Free Vegas Vengeance by Randy Wayne White

patted his jacket, damning himself for not taking the time to replace the lost Walther with another from his armament store shipped to him by Jacob Montgomery Hayes.
    Another mistake.
    When in the hell had he become so sloppy?
    Maybe it was the to-hell-with-tomorrow attitude carefully cultivated by the people of Las Vegas.
    Whatever the reason, he had to get over it, get over it damn quick.
    Or he would end up all too dead.
    Hawker peeled his trouser leg up over his calf.
    He still had the Randall Model 18 Attack/Survival.
    And the Randall had pulled him through more than one tight spot.
    Hawker balanced the cool steel of the knife in his right hand as he made his way through the living room to the side exit. He cracked the door open, then stepped through.
    It was a clear Nevada night. An August night with low humidity and stars that glistened through the black light-years like ice shards. The desert wind was warm on his face, and he could smell the musk of the tropical garden and the chlorine odor of the swimming pool.
    Hawker closed the door behind him and followed the stone walk to the back of the house. The walk was edged by some kind of tall African grass, higher than his head.
    The landscaper had chosen river rock over sod for the backyard. Less maintenance. The footfall they had heard had been in gravel.
    Hawker knew the interloper was out back someplace. Someplace in the shadows; someplace waiting, watching.
    It didn’t take him long to find out exactly where.
    Hawker heard a door creak open, and he turned to see Barbara Blaine peeking out. He had been crouched in the shadows, but now he stood to wave her back inside.
    When he did, something hit him from behind. A man, hiding in the tall grass. A big man with a big belly and wide shoulders. A man who grunted and wheezed and smelled faintly of alcohol.
    The impact knocked Hawker tumbling and whipped his neck back painfully.
    But it didn’t knock the knife from his hand.
    The man stood glowering over Hawker. He raised his right hand—an aiming pose. In the darkness, the handgun looked more like a chunk of coal. Absently Hawker noticed that the man carried something beneath his left arm. Something the size of a shoebox.
    And Hawker also realized that he was going to be shot. Realized there was nothing he could do about it. Saw it all as from some higher platform of observation: saw the gun lift toward him; saw himself sprawled on the gravel; knew the man could not miss at that range, even with a handgun.
    In that microsecond of realization, it flashed into James Hawker’s mind that Wendy Nierson, the blond-haired free spirit on the mountain, had been right.
    He was to die.
    Die all too soon.

nine
    Determined not to die meekly on the ground, Hawker made a desperate lunge toward the figure that stood before him.
    He kept low, waiting for the heavy, impersonal impact of lead that would announce his own death.
    But instead of a gunshot, there was a scream.
    A woman’s scream.
    Somehow Barbara Blaine had gotten to his attacker. Even though he had waved her inside, she had followed him out. She had sprinted toward the gunman, her fingernails clawing at his eyes.
    The man clubbed her solidly behind the ear, then turned his attention once again to Hawker.
    But the woman’s charge had given Hawker the extra second he needed.
    As the gun came vectoring around, Hawker ducked under it and used his head to butt the man solidly in the solar plexus.
    It should have knocked him to the ground. Instead, he hit the side of the house, and the clapboard walls kept him on his feet. He snapped off two quick shots. In the dry Nevada night, the gun sounded like the kerWHACK of a bullwhip.
    Hawker felt a burning sensation in his ear. He wondered if he had been shot.
    Hawker used his left elbow to knock the man’s gun hand up and away—but too late. The man used the butt of the revolver like a sap, clubbing Hawker solidly behind the head. All the world went slow and