Florida Firefight Read Free

if unsure what had happened.
    The headless creature collapsed on the linoleum then, jugular pumping.
    7:48 P.M.
    Lieutenant Detective James Hawker ejected the spent cartridge jacket and slammed the bolt of the Remington closed.
    Through the Star-Tron scope, he could see the body of the teenage girl, her face strangely peaceful. Beside her was the brave, hard-nosed kid who had tried to save her.
    The Guatemalan lay in the middle of the floor in a lake of blood.
    â€œYou son of a bitch,” Hawker whispered. “You lunatic son of a bitch.”
    From the transceiver in his pocket came the voice of Captain Boone Chezick. “Ground Control to SWAT One. Hawk? I think permission to fire will be coming soon. But play it safe, damn it—pass it on to your team. The interpreter says the Guatamalan is starting to sound a little crazy, and someone has already reported hearing shots. You got that, Hawker?”
    Hawker reached into his pocket and switched off the radio.

two
    Two weeks later Hawker awoke just after dawn in his bachelor flat. Alone.
    Outside snow swirled past the second-floor window in the gray light. He realized what day it was, and he wondered: Where do the unemployed go for Thanksgiving in Chicago?
    Downstairs his Scottish landlady, the widow Hudson, rattled pots and pans. There was the smell of coffee boiling.
    Hawker forced himself from the warm bed and began his morning calisthenics: push-ups, sit-ups and stretching before the morning run. At thirty-four, Hawker was in good shape—but he had to work at it. He hadn’t changed that much physically since he’d played football for Kelly High in Chicago, or his two seasons of class-A baseball in Florida for the Tigers organization. He was six-one, just under two hundred. His hair was copper color, and he had a face that his ex-wife once told him was handsome “in a rough and funny sort of way.”
    His nose looked as if it had been broken more than once—which it had.
    Hawker had just pulled on his sweat pants and blue running shoes when the widow Hudson tapped at his door.
    â€œLieutenant Hawker? Would you be awake this early?”
    His landlady was a doughy, fresh-cheeked woman with a lilt in her voice. She did her best to mother him, seeing that he had a “proper break-of-fast,” as she called it. Even so, Hawker winced when she continued to call him by the rank he no longer held.
    He swung open the door, smiling. “Sure and if it isn’t Miz Hudson,” he said, imitating her Scottish brogue. “You must be in an awful sweat to get to your gambling agent. Are the ponies in Miami running early this morning?”
    She laughed girlishly and shoved a stoneware mug of coffee in his hands. “Not a-tall, not a-tall.” Her face was red, and she gave him a conspirator’s wink. “But I did win a wee bit yesterday betting on the kickball games.”
    â€œKickball?”
    She thought for a moment; then her face brightened. “ Football . Aye, it was football I won me money on.”
    â€œHah!” Hawker wrapped his arm around her and gave her a quick squeeze. “Then you’ll be having every Irish bachelor on Archer Street over for a fine big turkey—myself included, I hope.”
    She slapped at him, redder yet. “But that’s why I knocked you up so early, Lieutenant. You have another invitation. A messenger boy just brought this to the front door.” She pulled a note from her apron and handed it to Hawker.
    Mr. Hawker:
    It seems we will both be without family for the holiday, so I wonder if you would like to join me at Hayes Hill for dinner? Also I would like to discuss with you matters that may be of great mutual interest. RSVP the enclosed number .
    Jacob Montgomery Hayes
    It didn’t take Hawker long to make the connection. Jake Hayes was the blond kid who had been murdered by the Guatemalan. Jacob Montgomery Hayes was his multimillionaire father.
    Hawker thanked the