Free Detroit Combat by Randy Wayne White Page B

twisting the knife inside him. The goon slapped weakly at Hawker’s face, but it no longer mattered. The vigilante twisted and heaved with all his strength, and the killer sailed off the blade of the knife, landing with a weak cry in the black water of the lake.
    Hawker felt the woman draw close to him, and the two of them stood silently as the dying man floundered desperately for several seconds before sinking into the darkness.
    The woman sniffed then sobbed. “My God,” she whispered. “My God, I can’t believe this is happening.”
    â€œIt happened,” said Hawker. “Either that, or this is the coldest dream I’ve ever had in my life.”
    â€œYou killed him.”
    â€œYeah? I prefer to think of it as a severe violation of that particular asshole’s rights.”
    â€œI feel like an absolute fool, James, after the way I acted.”
    Hawker squeezed her tightly against him as he looked out over the lake. At the exact point where the corpse had gone under, there were now teacup-sized bubbles erupting from the dark water. Hawker said, “That’s only because you deserve to feel that way.”
    â€œThere’s a real deep nasty streak in you, James Hawker. But I shouldn’t complain—you saved my life.”
    â€œI haven’t saved anyone’s life yet, lady—certainly not Paul’s, and maybe not even our own. We’ve got to get moving.” Hawker began to pull her along with him up the incline. “If you see me nodding off, give me a good swift kick in the butt, okay?”
    â€œAn hour ago, I would have given you one for free.”
    Hawker chuckled. “See? We have some things in common after all.…”

ELEVEN
    Three days later, Hawker pushed his way through the double doors of the intensive care unit at Henry Ford Hospital in downtown Detroit. The nurses were used to him by then, so they nodded and smiled.
    Paul McCarthy lay in one of two dozen beds that fanned out along the wall. Most of the beds were in use. All were connected to a maze of tubes and wires and complex electronic monitoring equipment that beeped and hummed and buzzed.
    McCarthy lay beneath a translucent oxygen tent. Plastic tubes snaked up his nose, and an I.V. siphon was taped to his left arm. His brown hair had lost its luster and his skin was white.
    Hawker stared through the plastic oxygen tent for a moment, then signaled to one of the nurses.
    â€œHow’s he doing, Peg?”
    â€œNot bad, Mr. Hawker. Blood pressure’s back up, vital signs are good, and he seems to be breathing easier.”
    â€œHum.”
    â€œOh, yeah, and he swore at the doctor today.”
    â€œGood!”
    â€œYep. He said to the doctor, he said, ‘Get these god damn tubes outta my face and bring me some decent food if you really want to help.’”
    â€œHey, he might make it after all, huh?”
    â€œThat man’s got the constitution of a backhoe. The doctor says the slug smashed between a couple of ribs, went right through his lung and out the other side. I don’t believe it, though. I think that bullet went into his stomach and Officer McCarthy digested it. That’s some tough man there.”
    The nurse was a lithe black woman with a close-cropped Afro. She had the bedside manner of a drill sergeant, but was generally regarded as one of the best intensive care nurses in Detroit. She had worked extra hours to make sure McCarthy got the best of care.
    Hawker winked at her. “After we get him out of here, Peg, we’re going to buy you the best dinner this town has to offer.”
    She giggled girlishly. “Shoot, if you want to do something nice for me, don’t bother with no restaurant. You two fellows invite me over to your place, and you cook dinner and see to it I don’t have to stand up even once. A nurse’s feet take an awful beating on this floor.”
    Hawker smiled. “You’ve got it, lady. For a