Free Detroit Combat by Randy Wayne White Page A

from his hand. Quickly Hawker released his grip and snatched the stiletto away. He folded his left arm around the goon’s neck and pressed the point of the knife into his ear. Hawker whispered, “One wrong move, Jake, and I’ll shove this knife through the wall of the eardrum, into your brain. Understand?”
    The man nodded anxiously. He was breathing heavily, as was Hawker. Hawker’s hands and face burned as if being stabbed with needles, and his feet were numb. Even so, he was determined to get some information out of him. “Where can I find Queen Faith? How can I see her face to face?”
    â€œDon’t know,” the man said, gasping. “Get all my orders over the phone.”
    â€œOver the phone?”
    â€œHe’s lying!” put in an unexpected voice. It was the woman. She stood in the darkness looking very small, very pale, with her soggy skirt and Hawker’s big jacket.
    â€œI thought I told you to run, damn it!”
    â€œI’m … I’m too cold to run. Besides, I couldn’t leave you. I thought I might be able to help.” She came a few steps closer, and Hawker could see she was carrying a grapefruit-sized rock.
    â€œIs that how you were going to help? You were going to hit him with that?” Hawker snickered.
    â€œIt was all I could f-f-find.”
    â€œGreat. Stand by. If this slob doesn’t give me a straight answer pretty quick, I’ll have you drop it on his foot.”
    â€œI ain’t lying,” the man said quickly. “I met her, sure. And I know where she keeps her girls. But I don’t know where she lives.”
    â€œThen just tell me where she keeps her girls.”
    The man hesitated. “Hell, if I tell you that, she’ll kill me.”
    â€œAnd I’ll kill you if you don’t, friend.”
    â€œYou can’t do that, man. That ain’t right.” He struggled briefly to free himself. Hawker put enough pressure on the knife so that a thin river of blood began to flow out of the goon’s ear. The man held his arms out toward Claramae Riddock. “Hey, lady, talk to this guy, would you? You’re a cop—tell him! I got my rights. He’s violating my rights. I demand a lawyer, and tell him if he don’t get that knife out of my ear, I’ll file suit.”
    â€œShut up,” the woman ordered in an oddly hoarse voice. “Shut your dirty mouth right now.”
    Hawker felt a slow anger rise in him. He heard himself say, “The guy’s right, Detective Riddock. Maybe I’d better walk him back to the road and wait for help to come.”
    â€œBut we’ll freeze to death, James!”
    â€œThen I’d better let him go. I have no right to hold him—”
    â€œHe shot Paul, damn it—”
    â€œYou don’t know that for sure, Detective.”
    â€œAnd he tried to rape me.”
    â€œDid he?”
    The woman took two quick steps toward him. “I know what you’re doing, James. I know what you’re trying to prove, but this isn’t the time or the place.”
    The goon sensed correctly that Hawker’s attention had been diverted just enough. He kicked backward, driving the heel of his shoe against Hawker’s shin, then twisted away from the knife as Hawker buckled forward in pain. He then knocked Hawker’s head sideways with a well-placed elbow and hit him once more with his fist.
    Hawker squatted heavily on his knees. Most men would have dropped the knife. Hawker didn’t. And he had had just about enough of this character’s physical abuse. With a grunt of effort that was more like a battle cry, Hawker drove himself upward, drove hard toward the man’s chest cavity, the stiletto cradled in his hands.
    The knife splintered through his rib cage with the same high-torque impact of a tumbling .45 slug. The man screamed, his legs kicking, his head thrown backward, as Hawker lifted him right up off the ground,