EXCERPT

CHAPTER ONE

Dirk Henderson punched the intercom on his desk. “Krubes, hold my calls.”

“Yes sir.”

Assuring himself privacy, he locks the office door from the inside, then paces the room. His fists clenched, he stops at his desk and glances down at the black and white photograph of a man releasing a hawk. “You bastard! The Agency tried to convince everyone you were dead, but I didn't buy it. That beard and long hair don’t fool me. I’d recognize you with a sack over your head.” A cynical chuckle escapes his lips. “How about that eye-patch? Is it for real, Casey?” he sneers.

Dirk’s face turned crimson, clashing with his mop of thick red hair. “How the hell did that idiot miss you at such close range? They ought to call you Catman. You got more than nine lives and always land on your goddamn feet!”

He yanks out the desk chair, sits down and rummages through the drawers for the voice changer. Placing it over the receiver, he keys in a number and drums his fingers on his thigh. When a male voice answers, he leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Interested in a heavy job? You’ll have only one chance. I’ll leave instructions at the usual place.”

He drops the phone back on the cradle and flops back in his chair. A muscle twitches in his neck while his fingers form a pyramid atop his chest. After a few moments, he picks up the photo and flipped it with his finger. “Well, Hawk Man, as you now call yourself, your bird-lovin’ days are numbered.”

* * *

Hawkman, chewing on a toothpick, leans against the fender of his truck and folds his arms across his chest. His gaze stretches out over the flat piece of land, surrounded by tree covered hills. It soothes his soul. He inhales deeply and smells the clean crisp air that penetrated his lungs. Not many places left like this, he thought, savoring every inch of the open space.

The noise of chopper blades suddenly broke the silence; he cocks his head toward the distinct sound. Searching the horizon, he catches a glimpse of an unmarked helicopter passing high over Copco Lake. He spits out the toothpick, hooks his thumbs into the front pockets of his Levis and strolls down the dirt road watching the aircraft. Strange, he thought. Why this area? What’s going on?

Stopping, legs apart, he rocks back and forth on the heels of his cowboy boots while watching the chopper disappear over a distant hill, memories flooding his mind. A few he’d just as soon forget. But over years of Agency service, many of the experiences had jolted his adrenaline. After the injury that forced him to wear an eye patch, the Agency denied him field work but offered him a desk job which he couldn't accept, so he took the disability retirement. Now, he misses the challenges.

He stares at the ground, sliding the toe of his boot back and forth in the dirt, making half circles. Once he gets his life in order, he'll start a private investigation business. Well, one of these days soon. Maybe that would bring some excitement back into his life. He kicks a rock, and sends it skipping across the dirt road.

He exhales loudly, pushes his cowboy hat back on his head, then plods back to the pick-up where he reaches through the open window and drags out a long leather glove. Pulling it over his arm up to his elbow, he scans the sky and lets out a long, loud whistle that resonates through the air.

A few minutes later, he hears the falcon’s cry. A smile etches his lips as he watches the hawk circle high above his head. God only knows how many times he’s given that bird a chance to go back to the wild, but he’s always returned. He holds the gloved arm high. “Come on, boy.”

The majestic bird set his wings, then gracefully soars downward, landing lightly on the outstretched arm. Hawkman speaks to him in soft cooing tones while walking back to the truck. Inside the cab, he places the falcon on a portable perch where he fluffs his wings and settles him in for the ride home. Leaving a trail of dust behind, Hawkman heads for his cabin on the south side of Copco Lake.