Deadly in New York

Deadly in New York by Randy Wayne White

Book: Deadly in New York by Randy Wayne White Read Free Book Online
Authors: Randy Wayne White
left hand slipped off at impact, but his right hand held firm, fingers digging, arm muscle straining, legs frozen perfectly still so as not to throw off his tenuous balance.
    Slowly then, Hawker got his left hand back on the roof and held there for a moment, trying to regain his composure.
    Below he heard footsteps and loud voices. If they saw him now, he was dead.
    But that was a secondary worry.
    Right now, he had to concentrate on pulling himself up onto the safety of the roof.

fifteen
    Grand Cayman
    Jacob Montgomery Hayes awoke, expecting sunlight to stream through the window with the sound of morning birds.
    It was, after all, a bad dream.
    Or was it?
    As his eyes adjusted to the tropical darkness, his brain began to locate the injuries his body had suffered and began to register the intensity of the pain. It left him with the stark truth:
    This was no dream.
    If anything, it was hell.
    Painfully, Hayes turned his head and looked at the glowing numerals of the desk clock. It was the one bit of hard reality they had allowed him. A clock. Something with which to measure the suffering.
    It was 1:13 A . M .
    Hayes tensed as he saw the time. They would be coming soon. Every four hours without fail, they came. They came with their lengths of surgical tubing and their rubber gloves, and their scalpels.
    Always the questions were the same: What had he done with the folder on Fister Corporation? Who else knew? Who was helping him?
    Hayes allowed his head to fall back on the table where he was strapped, hands and legs, nude. An examination table—the kind you see in doctors’ offices.
    But these men were not doctors.
    Quite the opposite.
    They were killers. They were ghouls who enjoyed inflicting pain. Professionals who knew how to inflict pain without damaging the body.
    But, so far, Hayes had bested them. So far he had refused to speak a word. Every time they came with their instruments of pain, he would draw on his Zen training—the ability to rise out of his own body and block out all earthly suffering; the power of zazen he had learned so many years before at the monastery on Crystal Mountain in the thin air of the Himalayas.
    Again and again the words of his beloved Roshi returned to him:
    â€œWhen your concentration becomes strong, instead of hobbling you, pain will spur you on if you use it bravely .…”
    Now Hayes was using his pain as bravely as he could. He had no thoughts for his own life. He had lived his life fully, and, besides, it was the nature of Zen to understand that one’s own life means nothing.
    But he had to hold out to give his friends Hawker and Hendricks time. Time to close in on the man who called himself Blake Fister. Time to learn his awful secret, and to destroy him.
    Slowly the minutes slid by. Hayes could hear the crash of the Caribbean surf outside. He could smell the sweet scent of citrus and frangipani.
    Twenty-four minutes after one by the clock on the desk.
    Hayes wondered what Hawker was doing right now. Alive, certainly—for no one knew better how to stay alive than James Hawker.
    Asleep, perhaps. Yes, James would certainly be asleep.
    There was noise in the hallway, and the lights flashed on. Hayes’s eyes rebelled against the glare of the neon.
    Three men came into the room. Two of the men were in their late thirties or early forties. They were the men who had kidnapped him.
    The third man was a Napoleon-sized man, squat and thick, with jet-black hair greased straight back. Despite his age, his paunchy face and lively dark eyes retained the confidence of youth. He was dressed in a white smock, like a surgeon.
    Hayes noted the relish with which he pulled on the rubber gloves and then, idly, toyed with the mole above his left eye before selecting an instrument from the tray beside the table.
    â€œHave you yet decided to speak to us, Mr. Hayes?” the man asked with a thin smile.
    Hayes did not answer. He settled back on the table, willing his body to

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