Read Online Detroit Combat by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online

Hawker. He wore a red ski jacket with frayed sleeves. He was thin, a little taller than Hawker, and he had a narrow, rodentlike face. “Don’t you worry your little head about the lady’s purse,” he sneered. “I’ll take care of that and the lady. You just get in and drive. Got it?”
    Hawker shrugged. With a last look at Paul McCarthy, who still lay motionless in the slush, Hawker slid in behind the wheel. Behind him the back door slammed, and the man barked, “Get us out of here, nice and easy. Don’t play cute. No speeding, no swerving, no trying to bring the cops down on us. Go.”
    Hawker shifted the Plymouth into gear and backed up. As he pulled away, he saw a man and a woman come out of the restaurant. In the rearview mirror, he watched the pair stiffen as they saw McCarthy’s body. The woman’s hand went to her mouth and she staggered. The man took a step toward the restaurant before he reconsidered and caught the woman. From the backseat, a voice ordered, “Turn right; stay in the slow lane.” Hawker did it, and he could see no more.
    They drove on in silence for a few minutes. Hawker could hear the man pawing through Riddock’s purse. He chuckled, saying, “Hey, who is this chick? She’s got a lot of hardware in here. She’s got a big automatic and a Browning Hi-Power, plus she had that little thirty-eight I got off the ground.”
    â€œI think she’s an arms dealer,” Hawker said dryly. “I’m not sure, though. I picked her up in the bar. She said something about just getting back from the Persian Gulf. A missile deal or something.”
    The man slapped him in the back of the head. “No more of your bullshit, buster! She’s a fucking cop. I got her badge right here!”
    â€œSo that’s why she arrested me.”
    The man was quiet for a moment, suspicious. “Hey,” he said finally, “are you telling the truth? She really did arrest you?”
    â€œCross my heart. She thinks I killed that Hershey highway jockey back on East Jefferson.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThat fairy director you blew away—she thinks I did it. That’s why she arrested me.”
    The man laughed uproariously for a moment, then sobered. “Hey, I wish I’d known that. I’da just let her take you in. Hell, you coulda been serving my time for me. I’d of skated, and you’da been out of the way, and everyone woulda been happy.”
    â€œNo one said life was fair.”
    â€œBoy, you can say that again.”
    The man told Hawker to turn northwest on Highway 75. Traffic was heavy for late Wednesday night—people out doing their Christmas shopping. When the big green signs announced Pontiac was just ahead, the man ordered Hawker to cloverleaf off. They made two more lefts and a right, and soon they were on a fast two lane. Rows of suburban ranch houses, draped in red and green holiday lights, blurred by. Between some of the houses were vast tracks of flat space that reflected the sky’s darkness. It took Hawker a moment to realize they were lakes. One more right turn, and they were on another two-lane road—this one desolate, badly maintained. Hawker felt a chill go through him. He had hoped the goon was taking them to Queen Faith’s—at least then he could confront his killer.
    The remoteness of the road told him all too clearly what was about to happen.
    Behind him, there was the flare of a lighter. It flickered for several seconds. Finally the man exhaled the monoxide odor of cigarette smoke. “Hey,” he said, “I just got my first good look at this dame’s face. She’s a knockout. Damn, why didn’t you tell me?”
    Hawker, trying feverishly to think of some means of escape, said nothing. He looked in the rearview mirror. He could no longer see the man’s face. Then he heard the clatter of broken buttons, the rip of fabric—and he knew