Law of the Lion

Three

Phoenix, Arizona

Of all the spots on Hawk's list of places frequented by Arriosto, the Happy Breed seemed the most desperate to make a statement. It was in a glitzy, upscale neighborhood on Speedway. Lots of fern bars and expensive boutiques. The decor was high-tech. All the waitresses were at least six feet tall, their bodies pitched into the inviting postures spike heels forced on them. They wore black leotards, black mesh hose with seams, rhinestone chokers and anklets.

The bar menu was an expensive selection of imported beers, the house liquor the best brands. Appetizers were either Japanese or California nouvelle cuisine, and the cheapest mineral water on the menu was three dollars. The three-piece combo was all acoustic, the sounds a step away from Muzak. Even the cigarette smoke had a tinge of yuppie ambience and expensive conviviality.

Carter sat at the bar long enough to get the layout and see which of the waitresses best served his purpose. Dressed to fit in with the clientele, he wore a muted Madras shirt with long sleeves, light gray slacks, and plain black loafers. He finished his beer and approached a waitress whose movements were practiced and economical and who made no attempts to hide the traces of gray flecking her long dark hair. Her name tag read BOBBIE.

Carter extended a twenty. "I'd like to sit at your station the moment you've got an opening."

Bobbie's hazel eyes flickered over him like a laser verifying an American Express card. "Some men see my gray hair, they think I'm desperate for favors," she said, ignoring the twenty. "All I do is serve drinks and food."

"That's exactly why I want to sit at your station." He dropped the twenty on her tray.

"I get it — you want me to scout for you. I don't do that, either."

Carter smiled. "Maybe I already understand that and want to drink alone."

Bobbie sighed and led Carter to a small table, then set a cocktail napkin before him. "If you'd wanted to drink alone, you wouldn't be here. I want to know what you expect for your twenty."

"Information," Carter said. He carefully showed Bobbie the photo of the Miss Crystal look-alike.

Bobbie narrowed her eyes. "Something isn't right about this photo."

Carter nodded. "I have that feeling too. If she comes in while I'm here, will you let me know?"

"You're a pro," Bobbie said. "Notice I didn't say cop. Okay. She comes in, I let you know."

Carter ordered another beer, lit a cigarette, and sat back, prepared for a long wait.

He tried the technique that had worked for him so many times: get a handle on someone's personality by absorbing as much background as possible and trying to hi the character to the background.

Apparently this place, the New Breed, had a style that touched the late Guillermo Arriosto, a man who might have been a relocated Argentine military man with a love of violence and a taste for young girls. A man who'd been content to let this part of the world see him as the Grinning Gaucho, a seller of four-wheel-drive, off-road, and specialty vehicles.

A few moments later Bobbie appeared, set his beer before him, and gave him change for the twenty. "Over there," she said, inclining her chin toward an area just to the right of the small bandstand. "In the green dress."

Carter looked at the change. "That was supposed to be for you."

"On the house," Bobbie said. "If you ever decide you're looking for something special and personal, you'll know where to find me." She gave a toss of that handsome, silver-streaked ebony hair and headed back to the bar.

No question about it, the woman in the green dress was the same one in Hawk's picture. Below medium height, a runner's rangy body, with hardly an ounce of spare fat. She wore a tight shiny green dress with a low scoop in front and an even more tantalizing vee in the back, crisscrossed with narrow laces. High heels with straps wrapped around the ankles emphasized her slender, muscular legs. Her hair was a champagne blond. Large, bright green earrings emphasized the angular shapeliness of her face. Carter looked closely, wondering what it was that he and Bobbie had seen in the photo that didn't ring true.

The blonde had some guy in tow, coming in and joining her a few moments after she'd been seated; he'd probably let her go in while he parked the car.

Watching her erect, graceful posture and the casual way she crossed her legs, Carter realized it had been a while since he'd had the luxury of some R & R. He even realized with a wry grin of amusement that his first response to the blonde had been frankly sensual instead of the professional assessment he'd trained himself to make.

Carter figured the blonde and the man had been out pub crawling. The man was starting to be deliberate and careful with his movements, suggesting he'd put away a few already. A beefy-looking guy, maybe mid-forties. A good, deep tan, pecs and biceps he was obviously vain about. Even so, Carter observed, he was starting to get a bit jowly and spreading at the gut.

Military type, Carter judged, but not out of any of the better academies. Maybe nothing more than ROTC at some lesser-rank college, possibly not even that — only a reservist somewhere. He had the look of discipline but not of class.

The blonde was working him leisurely, letting him get an occasional look when she leaned forward to get a cigarette, giving his hand a pat now and then, and even resting her hand on the guy's knee while the waitress was taking their order for drinks.

She was not matching him in drinks. Once, in the darkness, Carter saw her dump part of her glass and steer the guy's attention by crossing her legs and letting him return the compliment with a hand on her knee. This seemed to have the effect she was out to achieve. The guy now had both hands on her legs and leaned forward earnestly.

The blonde appeared to be thinking it over for a moment, then deftly moved his hands away, stood, and gathered her purse, cigarettes, and lighter.

She took a few steps and turned as if to see what was keeping the big guy. He was getting what he'd asked for, wasn't he? She even gave a saucy swing of her hips and he was up now, spilling his drink, calling for the check.

Carter, working from instinct and a healthy cynicism about ever letting down his guard, left through the front entrance and moved quickly down Speedway to the corner. He found an alley and stayed in the shadows, paralleling Speedway until he reached the parking lot of the New Breed. It was lit with low-wattage sodium vapor lamps, casting an eerie amber glow over the desert night. A heavy scent of jasmine came in on a gentle southern breeze, stirring the warm, heavy Phoenix night.

The parking lot was filled with BMWs, Mercedeses, an occasional Porsche or Lotus, and other examples of affluent taste. Carter stood in the shadows waiting, his keen senses alerting him, telling him not to relax.

At length the blonde and her date moved into the lot, his arm around her waist, and she appearing no longer casual or disinterested but instead caught up in her own eagerness.

The moment Carter's senses had been preparing him for came when the man tugged at the blonde. The Killmaster now knew that something was up and it wasn't what the blonde was expecting.

At first she thought he wanted an embrace, even presented herself to him, but he continued to tug at her arm. "Here's your car, right here," she said. She got no response from him and added, "That settles it — I'm driving."

"Let's go in this one instead," he said.

As the man spoke, Carter realized what was happening. To her credit, the blonde realized it a few moment later, after the man tugged at her once more.

"What is this?" she said.

The doors of a gray Mercedes opened and two other men appeared. Both military types. One was about six feet tall with a long scar on his left cheek, the other a sinewy black.

"Just get in," the blonde's date said, no longer the hard-drinking playboy. "No fuss, no muss. You understand?"

The blonde kicked out at her date, scoring a sharp jab along his right shin with the heel of her shoe.

Carter took that moment of action to make his own move. He sprang in front of the blonde's date and delivered a sharp kick to his left kneecap, sending him back against a car with a yowl.

"Hey, what's this? We got a helping hand for the lady," the black man said, and came at Carter with an overhand chop that was calculated to numb Carter's right arm and leave him vulnerable for a combination or a move from the man with the scar.

Carter wasn't in position to do more than roll away from the hand chop, which dealt him only a glancing blow. But Scarface, six feet and powerful, came at Carter like a street tighter, diving right at him for a tackle.

Knowing he was going to have to go down for a moment, Carter did a back roll, extended his feet, and took the tackier right in the gut. He sprang to his feet in time to see the blonde's date coming at him with a baton.

Carter poised, kick-turned, and used a Korean gwan-kyo maneuver, snapping the man's wrist with his foot. Now he spun around, slashed at the man with his left, pushed away his guard, and slammed his right fist into the side of his attacker's neck, felling him immediately.

The black man came at him, leaping from the hood of a car, catching Carter by the shoulders while his confederate approached with a large knife.

Carter smashed his left elbow into the black man's chest, wrenching his right arm free. With a quick twitch of his forearm muscle, Hugo, his razor-sharp stiletto, perfectly balanced and deadly, was in his right hand, ready for action. The Killmaster used a fast, underhanded snap toss, delivering Hugo right at the black man's carotid artery, where it was not likely to glance off any ribs.

The blonde watched with a gasp as the black man quickly lost the power even to try yanking Hugo from his neck.

That left only one assailant, who now kicked off his loafers and assumed a fighting stance Carter knew only too well.

Before Carter could get set, he felt a stinging jab under his left ear as Scarface, more lithe and faster than he appeared, reached him with a powerful Korean snap kick. Carter reeled and felt himself sinking. He tried to force concentration and move back, but a combination stomach kick and spin kick brought him down.

Scarface danced before him, moving in. "Not too well versed in the Korean style, eh, Killmaster?" His knee slammed against Carter's jaw, but Carter had opted to take the knee charge so that he could lash out at Scarface's thigh with the rigid side of his right hand.

Carter bought enough time to slow the next kick, get a purchase on Scarface's leg, and apply a wrenching twist.

Scarface lost his balance and made his position worse by trying to avoid landing on Carter.

His head still ringing but his senses clearing, Carter caught Scarface with a glancing side kick, spun, grabbed the man's arm, made a fulcrum with his own leg and gave him a compound fracture. His foot came down on the big man's ankle, producing a popping sound.

Scarface made a quick move with his left hand, and when Carter realized what the man had in mind, he kicked at the side of his opponent's face. For the first time in the encounter, Scarface smiled. "You are good, I'll say that for you. At least I lost to the best."

Carter turned from him and moved toward the girl.

"He's still moving!" she cried.

"Not for long," Carter said. "He had a poison ring and when he saw he was finished, he wouldn't risk the chance of talking." Carter turned back to Scarface, nudged him.

The poison was one of those quick-acting neural transmitters. The man was dead.

The blonde took a long look at Carter, then at the three inert forms of her attackers, and she began to tremble. For a moment she appeared vulnerable and naive, a little girl caught wearing the clothes of a grown-up woman.

Watching her, Carter approached the black man, withdrew Hugo from his throat, then casually wiped the blade on the man's jacket.

"Lucky for me you were here," she said, taking several deep breaths and composing herself. Carter watched the transformation back to mature womanhood as she faced him, aware that her life had been very much at risk.

The blonde smiled at him, her face ripe with sensual challenge. Then she shook her head. "No, it wasn't luck at all, was it?"

A half hour later they were in her rooms, a budget businessman's suite at the Sonesta on Indian School Road. Comfortable beds, large bathtubs, shower heads mounted far enough up on the wall not to hit someone of Carter's size in the chest, and even a Jacuzzi.

Carter was drinking beer. The blonde went for an occasional splash of cognac in her coffee. They sat on a large sofa, close but not touching, aware of the intimacy and sensuality building between them. Carter had seen that in the parking lot and realized the blonde's reaction hadn't been fear at the closeness of death, but rather a long moment of personal excitement at the closeness of complete involvement.

"You're a person who's been through a lot of political upheaval, or a professional," Carter said. "Which is it?"

The blonde sipped her coffee thoughtfully. "You must be in there yourself to spot it so easily."

Aware that she was avoiding the question, Carter removed the false back of his AXE-doctored Rolex and placed the tiny microchip board near the telephone. No red warning light. He did a quick sweep of the obvious places in the room. There were no traces of a sophisticated bug that would pick up their conversation.

Sitting next to her, he pressed on her background. "I'm hoping you'll tell me why Guillermo Arriosto is so important to you."

She took more brandy and asked for a cigarette. Even though she was young, Carter could sense a growing patina of the professional beginning to form around her. Under that, there was something more. Pure, raw emotion. Some came to this work through idealism, like Carter. Others came to it to get even.

"I'm Susanna King. A few generations ago, the family name hadn't been Anglicized. It was still Konig, but that was before the family had to move. I was born in Buenos Aires, but" — she gave a cynical laugh — "we didn't better ourselves by much in the move from Germany to Argentina."

She paused to smoke, then went on with a story Carter had heard before with variations. The difficulties of a relocated life, the subtler and more obvious kinds of discrimination, and above all, the ruling military. "I don't think it will come as any surprise when I tell you we were subjected to massive repression."

Her family had not been especially political nor had she, but because of their background and their habits of reading and education, they asked the inevitable questions, especially when it had to do with questioning authority. Gradually, some of her family and friends began to become what was called los Desaparacidos — "the disappeared ones" — those who simply vanished without a trace.

Susanna had become politicized when Raoul, a young man she'd been seeing, suddenly disappeared. "He managed to get word back to me where he'd been taken and by whom."

Raoul was never seen or heard from again, but Susanna had joined an organization to help hide those who were considered prime targets for being disappeared, and to assist their families in getting news of them. It was there she'd learned of the man known as Guillermo Arriosto.

"That was not his real name, of course," she said with scorn. "He took that name when he came to this country, and he had the gall, the audacity, to call himself the Grinning Gaucho. The only thing he ever smiled about were his tortures and continuous human rights abuses. His real name was Hector Leon Cardenas. He was a ranking officer in the security police."

Susanna King had seen him a few times in parades and there were occasional photos of him in La Prensa. Even more important, Susanna and her associates began to read of Cardenas's activities in clearing out the university and other places of dissent. He openly boasted of his powers and the number of people he had turned back into patriotic, law-abiding citizens. "He was very proud of the training he was given by the Americans."

She shuddered at the memory and Carter had no doubt her experiences had been in many ways more demanding than the one she'd just gone through.

"There were a number of such types in the military." Susanna explained, "and we had to keep on the alert for all of them."

After the change of political power in Argentina, Susanna had come to the United States. "I remember a newspaper story telling of Cardenas's death. This was three years ago. As I read the account, I was filled with mixed emotions. On the one hand, the world was better off without such a man, but I remember feeling cheated that he escaped justice before the law."

Carter nodded. Those were his sentiments as well. "So you had every reason to believe him dead. What brought you back to his old haunts, going to the places he went?"

Susanna King watched Carter with care. "Someone close to me reported the unthinkable — the impossible. Hector Cardenas was still alive, brought to this country and given a new identity as some kind of political payoff."

"And you came to investigate by yourself."

Susanna King nodded soberly. Again she began to tremble. "I was very close, wasn't I?" she said.

"You were close to a number of things," Carter said. "You were on a valid lead to some of his associates. You were almost killed. Those men were professionals. One of them died rather than risk being in the position you were in."

Susanna King moved toward him. "This isn't my first brush with death," she said. "You saved me and now I wonder if you'd help me celebrate the fact that I'm still alive."

As she spoke, Carter realized how attracted he'd been to her, with her slim, graceful body, and her large, open eyes, and the incredible openness of her personality. He drew her to him, simply holding her for a long moment, actually feeling her releasing the tensions of the past hour.

Then she sighed agreeably and began to trace parts of his body with her cool, practiced fingertips.

At length they were completely comfortable, Susanna draping her legs over Carter's lap, and beginning to probe at him with tantalizing flickerings of her tongue and with a steady, dramatic use of her fingertips. Carter liked the game and quickly found places to apply alternating caresses and pressures. Deftly, quickly, he found her lips, covered her mouth with his, and found how sensitive she was along the insides of her elbows. He suspected she would be even more sensitive along the insides of her taut narrow thighs.

She was.

In a few short moments, Carter felt her arching, then tensing agreeably against him. "You're good at everything," she whispered with a soft moan. "We need to get out of our clothes and down to serious celebration."

While Susanna was in the shower, Carter did a quick security check on the door and all the windows. They were sealed in and safe for the time being. He found her purse and ran a quick check. Susanna King, if that's who she wanted to call herself, had the usual assortment of ID, and it all looked real enough.

Business could now be put on hold.

Carter began unbuttoning his shirt and removing Hugo's soft chamois sheath. The sound of the spraying water and the image of Susanna being drenched by it, the rivulets of water streaming between her breasts, caused a tremor of anticipation. Carefully removing his last bit of defense, Pierre, the tiny gas bomb taped to his inner thigh, Carter joined Susanna in the shower and offered to scrub her back — or do whatever else she desired.