Free Denver Strike by Randy Wayne White Page B

Hawker saw her nudge Dulles’s head with the revolver. “What I told you to do was to get out of the car. That’s exactly what I expect you to do.”
    Dulles shook his head. “Lady, you are making one hell of a mistake. I don’t know who you are or why you’re doing this, but I swear to you—”
    â€œAnd I swear to you, Mr. Policeman, that I will shoot you in an exceedingly uncomfortable spot if you do not obey me this instant!”
    â€œYou crazy broad—”
    â€œGo ahead, Tom,” Hawker interrupted firmly. “Take a walk. I’ll try to make it back to the hotel by tonight—”
    â€œNo more talking!”
    Tom Dulles reluctantly got out of the car and slammed the door. The vigilante saw the quick, studious look he gave the woman. Hawker knew the Denver cop was trying to memorize every detail of her face, eyes, and hair for future reference.
    Hawker hoped Dulles would not have to use the information to try to pin a murder rap on her—his murder.
    â€œDrive,” commanded the woman.
    â€œDrive where?”
    â€œJust keep going straight until I tell you otherwise.”
    Hawker put the car in gear and began to drive. Behind them, Dulles grew smaller, then disappeared, still trudging along on foot.
    Hawker could see the woman better in the rear-view mirror now that she had settled comfortably into the backseat. Her fashion-model face fulfilled the promise of startling beauty that his first quick look had given him. Her platinum hair fell like spun glass over her down vest and black ski sweater. She had the flavor of money about her. It was more than just the diamond earrings and the expensive gold watch that flashed in the mirror from time to time as she waved the revolver to illustrate directions. It was her presumptuous attitude of control. She was used to giving orders. She was used to getting her way. That she had taken him at gunpoint seemed not to disturb her in the least. It was almost as if they were going for a Sunday ride, or as if Hawker were a chauffeur. How old was she? Maybe twenty-two, maybe much older—it was hard to tell in the forgiving light of the car’s interior. Who the hell was she?
    â€œTurn left at the next corner,” she called. “Keep going until you see Meeker Boulevard. Then turn right. Go about three miles. That’ll take us to Interstate 70. Get on the westbound ramp and take us out of Denver.”
    Hawker looked in the mirror. “You’re not taking me back to Nek so his goons can work me over?”
    â€œWhat a ridiculous thing to say. Why would I take you back to my husband?”
    â€œHusband?”
    The woman gave a slow, sardonic laugh. “For once, I see surprise on the face of the great James Hawker. Such a cold, cold face you have, Mr. Hawker. But it’s a strange kind of coldness. It’s like—like cold fire.” She seemed pleased by the description, and her voice began to purr. “Yes, that’s it. Cold fire. But a rather handsome face in a brutal sort of way, with your autumn-colored hair and that crooked nose. I’ve heard a bit about you, Mr. Hawker. Oh, yes, quite a lot, really. Actually, I’ve read about you. My husband has been very worried that you would be coming. He’s suspected for weeks. He had some of his people draft a report on you. Quite a report it was, too!”
    â€œMrs. Nek,” Hawker said, “if you don’t mind my asking, why are you doing this?”
    â€œI’m getting to that, Mr. Hawker. Please don’t be so impatient. We have quite a long ride ahead of us. I assure you, you will have all your questions answered if you cooperate with me. Actually, I was just getting to one of the important points. The report on you. I read it, or read most of it, anyway. I must admit to having been fascinated by what I read. Such an interesting man you are, Mr. Hawker. World traveler, world criminal, world playboy, world