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Authors: Randy Wayne White
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backtracked another two blocks before he pulled over and got out of the car.
Hawker switched out the dome light before he opened the back door. He pulled up the seat and removed his black wool sweater, his Navy watch cap, his canvas satchel, which he wore around his chest like a bandolier, and his thin black leather gloves. He pulled on the sweater, then touched his calf to make sure the Randall Model 18 Attack/Survival knife was still in place, strapped to his leg.
It was.
Then he buckled on the Colt .44 magnum in its shoulder holster, and hefted the Colt Commando automatic rifle. The Colt was a chopped-down version of the M16. It still fired the 5.56-mm rounds, but the stock slid in so that it was only twenty-eight inches long. It carried a twenty-round detachable box-type clip, and it had an effective killing range of two hundred meters. He had plenty of fresh clips taped back-to-back, for easy loading.
Hawker had used the Colt Commando before, and he trusted it.
The only customizing he had done was to add a Star-Tron Mark 303A night-vision scope. The Star-Tron absorbed all peripheral lightâlight from the stars, the moon, the streetlightsâand regenerated it so that it made objects seen through the scope appear as bright as if they were being seen at high noon on a cloudy day.
Hawker switched on the Star-Tron and scanned the area ahead of him.
Through the red glow of the scope, he saw nothing but a stray cat stalking something near a garbage can. He didnât expect to see the terroristsâthe laundry truck was still two blocks away, around the corner.
Hawker closed the door of the Ford gently and jogged across the street into the shadows of the sidewalk. The houses here were big and substantial: two-story brick or clapboard executive strongholds with vast lawns mowed like golf greens. Halfway down the block, Hawker cut through one of the yards to the back. He planned to approach the laundry truck from the rear of the nearest house.
Fences divided the yards, and Hawker climbed the front section of fence and slid down the other side. In the enclosed yard was a pool, a bonsai-style rock garden, and a barbecue grill. He climbed over the back section of fence to the yard of the next house. It had a pool, a tennis court, and a hot tub.
Hawker reflected that it was no wonder there were so many poor people in Americaâthe bureaucrats got paid too much.
He shouldnât have wasted the time in reflection.
The yard had something else besides a pool and a hot tub.
Hawker heard the low growl before he saw the dog coming at himâdogs coming. Two German shepherds, not one. Hawker vaulted over the next fence as their teeth clicked at his ankle.
The vigilante sat on the ground breathing heavily. From the other sÃde of the fence the dogs yammered at him. He expected lights to start blinking on all over the neighborhood.
They didnât, though. It was 3:46 A.M. by the pale glow of his Seiko. Wells Church was deafened by sleep.
Hawker stood. Before him was a rambling ranch-style house on a large chunk of lawn. Trees grew on both sides of the house, and there was no fence. If he had to pick a house in this neighborhood to bomb, it would be this one. Easy access and plenty of cover.
Through the trees the vigilante could see the outline of the laundry truck.
Apparently the terrorists felt the same way about the house.
They had chosen it as their target for the night.
Hawker lifted the Colt Commando and had a look through the Star-Tron. In the backyard was a swing set, a jungle gym, and a cement basketball court.
Judging from the varieties of playground equipment, Hawker guessed that at least two kids were asleep inside the house, possibly more.
His hands tightened on the automatic rifle as he scanned the rest of the area.
He stopped abruptly. He could see a man creeping along the yard near the bushes. The manâs face seemed to be horribly disfigured, but then Hawker realized he was wearing
Hawker switched out the dome light before he opened the back door. He pulled up the seat and removed his black wool sweater, his Navy watch cap, his canvas satchel, which he wore around his chest like a bandolier, and his thin black leather gloves. He pulled on the sweater, then touched his calf to make sure the Randall Model 18 Attack/Survival knife was still in place, strapped to his leg.
It was.
Then he buckled on the Colt .44 magnum in its shoulder holster, and hefted the Colt Commando automatic rifle. The Colt was a chopped-down version of the M16. It still fired the 5.56-mm rounds, but the stock slid in so that it was only twenty-eight inches long. It carried a twenty-round detachable box-type clip, and it had an effective killing range of two hundred meters. He had plenty of fresh clips taped back-to-back, for easy loading.
Hawker had used the Colt Commando before, and he trusted it.
The only customizing he had done was to add a Star-Tron Mark 303A night-vision scope. The Star-Tron absorbed all peripheral lightâlight from the stars, the moon, the streetlightsâand regenerated it so that it made objects seen through the scope appear as bright as if they were being seen at high noon on a cloudy day.
Hawker switched on the Star-Tron and scanned the area ahead of him.
Through the red glow of the scope, he saw nothing but a stray cat stalking something near a garbage can. He didnât expect to see the terroristsâthe laundry truck was still two blocks away, around the corner.
Hawker closed the door of the Ford gently and jogged across the street into the shadows of the sidewalk. The houses here were big and substantial: two-story brick or clapboard executive strongholds with vast lawns mowed like golf greens. Halfway down the block, Hawker cut through one of the yards to the back. He planned to approach the laundry truck from the rear of the nearest house.
Fences divided the yards, and Hawker climbed the front section of fence and slid down the other side. In the enclosed yard was a pool, a bonsai-style rock garden, and a barbecue grill. He climbed over the back section of fence to the yard of the next house. It had a pool, a tennis court, and a hot tub.
Hawker reflected that it was no wonder there were so many poor people in Americaâthe bureaucrats got paid too much.
He shouldnât have wasted the time in reflection.
The yard had something else besides a pool and a hot tub.
Hawker heard the low growl before he saw the dog coming at himâdogs coming. Two German shepherds, not one. Hawker vaulted over the next fence as their teeth clicked at his ankle.
The vigilante sat on the ground breathing heavily. From the other sÃde of the fence the dogs yammered at him. He expected lights to start blinking on all over the neighborhood.
They didnât, though. It was 3:46 A.M. by the pale glow of his Seiko. Wells Church was deafened by sleep.
Hawker stood. Before him was a rambling ranch-style house on a large chunk of lawn. Trees grew on both sides of the house, and there was no fence. If he had to pick a house in this neighborhood to bomb, it would be this one. Easy access and plenty of cover.
Through the trees the vigilante could see the outline of the laundry truck.
Apparently the terrorists felt the same way about the house.
They had chosen it as their target for the night.
Hawker lifted the Colt Commando and had a look through the Star-Tron. In the backyard was a swing set, a jungle gym, and a cement basketball court.
Judging from the varieties of playground equipment, Hawker guessed that at least two kids were asleep inside the house, possibly more.
His hands tightened on the automatic rifle as he scanned the rest of the area.
He stopped abruptly. He could see a man creeping along the yard near the bushes. The manâs face seemed to be horribly disfigured, but then Hawker realized he was wearing
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