Nick Carter: Hood of Death

In a big hand, held low and steady and fairly close-in to his body, the man held what Nick easily identified as a Walther P-38. Even without his perfect handling of the weapon you would know that this lad knew his business.

This, Nick thought regretfully, is it. All the judo and savate in the world don't help you in a situation like this. He knows them, too, because he knows his trade.

If he has come to kill you, you're dead.

Nick remained frozen in place. If the big blond man's blue eyes had tensed or flared Nick would have tried a rolling fall — McDonald's Singapore reliable which had saved a lot of men's lives and gotten a lot of men killed. It all depended on your opposition. The P-38 didn't waver. It might have been thumbscrewed into a test-firing mount.

A short, slim man came into the room behind the big fellow. He had brown skin and features that looked as if they had been smeared on in the dark by the thumb of an amateur sculptor. His face was hard and his mouth expressed a bitterness that must have taken centuries to build up. Nick wondered — Malay, Filipino, Indonesian? Take your pick. There are over 4,000 islands out there. The smaller man held a Walther, too, with nice firmness and pointed at the floor. Another professional. "Nobody else here," he said.

The record player suddenly stopped. That meant a third man.

Big blond regarded Nick impassively, waiting. Then without losing focus on him they roved over Ruth and a flicker of amusement showed at the corner of one lip. Nick let out his breath — when they showed emotion or talked they usually didn't shoot — right away.

"You've got good taste," the man said. "I haven't seen a dish as tasty as that in years."

Nick was tempted to say go ahead and have a meal if that's your thing, but he bit it off. Instead he nodded, slowly.

He turned his eyes sideways without moving his head and saw that Ruth was petrified, standing with the back of one hand pressed against her mouth, the other clenched knuckles-up in front of her navel. Her black eyes were fastened on the gun.

Nick said, "You're scaring her. My wallet is in my pants there. You'll find about two hundred. No use anybody getting hurt."

"That's right. You don't even think about making any fast moves and perhaps no one will be. I'm a believer in self-preservation, though. Jump. Jerk. Reach. I just have to shoot. A man is a fool to take chances. I mean that I would consider myself a fool not to kill you quickly."

"I get your point of view. I'm not even planning to scratch my neck and it's itching."

"Go ahead. Very slowly. Don't want to now? All right." The man ran his eyes up and down Nick's body. "We are built very much alike. You're big all over. Where did you get all those scars?"

"Korea. I was very young and foolish."

"Grenade?"

"Shrapnel," Nick said, hoping the lad hadn't had too many looks at infantry casualties. Shrapnel rarely stitched you on both sides. The collection of scars were his mementos of his years with AXE. He hoped he wasn't about to add to them; P-38 slugs are vicious. A man once took three and is still around — the odds are four hundred to one for surviving with two.

"A brave man," the other said in a tone that was commentary, not compliment.

"I was hiding in the biggest hole I could find. If I could have located a bigger one I'd have been in it."

"This woman is beautiful, but don't you prefer white women?"

"I love to love them all," Nick replied. The guy was supercool or crazy. Cracking like that with a brown man behind him with a gun.

A horrible face appeared in the doorway behind the other two. Ruth gasped. Nick said, 'Take it easy, baby."

The face was a rubber mask worn by a third man of medium size. He had apparently chosen the most horrible one they had in stock, red gaping mouth with protruding teeth, a fake bloody slash down one side. Mr. Hyde on a bad day. He handed a coil of white line and a large jackknife to the small man.

The big man said, "You, girl. Lie down on the bed and put your hands behind you."

Ruth turned to Nick, her eyes wide with terror. Nick said, "Do as he says. They'll clean out the place and they don't want to be followed in a hurry."

Ruth lay down, her hands above her magnificent buttocks. The small man paid no attention to them as he circled the room and efficiently roped her wrists together. Clove hitches, Nick noted, probably a sailor at one time.

"Now you, Mr. Deming," said the man with the gun.

Nick joined Ruth, and felt the reverse coils slipped over his hands and drawn tight. He expanded his muscles to gain some slack but the man wasn't fooling.

The big man said, "We'll be busy here for a while. Behave yourself and when we're gone you can get loose. Don't try it now. Sammy — you watch them." He paused for a moment in the door. "Deming — prove you've really got savoir-faire. Roll her over with your knee and finish what you started." He chuckled and went out.

Nick listened to the men in the other room, guessing at their movements. He heard drawers in the desk open, the shuffle of "Deming's" papers. They explored closets, opened suitcases from the closets and his briefcase, went through the bookcases. This operation was completely mad. He couldn't get two pieces of the puzzle to fit — yet.

He doubted that they'd find anything. The submachine gun above the lamp would only be exposed by really tearing the place apart, the pistol in the garage was in an almost foolproof hiding place. If they drank enough gin to reach that fourth bottle the knock-out drops wouldn't be needed. The secret compartment in the Bird? Let them look. AXE craftsmen knew their business.

Why? The question spun around in his head until it literally hurt. Who? Why? He needed more clues. More talk. If they searched the place and left it would be another wasted evening — and he could already hear Hawk's chuckle at the telling. He'd purse up his thin lips judiciously and say something like — "Well my boy, it's a good thing you didn't get hurt, anyway. You must be more careful of yourself. These are dangerous times. Better stay out of the rougher neighborhoods until I can spare you a partner to work with…"

And he'd be chuckling soundlessly all the time. Nick groaned, a sour sound of disgust. Ruth whispered, "What?"

"Nothing. We'll be all right" And then the idea hit and he thought of the possibilities behind it. The angles. The ramifications. His head stopped hurting.

He took a deep breath, squirmed lower on the bed and worked his knee under Ruth's and levered upwards.

"What are you doing7" Her black eyes gleamed close to his. He kissed her and kept up the pressure until she rolled over onto her back on the king-size bed. He followed her, his knee again thrust between her legs.

"You heard what the man said. He's got the gun."

"My God, Jerry. Not now."

"He wants savoir-faire. We'll follow orders with nonchalance. I'll be in shape in a couple of minutes."

"No!"

"Rather get shot?'"

"NO! But…"

"Do we have a choice?"

Steady, patient training had made Nick the complete master of his body, including his sexual equipment. Ruth felt the pressure against her thigh, rebelled and squirmed violently as he hitched himself across her marvelous body. "NO!"

Sammy woke up. "Hey, what you do?"

Nick tilted his head around. "Just what the boss told us to. Right?"

"NO!" Ruth yelled. The pressure, was hard against her stomach now. Nick wiggled lower. "NO!"

Sammy ran to the door, yelled, "Hans," and returned to stand beside the bed in confusion. Nick noted with relief that the Walther was still pointed at the floor. What a way it would be to go, though. One bullet through you and a beautiful woman at the right moment.