Free Deadly in New York by Randy Wayne White Page B

was a thin whoosh of air before the man jolted backward, a shocked expression on his face.
    He would die with that same expression.
    Calmly but quickly, Hawker cocked the bow again and loaded in another killing bolt. The second man swung around as his partner fell.
    â€œJoe—hey, Joe! What the hell’s the matter with you?” he demanded. As blood spouted from Joe’s chest, it became all too clear what was wrong with him.
    The second man swung his gun nervously from one side of the alley to the other, backing away from the fresh corpse.
    Hawker brought the Cobra’s cross hair to rest on the man’s head. He didn’t want to give him the chance to fire his weapon reflexively.
    The deadly crossbow jolted, and the second man immediately somersaulted backward and landed grotesquely on his knees and neck—with the stub of arrow protruding from his right eye.
    Hawker released a long breath of tension before he packed the crossbow away and drew out the Ingram submachine gun. Quickly he screwed the sound arrester into place and switched the weapon to automatic fire.
    He headed up the fire escape then, keeping a careful eye on the alleyway below.
    He didn’t want any more surprises.
    The iron steps ended abruptly at a third-floor window. As he expected, the window was locked.
    Hawker drew the Randall once again and forced it beneath the windowsill. He moved it back and forth until he found the lock, then smacked the butt of the knife handle until he heard the lock break.
    He slid the window open and climbed into the dark room. As he turned to make sure the window didn’t slam closed, a voice out of the darkness said, “Drop the weapon, asshole, and press your hands against the wall.”
    Hawker knew he had used up more than his share of luck, and he didn’t believe in second chances.
    He didn’t drop his weapon and he didn’t put his hands against the wall.
    Instead, he dove to the floor as three rapid-fire shots crashed through the window above him.
    He rolled and came up on one knee, with the Ingram spurting flames.…

thirteen
    London
    When the punk rocker who had been following Hendricks swung him against the brick wall of the alley and reached for the revolver, an inexorable feeling of déjà vu came over the old butler.
    It was just like the last time, back in Berlin, 1945, when he had killed Karnakov, the Russian.
    The moist odor of the alley was similar to the stink of Hitler’s bunker. The punk rocker, like Karnakov, was physically repulsive, with bad skin and bloodshot eyes.
    Hendricks looked deep into those eyes, just as he had Karnakov’s.
    And, once again, the stainless-steel needle pick he had used in those last days of the war was still cool to the touch; still cold, innocuous, and lethal.
    Hendricks held it now as the punker tightened his grip on the old butler’s neck, squeezing until Hendricks thought his windpipe would collapse.
    â€œYou’ve reached the end of the line, Sir Halton,” the Cockney hood whispered as he lifted the knife. “And rarely has a job given me such pleasure, because, me boyo, I got a real thing about you proper Londoners.”
    Slowly Hendricks brought the steel needle up as if he were making a helpless gesture to knock the punker’s left hand from his throat. But, at the last moment, he used his knees to drive the needle up through the soft underside of the hood’s jaw, deep into his cranium.
    The punk’s eyes grew wide and glassy, still looking into Hendricks’s eyes. The knife clunked to the brick pavement as he released his grip on the butler’s throat. He took two choppy steps backward as he brought his hand up and searched the underside of his jaw. It was as if he only wanted to straighten the tie he did not wear.
    Strangely, he looked at the knife on the ground, then looked at Hendricks. His face showed both surprise and fear.
    His mouth opened as if to speak, but only a guttural