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

and he needed it immediately if any of them were to survive.
    â€œIs your husband dead?” he asked.
    â€œDead?” the woman answered with an eerie, distant tone. “What an absurd question! They pretended to shoot him, but they didn’t, of course. My husband went along with it. What else could he do? These people are insane. We must do what they want us to do!”
    The little girl began to sob, her face buried in her mother’s long hair.
    Hawker read between the lines.
    The husband was dead. The woman couldn’t accept it. The child, though, knew the truth.
    â€œHow many more of them are there?”
    â€œHow many more of those men?” the woman asked.
    â€œYes, of course.”
    â€œThree … maybe four. They really are awful men. Why would a grown man hit a little boy?”
    Something in the woman’s face touched Hawker deeply. Her expression was not unlike that of a child asking why there was evil in the world. James Hawker took her arm gently. “May I take a look at your little boy?” he asked.
    â€œAre you a doctor?”
    â€œNo. I’m a friend.”
    â€œYou won’t hurt him?”
    â€œNo, of course not.”
    â€œThen you may look at him.”
    He took the little boy from the woman’s arms. The boy was small and warm in the big man’s arms. Hawker touched his ear to the tiny chest. It was a long moment before he picked up the faint heartbeat. Then the vigilante slid open the child’s right eyelid. Hawker was relieved to see the pupil dilate properly in the light of the bedroom.
    Hawker handed the boy back to the woman. He stripped a blanket off the bed and draped it around her nakedness. He said, “I think your little boy is going to be okay. But he still needs to be looked at by a physician. Understand? You three are leaving through the window—”
    â€œBut my husband—”
    â€œI’ll send him later. But if you want your children to live, you will listen to me. I have to hurry, so please listen carefully. Okay?”
    The woman nodded.
    â€œGood. I’ll help you through the window. When you’re through, run just as fast as you can to a neighbor’s house. Do you have a good friend who is a neighbor?”
    The woman nodded, some life returning to her face. “Helen Beardsley, two houses down.”
    â€œGood. Take the kids there. Now comes the important part—listen carefully. I want you to have your friend call every neighbor in the area and tell them to evacuate the area immediately. Get them the hell away from this block.”
    â€œBut why—”
    â€œBecause your house is rigged with bombs, and I have no way to stop them. Remember, if you want your kids to live, do just what I tell you. All right?”
    The woman’s eyes were damp with anger, fear, and shock, but she nodded.
    â€œAnd one more thing,” Hawker added. “I want you to forget that you ever saw me. Please. That’s all I ask in return for saving your lives.”
    â€œYou’re not a policeman?” the woman asked slowly.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou’re not … not one of them?”
    The vigilante smiled. “Hardly. Let’s just say I’m a friend you never met until now. Please, you really do need to hurry. The other guys will be coming soon. They’ll be wanting some help. More policemen will be coming soon, and those men are going to have to make a fight of it.”
    Hawker helped her out the window, then handed the little girl and the unconscious boy out to her. He heard the woman’s quick intake of breath when she saw the brutally beaten corpse of the terrorist.
    â€œHurry,” Hawker whispered, “don’t stop for anything. Make that neighbor of yours drive you the hell away from here. Understand?”
    â€œBut what about you?” the woman asked blankly.
    Hawker realized that in not asking about her husband again she had already accepted his