The Code by Nick Carter

interested in finding him. He isn't completely right upstairs. He likes to kill people."
    "That's the reason I'm looking for him."
    "I can't tell you about his friends because I dealt with him alone. He was very careful about details like that. He stopped coming to me for financing because he found another backer. Someone in the Organization, I think."
    I got out of the car. Another zero. A wasted afternoon except for the pleasure of getting to know Mr. Haskell a little better, which I could have done without.
    "Aren't you going to tell me who you are?" Haskell asked.
    "Why should I? You didn't tell me anything."
    I threw his chauffeurs gun into a garbage can down the street.
    That night, I called Hawk from my motel room. "Let's compare notes," I said when he came on the line.
    "I have some information on the man who tried to kill you in the hotel in Bonham. For one thing, his name actually was Coogan. He had a police record. He was a gun for hire, one of the best. The FBI seemed a little surprised that you were capable of taking his measure." There was noticeable satisfaction in Hawk's voice.
    "Who gave him his orders?"
    "He was an independent contractor. For hire to anyone who could pay his fee, which was high. The FBI says he was not on the mob's regular payroll."
    "What about Valante?"
    "He was Frank Abruze's closest friend."
    "I'm afraid I don't have much. Moose is not in Los Angeles."
    Hawk cleared Ms throat "And what about Trudy? Did she live up to billing?"
    There was no doubt about it. My boss had a streak of the dirty old man in him.

Six
    I went to bed early and slept until dawn. A hissing sound awoke me. Eyes slitted, I lay listening, my fingers curled around the butt of the Luger. Then I felt a sudden burst of heat against my face.
    Kicking off the sheet, I twisted and hit the floor in a crouch, Wilhelmina in my hand. Orange tongues of flame licked up the wall of my motel room. The hissing sound I'd heard had been the curtains at the glass doors to the patio catching fire. Already they were curling into black tinder and the fire was catching on the wall.
    I grabbed the extinguisher off the wall in the hall and as I reentered the room I flinched at the heat. The extinguisher made quick work of the flames. I won out, but if I had slept five minutes longer, the story would have been different.
    I dropped the extinguisher, picked up the Luger again, and tore down the charred curtains. Someone had cut a neat hole in the glass door and reached through to set the curtains ablaze. It was a fine professional piece of work. While I stood admiring the hole, a bullet pierced the door near my head. I heard the slug go past and thud into the far wall. An instant later I was flat on the floor.
    The gunman was hidden behind a short brick wall on the other side of the enclosed patio and pool. In the pale light I could see the snout of his rifle as he poked it over the wall. Since I hadn't heard the shot, the rifle must be equipped with a silencer. The man was a pro all the way, except that he had missed my head by six inches. Maybe I had moved just a little as he squeezed the trigger.
    I didn't return his fire because I couldn't see him clearly. He couldn't get a bead on me, either. We played a waiting game, each of us hoping for an opening. His patience outlasted mine. I decided to move. Hugging the floor, I began to wriggle backward.
    When I was well away from the doors, I stood up. I stepped into my trousers. Moving quietly on bare feet, I trotted along the carpeted corridor and climbed a flight of steps to the second floor of the motel. With a little luck, I could get a shot at him from above, I thought. But by the time I reached the railing of the second-floor balcony he had vanished from his hiding place.
    Clumps of shrubbery on the motel grounds provided plenty of cover, but the rifleman had to dart between them. Sooner or later I'd spot him. I waited, shivering a little in the cool air. Besides my trousers, all I was