The Widowmaker Unleashed: Volume 3 of the Widowmaker Trilogy Read online

  “What if he begs for mercy?”

  “You don't give him a chance to,” responded Nighthawk. “This isn't some holo drama where two gunmen face each other on the street. You're the good guy; always remember that. The law's on your side. And being the good guy gives you certain advantages. You know what your enemy looks like; he doesn't know who you are. You know his history; he doesn't know yours. You can study him at your leisure; he can't study you. And when you're ready to take him, you don't have to call him out and give him a chance to blow you away. If he's sitting at a bar or a card table or a restaurant, you walk up behind him and put a bullet or a beam in his ear.”

  “Women, too?”

  “You think a woman with a burner or a Screecher can't kill you just as dead as a man can?”

  “I was raised not to—”

  “When a woman takes a shot at you, you'd better overcome your feelings—or you're dead.”

  * * * *

  “Okay, there are four targets at 300 yards,” said Kinoshita. “Blow ‘em away.”

  The young man drew his burner and fired it, hitting three and missing one.

  “Not bad. Not good, but not bad.”

  “Why is this important? Who am I going to shoot from this far away?”

  “Hopefully no one.”

  “Then why—”

  “You can't always get in close to the man you're after. Sometimes it's a matter of taking him out from a quarter mile away or letting him escape.”

  “All right. Let me try again.”

  This time he hit all four.

  “Not bad.”

  “Damned good, if you ask me,” said the young man.

  “I didn't ask you.” Kinoshita held up a stopwatch. “You hit 4 targets in 3 seconds. If those were men, the last two had time to blow you away. Let's cut that time in half.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then you do it with the other hand. And with every other weapon we've got around here. And then you do it at 400 yards, and at 500.”

  “500? It can't be done.

  “Sure it can. That old man in the house can still do it, and you're going to be better than he ever was.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  Kinoshita smiled. “Kid, training Widowmakers is one of the very best things I do.”

  * * * *

  After a month, Nighthawk said good-bye to Sarah and Kinoshita and took the clone to Barrios II, home of the Gomorrah Palace, the biggest whorehouse on the Inner Frontier.

  Nighthawk picked up the tab as the young man went to bed with a different woman every morning and evening for five days.

  “Aren't you interested in sampling their wares at all?” asked the young man as he emerged from yet another bedroom.

  “I've got what I want waiting for me back on Dustdevil.” He paused. “I think it's about time we were getting back there.”

  “Well, I want to thank you for bringing me here.”

  “No need to thank me. It's part of your education.”

  “It is?”

  Nighthawk nodded. “The first clone died because he let his hormones rule his mind, and it impaired his judgment. He fell for the first woman he saw, and eventually she proved his undoing. I don't want that happening to you.”

  The young man frowned. “And what I've been doing this past week will prevent it?”

  “It's probably not in the text books, but yeah, it will.”

  “How?”

  “By showing you that sex is enjoyable no matter who you have it with, and that all women are pretty much the same between their legs—just like all men. It's what's between their ears that makes you decide whether or not to slay a dragon for them.”

  “You've got an interesting way of making your point.”

  “I know what would impress me,” said Nighthawk, “so I know what will leave a lasting impression on you.”

  And, of course, it did.

  * * * *

  While Kinoshita spent the next 60 days honing the young man's marksmanship and fighting abilities, Nighthawk took over at nights, lecturing on strategy, preparing him for the thousand situations he might confront. Then one day he pulled out a nondescript bottle of whiskey and poured each of them a glass.

  “I don't like it,” said the young man, making a face. “It burns my throat as it goes down.”

  “You don't have to like it,” said Nighthawk. “You just have to learn to hold it, to drink and not let it affect your judgment or your abilities.”

  “Why?”

  “Because a lot of information you need will be obtained in taverns, and if you're not used to drinking, it could have a very adverse effect on your reactions.”

  “You're sure I have to do this?”

  “Trust me, you'll learn to enjoy this before long.” Nighthawk paused. “Once I know you can handle your liquor, we'll start on a couple of very mild drugs that you'll use in situations where you've got to visit drug dens. You'll enjoy them too, but don't forget that the object of the exercise is to build up a resistance to them.”

  “How will you know when I've built up enough resistance?”

  “When you can drink a pint of booze, outscore me at the shooting range, and then beat the crap out of Kinoshita.”

  “You really think I'll be able to do all that?” asked the young man dubiously.

  “Sooner than you think,” promised Nighthawk.

  * * * *

  And finally the young man was as ready as Nighthawk and Kinoshita could make him.

  “That's it,” said Nighthawk. “I've taught you everything I can. Today you are the Widowmaker.”

  “It's awkward to be called nothing but Kid or Son or even Widowmaker. I need a name.”

  “That seems fair enough. What name do you like?”

  “Considering my pedigree, yours—now that I'll be leaving soon and it won't cause any confusion.”

  “Then you can have it,” said Nighthawk.

  “What name will you take?”

  “I've got a name. I've had it for a century and a half, and I'm not about to change it.” Nighthawk paused. “Tell you what: for the very brief amount of time we're still together, you can be Jeff and I'll be Jefferson, just so we'll know who Ito and Sarah are speaking to.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Fine. Now let's grab some dinner, and get a good night's sleep. You've got a big day ahead of you tomorrow.”

  “I do?”

  “Yeah,” said Nighthawk. “We're going to find how just how good a teacher I am.”

  “Great!” said Jeff, unable to hide his enthusiasm. “What are we doing?”

  “We're going to a little world called Tumbleweed.”

  29.

  Nighthawk walked into the tavern, looked around at the empty tables, then walked over to the bar and ordered a beer.

  “A word of advice,” said the bartender. “Take your beer and leave.”

  “Oh?”

  “Those two guys who ran you out of here are still on the planet. Somebody's got to have spotted you, and they'll know about it soon, if they don't already.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  “A lot of people blame you for cutting and running back when they showed up,” said the bartender. “Not me. They didn't see what those two guys could do; I did.” He paused. “I don't think you could have taken them both even when you were a young man, no matter what everyone says about you. Besides, Tumbleweed never did anything for you; I don't figure you owe us anything. I mean, hell, you already killed that whole gang of drug runners out at the spaceport. Everyone knew they'd be there, but only you went out to face them. I figure we owe you.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Nighthawk. He picked up the beer and walked to a table.

  “Then appreciate a little friendly advice and get the hell out of here while you still can.”

  “Not today.”

  “They'll be here any minute,” said the bartender. “Take my word for it.”

  “I'm sure they
'll be here,” replied Nighthawk. “But they don't want me.”

  The bartender shrugged. “Well, I did my best.” He went back to polishing glasses and sorting oddly-shaped bottles of alien liquor.

  Nighthawk slowly sipped at the beer. When he'd finished half the glass, Mr. Dark, dressed in an elegantly-tailored dark gray outfit and shining boots, entered the tavern. He was followed a moment later by Mr. Night, clad in a severely-cut black outfit and wearing matching boots and holster.

  “Well, look who's come back to visit us, Mr. Night,” said Mr. Dark, staring at Nighthawk.

  “I think he was very rude to leave so suddenly the last time we met,” said Mr. Night. “You hurt my feelings, Mr. Nighthawk.”

  “You have feelings?” asked Nighthawk.

  “There!” said Mr. Night in mock distress. “See? You did it again!”

  “Still,” said Mr. Dark, “we're very glad you came back, whatever your reasons.”

  “Are you really?”

  “Certainly,” said Mr. Dark, withdrawing a colorful silk handkerchief and dusting an invisible speck from his tunic. “We have some unfinished business, if you'll recall.”

  “And this time,” added Mr. Night, “I don't think we'll let you leave the tavern until we conclude it.”

  “I have no business with you,” said Nighthawk.

  “Ah, dear me,” said Mr. Dark, “the poor man's memory has left him. I suppose that happens when you reach a certain age.”

  “True,” agreed Mr. Night. “We'd almost be doing him a service, putting him out of his misery now that his mind has ceased to function properly. He'd probably thank us if he understood the true nature of our actions.”

  “You talk too much,” said Nighthawk, taking another swallow of his beer.

  “Bold words for an old man who's about to die, Widowmaker,” said Mr. Dark.

  “Wrong on both counts,” said Nighthawk.

  The two men stared at him curiously.

  “Would you care to explain yourself?” said Mr. Night.

  “First, I'm not about to die, and second, I'm not the Widowmaker.”

  “What new foolishness is this?” demanded Mr. Dark. “You're Jefferson Nighthawk, aren't you?”

  “Yeah, that's right.”

  “Then you're the Widowmaker.”

  Nighthawk smiled and shook his head. “Not any more. In fact, he's standing right behind you.”

  They turned to find themselves facing the clone, who stood in the doorway.

  “Gentlemen,” continued Nighthawk, “say hello to the new Widowmaker.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Mr. Night suspiciously.

  “We had a drawing, and he won.”

  “He looks a lot like you,” said Mr. Dark.

  “Good genes.”

  “Son? Grandson? Nephew?”

  “Yes,” answered Nighthawk. “And that's all I've got to say to you.” He gestured to the young man. “From this point on, talk to him.”

  “But talk quickly,” added Jeff. “My lunch is getting cold, and all I really want to do is kill you and get back to it.”

  “He talks like a Widowmaker, Mr. Dark,” said Mr. Night. “What do you think?”

  “I think he's trying to frighten us, Mr. Night,” said Mr. Dark.

  “Is it working?” asked Mr. Night.

  “Not that I notice,” said Mr. Dark, turning to face the young man. “What's your name, substitute Widowmaker?”

  “Destiny,” said the young man.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Fate. Death. Take your choice.”

  “Pretty damned silly names, if you ask me.”

  “I didn't. But if you don't like them, I'm also Jefferson Nighthawk.”

  “You borrowed the name as well as the title?”

  “I inherited it.”

  “Poor boy,” said Mr. Night. “You're about to inherit what we had planned for him.”

  “And you're about to inherit two plots in the local cemetery,” answered Jeff. “I reserved them this morning, once I knew you were still on the planet.”

  “You sound pretty confident when we're standing side by side,” said Mr. Dark. He began edging away from his partner. “Are you just as confident when we stand apart?”

  “It just means you won't hit each other when you fall.”

  You're talking too much, enjoying it too much. Don't wait for them. Just pull your guns and blow them away. They're talking for a reason; start paying attention to what they're saying and you're a dead man.

  “Well, that's very considerate of you, isn't it, Mr. Night?” said Mr. Dark.

  “Absolutely,” agreed Mr. Night. “In fact, I don't know when I've met a more considerate doomed man.”

  As Mr. Night spoke, Mr. Dark went for his weapon. Jeff drew his guns faster than Nighthawk's eye could follow. Before Mr. Dark's gun could even clear its holster, he and his partner were both dead, each with a smoking black hole placed directly between their eyes. Mr. Night got off a single wild shot as he fell across a table; it hit a century-old bottle of Cygnian cognac, spraying the kneeling bartender with broken glass and wildly expensive liquor.

  Nighthawk got up, walked over, and stared at the corpses, then looked at Jeff.

  “How did I do?” asked the clone.

  “Goddamn!” exclaimed Nighthawk. “I was as good as the legends say!”

  “Better, even,” offered Jeff.

  “I thought you were going to get yourself killed with all that talking.”

  “Oh, that,” said Jeff with a shrug. “I was just waiting for one of them to go for his weapon.”

  “Why?” asked Nighthawk. “I've told you over and over that it's not a sporting contest. You don't have to be a gentleman about it.”

  “I knew I could take them,” answered Jeff calmly. “I just wanted to see how good they were.”

  “You'd never seen them in action before. How could you know you'd take them?”

  “I'm the Widowmaker.”

  There was a long, thoughtful pause.

  “Yeah,” agreed Nighthawk. “I guess now you are.”

  30.

  The new Widowmaker loved his work. He loved the competition, the fame, the adulation, even the notoriety. As word spread across the Frontier worlds that he was back in business, he liked the fact that people whispered and pointed as he walked past. He liked the service he got in hotels and restaurants and taverns, he liked the willingness of the women he met and the subservience of the men.

  His career had begun on Tumbleweed, but he remained there only a few hours.

  He tracked down three murderers on Giancola II and killed them all.

  He killed four more on Greenveldt, even though they were lying in wait for him.

  Backbreaker Ames called him out on New Angola, and though Ames was seven feet tall, 400 pounds of rock-hard muscle, and a former freehand heavyweight champion, the young Widowmaker killed him in hand-to-hand combat.

  By the time he reached Chrysler IV, his reputation had preceded him. The entire Wilconi Gang was waiting for him, all twelve of them. Nighthawk offered to lend a hand, but Jeff rejected the offer, walked into an obvious deathtrap, and killed them all, suffering only a single flesh wound in his left leg.

  He followed Lady Platinum to her hideout on Fare-Thee-Well, took her prisoner as she tried to seduce him, and broke both her arm and her jaw when she pulled a hidden knife on him.

  His final test came on Lower Volta. Nighthawk didn't even know he was going there, and would have advised him to at least take Kinoshita along. But he went in alone, against the rest of the drug runners that Nighthawk had killed months earlier on Tumbleweed, and picked them off one-by-one until all 40 were dead.

  * * * *

  “I couldn't have done better myself,” admitted Nighthawk when Jeff returned to their home base on Dustdevil and told him of his exploits on Lower Volta.

  “I am yourself,” replied Jeff with a smile.

  “Yes, you are,” said Nighthawk. “So
metimes I forget.”

  “You must have loved your life before you came down with eplasia,” said Jeff enthusiastically.

  “I don't know that I ever thought about it. I had a job, and I did the best I could at it.”

  “Now there are three of us abroad in the galaxy—you, me, and the second clone. Do you know what we could accomplish if we joined forces?”

  “I don't know the other clone's name or how to contact him,” said Nighthawk. “Besides, he doesn't want anything to do with me—or, by extension, you.” He paused. “And I created you so that I could finally retire and be left alone.”

  “I know,” he said wistfully. “Still, it would have been fun.”

  Nighthawk smiled. “I trained you just right, and I made you the right age.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I haven't thought of my work as fun since I was 25.”

  “How could you not enjoy it?” replied Jeff. “People know me everywhere I go.” He grinned. “And you can't beat the pay.”

  “The pay is commensurate with the risk.”

  “Hell, even the risk is exciting.”

  “Well, you didn't inherit my outlook, that's for goddamned sure,” said Nighthawk. “I was right not to give you my mind. You might as well enjoy yourself for as long as you can.”

  “With your skills, I just might live forever,” said the young man.

  “I approve,” said Nighthawk. “That's the only way for a man in your profession to feel. If you ever start thinking that Death happens to you instead of to other people, it's time to hang it up.” He paused. “We haven't discussed it, but someday, in a year or a decade, you're going to wake up and think you're developing a rash over your whole body. You'll wonder what you ate, or rubbed against, and when you can't come up with an answer, you'll wonder exactly what was in the atmosphere of the last world you visited. And the whole time you're wondering, the rash will get worse, and soon you'll understand that it's not a rash after all. Your skin will literally start rotting away, and you'll realize that the problem isn't external, but internal, that you have eplasia.”

  “Maybe I won't get it.”

  “You're a genetic duplicate of me, which means you've got my weakness for it programmed into you. You'll get it, all right. The good news is that it's finally curable. All I want to tell you is to not wait until you're sure that's what it is. The moment you see a rash, get to a doctor—quick. If it's actually a rash and nothing worse, you haven't lost anything. But if he says it's eplasia, go to the best clinic you can find, and have them treat you immediately.”