Free Deadly in New York by Randy Wayne White Page A

didn’t Fister notify us? You got an answer for that one, smartass?”
    â€œI don’t have any answers to anything,” Hawker snarled. “And, if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t waste them on you. All I know is what I’m told to do. Now I’m going to drop down—”
    â€œIf you do, you’re dead,” the man snapped.
    â€œHow damn long you think I can hang up here?” Hawker demanded, still looking for his opening.
    â€œAs long as you want to stay alive—that’s how long.”
    Hawker let go of the fire escape with one hand and swung the canvas bag to the ground. “Look in here if you don’t believe me, you dumb shit. All you’re going to find is telephone-testing equipment. Hell, I don’t even have a penknife on me.”
    The man looked at the bag suspiciously. “You better not be carrying—because, if you are—”
    â€œJust look in the damn bag,” Hawker ordered. “Fister isn’t going to like this. He doesn’t like one of his administrators taking shit from the hired help.”
    â€œWell, I don’t know that you are with the organization,” the man said in mild defense. “But, even if you are, I got my orders, too. I got orders to secure this alley and, by God, that’s just what I done.”
    Hawker was watching him the way a cat watches a bird. His resolve weakening, the man slowly approached the canvas satchel. He took a last look at Hawker before leaning down to inspect it.
    The moment he bent over, Hawker jackknifed his legs upward and kicked the man full in the face. The man staggered backward but managed to hang on to his revolver. Hawker came off the fire escape in one fluid motion and used the cutting edge of his right hand to knock the gun to the asphalt.
    The Mafia goon swung a wild left that caught Hawker on the side of the head. Hawker stumbled to the ground, his ears ringing. The goon plowed into him, and soon they were a tangle of arms and legs, wrestling for position.
    The man was huge—close to three hundred pounds. But Hawker managed to slide around behind him, pulling the Randall survival knife from the scabbard on his calf as he did.
    As he did, the goon lurched for his revolver. He rolled and brought the gun up to fire. In the same instant, Hawker drew back the knife and threw it just as hard as he could.
    The knife didn’t stick.
    It didn’t need to.
    It hit the goon a glancing blow, point first, in the face. Few knives are sharper than the fine Randall, handmade by Bo Randall and his craftsmen in Orlando, Florida. The blade razored the flesh away from his face so that, for the microsecond before the blood began to pour, it looked as if the only thing holding his eye in was the pale cheekbone.
    The goon gave a bearish scream, and the gun flew into the air as the man’s hands pawed at his ruined face.
    Hawker wasn’t feeling merciful, but he didn’t want to risk the noise of a gunshot. He used his elbow to crack the man unconscious, then retrieved his knife.
    The man’s scream had drawn enough attention. From the front of the headquarters, Hawker heard a voice inquire, “Hey, Hugo—what’s going on in there?”
    Hawker returned the knife to its scabbard and slung the knapsack over his shoulder once again. He swung himself up onto the fire escape and trotted silently up the steps to the top floor.
    Below him, he could see the two door guards working their way carefully down the mouth of the alleyway.
    It would be a matter of minutes before they found the goon, Hugo. And, since the fire escape was the only way out of the alley, Hawker knew he had to buy himself some time.
    And the only way to buy time was to stop them.
    From the knapsack, Hawker pulled the Cobra crossbow. He cocked the drawstring back and loaded one of the short aluminum killing arrows. He brought the sights to bear on the trailing guard and squeezed his hand closed. There