Deadly in New York Read Online Free PDF

tell the truth. He thought they might grab him and slap him around—and, by that time, he would be in position.
    It was Hawker’s second lesson in Fister Corporation diplomacy.
    The three men didn’t wait. They opened fire at once. Their weapons were outfitted with silencers. The silencers made the automatics sound like hydraulic staple guns.
    The taxi driver jolted backward into his taxi, slapping at the slugs as they plowed into his body.
    The three men moved toward the driver as they fired. It gave Hawker the opening he was looking for. The Colt was a fine handgun, but he had to be within fifteen yards of his targets to do any kind of sharpshooting.
    Hawker sprinted toward the back of the car, hoping to take cover there.
    He had almost made it, when one of the Fister Corporation’s three hit men saw him. The man swung his automatic around, firing. Asphalt at Hawker’s heels screamed behind him.
    Hawker dove headlong onto the street behind the Lincoln.
    He could hear the shoe leather slap as the men ran toward him. He rolled beneath the car and fired at the first set of legs he saw.
    A man swore violently and collapsed on the street, rolling over and over in agony, holding his right shin.
    Hawker immediately popped up and squeezed off two shots in rapid fire. A second man gave a hideous scream and pressed a hand to the gore that was now his face.
    He fell to the earth and kicked his legs wildly for a moment, then lay still.
    The third man released a long burst of fire, and Hawker ducked for cover again.
    He looked beneath the car—just in time. The third man, following Hawker’s lead, had dropped to his belly, trying to get a shot at Hawker’s legs.
    Hawker didn’t hesitate. With one long stride, he jumped onto the trunk of the car as slugs sprayed the asphalt. But, instead of stopping on the trunk, Hawker ran up over the roof of the car and down onto the hood.
    As Fister Corporation’s hit man struggled to his feet, the Colt Commander jumped twice in Hawker’s big right hand.
    The man was slammed backward onto the pavement, as if his legs had been chopped from under him.
    His head hit with a terrible thud, and he did not stir.
    The left lapel of his jacket began to glisten with black seepage from the two holes in his heart.
    Hawker jumped down from the car and walked toward the man he had shot in the leg. The man’s automatic—a 9mm Uzi, Hawker could see now—had been knocked away when he was hit.
    Now the man was crawling toward his weapon.
    He left a bright trail of blood on the street.
    Calmly Hawker kicked the weapon even farther, away. The man looked up. He had a pinched, feral face and dark eyes.
    â€œDon’t kill me,” he pleaded. “Please don’t kill me. I been hit. I been hit bad.”
    The man held his leg and groaned, as if to prove it was in bad shape.
    Hawker stood above him, with the stainless-steel Colt pointed at the man’s head. “Talk to me,” he whispered between tight lips. “Who sent you? How did you know I was coming?”
    The man shook his head violently. “I don’t know nothing … can’t even think. The pain’s too bad.…”
    Hawker dropped to one knee. He grabbed the man’s shirt collar and shook him. “Renard was sent to the Caribbean to kill me. How did you people know he didn’t? Damn it, talk! You won’t get another chance.”
    The man’s face contorted as if in great pain. “For God’s sake, leave me alone,” he moaned. “I don’t know nothing. I just do what they tell me.”
    â€œWho’s they?” Hawker demanded. “Blake Fister? Did he send you?”
    The sudden change in the man’s expression told Hawker that Blake Fister had, indeed, sent him.
    The man rolled away from him and huddled against the pavement.
    Hawker snorted in disgust. How in the hell had they known he was coming? Hawker wondered. Samuel McCoy was