place, no one bothers me. If I start talking out of turn, Morgan will send some
of his heavies round to shut me up permanently. You'll have to find your help
somewhere else."
"Thousands of people could die if we don't stop this drug hitting the street."
"That's not my problem."
Hawk raised his axe above his head and brought it sweeping down in one swift,
savage movement. The axe-head buried itself in Short Tom's desk, splitting the
polished desktop apart. Hawk yanked the axe free and struck the desk again,
putting all his strength into it. The desk caved in, sheared almost in two.
Splinters flew on the air, and papers fluttered to the floor like wounded birds.
Short Tom sat very still, looking down at the wreckage of his desk. He raised
his eyes and looked at Hawk, standing before him with his axe at the ready.
"On the other hand," said Short Tom very politely, "I've always believed in
cooperating with the forces of law and order whenever possible."
He came up with four names and addresses, all of which Hawk recognized. He
nodded his thanks, and left. Burns hurried after him, having almost missed his
cue. His last glimpse was of Short Tom staring glumly at what was left of his
desk. Burns followed Hawk down the stairs and back through the rows of clerks,
all of whom were careful to keep their eyes glued to their work as the Guards
passed. Hawk and Burns stepped out into the street again, and Burns winced as
the bitter cold hit him hard after the comfortable warmth of the offices. He
stubbed his toe on something, and looked down to find the two bravos who'd
guarded the front door still lying where they'd fallen. Only now they were
stark-naked, having been stripped of everything they owned. Their flesh was a
rather pleasant pale blue, set against the dirty grey of the snow. Hawk
chuckled.
"That's the Northside for you."
"We can't just leave them like this," protested Burns. "They'll freeze to
death."
"Yeah, I know. Give me a hand and we'll dump them back in the offices. Short Tom
will take care of them. But let this be a lesson to you, Burns. Never give a
Northsider an opening, or he'll steal you blind. And the odds are there's not
one person in this crowd who would have lifted a finger to help these two
bravos. They'd have just left them there to freeze. In the Northside, people
learn from an early age not to care for anyone but themselves."
"Is that where you learned it?" said Burns.
Hawk looked at him, and Burns had to fight down an urge to look away from the
glare of the single cold eye. When Hawk finally spoke, his voice was calm and
unhurried.
"I think we're going to get on a lot better if you stop acting like a character
from a religious pamphlet. I don't know how you've managed to survive this long
in Haven; I can only assume they've had a hot flush of civilization in the
Westside since I was last there.
"Look, Burns, let's get this clear once and for all. I'm only as hard as I need
to be to get the job done. I take no pleasure in violence, but I don't shrink
from it either, if I decide it's necessary. I didn't see you holding back when
we were fighting for our lives in Morgan's factory."
"That was different!"
"No, it wasn't. We're fighting a war here in the Northside, against some of the
most evil and corrupt sons of bitches this city has produced, and we're losing.
For every villain we put away, there are ten more queuing up to take his place.
The only satisfaction we get out of this job is knowing that things would be
even worse without us. Now, am I going to have any more problems with you?"
"No," said Burns. "You've made yourself very clear."
"Good. Now help me get these two bravos inside before they freeze their nuts
off."
It didn't take long to discover that none of the distributors knew anything
about Morgan's super-chacal. The word from every one of them was that Morgan had
gone to ground after his release from custody, and no one had heard anything
about him since. Hawk gave them all his best, menacing glare, but they stuck to
their story, so in the end Hawk decided he believed them. Hawk and Burns stood
together in the street outside the last distributor's warehouse, and looked at
each other thoughtfully.
"Maybe Morgan's set up his own distribution network," said Burns.
"No," said Hawk. "If he had, I'd have heard about it."
"You didn't know about the super-chacal."
"That was different."
"How?"
"The drug could be produced and guarded by relatively few people, hidden away in
the pocket dimension. A new distribution system would need a lot of people, and
someone would have been bound to talk. No, Morgan has to be using an established
distributor. Maybe someone who doesn't normally move drugs, but has the right
kind of contacts."
"Maybe." Burns pulled his cloak tightly about him, and stamped his feet in the
snow. "So, what's our next step?"
"We go and talk with the one man who might know what Morgan is up to; the man
who knows everything that's going on in the Northside, because nothing happens
here without his approval. The big man himself: Saint Christophe."
Burns looked at him sharply. "Wait a minute, Hawk, even I've heard of Saint
Christophe. He takes a cut from every crime committed in Haven. Word is he has a
dozen judges in his pocket, and as many Councilors. Not to mention a personal
army of four hundred men, and a private mansion better protected than Guard
Headquarters. We don't stand a chance of getting in to see him, and even if we
did somehow manage it, he'd probably just have us killed on sight. Slowly and
very horribly."
"Calm down," said Hawk, amused. "We're not going anywhere near his house."
"Thank all the Gods for that."
"I've got a better idea."
Burns looked at him suspiciously. "If it involves bursting in on him where he
works and smashing up his desk, you are on your own. Saint Christophe is the
only person in the Northside with an even worse reputation than you."
"Have you finished?" said Hawk.
"Depends," said Burns darkly. "Tell me your idea."
"Every day, at the same time, Saint Christophe has a bath and sauna at a private
little place not far from here. It's pretty well guarded, but there's a way to
get in that not many people know about. I did the owner a favor once."
"And at what time of day does Saint Christophe visit this bathhouse?" said
Burns.
"About now. "
Burns nodded glumly. "I thought so. You've had this in mind all along, haven't
you?"
Hawk grinned. "Stick with me, Burns. I know what I'm doing."
Burns just looked at him.
The private baths turned out to be a discreet little place tucked away on a side
street in a surprisingly quiet and upmarket area right on the edge of the
Northside. It stayed quiet and upmarket because the Northside's more successful
villains used the area for their own rest and relaxation, and everyone else had
the sense to stay out of their way. Everyone except Hawk.
He walked breezily down an alleyway and slipped into the baths t
hrough a door
marked "Staff Only." Burns hurried in after him and shut the door quickly behind
them, his heart beating uncomfortably fast. Hawk looked around once to get his
bearings, then set off confidently through a maze of corridors that Burns
wouldn't have tackled without a map and a compass. Every now and again they
encountered a member of the staff, but Hawk just nodded to each attendant
briskly, as though he had every right to be there, and the attendant just nodded
back and continued on his way. Burns grew increasingly nervous, and felt a
growing need to find a privy.
"Are you sure you know where you're going?" he whispered harshly.
"You must learn to trust me, Burns," said Hawk airily. "The owner himself showed
me this route. We'll find Saint Christophe in cubicle seventeen, just down this
corridor here. Assuming he hasn't changed his routine."
"And if he has?"
"Then we'll just walk up and down the corridor, slamming doors open, till we
find him."
Burns realized with a sinking heart that Hawk wasn't joking. He thought about
the number of major villains who were probably relaxing all unknowing behind the
other doors, and swallowed hard. He started to plot an emergency escape route
back through the corridors, realized he was hopelessly lost, and felt even
worse.
Cubicle seventeen looked like all the others, a plain wooden door with a gold
filigree number. Hawk put his ear against the door and listened for a moment,
then stood back and loosened the axe at his side. Then he kicked the door open,
strolled casually into the steam-filled sauna and leaned against the door,
holding it open. Burns stood in the doorway, keeping one eye on the corridor, in
case some of the staff happened along. The steam quickly cleared as the
temperature dropped, revealing Saint Christophe sitting at the back of the room,
surrounded by twelve muscular female bodyguards wearing nothing but sword belts.
The bodyguards surged to their feet, grabbing for their swords as they
recognized the Guards' uniforms. Hawk just leaned against the door, and nodded
casually to Saint Christophe. Burns wanted desperately to draw his sword, but
had enough sense to know it wouldn't help him much if he did. His only hope was
to brazen it out and hope Hawk knew what he was doing. He squared his shoulders
and lifted his chin, and gave the bodyguards his best intimidating glare. If it
bothered them at all, they did a great job of hiding it. And then Saint
Christophe stirred on his wooden bench, and everybody's attention went to him.
He gestured briefly to his bodyguards, and they all immediately put away their
swords and sat down again, ignoring the two Guards. Burns blinked. He couldn't
have been more surprised if they'd all started speaking in tongues.
Saint Christophe was a big man, in more ways than one. Though no longer
personally involved in any particular racket, every other villain in the city
paid him homage, not to mention tribute. He funded a great many operations, and
planned many more, but never took a single risk himself. He ran his organization
with brutal efficiency and was reputed to be one of the richest men in Haven, if
not the Low Kingdoms. He had a partner, once. No one knew what happened to him.
It wasn't considered prudent to ask.
The man himself was over six feet tall, and was reputed to weigh three hundred
and fifty pounds. Sitting down, he looked almost as wide as he was tall, a
mountain of gleaming white flesh running with perspiration. Rumor had it there
was a surprising amount of muscle under all the fat, and Burns believed it. Even
sitting still, Saint Christophe exuded an air of overwhelming menace—partly from
his imposing bulk, and partly from his unwavering, lizardlike gaze. His face was
blank and almost childlike, his features stretched smooth like a baby's by his
fat, an impression heightened by his thin, wispy hair. He moved slightly, and
the wooden bench groaned under his weight. His bodyguards were already beginning
to shiver from the dropping temperature, but he didn't seem to notice it. His
gaze was fixed entirely on Hawk, ignoring Burns, for which Burns was very
grateful. When Saint Christophe finally spoke, his voice was deep and cultured.
"Well, Captain Hawk. An unexpected pleasure. It's not often you come to see me."
"I have a problem," said Hawk.
"Yes, I know. You have a talent for annoying important people, Captain, but this
time you have surpassed yourself. The Guard wants you suspended, a gang from the
Devil's Hook has declared vendetta against you, and Morgan wants your head on a
platter. You've had a busy morning."
"It's not over yet. I need to know how Morgan is going to distribute his new
drug."
"And so you came to me for help. How touching. Why should I help you, Captain
Hawk? It would make much more sense to have you killed, here and now. After all,
you've caused me much distress in the past. You've shut down my operations,
arrested and killed my men, and cost me a great deal of money. I really don't
know why I didn't order your death long ago."
Hawk grinned. "Because you couldn't be one hundred percent sure they'd do the
job. And you know that if they didn't kill me, I'd kill them, and then I'd come
after you. And all the bodyguards in Haven couldn't keep you alive if I wanted
your head."
vindictive man, Captain. But one day you'll push me too far, and then we'll see
how good you really are with that axe. In the meantime, my offer to you still
stands. Leave the Guard, and work for me. Be my man, I could make you rich and
powerful beyond your wildest dreams."
"I'm my own man," said Hawk. "And there isn't enough money in Haven to make me
work for you. You deal in other people's suffering, and the blood won't wash off
your money, no matter how many times you launder it through legitimate
businesses."
"Anyone would think you didn't like me," said Saint Christophe. "Why should I
help you. Captain? You spurn my friendship, throw my more-than-generous offers
back in my face, and insult me in front of my people. What is it to me if Morgan
is pushing a new drug? If it wasn't him, it would be somebody else. The market's
appetite is always bigger than we can satisfy."
"This drug is different," said Hawk flatly. "It turns its users into maddened,
unstoppable killers. A few hours after the drug hits the streets, there'll be
hundreds of homicidal maniacs running loose in the city. The death toll could
easily run into thousands. You can't sell your precious services to dead people,
Christophe. You need me to stop Morgan because he threatens your markets. All of
them. It's as simple as that."
"Perhaps." Saint Christophe leaned forward slightly, and his wooden bench
groaned loudly. His bodyguards tensed for a moment, and then relaxed. "This is
important to you, isn't it, Captain?"
"Of course. It's my job."
"No, this is more than just your job; it's become personal to you. One should
never get personally involved in business, Captain; it distorts a man's judgment
and makes him… vulnerable. Let us make a deal, you and I. You want something
from me, and I want something from you. I will agree to shut down all
distribution networks in Haven for forty-eight hours. More then enough time for
you to find Morgan and put a stop to his plans. In return… you will leave the
Guard and work for me. A simple exchange, Captain Hawk. Take it or leave it."
"No deal," said Hawk.
"Think about it, Captain. Think of the thousands who'll die if you don't find
Morgan in time. And you won't, without my help. You really don't have a choice."
"Wrong. You're the one who doesn't have a choice." Hawk fixed Saint Christophe
with his cold glare, and the bodyguards stirred restlessly. "The Guard still has
some of the super-chacal we confiscated from Morgan's factory. Whoever made the
drug disappear from Headquarters missed one batch. So either you cooperate, and
tell me what I need to know, or I'll see that when the drug finally gets loose,
you'll personally get a good strong dose. If Haven's going to be torn apart
because of you, I'll see you go down with it."
"You wouldn't do that," said Saint Christophe.
"Try me," said Hawk.
For a long moment, nobody spoke. The atmosphere in the sauna grew dangerously
tense. Burns glanced from Hawk to Saint Christophe and back again, but neither
of them looked to be giving way. He let his hand drift a little closer to his
sword. All it would take was one sign from Saint Christophe, and the twelve
bodyguards would attack. Hawk might actually be able to handle six-to-one odds
with that bloody axe of his, but Burns had no false illusions about his own
fighting skills. Maybe, if he was quick enough, he could jump back and slam the
door in their faces, slow them down enough for him to make a run for it. That
would mean abandoning Hawk…
"Very well," said Saint Christophe. "I agree. I will see to it that the
distribution networks are shut down for twenty-four hours."
"You said forty-eight," said Hawk.
"That was a different deal. You have twenty-four hours. Captain. I suggest you
make good use of them, since regretfully I have no idea as to where Morgan might
be at present. He seems to have disappeared into a hole and pulled it in after
him. But Captain, when this is over, you will answer to me for your threats and
defiance. Please close the door on your way out."