Nick Carter - Death of the Falcon

Turning suddenly, I faced two tall, muscular blacks who were, by then, almost running to catch up to us. They skidded to a stop as I demanded harshly:

“Are you foIlowing us?”

Behind me, I heard one of the women gasp as they suddenly swung around to be confronted by the hulking, dark-clad pair who faced me sullenly. I also heard a metal thud from further along the block behind me that told me a door on the double-parked station wagon had been flung open, slamming into one of the vehicles at the curb.

“No — what are you talking about?” one of the men protested. His actions belied his words, however, as he lunged forward with an open switchblade.

My coat-shrouded arm brushed the knife aside while I pulled the trigger on the Luger. The slug caught him in the chest and flung him backward. I heard him grunt, but already had turned to his partner, who was clawing at a gun stuck in his belt. My stiletto had dropped down into my right hand and I plunged it into him, pinning his hand to his stomach for a moment before withdrawing it. Then I lunged forward once more and slid the blade deep into his throat then pulled it out immediately.

Someone, Candy I thought — had screamed at the sound of my shot and then another scream — this time from Sherima — swung me instantly back to them. Two more husky blacks were almost upon the women. One was raising a gun; the other seemed to be trying to open a switchblade knife that appeared stuck. I fired Wilhelmina again and the side of the gunman’s forehead suddenly vanished and was replaced by a torrent of blood.

The fourth attacker froze in his tracks as I swung the Luger clear of the trenchcoat and leveled it at him. A light came on in the doorway of the house beside us and I could see the fear turning the black face into a glistening mask of sweat. I stepped up close and said softly:

“Who’s The Sword? And where is he?”

The terrified man’s features seemed almost paralyzed as he looked at me and then at the barrel of the Luger that was pointed up under his chin. “I don’t know, man. I swear it. Honest, man, I don’t even know what you’re talkin’ about. I only know that we got told to wipe you out.”

I could tell that Sherima and Candy were moving closer to me, instinctively seeking protection. And I knew, too, that my prisoner was telling the truth. No one who was that afraid to die would worry about keeping secrets.

“Okay. Beat it,” I said. “And tell whoever gave you your orders to cool it or he’ll end up like your friends here.”

He didn’t even answer; just turned, raced to the station wagon and gunned the motor that had been left running and pulled away, not bothering to close the doors which banged into two cars parked along the street.

Suddenly conscious that lights were blazing in almost every nearby house, I turned to find Sherima and Candy huddled together, staring in horror at me and at the three figures sprawled on the ground. Finally, Sherima spoke:

“Nick, what’s happening? Who are they?” Her voice was a croaking whisper.

“Muggers,” I said. “It’s an old trick. They work in a foursome and box in their victims so they can’t run in either direction.”

I realized that both of them were looking at the gun and knife in my hands — especially at the still-bloody stiletto. I bent down and stuck it deep in the ground beside the cobblestone walk and pulled it out clean. Straightening, I said: “Don’t let these upset you. I always carry them. I got in the habit in New York, but I’ve never had.to use them before. I’ve had them since I got mugged there one night and spent a week in the hospital getting stitches put in and taken out.”

Certain that a call to the police had been made from one of the now brightly-lighted houses on the block, I put the Luger back in its holster and slipped the knife back up my sleeve, then took the girls by the arm and said:

“Come on, let’s get out of here. You don’t want to get involved in something like this.” My words were aimed at Sherima and, despite her shock, she understood what I meant.

“No. No. It would be in all the papers… But what about them?” She looked down at the bodies on the ground.

“Don’t worry. The police will take care of them. When we get back to the hotel, I’ll call a friend of mine on the police force and explain what happened. I won’t identify you two unless it’s absolutely necessary. And even if it is, I think the D.C. police will be as eager to keep the real story out of the papers as you are. The headlines about an attack on you would be even bigger than the ones about Senator Stennis being shot and I’m sure the District doesn’t want any more of that kind of publicity.”

As I talked, I quickly guided them past the two dead and one dying man on the ground and continued leading them around the corner onto Thirty-third Street. Moving hastily and expecting police cars to arrive at any moment, I kept them going until we reached the corner of O Street, then let them rest a minute in front of historic old St. John’s Episcopal Church.

“Nick! Look! A cab!”

Candy’s first words since the attack started were the most welcome I’d heard in a long time. Not only did it mean that she was coming out of the shock that had temporarily paralyzed her vocal chords and was once more thinking rationally, but there was nothing we needed more at that moment than an empty cab. I stepped into the street and flagged him down. I helped them inside, got in after them and said calmly to the driver, “Watergate Hotel, please,” as I slammed the door. As he started off, a District police car came roaring along Thirty-third Street with its siren warbling. By the time we reached Wisconsin Avenue and M Street, Georgetown’s major intersection, police cars seemed to be coming from every direction.

“Something big must have happened,” the cabby remarked, stopping to let one of the cruisers swerve around him. “Either that or the kids are streaking up at Georgetown again and the cops don’t want to miss it this time, just in case the girls decide to join in.”

None of us felt like answering him and our silence must have offended his sense of humor for he didn’t say another word until we got back to the hotel and he announced the fare. A two-dollar tip put the smile back on his face, but my attempt to brighten my companions’ countenances as we walked into the lobby failed dismally for neither of them responded to my question:

“Shall we streak to the elevator?”

As we were riding up to our floor, it suddenly struck me that they probably didn’t know about streaking, not having been in the country when the craze occurred. I didn’t feel up to trying to explain, either, and just escorted them to their door and said goddnight. Both of them looked at me oddly, mumbled something, then closed the door in my face. I waited for the bolt to snap, then went to my room and phoned Hawk once more.

“Two of them are from New York City, the dead ones. The one your bullet struck in the chest still is in intensive care at the hospital and not expected to live or even regain consciousness. He’s from D.C. They all have links to the Black Liberation Army, it appears. New York says the pair from there are wanted in Connecticut for the murder of a state trooper. The local one is out on bail for a bank robbery, but was being sought again for a supermarket holdup.”

It was almost two a.m. when Hawk got back to me. He didn’t sound quite as upset as he had been when I phoned him earlier to report what had happened in Georgetown. His immediate concern then had been to establish a plausible cover-up with the District police. Plagued with one of the highest crime rates in the country, they couldn’t be expected to take kindly to having three more killings added to the local total on the FBI’s statistical reports.