured that they would reach the house less than an hour ahead of him.

He brought the shuttle to a halt a little more than half a mile from the house, in a clearing that couldn't be seen from any of the windows. If they had come to kill Sarah she was already dead, and they would pay dearly for it; but if she was still alive, he had the element of surprise on his side. He was pretty sure they didn't know he'd been following them, and he saw no reason to warn them of his presence.

He approached the house, walking among the trees and foliage that went up to the edge of his property. He looked up at the sky: there were still at least five hours of daylight left, possibly six, and he had no intention of waiting until nightfall to enter the house.

He saw their hovercar anchored to the ground in front, so he knew they were still there. As far as he was concerned, that meant they'd die there.

Nighthawk circled the house, trying to spot where they were and whether Sarah was still alive. He muttered a curse; they had commanded the windows to polarize, and no light escaped their opacity.

He paused to consider his next move. He was loathe to burst in. Not that he was worried about himself, but until he knew where Sarah was he didn't want any shooting. Still, he couldn't just stand out here and hope they'd try to transport her back to their spaceship while he picked them off from the safety of the trees. For all he knew they were content to wait for him to kill off all their rivals in the District before getting word to him that they'd taken control of his house and his wife.

All right,
he thought,
the first thing I need to do it figure out where to enter.
There was no sense trying the windows. He couldn't open them from the outside, and whatever weapon he used to shatter or melt them would alert the Mendes brothers to his presence.

So it's got to be a door. Now, do I want the front, side or back?

He considered the situation.
It doesn't matter unless I know she's not anywhere near the door I come in through. How do I do that?

He studied the house and the property. There was a small stand of trees about eighty feet from the front door.

Okay, I can set the trees on fire with my burner, which should get them to the front of the house—but with the windows all polarized they'll never know. What can I do to alert them? I can't just melt a window. They'd figure out that I was trying to divert their attention from the other doors.

He analyzed the problem, and finally hit upon a solution. It wasn't one he especially liked, but it was the only one he could come up with on short order.

He turned and walked back into the woods, pulled his screecher, aimed it at the upper branches of a nearby tree, and fired. Three colorful birds immediately fell to the ground, dead. He walked over and picked up the largest of them.

Next, he approached the house, drew his burner and set fire to the stand of trees out front. Then he pulled a dagger out of his left boot, slit the dead bird's throat, and hurled it against the front window with all his strength, where it hit with a loud
thud!

Nighthawk flattened himself against the side of the house and waited. A few seconds later someone on the inside ordered the window to become transparent again. He couldn't see what happened next without being seen himself, but he could picture it in his mind's eye. One of the Mendes brothers would look to see what had happened. He'd notice the blood on the window, walk over, look down, see the dead bird, and assume it had flown into the window and killed itself. It was something that probably happened on every world that had avians—and before he could wonder why a sighted bird would fly head-first into an opaque window, he'd notice the fire. That would make him curious and a little nervous. After all, suddenly there were two unusual events occurring seconds apart, and the first thing he'd do was have his brother take a look and consult with him. Did it mean Nighthawk was here —and if so, what should they do about it? One would surely go to Sarah and put a gun to her head or a knife to her throat to hold Nighthawk at bay if it was really him and he entered the house. That meant there'd be only one guarding all three doors, and he'd be concentrating on the front of the house, because that's where the bird and fire were.

Nighthawk walked around to the back door and ordered it to open. It was locked, but he uttered the code that overrode the locking mechanism, and an instant later he was standing in the kitchen, burner in hand. There was a sudden motion off to his right. It was one of the brothers, and Nighthawk turned and fired, scorching the man's hand and melting his weapon.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

The man cursed at him while clutching his blackened hand.

"I'm only going to ask once more," said Nighthawk.

"She's right here," said a voice, and he saw Sarah, a gag over her mouth, being pushed into the room by the other Mendes brother, who held a wicked-looking knife at her throat. "Take his weapons."

The wounded brother approached Nighthawk to remove his weapons. As he reached out, Nighthawk grabbed his wrist, whirled him around, and wrapped an arm around his throat.

"Let him go or I'll kill her!" said the man holding Sarah.

"If I let him go you'll kill us both," said Nighthawk. "You'd never let her live now that she can identify you."

"You don't have a choice, Widowmaker."

"
You
do, though," said Nighthawk, tightening his grip on the wounded brother. "You can die slow or fast—and that's the only choice left to you."

"What the hell are you talking about?" demanded the man with the knife. "I've got your wife!"

"I don't give a damn what you did that made you move to the District, and I don't care that you killed a bank officer in Cataluna," said Nighthawk. "But you've invaded my house and threatened my wife, and you're a pair of walking dead men. I'm going to kill your brother now"—a quick twist, a loud
crack!
, and the man dropped like a stone—"and if that knife so much as breaks her skin, I promise that you'll take a month to die."

Suddenly a look of panic spread across the remaining brother's face.
This isn't the way it was supposed to happen!
it seemed to say.

"We can deal!" he said at last.

"No deals," said Nighthawk. "You threatened my wife."

"You killed my two brothers!" said the man. "Let me walk, and we'll call it even."

"No deals," repeated Nighthawk coldly.

Sarah could feel the hesitancy, the uncertainty in her captor, and she suddenly twisted free and flung herself to the floor. Nighthawk put a laser beam between the man's eyes an instant later.