Read Online Terror in D.C. by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online Page B

a stocking tied over his head.
    He dragged some kind of knapsack along beside him.
    It would be a bomb, of course. A satchel bomb? Perhaps a variation of a satchel bomb.
    Hawker brought the glowing red cross hairs of the Star-Tron to bear on the man’s temple. He held the sight there for a moment, then lowered the rifle.
    If he shot now he would spook the rest of the terrorists. Hawker touched the safety tang to make sure it was switched to full automatic, then he slid along the shadows of a high copse. When he was about fifteen yards from the man, he stopped again. The terrorist had removed the bomb from the knapsack, and now was affixing it beneath one of the windows, a bedroom window, probably.
    Hawker placed the Colt Commando on the ground. He pulled up his pant cuff, unsnapped the handmade scabbard, and drew the Randall knife. The weight of the stainless-steel hilt felt good in his gloved hand. He moved slowly, quietly across the grass toward the man in the stocking mask. When Hawker was close enough to smell the sour-sweat odor of the man’s body, he threw his arm around the terrorist’s throat and touched the point of the Randall to his ear.
    The man struggled briefly.
    â€œFreeze , asshole. Not a sound,” Hawker whispered into his ear. “Say one word, and I’ll use this knife to scramble what few brains you have.”
    The man stopped struggling and went stiff with fear. “Please, don’t hurt me,” he said, his bad English made harder to understand by the stocking over his head. “There is no need to hurt me. I have done nothing.”
    â€œLet me guess, greaseball—you’re a desert Santa Claus, way early for Christmas.” Hawker shook him roughly. “Don’t lie to me, you scum. What time is that bomb set to go off?”
    â€œBomb? I know of no bomb—”
    Hawker clamped his hand over the man’s mouth and put just enough pressure on the knife so it slid about a quarter inch into the man’s ear canal. Blood began to run in a shiny black river down the side of the terrorist’s neck. The man’s scream was muffled.
    Hawker waited a few seconds, then removed his hand. “Let’s call that a friendly warning, penis nose. With me, you get only one friendly warning. Then I get unfriendly. Real unfriendly.”
    â€œOh, god, you poked that knife clear into my head. Please don’t hurt me anymore, please don’t hurt me.” The man was crying, sobbing like a baby.
    Hawker shook him again. “You’re a real tough guy, aren’t you? You’ve got no problem murdering kids, but when it comes to someone hurting you, you blubber like somebody’s spoiled brat.” The vigilante slapped him hard on the face. “When’s the bomb supposed to go off, damn it? Tell me!”
    â€œThe bomb … the bomb is supposed to explode in—”
    The terrorist’s words were blotted out by a succession of noises. From the street came the screech of tires, the sudden blast of a siren, and the flare of flashing blue lights. Through the side yard Hawker could see two cops jump out of their squad car, service revolvers pressed between both hands. The weapons were apparently pointed at terrorists Hawker could not see. “Police, FREEZE!” one of them yelled.
    Then there was the muffled chain-rattle thud of automatic weapons firing through sound arresters. Both cops doubled belly-first toward the ground, their faces gray with shock, their hands holding in the viscera that threatened to escape from the black line of bullet holes in their stomachs.…

eleven
    Watching the brutal murder of the police was a mistake, but Hawker couldn’t seem to pull his eyes away from the carnage.
    The terrorists kept the guns turned on the fallen cops far longer than they needed to.
    The unseen gunmen made the two fresh corpses jump on the asphalt as if they were electrified.
    Why in the hell had the cops stopped? Had