Read Online Denver Strike by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online

talk about a silver mine,” Hawker replied.
    â€œThen why do you come armed?”
    â€œBecause a friend told us we’d disappoint the hell out of Nek’s security team if we didn’t.” Hawker smiled. “See how much fun you’re having?”
    The big German scowled as he went to the car, spoke on the phone, then returned. “Mr. Nek has agreed to see you. You will sit in the back between my two associates. Your weapons will be returned to you upon the completion of your interview.”
    The ride was like a funeral procession. Hawker had to fight the childish urge to giggle. From the way Dulles refused to look at him, he was sure the Denver cop felt the same way. The two-lane asphalt drive twisted through an estate of rolling hills, aspen stands, rushing streams, and neat, golf-green lawns. The house was four stories high, ivy on white stone, with a weird cubical symmetry, as if it had been designed by an architect from the late 1950s. There was an eight-car garage and a walkway along the top of the house, like a bastion mount. Off to the left, through the silver aspens, Hawker saw a wind sock, and he knew there was a runway nearby.
    â€œFollow me,” said the German. He led them up broad stone stairs, through double doors, into the most garishly decorated place Hawker had ever seen. The carpet was glowing burgundy, the walls some kind of furry crepe, and the furniture was a mixture of modern glass and stainless steel, early American, and Archie Bunker Salvation Army. It was part whorehouse, part model home, part middle-class suburbia.
    â€œChrist,” Dulles whispered, “it looks like a tornado hit a couple of mobile home parks and a fag bar before dumping everything here.”
    â€œMr. Nek is in the library,” intoned the German.
    Another set of double doors opened, and Hawker got his first look at Nek. The old man stood facing him, wearing a blazing red smoking jacket and holding a tawdry paperback in his hand. He had a craggy hawk face with bushy white eyebrows, tiny, fierce blue eyes, and skin as pale as parchment. His mouth was turned perpetually down at the corners, as if something nearby smelled foul. He was still a big man, but he had clearly once been bigger. His shoulders were slumped with age, and his big hands were gnarled. There was a withered, bitter look to the man as if he were drying up rather than growing old. Not that he looked incapacitated; he didn’t. Nek still had the manner of someone who was still very much in control, a glowering attitude that the vigilante had seen in the eyes of convicted killers. He stood by a window that allowed no light to enter. Like all the others, it was sealed by heavy green drapes. Were it not for the fire and the overhead light, the room would have been in utter darkness. Nek studied Hawker, looked at Dulles, then motioned roughly to chairs by the roaring fire. He said with an edge, “If you two messenger boys have something to say, sit down and make it quick. I’m a busy man.”
    Hawker took a chair while Dulles remained standing. “Doesn’t a good host usually offer his guests something to drink?” Hawker asked easily.
    The man glared at the vigilante. “Listen to me, you little punk. I let you in here because you said you had something to say about the Chicquita Mine. If you do, you’d better spit it out. If not, I can have the two of you carried out in a bag if I like.” He had taken a step closer and was shaking his finger at the vigilante. “And one more thing, punk. When you talk to me, you call me sir. I don’t give a flying fuck if you’re a Denver cop or not. I own more cops than you own socks.”
    Hawker looked at Dulles with a bored expression on his face. “Is he trying to put me in my place? Or is he just practicing his vocabulary?”
    Dulles picked up on the tone of Hawker’s voice. “I think he’s just trying to get his heart