John Hawks: The Traveler

A few years earlier, Boone had traveled to Hong Kong to kill a Harlequin named Crow. Searching the man’s body, he found the usual weapons and false passports along with an electronic device called a random number generator. The RNG was a miniature computer that produced a mathematically random number whenever you pushed the button. Sometimes Harlequins used RNGs to make decisions. An odd number might mean yes, an even number no. Push a button and the RNG would tell you which door to enter.

Boone remembered sitting in a hotel room and studying the device. How could a person live this way? As far as he was concerned, anyone who used random numbers to guide his life should be hunted down and exterminated. Order and discipline were the values that kept Western civilization from falling apart. You only had to look at the edges of the society to see what would happen if people allowed their life decisions to be determined by random choices.

Two minutes had gone by. He pressed a button on his watch and the device flashed his pulse rate and then his body temperature. This was a stressful situation, and it pleased Boone to see that his pulse rate was only six points higher than average. He knew his pulse rate at rest and during exercise as well as his body fat percentage, cholesterol number, and daily calorie consumption.

A match snapped and a few seconds later he smelled tobacco smoke. Turning around, he saw that the Serb was puffing on a cigarette.

“Put that out.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like to breathe toxic air.”

The Serb grinned. “You’re not breathing anything, my friend. It’s my cigarette.”

Boone stood up and moved away from the window. His face was impassive as he evaluated the opposition. Was this man dangerous? Did he need to be intimidated for the success of the operation? How quickly could he respond?

Boone slid his right hand into one of the upper side pockets of his parka, felt the taped razor, and held it tightly between his thumb and index finger. “Put the cigarette out immediately.”

“When I’m finished.”

Boone swung downward and chopped off the tip of the cigarette. Before the Serb could react, Boone grabbed the mercenary’s collar and held the edge of the razor a quarter inch away from the man’s right eye.

“If I slashed your eyes open, my face would be the last thing you would ever see. You’d think about me for the rest of your life, Josef. The image would be burned in your brain.”

“Please,” the Serb mumbled. “Please, don’t…”

Boone stepped back and returned the razor to his pocket. He glanced at the Magyar. The big man looked impressed.

As he returned to the window, Lieutenant Loutka’s voice came out of his radio headset. “What’s going on? Why are we waiting?”

“We’re not waiting anymore,” Boone said. “Tell Skip and Jamie it’s time for them to earn their salary.”

Skip and Jamie Todd were two brothers from Chicago who specialized in electronic surveillance. They were both short and plump, and were wearing identical brown coveralls. As Boone watched through his nightscope, the two men pulled an aluminum ladder out of the van and carried it down the sidewalk to the lingerie shop. They looked like electricians who had been called in to fix a wiring problem.

Skip snapped open the ladder and Jamie climbed up to the sign hanging over the window of the lingerie shop. A radio-controlled miniature camera had been placed on the edge of the sign earlier that day. It had taken a video of Maya when she stood on the sidewalk.

Thorn had installed a surveillance camera inside the canopy that protected his front door. Jamie climbed the ladder a second time, removed the camera, and replaced it with a miniature DVD player. When the brothers were finished, they folded up their ladder and carried it back to the van. For three minutes of work, they had earned $10,000 and a free visit to a brothel on Korunni Street.

“Get ready,” Boone told Lieutenant Loutka. “We’re coming down.”

“What about Harkness?”

“Tell him to stay in the van. We’ll bring him upstairs when it’s safe.”

Boone slipped the nightscope into his pocket and motioned to the local hires. “It’s time to go.”

The Serb spoke to the Magyar and the two men got to their feet.

“Be careful when we enter the apartment,” Boone said. “Harlequins are very dangerous. If attacked, they respond immediately.”

The Serb had regained some of his confidence. “Maybe they’re dangerous for you. But my friend and I can handle any problem.”

“Harlequins aren’t normal. They spend their entire childhood learning how to kill their enemies.”

The three men went down into the street and met Loutka. The police lieutenant looked pale beneath the streetlight. “What if it doesn’t work?” he asked.

“If you’re scared, you can stay in the van with Harkness, but you’re not going to get paid. Don’t worry. When I organize an operation, everything works.”

Boone led the men across the street to Thorn’s door and drew his laser-guided automatic pistol. A radio control was in his left hand. He clicked the yellow button and the DVD started to play an image of Maya standing on the sidewalk half an hour earlier. Look left. Look right. Everyone was ready. He pushed the door buzzer and waited. Upstairs, the young Russian-it probably wouldn’t be Thorn-went over to a closed-circuit television monitor, glanced at the screen, and saw Maya. The lock clicked open. They were inside.

The four men climbed upstairs. When they reached the first-floor landing, Loutka took out a voice recorder.

“Voice print please,” said an electronic voice.

Loutka switched on the recorder and played the audio captured earlier that day in the taxicab. “Open the bloody door,” Maya said. “Open the-”

The electric door lock clicked and Boone was the first person inside. The tattooed Russian stood there holding a dish towel and looking very surprised. Boone raised the automatic and fired at close range. The 9-mm bullet hit the Russian’s chest like a giant fist and he was hurled backward.

Trying to get a bonus for the next kill, the Magyar ran around the half wall that divided the room. Boone heard the big man scream. He ran forward, followed by Loutka and the Serb. They entered a kitchen area and saw that the Magyar was lying facedown on Thorn’s lap, his legs on the floor, his shoulders wedged between the arms of the wheelchair. Thorn was trying to push the body away and grab his sword.

“Get his arms,” said Boone. “Come on! Do it!”

The Serb and Loutka grabbed Thorn’s arms, controlling him. Blood spurted over the wheelchair. When Boone pulled the Magyar away he saw the handle of a throwing knife protruding from the base of the dead man’s throat. Thorn had killed him with the knife, but the Magyar had fallen forward and hit the chair.

“Step back. Move him over there,” Boone told them. “Careful. Don’t get blood on your shoes.” He pulled out some plastic restraining straps and fastened Thorn’s wrists and legs together. When he was done, he stepped back and studied the crippled Harlequin. Thorn was defeated, but he looked as proud and arrogant as ever.

“A pleasure to meet you, Thorn. I’m Nathan Boone. I just missed you two years ago in Pakistan. It got dark very quickly, didn’t it?”

“I don’t talk to Tabula mercenaries,” Thorn said quietly. Boone had heard the Harlequin’s voice on recordings from phone taps. The real thing was deeper, more intimidating.

Boone looked around the room. “I like your apartment, Thorn. I really do. It’s clean and simple. Tasteful colors. Instead of cluttering up the place with junk, you’ve gone for the minimalist look.”

“If you wish to kill me, do your job. Don’t waste my time with useless conversation.”