Vegas Vengeance Read Online Free PDF Page B

job.” He wiped more blood from his face and drew back the hammer of the .45 automatic. “So this is the end of the line for you, buddy. You’re good, but you gave me an opening. And one opening is all Frank Vendelli needs.” He leveled the gun. “Have a nice trip—to hell.…”
    In one smooth motion, Hawker threw the jack handle as hard as he could while diving forward.
    There was the explosion of a gunshot as Hawker somersaulted and came to his feet, the Walther PPK drawn.
    He did not need it.
    Hawker had played two seasons of pro ball; played for the Detroit organization in Lakeland, Florida, before being released because of a common baseball malady: an inability to hit the curve ball.
    But he had always had an arm like a cannon.
    The jack handle had hit Vendelli nose-high. The sharp end of the steel rod had gouged a furrow along his nose as if seeking a softer point of entry.
    It had found it.
    The jack handle had buried itself in the socket of the man’s right eye, skewering through to the brain.
    Frank Vendelli lay unmoving on the ground, dead.
    Without pulling the jack handle free, Hawker wiped his prints clean. Then he laboriously dragged both corpses to the car and positioned them in the wrecked 280Z.
    He hated to lose the Walther, but he had no choice. Besides, he had a duplicate back in the armament crates in his suite in Vegas.
    He wiped his prints off the automatic, then placed it in Vendelli’s right hand. He took both the .45 ACP and the .38.
    As an afterthought, Hawker went through the billfolds of both men. Between them, they had two thousand dollars in cash.
    Hawker left them with enough money so it would not look as if they had been robbed, then climbed back into the Jag.
    It took him nearly a half-hour to find the old man who had been herding the sheep.
    The old man was in the high pasture above the mountain road, patting down a mound of earth with a shovel.
    There were tears in his eyes.
    When Hawker pushed the wad of bills into his hand, he dropped the money on the ground and turned away.
    â€œI lived with that old dog twelve years,” the old man said in a choked voice, “and your money don’t mean a goddamn thing to me. Just go on back to Vegas with the other hot-rod hotshots. You bastards have done nothing but screw up this state since you started coming here.”
    With no argument to offer in his favor, Hawker walked wordlessly to the Jaguar and drove back down the mountain to Jason Stratton’s cabin.

five
    Jason Stratton’s cabin looked more like a hermitage than a home.
    It was built beneath trees on a bluff that overlooked a lonely gorge.
    Stratton had used logs from the property, hand-chinked and mortared with homemade adobe. The roof was low, shingled with natural shakes. There were two cane-bottom chairs on the porch, and a hand pump for water outside.
    The Nevada wind and sun had weathered the cabin nicely. It looked silver beneath the cool green of the trees.
    Far beyond the rocky gorge was the smog stain of Las Vegas.
    The porch creaked beneath Hawker’s weight, and the plank door swung open at his touch.
    What he saw inside surprised him.
    A girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty-four or twenty-five sat cross-legged on the bed. She had very long white-blond hair. She was gazing through the window at the gorge outside.
    She also happened to be completely naked.
    The girl turned when Hawker came in. But she didn’t seem to be surprised, or uncomfortable at being naked. There was no hasty retreat, no anxious covering of her privates.
    Instead, she smiled at him. “Hello,” she said. “Are you looking for Jason?”
    She had a bright, girlish face and very fair skin. The mouth was a little small for the plumpness of her lips. It gave her a poutish look. Her breasts were small, shaped like champagne glasses, and her nipples were pale pink. Hawker noted that the hair beneath her arms was only slightly