Chicago Assault by Randy Wayne White Read Free Book Online Page B

O’Neil locked the door behind them, then led the way into a spacious back room.
    He touched the lights, and the shadowy figure was revealed.
    Hawker was so surprised that he couldn’t speak for a moment.
    O’Neil’s Irish Republican Army fugitive studied his face with a mixture of suspicion and grudging acceptance.
    When O’Neil nodded that Hawker was to be trusted, the expression changed to a slow, wry smile.
    She was one of the most beautiful women James Hawker had ever seen.

six
    â€œMegan Parnell,” O’Neil said, smiling, seeing the stunned look on Hawker’s face. “I want you to meet my best friend.”
    Hawker took her hand. It was firm and dry and communicated nothing. “Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Hawker,” she said. “Jimmy has already told me a great deal about you.” Her alto voice seemed more musical for the Irish accent.
    â€œJames,” he said. “My father was Mr. Hawker.”
    She smiled. “Yes, and I’ve heard about your father, too. And a good Fenian he was, I might add. His last raid on Belfast’s Orange Order has become almost legendary.”
    There was something in the tone of her voice that told Hawker she was chiding him for his own abandonment of the IRA cause.
    â€œMy father’s dead,” he said simply. “Beaten to death by robbers. American robbers.”
    He closed the topic by turning away from her. Even so, the image of her refused to leave his mind.
    Megan Parnell had long, autumn red hair that hung in a braided rope to the small of her back. Though she was obviously in her late twenties or early thirties, she had the face of a teenage cover girl. The high cheekbones, the bright, demanding blue eyes, the perfect chin that was too wide and firm to be called delicate or even girlish—they all combined to form a truly haunting and unforgettable country beauty.
    She wore a plain, gray crew neck sweater over a blue blouse that couldn’t disguise the full-busted figure beneath. Her brown corduroys outlined her firm buttocks and her long, graceful legs.
    There was a coyness and wit in her eyes that didn’t seem to match the seriousness of her attitude or her words.
    Hawker looked at O’Neil. O’Neil still wore the sly, knowing grin. He had known the effect Megan Parnell would have on Hawker; indeed, that she certainly had on all men.
    Which was exactly why he hadn’t warned him that his IRA refugee was a woman.
    Hawker ignored O’Neil’s smirk. “If you want to fill Megan in about what happened tonight, go ahead. But then you tell me what you know, Jimmy. I’ve waited long enough.”
    â€œYes, you have,” he said, smiling at the woman. “James has the patience of a saint, Megan. It’s one of his most endearing qualities.” He winked at the woman, then looked at Hawker. “But you know how much better I talk when I’ve had a bit of something to quench my thirst. My throat is that dry—”
    â€œI’ll get it,” Hawker interrupted impatiently. “While you talk to Megan. What do you want?”
    â€œA fine Dublin whiskey would be grand. You’ll find it behind the bar.”
    â€œWhere he hides all the good stuff.” Megan laughed. “And James, would you be kind enough to bring a tumbler for me?”
    â€œHah!” roared O’Neil. “Bring the whole damn bottle. This is a night to celebrate, I’m thinking. For my best friend and I will be fighting together once more.”
    Hawker couldn’t help grinning. Though he wouldn’t have admitted it to the big Irishman, he felt good about their reunion, too.
    Sometimes a man gets tired of fighting alone.
    As he walked to the bar, O’Neil threw himself into a detailed story, describing to Megan what had transpired that night. Hawker put the whiskey on a tray with a flagon of soda and a beaker of ice. For himself, he opened a cold Tuborg.
    Realizing