Hawkins looked up from his work, wondering where Quisset was. He guessed that his dog was hiding under a bed with her paws over her head. The kettle drum atmospherics had grown louder as the thunder storm crept spider-like across Vineyard Sound on long jagged legs of pure electricity. Flashes of lightning reflected eerily off the diving helmets and a drumbeat of raindrops thrummed the rooftop.
Hawkins had been working under an adjustable halogen desk lamp that cast a puddle of light around the desk. The rest of the study was in shadow. When the lightning flashed again, Hawkins glanced up instinctively and saw the otherworldly blue light illuminate the pale faces and hair of two men, one on either side of the door.
Each man held a short-barreled weapon in his hand.
The room went completely dark again, but the image engraved itself in the retinas of Hawkins’ eyes. He dove for the floor and crouched behind his desk.
White-hot flowers blossomed from one gun muzzle, then the other. The thunder that followed the lightning merged with that of the bullets as they ripped into the thick wood of the desk and shot the lamp out. The computer monitor exploded in the hail of hot lead.
The gunfire stopped suddenly.
Hawkins figured the intruders were waiting for him to make a move. He thought of throwing his overturned chair off to the side as a diversion, but it would only buy him a second or two. He still had to get to the door between the gunmen.
The old wooden floor creaked. They were moving in on both sides.
He tensed every muscle in his body and prepared to vault over the desk. He thought he could maybe grab a weapon from one of the attackers, although he knew it was a frail hope. He gulped in a lungful of air and coiled his legs. A desperate plan popped into his head. Luckily there was a lull in the thunder.
He yelled, “Beer!”
He heard the sudden hum of his motorized beer cooler. He imagined the robotic diver plodding across the room like a miniature walking jukebox. There was an ear-shattering rattle of gunfire and the study was lit up by a stroboscopic effect from the muzzle flashes.
Hawkins reached a hand over the top of his desk and groped among the fragments of glass, plastic and metal. The shards cut his fingers, but he ignored the pain. His clawing hand closed on the scabbard of the Siebe-Gorman anti-magnetic knife he used as a letter opener. He pulled the scabbard off the desktop, slipped the knife out and held the tip of the blade in a pinching grip. He pushed himself up with his free hand and sprang ungracefully to his feet, snapping off the knife in a stiff-wrist throw aimed above the nearest muzzle flash.
There was as scream of pain and a gun went silent. Then a single gun began to fire. The aim was high, and the spray of bullets struck the display case. Hawkins was belly-down, hands over his head. Bullets ricocheted off the helmets in showers of sparks and the picture window disintegrated.
The firing stopped. Hawkins heard the click of a hammer on an empty chamber and then came the clink of the spent clip hitting the floor.
Hawkins was already sprinting, bent over at the waist, toward the shattered window.
He heard the racking sound of a full magazine.
He dove through the window frame head-first, leaping high to avoid the jagged points of glass. He landed on the porch roof, arms extended, and did a tumbler’s roll that absorbed some of the shock of his body hitting the shingles.
He almost rolled right off the roof, but managed to twist around and grab onto the gutter, ignoring the pain in his lacerated palms. He hung there for a moment, then he dropped off onto the grass near the porch steps. Light streamed from the first-floor window and he saw a dark object on the porch. He climbed the porch stairs and discovered Quisset.
The dog’s head was sticky with blood. He lifted Quisset in his arms and lurched toward the pick-up truck. He grabbed the spare set of keys he kept under the seat and started the engine. As he was backing out of the driveway, he saw movement on the front porch. A figure silhouetted in the window light dragged something out of the house, down the stairs and across the lawn, moving in the direction of a side street.
Hawkins put the truck into low gear and nailed the accelerator so hard that the spinning wheels dug a trench in the crushed shell driveway.
Minutes later he parked in front of a sign that said Emergency Veterinary services. He carried Quisset inside and told the veterinarian on duty that she had wandered off during the storm and been struck in a hit and run accident.
The vet X-rayed Quisset and said, “She’s going to need surgery. There appear to be some bone fragments that could affect her cerebral cortex. We’ll just have to see after we take a look. There’s no guarantee Quisset will recover. She’s hurt pretty bad.”
Hawkins towered over the vet, but his voice was soft-spoken as he said, “Quisset and I have been through some tough times together. I’d appreciate anything you can do, including surgery.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“That’s good enough for me. Here’s my problem, Doc. In about an hour I’ve got to catch a plane. I’m going to be away an indefinite time. I will sign any papers you need to go ahead with the surgery, and I will give you the name of someone who will be in touch with me if you have to put her to sleep.”
Without waiting for an answer, Hawkins gave the vet a business card along with Snowy’s name and number. He left a credit card. The doctor bent to go over the information and when he looked up again, Hawkins was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mirko Marzak, the man who had slugged the friendly retriever with the steel baton, was beyond medical care.
Hawkins’ aim had been true. The sharp blade of the dive knife had penetrated Mirko’s rib cage as neatly as a dart thrown at a target board. Mihovil had rolled his twin’s warm corpse in a rug and stuffed it into the trunk of his car. Although he was anxious to get out of town, he drove with amazing control, keeping his speed exactly at the legal limit.
His brother’s attack on the dog should have telegraphed Mirko’s impatience and it was not surprising that he had detoured from the plan a second time, with fatal consequences. The plan had been to take Hawkins away from his house to a remote location where he could be killed and his body disposed of. But when the lightning flashed and Hawkins looked up, Mirko had started shooting, and Mihovil had to join in.
He had been puzzled at the sudden call for beer, more so at the deadly diversion when the mechanical thing hummed to life. Hawkins had reacted in an instant, altering the equation. Now he would have to follow suit, coming up with a plan to deal with his altered circumstances.
His first task was to get rid of the body in the trunk. He drove toward the Cape Cod Canal and turned onto a highway that paralleled the wide waterway. A number of turn-offs and parking lots offered access to the canal, and he chose a narrow dirt road and drove to the end. He pulled the knife from his brother’s chest, then hauled the body from the car, removed everything from the pockets, dragged the corpse over the stone revetment that sloped down to the water, and threw his brother’s body in to be carried away by the fast-moving current. The rug and knife splashed into the canal a second later.
Back in the car, he drove back onto the main road and headed to the airport. On the way he placed a call on his cell phone.
“The mission has failed,” he said.
“What happened?” responded the computer-altered voice.
“My brother was killed. Hawkins was more than expected.”
“And what does that make you?” the gravel voice said, dripping with sardonic contempt that even the computer couldn’t disguise.
“We should have been warned that Hawkins was dangerous.”
“You should have acted like highly-paid professionals instead of like amateurs. Every adversary should be considered dangerous. Not every person you encounter will let you kill them.”