by Derrick Ferguson

Part One

The South American country Cristobal was a good place to either hide from enemies or conduct illegal business. The entire country had been corrupt for more than thirty years now, ever since the assassination of old Gervaise Ravel, the last honest President to hold office. Now, Cristobal was a country divided into two seperate classes: Those Who Have Money and Dirt Poor.

Then there was the third class. A mixture of adventurers, mercanaries, gamblers, rogues, murderers who had staked out part of the capital city for their own purposes. Mostly these were men and women of other countries who took advantage of the lack of any real law and order in Cristobal.

A collection of bars and warehouses were the only buildings along the waterfront. Some of them looked as if they were only being held together by the heavy coating of filth. The windows let in little light and considering the kinds of transactions going on inside, it was better that way.

A man sat at a back booth, grey fedora pulled low over his forehead, a thin black duster belted tightly, covering his clothes. He poured himself another shot of Demarara rum and eyed the entrance warily. He stole a glance at his watch. His contact was fifteen minutes late. He'd give it another five minutes, then     .

The door swung open and conversations in the room briefly halted as hands went to guns, no matter if they were openly holstered or hidden. The newcomer was surveyed and since he owed no one there money or hadn't produced a weapon of his own, he was not shot and he walked on to the booth in the back.

"You're late, Korbel."

Anton Korbel shrugged. "For what I have, you would have waited."

The man toyed with his shot glass. "Where is it?"

Korbel sat down, amusement on his swarthy face. "Ah, my friend, this is not how Anton Korbel works. You have something to show me first, do you not?"

The man held up a minidisc. "Your money's on this. Five million American dollars in a Bahamian bank. The codes are on the disc. But you don't get it until you answer a few questions."

Korbel shrugged. "Maybe I can, maybe I can't. Ask."

"Who's out to get Blackhawk International? This is the third time this year that critical data has been stolen from our computers and frankly, I'm tired of paying you to get it back for us. I want you to tell me who's doing this."

Korbel looked impatient. "Let us be frank with each other, okay? My negotiations were made with your superior, Mr. Chan. He's authorized my payment. You're just the messenger boy. Mr. Chan hired me to recover Blackhawk International property and that's what I've done." Korbel held out his hand for the disc. "Now, let's have my money."

The man shrugged and popped the disc in his mouth and swallowed hard. He grinned at Korbel. "Come get it."

Korbel's eyes couldn't have gotten any larger. "I had heard you were a most reckless and foolish young man. I had told Chan he shouldn't send you. Now I suppose we will have to do this the hard way." Korbel raised his voice. "Hey! HEY! Listen up, everybody!"

Conversation died as the assemblage of men and women turned to look at Korbel.

"This idiot just swallowed a microdisc worth five million dollars. Anybody who helps me cut it out of him gets a ten percent finder's fee." Korbel jumped up from the table and backed away, grinning widely.

Men shuffled to their feet as knives and machetes, their edges glittering in the dim light were produced. The entrance was slammed shut and barred. Women licked their painted lips at the prospect of watching murder being done.

The man in the trenchcoat and fedora suddenly exploded into action, kicking the table over, into the approaching mob, at the same time ripping open his coat to get to the automatic shotgun secreted underneath.

He fired and blew a hole the size of a tire in the floor. "Now, let's just everybody take it easy and we'll all go home tonight, okay?"

The tall man holding the shotgun looked much different now without the coat and fedora. He wore black boots and pants and a heavy leather jacket. The jacket was of a blue so dark as to be almost black. Trimmed in red at the epaulets and cuffs. Instead of a zipper, the front flap buttoned up on the right and everyone could thus see the circular yellow insignia clearly:

A proud hawk's head, black as midnight, beak open in a silent scream of war, red eyes fiery and determined.

Somebody yelled, "You didn't tell us he was Blackhawk!"

Korbel cursed loudly in French before shouting back, "He's just a pretender! His name's Fortune McCall and he's nothing! Take him! He's got five million American dollars in his belly!"

At the mention of the money, the mob once again turned their attention back to McCall, who was becoming increasingly aware that he was in a very difficult position. He ratcheted another shell into the barrel. "I don't want to kill anybody, but don't think I won't. My business is with Korbel."

"You can't shoot everybody in the room," a grinning Asian wielding a pair of butterfly knives offered as he advanced on McCall.

McCall promptly shot him.

The body flew backwards into the mob and taking advantage of the moment of surprise and shock, McCall dived into the crowd, striking left and right with the butt of the shotgun, making a path right for Korbel.

The wily information broker, sensing that McCall was a mite peeved at him, looked around for help. By this time, some members of the mob had decided to forget McCall and take advantage to settle up old scores with enemies and soon, the bar was ringing with gunshots, screams and curses.

McCall ducked under a hard swung baseball bat and rammed the butt of his shotgun into a stomach. He could see Korbel struggling through the crowd, heading for the men's room. Obviously, he hoped to be able to scramble out a window.

The front of the bar exploded as an armored Lincoln Navigator burst through the wall, scattering furniture and throwing bodies. The Blackhawk symbol was painted on the hood of the huge vehicle.

The driver's side door popped open and a diminutive black woman leaned out, firing her Uzi into the ceiling. "Okay, everybody just KNOCK IT OFF!" the crowd froze instantly. The woman wore a blue jacket with the Blackhawk symbol, only hers was palm sized and on the left breast of the jacket.

"Fortune! You okay?" She yelled.

"Yeah, I'm okay." McCall was dragging a struggling Korbel by his left leg. "Quit it, okay?"

Korbel replied by telling McCall exactly what he thought of Mother McCall's sexual habits with various species of canines.

McCall sighed, yanked Korbel to his feet and coldcocked him. McCall tossed him into the Navigator. "I hate when I let my temper get the best of me. Let's go, Tracy."

Tracy Scott climbed behind the wheel of the huge vehicle and backed out of the bar. Soon the Navigator was roaring through the night streets of the city, heading for a private airfield.

Tracy gave McCall a cellphone. "It's Eddie     he's been calling for you every fifteen minutes." She went back to driving. McCall smiled in amusement. So short was Tracy that the Navigator had special pedals to allow her to drive.

"Eddie? What's up?"

"The same thing that's always up. Mr. Chan says that unless you're in front of his desk by 9AM tomorrow, he's going to have your guts by lunch. And Mr. Sirianni says he can't help you out this time."

"Eddie, tell Mr. Chan I've got Korbel and I'm following up on who's been stealing Blackhawk International data."

"Tell him yourself, Fortune. The next time you see me, you will notice that I have no ass. That's because Mr. Chan has spent the past two days chewing it off because of you."

The Navigator's tires screeched as Tracy took a corner on two wheels.

"Eddie, did Little John complain when he had to take some flak for Robin Hood? Did Sancho Panza nag Don Quixote for one or two errors in judgment?"

"Yes. Fortune, this isn't a joke. Mr. Chan's really pissed."

McCall sighed. "Okay, Eddie     .you win     tell the boss I'll be there."

"You promise?"

"Word of honor."

"Okay     I'll tell him     you sure you're not going to jerk me on this, Fortune?"

McCall answered in a sober, serious voice. "Edward Padilla, I'm surprised at you. We've been best friends since high school. Would I leave you to take heat all by yourself?"

"You have before."

"Not this time. Look, tell Mr. Chan I'll be there at 9AM sharp. Talk to you later, pal." McCall hit the OFF button and gave the phone back to Tracy.

"Should I call ahead and tell Scocco that we're heading back to New York?"

"Hell, no," McCall answered. "Soon as we hit the airfield, Mr. Korbel here is going to tell us what we want to know and then we're going to visit whoever been's stealing our data. And THEN we go back to New York."

Tracy grinned and stepped on the accelerator while McCall flopped on the seat next to the unconscious Korbel. "After all, it wouldn't look good on my resume that I left a job unfinished."

Part Two

(©2000 Derrick Ferguson)

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