Free Terror in D.C. by Randy Wayne White Page A

mustache of every male from the Middle East. Cradled in his arms he carried an Uzi submachine gun. But it was the expression on his face that worried Hawker the most. His expression was a combination of terror and panic. He was frightened, but he also had the cold light of the fanatic in his eyes. Between the fear and the fervor, this guy would be as dangerous as a human being could be.
    And Hawker had no doubt that the other terrorists were exactly the same way.
    The young man shoved the woman again, and she fell out of Hawker’s sight—probably on a bed. When she stood up, she tried to hold the nightgown together where the bodice had ripped. She was a dark-haired woman in her middle thirties, very pretty, with finely textured cheeks and chin, and large brown eyes. As she stood, the man grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her again.
    This time, the nightgown ripped away, leaving her naked and sobbing. She held her arms against her chest, but they could not cover entirely the heavy swell of her breasts. They were like soft, pale melons, and they made her shoulders and waist seem smaller, almost girlish.
    â€œLeave my mommy alone!” yelled the little boy. He charged the terrorist, his small fists hammering at the man’s thighs. The terrorist yelled something, then bunched his fist and hit the little boy very hard in the face. The boy flew backward and landed on the floor, sprawled like a rag doll.
    â€œRyan!” screamed the black-haired woman, lurching toward him.
    The terrorist brushed along the window, trying to cross the room ahead of her and cut her off.
    Hawker had had enough. When the terrorist’s backside touched the window where the vigilante’s eye was pressed, Hawker acted without thinking. He slammed his gloved fist through the glass, grabbed the terrorist’s baggy trousers, and hauled him backward through the jagged window.
    The terrorist landed on the ground with a whoof as the automatic rifle flew out of his hands. The terrorist looked at Hawker in shock and surprise. The glass had cut a gouge out of his cheek so that a flap of skin hung down, exposing the back section of his gums and molars. The stocking over his face was already sodden with blood, and the blood poured down over his neck and dark shirt. The terrorist gave an animal growl that made blood bubble from the hole in his face. He dove toward the Uzi, but Hawker stopped him with a brutal kick to the face.
    The impact smashed the terrorist’s nose. The flesh turned a florid white, then it, too, began to pour blood.
    â€œYou son of a bitch!” the terrorist called. His facial injuries gave his voice a weird vibration. He sounded like a Munchkin with a bass voice. “You will be killed for this! We shall punish—”
    There was now a cold fury in Hawker. He had no interest in hearing the olive-skinned man finish his litany. Using the steel butt of the Colt Commando like a stave, he knocked the man’s jaw crooked, then clubbed down hard on the back of his head, feeling the cranium splinter into the soft brain-jelly within.
    The terrorist slumped backward and did not move again.
    Hawker hurried back to the window. He used the Commando to knock away the rest of the glass, then pulled himself up into the room.
    The naked, black-haired woman was stooped over her young son. The little girl watched in terror as Hawker walked toward them. He smiled and held his hand out, as one might hold a hand out to a shy puppy. “It’s okay, little girl,” he said softly. “I’m a friend. I’m not going to hurt you.”
    The woman looked at him with outrage, then looked quickly back at her son. “What in the hell is going on here!” she shouted, her eyes wild. “Why won’t you people let us get some sleep? Just leave my family alone, for god’s sake!”
    The woman was incoherent with shock, but Hawker didn’t have time to cajole her out of it. He needed information,