Detroit Combat by Randy Wayne White Page B

through your head: You’re under arrest. I’ve taken your gun, I’ve read you your rights, and you’re in one hell of a lot of trouble. Instead of thinking up wisecracks, I’d be concentrating on which lawyer to call.”
    Hawker said nothing. McCarthy jingled the car keys in his hand. “Sorry, James. This is my fault. I was dumb as hell to think we could talk some sense into Joan of Arc there.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it, Paul. Maybe it’s time to spread some facts before the public. And a court is the best place to do that.”
    As McCarthy trudged toward his car, the woman opened the passenger door of Hawker’s car. When the courtesy light flashed on, Hawker had the impression that several things happened at once:
    The figure of a man inside the Corvette lunged toward the woman. In that microsecond, Hawker realized he had seen the ink-black hair and pockmarked face before. It was the man with Brenda Paulie—one of Queen Faith’s people.
    The woman screamed, but before she had the presence of mind to fire, the man hit her hard in the face. His fist against her flesh made an ugly cracking sound, and she sprawled heavily into the slush.
    The man turned immediately toward Hawker, a heavy-caliber revolver in his hand. “I’m going to make sure you don’t poke your nose into business it don’t belong no more,” he said with a growl.
    Before Hawker could react, he heard the sound of heavy footsteps behind him. Paul McCarthy called out, “Freeze! Police!” He had both hands pressed together as if he held a weapon—but he didn’t. It was a bluff. The woman had taken their guns.
    It was a bluff Queen Faith’s man didn’t fall for. Without a moment’s hesitation, the man swung and fired. McCarthy’s hands flew up as his legs skated out from under him. The impact of the .357 slug slammed his body into a grotesque somersault and he landed with a thud on his shoulders and neck. McCarthy groaned once and lay still. The white snow steamed and melted as blood seeped into it.
    â€œYou!” The man waved the revolver at Hawker, then motioned at a brown Plymouth parked beside Hawker’s car. “Spread ’em!” The man frisked him quickly and efficiently and, for the first time, Hawker was glad he wasn’t carrying his knife. The man used the .357 to give Hawker a halfhearted blow to the back. “Are you listening to me, asshole? Are you listening real good?”
    Hawker nodded. “I’m all ears.”
    The man hit him again. “Then pick up that woman and shove her into the backseat of the Plymouth. Did you hear me?” The man kicked him in the thigh. “Move!”
    Hawker bent over the woman and took her wrists in his hand. She tensed immediately, so Hawker knew she was conscious. On the pretense of bending down to check her pulse, Hawker whispered, “Whatever happens, don’t open your eyes. The first time we stop, jump out of the car and run like hell—no matter what.”
    â€œHey, what in the hell are you doing?” The man gave Hawker another kick and jerked open the car door. “Get your ass in gear! What are you, a doctor or something?” Hawker watched for an opening as he shoveled Claramae Riddock into his arms, but the man stayed a safe distance away. As Hawker shoved the woman into the backseat, the man ordered, “You drive, ace. Do just what I tell you or I’ll blow your fucking ears off one at a time. Savvy?”
    Hawker nodded and reached for the woman’s purse. Once again the man kicked him. The vigilante stood and put his hands on his hips. He said, “You know, I’m getting real tired of your doing that. If you’re trying to prove you’re tough, then put down that gun and let’s see how tough you really are. If not, let me get the lady’s purse, and I’ll do whatever you tell me to do.”
    The man hunched toward